THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY, OBIE, Episode Twenty-seven, VALPARAISO

 

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

OBIE

Episode Twenty-seven

VALPARAISO

We’d received a pretty good initiation and gained a whole new confidence in the capabilities of the ship, and that confidence would serve us well as we were treated to a succession of three more gales during the days ahead. On May 27th, we bid a fond farewell to Drake Passage and the dreaded Antarctica, and, thanking God that this leg of the voyage was behind us, we sailed out into the sunny South Pacific. Encountering prevailing winds from the southwest, we sailed cautiously some distance out into the sea, so as to avoid any possibility of being blown up against Patagonia, and then sailed northward up the coast. Although we’d be sailing in close proximity to Juan Fernandez Island, our next port of call would be Valparaiso Chili, in about one month.

During the afternoon of the 28th, a frigate under a cloud of sail approached us from the north. As the ship came within hailing distance, our captain hollered out, “Ahoy there! We be the Pacific, 73 days out from Philadelphia. Who be ye?” The captain of the frigate cupped his hands to his mouth and answered back in a booming voice, “We be the Mermaid, 94 days out of San Francisco, and bound for New York.” “God’s speed!” bellowed our captain over the cry of the gulls, and the Mermaid’s captain benevolently returned the blessing.

As expected, it wasn’t long until Lidge and I began to bond with Uncle Mark. He was habitually good-natured, and in that way at least, he reminded me a little bit of Lidge. Lidge beats everything I’d ever seen. He springs out of bed every morning, the moment his eyes are opened, happy as a clam! “Good marnin’ to ya!” he’d say, with that confounded smile. I can’t help it; I’m not a morning person! People who wake up bright and cheerful just get my goat! Lidge and his sister are both like that; it must be an Irish thing.

Uncle Mark spent time each day reading his Bible and keeping a log in his ledgers. “Regardless of what the future holds,” he’d say, “sustained success depends on documentation.” Uncle Mark was prepared. He’d brought along a dandy leather case about the size of a breadbox, and packed snugly away inside, were six new ledgers, a dozen quill pens, and three bottles of Higgins ink with cork stoppers; one black, one blue, and one red. “Barring complications,” he says, “we won’t need the red.”

During the afternoon of July third, the Juan Fernandez Islands came into view off the starboard bow. The captain brought the bow around until we were sailing east by northeast, and as evening approached, we sailed into Valparaiso Bay. From the bay, a mountain range rose up steeply to an altitude of about sixteen hundred feet. Perched precariously along the shore, and nestled into a number of steep rugged, ravines, the whitewashed and red tile roofed houses of Valparaiso caught the last rays of the waning sun.

The area’s rich mineral deposits produce a bright red soil, and this red soil in conjunction with the dry and remarkably clear atmosphere, caused the entire scene to glow eerily in the sunset. Beyond the coastal range, the Aconcagua Volcano rises to an elevation of two thousand feet, and beyond that the snowcapped Andes themselves sparkled majestically in the pristine mountain air. The cool nights, dry summers, and strong southerly winds, result in a sparseness of vegetation. There wasn’t a tree in sight, and with the exception of a few patches of some mighty hardy wildflowers, the only vegetation was an occasional cluster of short, stocky, shrubs. Our ship anchored in the bay, and several longboats prepared to go ashore.

After the memorable experience on our last shore leave, Lidge and I were sorely tempted to just play it safe and stay aboard the boat! The captain indicated that the ship would remain at anchor until around noon of the following day. Uncle Mark was determined to go ashore and see the sights, and eventually the temptation to follow outweighed our concerns.

You know how sometimes right at dusk, the wind stops abruptly for a period of time, just before changing direction? By the time we were aboard the longboat, the wind had entirely abated; there wasn’t a breath of breeze, and the water was every bit as still as glass. The ocean’s surface turned to cobalt blue, and as lamps blinked on from the homes along the shore, the entire scene was captured in a perfect mirror image on the sea. A dog barked in the distance, and the only other sound was the rhythmic stroking of our oars.

A tall, slender Chilean met us as we reached the pier, catching our rope and securing it to a piling. Greetings were exchanged, and we received directions to a visitor center some distance up the hill. Just as we arrived at the center, a commotion broke out across the steep, rut-riddled boulevard. An elderly gentleman was saddling two mares, and a young man was removing the leashes from several long, lean dogs. The man with the dogs looked up as we approached, introductions were exchanged, and we offered assistance. A colt that had been pastured in a nearby meadow was squealing plaintively and evidently under attack. As the young man talked, we heard the mournful wailing for ourselves.

The elder gentleman, who turned out to be the father, overheard our offer of assistance and readily accepted. A third horse was quickly saddled, and the two men each chose a mount. Lidge and I would ride double on the third mount. Within moments we were all mounted and galloping at a good pace up a steep embankment toward a trail. The horses fought desperately for secure footing in the loose shale, rocks flew everywhere, and I leaned forward and I clung tightly to Lidge.

Once we reached the trail, it was only a matter of minutes until we rode down along a rough precipice and arrived at a small pasture in the bottom of a gorge. The four of us quickly dismounted and began listening for some sign of the frightened colt. It was rapidly growing too dark to see, and the only sound was the heavy breathing of our badly winded mounts. Leashing the frantic dogs, the father lit a lamp as he began his decent down a steep embankment, and the three of us fell hurriedly in behind.

Carefully negotiating a dry wash, I was suddenly horrified when an enormous form lunged toward us from an outcropping of rock, not a dozen feet away. I fell to my knees, expecting the ravenous predator to land momentarily, on whomever the creature had chosen as its prey. To my amazement, it didn’t land at all, but rose in ever-widening circles into the night sky.

Our hurried steps had disturbed a giant condor from its roost. This magnificent vulture had a wingspan of at least twelve feet, and it instilled in me a whole new respect for buzzards. It rose quickly into the darkness and was gone. The four of us regained our composure and continued our search. Moments later, around the next bend, the brush shook violently and the darkness reverberated with a hair-raising squall which sounded to me like a women’s hysterical scream. I broke out in goose bumps and my heart skipped several beats.

Within seconds of the terrifying scream, a large cat sprang from the bushes. Its snarling teeth gleamed for an instant in the lamplight, and then it screamed again and leapt into the night. My comrades took several steps forward, raised the lamp, and there on the ground were the tattered remains of the unfortunate colt.

Well, we’d done the best we could. Evidently pumas, as they call them here, are not at all uncommon in this area, and the scarcity of large game, due to the sparse habitat, occasionally forces them to attack the local livestock. The scarcity of any wild game in the area is responsible for the almost entirely vegetarian diet of the human population. Turning into herbivores is not an option for the puma population, so they improvise and do the best they can.

There was nothing to be done here, so we collected our horses and headed back toward the port. The moon was no more than a sliver, and you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. A chilling north wind swept down from the Andes, the atmosphere was pristine, and the stars were bright as polished brass and seemed the size of lemons. The complete darkness and treacherous terrain necessitated a mighty leisurely pace. By the time we arrived back at their home, a crowd had gathered along with Uncle Mark. We put up the horses and related the tale of the puma and the colt.

I introduced Uncle Mark to our new Chilean acquaintances, and they invited the three of us to stay for supper. Unk, having made other arrangements, thanked them kindly for their offer and suggested that Lidge and I stay and accept their hospitality. We gratefully took them up on their kind offer, and the crowd dispersed. Upon entering their home, we found the mother and daughter preparing the evening meal. Both smiled politely, but neither said a word. The father seated us at small table in an austerely furnished lean-to off the kitchen.

The home consisted of three rooms and a small, low loft. Within twenty minutes, we were each served a steaming bowl of boiled beans, along with a plate of roasted grains and fresh bread. The daughter eyed Lidge coyly as she poured our tea, and then the women adjourned to an adjacent room and the father and son each joined us at our table. Both were cordial, unassuming, and quiet. After several attempts at conversation, Lidge and I finally just sat quietly and finished our meal.

Twenty minutes later the mother returned briefly to the kitchen, and then approached our table with what was evidently considered a very special treat. Lidge and I eyed the concoction suspiciously, and at last the father pointed to the dish and said, “duff, eat!” I’d heard of duff before, but I’d never had an opportunity to sample the dish myself. Duff is a pretty basic pudding, consisting simply of flour boiled in water. The young man removed a small decanter of a sweet, syrupy condiment of some kind and applied it very liberally over his bowl. Lidge and I both hesitantly followed suit. Noting our hesitance, the father had another idea. Reaching into a cabinet under the shelf, he grinned enthusiastically, and brought out a jug of rum. Lidge and I had been down this road before! We waved our hands and shook our heads, and indicated we’d really rather not! This is the first time we’ve seen this ol’ guy smile. He popped the cork, poured a generous amount of the 90-proof condiment over his duff, and each of us grabbed a wooden spoon and advanced on our pasty treat. Thank God we were hungry or we’d never have gotten it down. Its consistency was a little like cobbler’s paste, and the flavor smacked of kerosene and goats!

After a while this ol’ guy loosened up, and he and his son begin to spin some yarns. Before long the kid got to doctoring his duff too, and the more they apply their tongue loosener, the more colorful their anecdotes become! They tell stories that would cause the saltiest ol’ seadog to blush. Lidge and I just kept real quiet and took it all in. While in Rome sometimes it’s best to keep still and humor the Romans.

Next thing you know, it’s after midnight, and we need a place to crash and get some rest! Lidge yawned real big, and the father pointed to a ladder that leads up to the loft. Come to find out, we’re sleeping up there with the son. Well, it’s too late to back water now. There’s no way back to the ship at this late hour. Lidge and I smiled and resigned ourselves to our fate. The three of us climbed the ladder and crawled on our hands and knees into this cramped, unheated loft. It’s about 25 degrees outside, and the draft from the eaves would chill a wooden Indian.

Now don’t get me wrong, we appreciate their hospitality and all, and these folks are just as sweet as they can be, but within ten minutes this kid begins to snore! And I’m not talking about your everyday, garden-variety, snort and rattle either. This kid’s snoring loosens plaster and rattles windows! Lidge and I buried our heads in the straw and jammed our ears with knuckles.

Next thing you know, the atmosphere in this place goes raunchier than the bilge water in the boat! Something this kid has eaten is leaking out in fumes! It gets so bad that we can’t even breathe! Lidge headed out first and I followed on his heels. Leaving the ladder, we both took a seat on the bench. “Well, now what do ya want to do?” It’s about one thirty in the morning now. There’s no way back to the ship, it’s way too cold to sleep outside, and we’re concerned we’ll hurt their feelings if we leave.

So, we’re sitting there hanging our heads, and here comes the daughter. This little gal is probably about fourteen years old; cute as a speckled pup, and she’s not wearing nothing but a floor length nightshirt and some goose bumps. She smiles real sweet and slides up alongside Lidge. Well, you talk about somebody sucking wind; Lidge turned white as a sheet, folded his hands in his lap, and for at least a minute poor Lidge don’t even breathe! This little sweetheart is adorned with a white variegated flower in her hair, and this flower is so fragrant, that after a minute, I’m beginning to feel puny myself!

So now what? Well, there clearly ain’t but one-way of getting out of this jam alive. Faster than greased lightning; we’re up that ladder and thanking the Lord for that cozy little loft! It don’t smell near as perty as that little gal, but the smell ain’t likely to kill us, and we’re not sure that’s true of that little darling’s dad. We toughed it out until first light, and as soon as the stars winked out, we bounded down the ladder and made a mad dash for the wood range. The mom was heating water for tea, and she smiled pleasantly as we entered the room. We stood quietly by the range until the dad arrived. The old boy was a little under the weather this morning. His eyes were red as beats, and he was evidently suffering from too much hot rum duff! After a table blessing, the mother removed a loaf of fresh baked wheat bread from the oven, and served it up warm with hot tea and some nice fresh figs. It really was a very pleasant meal. We visited briefly with the entire family, and all the while Lidge was making a point of keeping me between himself and that sweet young thing.

After breakfast I offered the father a couple of coins, which he readily stuck in his pocket, and then we thanked them all kindly, gathered our gear, and ran like the dickens for the pier. There were longboats coming and going regularly now, and we grabbed the next boat and high-tailed it back to the ship. Take me for a silly lout and question my sporting blood, but from this point on, I’m staying on the boat!

Uncle Mark had a real good belly laugh at our expense, as we related the gut-wrenching details of our ill-fated Chilean adventure. “You boys beat all!” he says, shaking his head and finger grooming his whiskers, “scared half to death by a bowl of rum duff and a helpless little girl.” Well, that’s easy for him to say, but he didn’t see the longing look in the soulful eyes of that desperate sweetheart’s face!

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009