The Golden Horse: A Novel About Triumph and Tragedy Building the Panama Railroad

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My son, Jorge Enrique, the first reader of everything I write, and my friends, Ernesto Endara, Felipe Motta Jr., Irina Ardila, Rosa María Britton, Jorge Eduardo Ritter, Arístides Royo, Berna Calvit, and, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, Ángela Romero and Elisa Fenoy, read the first drafts of this work; their observations and advice helped me put a better harness on The Golden Horse before it left the stable. I owe them all an unpayable debt.

PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION

SAGAS ABOUT THE CALIFORNIA GOLD Rush have always intrigued me. As a descendant of Henry William Bigler, the worker who witnessed and recorded in his diary James W. Marshall’s fateful discovery of those first gold nuggets on January 24, 1848, and as a frequent visitor to the Mother Lode Country, I have avidly pursued the fact and fiction and pondered the legends and mysteries since boyhood when I first encountered Uncle Henry’s chronicle and Mark Twain’s celebrated jumping frog. This explains my delight when I first discovered the epic of The Golden Horse.

This was the third of the great historical novels by Juan David Morgan about Panama that I read as a result of my having served as a member of the U.S. Embassy staff there from 2000 to 2003. Juan David’s older brother, Eduardo, a former Ambassador of Panama to the United States, introduced me to these books as a means of presenting me with a Panamanian perspective on the shared history between our two countries, and I immediately became a devotee of his historical fiction.

His wonderful rendering of the seemingly incredible task of building the Panama Railroad in the 1850s creatively tracks much of the actual events and remarkable personalities of one of the great engineering achievements and triumphs of the human spirit of the 19th Century. More importantly, the book fell into my hands just after I retired from the Foreign Service and returned to California to take up a professorship at the University of the Pacific, in Stockton, California, at the gateway to the Gold Rush country. Eager to identify and explore connections between Panama and California, I was delighted to learn that most of the gold that was mined here in the 1850s was shipped out of the Port of Stockton or Sacramento and then was carried across the Isthmus by the Panama Railroad on its way to the U.S. mints on the East Coast.

To my dismay, I found that most of my fellow Californians were as oblivious to our state’s connections to the Panama Railroad during the Gold Rush era as they were to the impact of the opening of the Panama Canal on California’s maritime boom after the First World War. Even in San Francisco, hardly anyone remembers that it was hosting the Panama-Pacific Exposition that really established the city’s international bona fides. Now it was obvious why Juan David had devoted so much effort to developing a series of novels to make the history of Panama more accessible to his countrymen.

The Golden Horse was first published in Spanish by Ediciones B in Barcelona, Spain, in 2005 and was a big hit throughout the Spanish-speaking world. The original hardcover edition sold out, and it is now available in a paperback edition, Bolsillo ZETA, Ediciones B.S.A., from Barcelona, Spain. When I first discussed the potential for an English language edition of the book with Juan David, I was pleased to learn that he had already arranged for a really skilled professional, John Cullen, to prepare an English translation of this great story.

At this point I volunteered to help make his novel available to English speakers, and with the collaboration of Juan David’s second wife, Ana Elena Morgan, who shares my devotion to educating the people of the Americas about our common history, what you see before you is the result of another, albeit more modest, inter-American effort.

Dr. Gene E. Bigler

Stockton, California

Prologue

IN THE RAILROAD CAR THAT served as his office, by the meager light of a small kerosene lamp, Colonel George Totten went over the day’s accounts. The final review, he murmured to himself.

As he was carefully stowing the file in his desk drawer, a flash of lightning lit up the compartment, followed a few seconds later by the familiar, reverberating sound of thunder. Totten smiled bitterly. It won’t stop plaguing my life, not even on the last day.

He rose to his feet, stepped to the window, and leaned down to peer out at the night. A new flash illuminated his gaunt, austere face, framed by a thick black beard in which the first white whiskers were beginning to show. You’ve tormented me for five long years! he shouted. What are you waiting for? Do your worst! The echoing thunder, closer now, drowned out his voice.

At that moment, the door of the car opened and James Baldwin’s imperturbable countenance appeared in the doorway. Everything all right, Colonel? he asked.

Totten straightened up. An odd expression came over his face. Everything’s fine, he said. I was defying our old enemy. Are we ready?

The team’s waiting for us in the appointed place. Bring your cloak. We may be in the middle of the dry season, but it’s going to rain soon.

Totten snatched up the cloak, descended the three steps, and began walking beside Baldwin. It never stops raining, does it? Totten grumbled. Never.

In the intermittent glare of the lightning, the chief engineer’s tall, gangling figure contrasted with that of the shorter, more compact Baldwin, the engineer who was Totten’s assistant in the construction of the railroad. As soon as they passed beyond the two cars, the locomotive, and the platform, they followed an old habit and began walking on the crossties; trudging along in silence, conscious of the importance of what they were about to do. Each successive, premonitory flash of lightning was brighter than the last, and the thunderclaps came closer and closer together. When the two men reached the place where the crew was waiting, the first large, heavy raindrops began to fall.

You won’t need those torches, boys, Totten said sarcastically. Nature’s giving us the gift of light.

Baldwin stepped forward, took the maul one of the workers was holding, handed it to the chief engineer, and said, in an uncharacteristically solemn tone, The time has come, Colonel.

The workers brought their torches closer, and Totten fixed his attention on the section of track that remained to be fastened in place as the culmination of so many years of effort. Give me a couple of good spikes! I hope the tie’s not black guayacán, he joked.

We picked one with nice, soft wood, Baldwin replied in the same jovial tone. We’ll replace it tomorrow.

The colonel carefully set the spike in the hole in the clamp and prepared to complete the final link in the first railroad connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and thus to bring to a close the most arduous, unpleasant, and tragic engineering project he’d ever undertaken.

At the first blow of Totten’s maul, the sky seemed to explode. The violent crack of another thunderbolt lit up the ground with the clarity of daylight, the resounding boom shook the vault of the sky, and a colossal downpour deluged the group of men, who numbered about twenty in all. Spurred to action, Totten threw off his cloak and began driving the spike in earnest. Did you think you would win, you damned devil? This one’s for all the shattered dreams! This one’s for so much suffering! This one’s for all the dead . . .

The rain, the dancing flames of the torches, and the flashes of lightning lent the scene a ghostly aspect. While Totten shouted imprecations and pounded the spikes through the crossties, the workers’ drenched, expectant faces disappeared and reappeared; the recurrent illuminations revealed expressions of incredulity, scorn, and pity. Some of the men feared that the colonel, after five years of troubles, hardships, frustration, and anguish, had lost his mind. Baldwin, well acquainted with his boss’s mettle, thought no such thing.

When Totten struck the last blow, the storm subsided, as though obeying a prearranged signal. The colonel slowly raised himself to his full height and returned the maul to the foreman of the work crew. It’s over, boys, he said. With much effort and many sacrifices, nature has been conquered, and for the first time in history, a railroad links two great oceans. You must feel proud to be a part of this moment. I thank you, and I ask that you join me in thanking the Creator as well.

Surprised by the boss’s unusual access of religious sentiment, the men bowedvtheir heads, and those who were wearing caps removed them.

Lord, we who have managed to survive this long ordeal give you thanks, and we ask that you gather to your bosom our brothers who succumbed along the way. Amen.

Amen, the others said in chorus, relieved to see that George Totten had not parted with his reason.

On the way back, the two engineers walked in silence between the rails until Baldwin asked about the train’s destination.

Tonight we’ll go back to the station in Culebra, the colonel announced. Then tomorrow we’ll travel to the Atlantic terminus and prepare for the first complete run between Aspinwall and Panama City.

Back in his rail-car office, while the locomotive was beginning to puff and snort, Totten sat down to write the first draft of his final report. To counteract the jolting car’s tendency to make his writing illegible, he braced his notebook firmly against his right thigh.

Culebra, January 27, 1855

Members of the Board of Directors

Panama Railroad Company

New York, New York, U.S.A.

Honorable Gentlemen:

I am pleased to inform you that during the night of this day, the 27th of January, 1855, work on the Panama railroad line between Aspinwall, the Atlantic terminus, and the Pacific terminus in Panama City reached its conclusion. A few minutes ago, at a point located ten miles down from the station in Culebra, on the crest of the Continental Divide, I personally drove the final spike to complete the railroad. Tomorrow the first locomotive will cross the isthmus from sea to sea.

I enclose with this letter information which will complete the reports sent by me to the company over the course of these past five years. As the honorable directors will be able to ascertain, the approximate cost of the work has risen to the sum of eight million dollars . . .

At this point, George Totten stopped writing. How could he speak of the cost of the work without mentioning all the pain suffered and all the hardships endured? No, the price of the Panama Railroad couldn’t be measured solely in dollars and cents. The colonel rose from his seat and, swaying to the rhythm of the train, walked to the hard bunk where he was wont to rest when fatigue overcame him. Before closing his eyes, he asked himself once again the question that had tormented him for a long time: Was it worth it?

In his forty-six years of existence, George Muirson Totten had worked on construction projects of great magnitude. In the United States, his native country, he’d helped build various canals and waterways and some of the first railroad lines in Pennsylvania. Outside the U.S., he and his longtime colleague John Trautwine had obtained a commission from the government of New Granada to dredge and widen the channel of the Canal del Dique, which linked the Magdalena River with the Cartagena Bay. Many difficulties had been overcome in carrying out that great work, but they were as nothing compared with the tragedy that had accompanied the construction of the Panama Railroad. How many men had died in the effort? How many had lost forever their health and their illusions? How many had disappeared without leaving a trace, not even a cross to protect them on their journey to the other world? Totten had never imagined that there could exist so much selfishness, so much hard-heartedness, so much hatred, and so much human misery as had been engendered by the fever for Californian gold, a fever that had fallen like a biblical curse on the isthmus and the railroad company. In his heart of hearts, Totten was convinced that the plagues, the epidemics, and the extreme suffering had all been a consequence of divine wrath, unleashed to punish the inordinate thirst for gain that gold had awakened in mankind. By contrast, as far as Baldwin, his invaluable field assistant, was concerned, the importance of the work more than compensated for the wretched ordeal of carrying it out. No undertaking so momentous as this one can be realized without a proportionate sacrifice, he often pointed out. But Colonel Totten kept turning the same question over and over in his mind: Was it worth it?

PART ONE

Men who make history have no time to write it.

~ Metternich

1

WILLIAM HENRY ASPINWALL ROSE FROM his desk and walked over to the window that overlooked the South Street docks. At forty years of age, he was an elegant gentleman of middle stature, robust but not fat. His carefully combed hair hung down to his dark beard, which contrasted with a pallid face and sky-blue eyes so bright that Aspinwall seemed to have nothing to hide. His carriage and expression were those of a sincere, affable, and kindly person, a man whose qualities distinguished him from the rest of New York’s leading businessmen. Among his friends and peers, the chairman and executive director of Howland & Aspinwall had a reputation for fairness and equanimity, attributes that were difficult to acquire in the rough world of maritime trade, where the epithet sea wolf did not apply solely to hardened ship captains.

Clasping his hands behind him, William Aspinwall stood in his frock coat and contemplated the forest of rigging and bare masts swaying in the pale afternoon light. The rigors of winter had descended upon New York early that year – 1847 – and there was hardly any observable activity on the docks at the end of the day. Among the masts, he had little difficulty distinguishing the tallest and narrowest, which belonged to the Rainbow, the swiftest of all the sailing vessels that constituted Howland & Aspinwall’s fleet. By exercising a great deal of patience, William had managed to convince his partners of the necessity of building ships whose speed would render them capable of satisfying the ever-growing demands of business. Thanks to his vision and enthusiasm, the firm was now the proprietor of the four fastest ships that plied the waters of the Pacific Ocean, voyaging to and from the Far East. Together with the Rainbow, the clippers Natchez, Ann McKim, and Sea Witch made Howland & Aspinwall the most vigorous of the shipping firms engaged in trade with the vast Chinese market. With equal success, the rest of the company’s vessels carried on commerce in the Mediterranean, the West Indies, and South America. Nevertheless, William Aspinwall felt a special affection for the Rainbow, which would always be distinguished in the seafaring world for having been the first clipper to sail the seas, reaching speeds never before attained and proudly spreading her enormous volume of sail above the slender silhouette of her hull, from which the excessively rounded stern that characterized older ships had disappeared. William knew that steam would soon replace wind as a propellant, but in the annals of navigation the name of Howland & Aspinwall would forever be inscribed as the shipping company that launched the first clipper ship in the world.

However, the reason behind the partners’ meeting that was about to take place had no direct connection with the construction of new ships. Ideas of much broader import were simmering in the mind of Howland & Aspinwall’s Chairman of the Board when the doorkeeper’s voice plucked him from his meditations: The partners are all here.

Has Uncle Samuel come, too?

Yes, sir. Despite how cold it is outside, he was the first to arrive.

The library, which doubled as a meeting room, was located on the second floor, a few steps from the chairman’s office. Like all the firm’s work areas, the library was a sober room featuring dark wood and solid, heavy furniture. The window, small in comparison to the size of the room, looked out on Jones Court, one of the dark, narrow alleys that ran into South Street, and therefore even during the day candles were necessary to provide sufficient light in the library. On the back wall hung engravings of the ships that made up Howland & Aspinwall’s fleet. These pictures, an enormous globe in front of the window, and a small blue and white flag in the center of the table were the room’s only decorations. When William came through the door, his uncles Samuel Howland and Gardiner Greene, the firm’s founders, his brother John Lloyd Aspinwall, and his cousin William Edgar Howland, Uncle Samuel’s only son, were sitting around that table, waiting for him.

Good afternoon. I appreciate your coming on such short notice, especially you, Uncle Samuel.

Everyone understood what old Sam Howland’s presence meant: This afternoon, they’d be discussing some serious business.

What’s it about this time? Uncle Samuel asked, eschewing any preamble.

It’s about something supremely important, something that’s going to require the board to give some advice and make some decisions, William responded, while taking his seat at the head of the table. Yesterday, after waiting for a very long time, the government finally approved the company’s taking over Arnold Harris’s contract to carry on maritime service between Panama and Oregon.

Does this mean that shameless speculator is now definitively out of the picture?

"It does, Uncle Samuel. The contract and the government subsidy for transporting the mail now belong exclusively to our new enterprise, the Pacific Mail Steamship Company. We’ve got a ten-year, renewable contract, and the annual subsidy we receive from the government will be one hundred and ninety-nine thousand dollars. One of the purposes of this meeting is to give formal approval to the construction contracts for the three ships stipulated in the agreement. As we’ve already seen, the ships in question will be paddle steamers, each with a displacement of about a thousand tons. They’ll all be two hundred feet long, with a thirty-four foot beam and a twenty-one-foot draft. The propulsion will be provided by the wooden paddles in the paddlewheels, assisted by three masts and sails. The best estimate we’ve received was submitted by the William Webb & Company shipyard, which offers to build each of the ships at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars. We’ve chosen their names: the California, the Oregon, and the Panama."

Samuel Howland impatiently interrupted him: The names aren’t very important, William, and all the rest is old news. We’ve already sufficiently discussed the risks involved in mounting an enterprise with half a million dollars in capital, plus outstanding loans for another half a million, in order to operate a route which to this day has almost no ports and no trade. But we’ve given you a vote of confidence, and we’ll go forward. If what you want now is a formal act of approval for the construction contracts, consider it done.

William Aspinwall looked carefully at his uncle and smiled, almost gently. Neither our initial investment nor the loan payments will be very substantial. I have in my possession documents signed by potential investors prepared to contribute as much as forty percent of the capital for the new shipping company.

William rose from his chair, stepped over to the window, and spun the globe until he found the right part of the world. I’ve been analyzing the facts behind our government’s decision to grant contracts and subsidies for maritime transport between the United States and Panama: one contract for the Atlantic route, between the East Coast of the U.S. and Panama, and one for the Pacific, between Panama and the West Coast. The government’s basic reasons are clear: to provide a postal service which will allow them to maintain smooth, permanent contact with Oregon and California, and to be able to count on ships that will regularly and safely carry the functionaries and soldiers who administer and defend the new possessions. They’re vast, those new territories, their potential is enormous, and our ships will transport everything necessary for their development, including entire families that may go in search of new horizons. At the moment, the West Coast produces modest quantities of a few exports: fur, leather, precious woods. But the development of the area–

Forgive me for interrupting, William, but I think everyone here knows all this. And we also know that George Law beat us out for the most lucrative contract, and now he has the much more productive Atlantic route.

True, Uncle Samuel, true. But the background’s necessary to help explain my proposal.

Let’s hear what it is, then! old Howland exclaimed uneasily.

I was saying that the development of the West Coast has a high priority in Washington’s plans, especially now that the end of the war with Mexico is in sight and it looks like California’s going to be incorporated into the Union. Whatever we do, the traffic between the East and the West will grow more and more intense, and the Panama route is the fastest and most economical. The trip around Cape Horn is long and hazardous, and so is crossing the United States in a wagon or on horseback. From what I can see, we have to concentrate our attention on the development of the Panama route. Currently, passengers and cargo land at Chagres, a ramshackle little town on the Atlantic coast of the isthmus with a single dock, and not much of one at that. From there they travel up the Chagres River by boat, transfer to mules, and reach Panama City on muleback. Then they embark on another ship for the voyage to San Francisco. I should add that our government is so conscious of the importance of the isthmus route that they signed a treaty with New Granada last year granting the U.S. the right to control and protect it. To come to the point, what I’m proposing is that we build an efficient link across Panama.

Aspinwall’s last words roused his partners from their torpor. What kind of link? Uncle Samuel immediately asked.

William exchanged looks with his brother John and their cousin William Edgar. To tell the truth, he said, we don’t know yet. The project has to be studied in depth. What we do know is that if we succeed, not only will we become the shipping company of greatest importance in the development of the new territories in the West, but we’ll also reduce the expenses and distances involved in our trade with China and the Far East. Take a look at the globe and you’ll see what I mean.

Preceded by Samuel Howland, the partners stepped over the globe so they could follow William’s explanations.

Currently, our most important trade, amounting to nearly three quarters of our revenues, is with the markets of the Caribbean, South America, and Europe. However, as we all know, the Far East is the market that offers much the greatest potential; the problem is that the vast distances have prevented proper development of that potential. If we open a passage across Panama connecting the two oceans, China will be around the corner from us.

William’s Uncle Gardiner Greene asked, almost sardonically, You wouldn’t be thinking about a canal?

As I said, I’m not sure yet.

Come down from the clouds, William! old Howland exclaimed. People have been talking about a canal across Panama since colonial times, and nothing’s ever come of it.

I know, I know. I agree that a canal would be a very ambitious and speculative enterprise, but a railroad would be much more feasible. Don’t you think so?

A railroad? Uncle Samuel pondered for a moment. Isn’t that just another crazy idea? And what do your brother John and your cousin William Edgar think about all this, seeing as they have yet to open their mouths?

Young Howland replied, Will’s been consulting with us about the project, Dad. We think it’s worth pursuing.

And why didn’t anyone say anything?

Because we wanted to be sure of getting the Pacific mail contract first, John Aspinwall explained.

A railroad . . . The oldest partner, calmer now, murmured to himself while returning to his chair.

William Aspinwall waited for everyone to be seated again before continuing. What I need from you is authorization to explore the possibility of constructing a canal or a railroad across the Isthmus of Panama.

Why do you insist on talking about a canal? Building a railroad will be complicated enough, considering we have no experience whatsoever in the matter.

That’s true, Uncle Gardiner. And therefore I’ve sought the collaboration of two persons who can help us make the decision. They’re waiting in the anteroom, and if you’ll allow me, I’ll have them come in.

Bring ’em in, bring ’em in, Uncle Samuel muttered. Curiosity seemed to have replaced his impatience.

Moments later, William Aspinwall returned, followed by two men whom he introduced as John Lloyd Stephens, an attorney, and the engineer James Baldwin. Both of them looked to be around thirty-five years old, but otherwise they couldn’t have been more different: Stephens was tall, slender, fine-featured, and elegantly dressed; Baldwin was short, stout, and swathed in an overcoat that gave evidence of prolonged and merciless use. With exquisite manners, the lawyer proceeded to shake hands with each of the partners, while Baldwin confined himself to pronouncing a few unintelligible words and briefly inclining his head before taking a seat.

James Baldwin is an engineer with vast experience in railroad building. Moreover, he recently worked in New Granada, very close to the isthmus, on opening up the Canal del Dique, the waterway that joins the Magdalena River with the Cartagena Bay. John Lloyd Stephens, who gave up the practice of law many years ago, is an experienced traveler and knows Central America, including Panama, better than anyone. Moreover –

William’s Uncle Gardiner interrupted him. Are you the famous writer? he asked.

At your service, Stephens replied.

I’ve read all your books, and I’m one of your greatest admirers. Thanks to you, I’ve been able to visit countries and places I’ll never travel to: Egypt, Arabia, the Holy Land, Turkey, Russia, and I don’t know how many others. And the ancient culture of the Mayas – you’re the person who discovered it and revealed it to the world. It’s a real honor to have you here among us.

I’m very grateful to you, the writer said, bowing slightly.

I must add, Aspinwall said with a satisfied air, that John Lloyd, at President Van Buren’s request, traveled all over Central America in 1837 with the specific purpose of exploring the possibilities of building a canal or an interoceanic railroad. Furthermore, he speaks Spanish, and thanks to his travels, he maintains excellent contacts with the authorities in New Granada, contacts that will be very useful to us when it comes time to negotiate the concession for building whatever we may decide to build.

I hope you don’t share my nephew’s pipe dream of digging a canal across the isthmus, Uncle Samuel grumbled.

It would be a magnificent accomplishment, but in my opinion an impossible one, for the time being. Someday, ships will cross from one ocean to the other across the Isthmus of Panama, but I’m afraid none of us present here today will live to see it.

Another dreamer, old Howland thought, drumming his bony fingers on the table.

On the other hand, a railroad is perfectly possible, said Baldwin.

Would you explain to us what makes you think that? Uncle Gardiner asked.

On the isthmus, the distance between the two oceans is relatively short, about fifty miles or so. Moreover, I understand – although this will have to be confirmed in the field – that the central mountain range is lower there than it is in the rest of the region. I don’t know whether you know this, but it’s a rule of railroad building that the maximum elevation must be lower than six hundred feet; otherwise, the locomotive won’t have enough power to pull the cars.

No, we didn’t know that, Gardiner replied. To tell the truth, we know nothing about railroads.

We’ve made plans, William Aspinwall said. Mr. Stephens and Mr. Baldwin will board the next ship bound for Panama. Their mission will be to assess the viability of the project. We’ve already agreed on the general conditions under which they’ll lend their services to Howland & Aspinwall, and only a few details remain to be settled.

And what are those conditions? Uncle Samuel inquired.

Apart from your covering my expenses, I expect nothing in return for traveling to Panama, said Stephens, stepping forward. For me the journey will be a fresh opportunity to share with my readers my experiences in unknown lands. Nonetheless, if the firm decides to build the railroad, William knows of my interest in participating in the venture as a stockholder and director.

Aspinwall continued: If they conclude that the project is viable, they’ll go on to Bogotá to obtain permission from the New Granadan authorities for us to perform the work.

And if they get nothing from the Granadans, our lawyer-traveler will still write another book, old Sam said jokingly.

Stephens laughed heartily, displaying even white teeth under his impeccably trimmed moustache. Do not doubt it for a moment, my dear sir, he said. Imagine the tales I shall be able to tell after crossing the isthmus, for taking a ship to the port of Buenaventura, and then traveling on foot and on muleback up to an elevation of nine thousand feet, to the place where the Spanish conquistadors, for reasons known only to God and themselves, chose to raise the very austere city of Santa Fe de Bogotá.

This time, it was old Sam who laughed. I admire your enthusiasm, young man. When are you scheduled to embark?

"If you are all in agreement, tomorrow morning the Liberty sets sail from the dock that’s just across from this office. Baldwin and I have already reserved passage."

Then bon voyage! And don’t think that just because I’ll be eighty soon, I’ve stopped dreaming.

2

John Lloyd Stephens’s Travel Journal

I begin this new journal today, December 17, 1847.

Ten days ago, we sailed from New York, and now, after stops in Savannah and Havana, we’re very close to the coasts of the Isthmus of Panama, where we expect to arrive at sunrise tomorrow. It’s been a smooth voyage, with no major mishaps. The Liberty has sailed before a good wind, which has grown stronger as we’ve approached the equator. My companion is the engineer James Baldwin, a taciturn man who seems to be interested only in matters relating to his profession. We are both traveling under the auspices of the shipping firm Howland & Aspinwall, the most important such firm in the United States, which has sent us on a confidential mission to explore the possibilities of constructing a canal or a railroad across the isthmus. I feel certain that a canal is still very far off on the horizon of history, but William Aspinwall, the man of sound judgment who directs the firm, insists that we should not dismiss the possibility out of hand. Should Baldwin’s analyses determine that the construction of a railroad is feasible, we shall continue on to Bogotá to request from the New Granada authorities a contract that will allow Howland & Aspinwall to perform the work. My relations with friends at the highest level of government in Bogotá have provided the principal reason for my participation in this adventure. In addition, I’m to serve as Baldwin’s guide in his explorations across the isthmus.

The partners in Howland & Aspinwall are an interesting mixture of conservatism and audacity. The founders, particularly old Sam Howland, look with apprehension upon the rapid advances that are being made in navigation, but they’re sufficiently intelligent and flexible to allow the younger partners to keep the firm in step with the times.

William Aspinwall, with whom I already feel a bond of friendship, is a gentleman in every sense of the word, and his reputation for fairness is well deserved. His acts reveal a deep social consciousness and respect for others’ ideas. He is, without any doubt, the visionary of the group, and it’s his idea that control over the Panama route will make Howland & Aspinwall the most important shipping company in the world. His contagious enthusiasm induced me to request permission to participate in the trans-isthmus railroad project as a shareholder; he not only accepted my proposition, he immediately offered me the presidency of the future company. His words were, Your name at the head of the project will give it credibility and make the placement of shares easier. Although I very much doubt that the name of a travel writer will do much to attract investors, I accepted the offer and thanked him for the distinction.

December 18

Dawn. Baldwin and I have come up on deck to watch the Liberty’s arrival. The sea is so rough that we have to hold on to the rail to maintain our balance. The sun’s striving to disperse the clouds; some remnants do their best to cling to the bluish spine of the central mountain range, while other stormy thunderheads come in from the west and set about obscuring the sky. We’re surrounded by silence. All we can hear is the constant beating of the wind in the sails and the waves impetuously slapping the hull. As we get closer to the coast, the captain gives the order to finish taking down the sails and cast anchor.

I observe to Baldwin, It won’t be possible to lower the boats into this sea.

Couldn’t we get a little closer to the port? the engineer asks.

I explain to him that Chagres is, in reality, a wretched little shanty town erected at the mouth of the river that gives it its name. The sandbar which requires us to stay far from the coast also keeps the waters of the tidal inlet calm, thus allowing Chagres to be categorized, rather dubiously, as a port.

The crew has finished its various maneuvers, and now that the ship has stopped, the waves are beginning to shake it with greater force. Our few fellow passengers have chosen to return to their cabins. Although the sprays of water and fog spewing over the deck have soaked us through and left the taste of salt in our mouths, Baldwin and I decide to keep watching this gray dawn, whose sun has left off shining.

Look, Stephens, I think they’re about to lower a boat, says Baldwin, leaning out over the rail.

That seems rash, I reply. There’s no way to disembark passengers in such weather.

But Baldwin is right. With great difficulty, some of the crew have started letting down one of the boats, in which two obviously frightened sailors are struggling to maintain their balance. Once in the water, they grab the oars and try desperately to put some distance between themselves and the ship. The waves, which strike with ever increasing violence, prevent the sailors from making any progress, and in fewer than ten seconds the boat is slammed against the hull of the ship, does a somersault, and falls back into the sea upside down. The sailors have disappeared, but after more than a minute of anxious waiting, one of them emerges, gasping for air and fighting to stay afloat. Finally, he’s able to catch hold of the life raft that his comrades throw down to him. The boat crashes against the hull of the ship again and again and finally breaks into pieces. The second sailor is seen no more.

December 21

Shortly after the tragedy, a storm brought us two days of almost uninterrupted thunder, lightning, and rain. From time to time, Baldwin accompanied me on deck to contemplate the spectacle, which was particularly impressive at night, when the coast, lit up by continual flashes of lightning, looked like a giant about to rise to his feet.

And here I thought we were in the dry season, the engineer remarked, doubtless pondering the difficulties he would have to confront in order to lay a railroad line in such weather.

We are, in fact, at the beginning of the dry season, I replied, adding that it rains a great deal more during the rainy season, which runs from April to December.

On the third day, the sun broke through the ring of clouds, the central mountain range appeared in all its blue fullness, and the light of dawn fell upon a calm sea. Baldwin and I took the first boat, and as we approached land, I took advantage of the opportunity to begin my work as his guide. This is where the Andes dwindle and die, I said, indicating the gentle relief of the mountains. Then I pointed to the ruins of the castle of San Lorenzo, which has languished for more than two hundred years on the summit of the high ground east of the delta. I explained that the fort had been built by the Spaniards to defend the mouth of the Chagres River, which offered the easiest access to the interior of the isthmus. That was the route taken by the pirate Henry Morgan, I explained. After seizing the fort, he went up the river, crossed the Continental Divide, and fell upon Panama, which at the time was one of the richest Spanish cities.

Do the fort’s cannons still survive? James asked. I showed myself pleasantly surprised by his interest in local history and told him that when I visited the fort for the first time eight years ago, the cannons were still there, practically intact. He replied, I don’t give much thought to the past. But the deterioration of the cannons will help us to determine what grade of iron we’ll need for the rails. We both laughed.

When he contemplated the little village of Chagres for the first time, Baldwin could not hide his disappointment, which increased steadily as we approached the shore. Nothing seems to have changed since my first visit. The population, which comprises no more than seven hundred persons, is a mixture of aborigines and blacks, in whose complexion and features one can barely discern the distant traces of some white ancestor. All the houses are built with reed walls, straw roofs, and dirt floors, and the openings of the doors and windows are covered with strips of rags. The streets are for the most part permanent quagmires and follow no discernible pattern; naked children play in them amid chickens, mangy dogs, filthy pigs, and flies. There are no police, no priests, no authorities of any kind. The bigwig of the community is the most prosperous of the boatmen, the only locals with an assured income, which they earn by transporting travelers upriver. Some fifteen crudely fashioned dug-out boats, twelve feet long by four feet wide, made from the hard trunks of guayacán trees, lie capsized on the muddy shore. The ambient air is warm and moist, and in it floats a contagious apathy.

What misery! my companion exclaimed. Is the whole country like this?

I explained that although the rest of the villages along the route were equally backward, things would get better after we arrived in Panama City. Until then, I added, I’ve brought along provisions of food, water, and wine, and that’s what we’ll eat and drink. Except for fresh fruits, it will be best not to ingest anything that comes from here, unless they prepare it before our eyes.

Among the local inhabitants who arrived to welcome us, there was one whose height and extreme whiteness set him apart from the others, even though he was dressed like one of them. His origins obviously lay in Northern Europe. His beard and moustache were so blond that you had to be very close to him to make them out. He introduced himself in perfect English: Welcome to Chagres. I am Peter Eskildsen, the proprietor of the best hotel in town. I should consider it an honor if such distinguished visitors would agree to lodge in my establishment.

While he spoke, Eskildsen observed with mounting curiosity the wooden cases that contain the instruments Baldwin uses in his work. James began to grow uneasy. Pleased to meet you, I replied. I stated my name and introduced Baldwin as my assistant. I added that we were in Panama on behalf of the American Institute of Natural Sciences, which had sent us to study the flora and fauna of the isthmus and to bring back specimens thereof. I declared that we would be delighted to accept his recommendation, and furthermore, I asked him to help us engage the best available boatmen to take us to Gorgona tomorrow. Baldwin gave me a look of relief, and our Scandinavian host invited us to follow him.

The hotel was, without a doubt, the finest structure in town. It was larger than all the rest and stood at the opposite end of the village, where the mountainside began. Although constructed of the very same materials as all the other buildings in Chagres, the hotel was noticeably newer and better kept than they were, and its situation, where rainwater could not accumulate, exempted it from the perennial quagmires. The hotel had four rooms, separated from one another by large shawls of coarse cloth; two hammocks hung in each room. There were no mosquito nets, and I congratulated myself for having had the foresight to bring some with me. In one corner, there was a table with a washbasin, and beside the table a chamber pot. The rooms opened on the center of the inn, where the kitchen was located; it included an open fireplace and a table with eight chairs. That night, while we were savoring our third bottle of wine, Peter Eskildsen – his nostalgia intensified by alcohol – told us the long story which I herewith summarize.

Our new friend was born thirty-two years ago in Nordfold, a small village in northern Norway. Like his grandfather, his father, and almost all the males of Nordfold, he was a sailor from the age of seven. In 1842, he arrived in Chagres, after the captain of the ship in which he was serving as third officer unjustly sentenced him to banishment for insubordination and abandoned him on one of the islands in the Archipiélago de las Mulatas. Fortunately for me, the Norwegian said, albinism has supernatural connotations for the Indians native to those islands, and since I am tall, white, blond, and blue-eyed, they received me as a special emissary from the moon. All went well until the cravings of the flesh asserted themselves and I took up with one of the Indian women. We were both obliged to flee the wrath of the natives, and after a great many vicissitudes, we ended up here. A short time afterward, my woman was carried off by her countrymen, and all my efforts to find her were in vain. After a pause, Eskildsen added laconically, The Negress who tends the kitchen is her replacement.

When the Norwegian tried to find out more about our mission, Baldwin, also under the disinhibiting influence of wine, invented eloquent scientific explanations (which he himself did not understand) concerning the richness of the isthmus’s flora and fauna. It was likewise due to the wine that our hammocks that night were soft beds in which, heedless of rats, mosquitoes, flies, and cockroaches, we slept like logs.

December 22

The following morning, I wake up with a start. A rooster has decided to use the window of my room as a platform from which to announce with great enthusiasm the break of day. Baldwin, who has also risen early, is waiting for me and breakfast. Standing at the fire, Eskildsen’s partner is assiduously stirring pots. I courteously refuse the fried pork and corn she offers us. Baldwin contemplates the viands with longing and then gives me a disappointed look. I say, Some years ago, in Nicaragua, I yielded to the temptation, and it took me three months to recover from an attack of dysentery. I suggest that you make do with what we’ve brought: boiled ham, meat, dried fruit, vanilla crackers, and tea.

But that’s what we ate last night, he replies sorrowfully.

And it’s what we’ll eat for the rest of the trip, except for some fruits that we pick or some animal that we hunt and prepare ourselves. The way is long, and we can’t afford the luxury of falling ill.

While we’re having breakfast, Peter appears, accompanied by a very tall Negro whom he introduces as José, the best and most honest boatman in Chagres. You may trust him completely, Peter says. Moreover, he speaks some English. I tell them that I speak José’s language fluently, and we begin to negotiate in Spanish. The Norwegian, who will no doubt receive a commission, tries to assist the boatman. Finally, for twenty-five dollars in gold, we agree to engage two dug-outs, one for our luggage and equipment, and the other for us. Furthermore, as an incentive, I offer him ten additional dollars if we can make the trip to Gorgona in twelve days. But I always do it in five days or less, the Negro responds in amazement.

I know, I say, but in order to carry out our mission, my companion and I must stop in various places along the way to collect and analyze plants and insects.

José scratches his head. Then give me twenty dollars more. I offer him fifteen, which he accepts, and we close the agreement with a handshake. On the way to the boats, Eskildsen warns us that sometimes we may have to defend ourselves against big cats and crocodiles, especially if we’re going to be jumping out of the boat and onto land. "I hope you have weapons, because the