35

N^o 5                                         Barranquilla

French Packet                                   21st Feby. 1891

My dear Mother,

The French steamer passes tomorrow, & though I have nothing to write about & am not quite in the mood for writing about nothing, still mails are so far between & irregular that I like to send at least a few words by each, if merely to let you know that I am alright.

I have not had any letters from you meanwhile, so some ought to come soon.

A few days ago young Clark, traveller for York St., arrived from Cuba.^[1] He witnessed a startling occurrence in Havana just before leaving. Some six highway robbers trying to escape from the country had taken passage by his steamer. The police were on their back & came, in plain clothes, on board the steamer to arrest them, when a pitched battle took place. The robbers were armed with two revolvers each, & fought to the last, but five of them were shot dead on the spot & the sixth was taken prisoner. Clark was standing on deck at the time & dare not stir, for the bullets were flying all round & the safest thing was to stand still. One man fell within five yards of him. Two jumped into a boat that had come off with some passengers & made the boatman pull away, but they were followed by a gunboat with which they exchanged fire till they were killed & the boatman was shot in the arm. They say adventures are to the venturous; – be that as it may, having such a thrilling story to tell gives Clark quite an advantage in the way of business over me to whom nothing exciting ever happens.

A Mr Taylor, from Dundee, is here too, a very nice fellow.^[2] We had a little whist the other evening; – my points so far, since the beginning of the year, are slightly to the good. I am keeping a record to test the rest of my play.

Last night was a perfect tropical night. Warm but not oppressive, a faint breeze coming in from the sea, glorious full moon turning all colours into bright white or intense black; – we sat on the balcony of a quiet restaurant outside the town & lazily watched the winding Magdalena which flows slowly through the plain till it loses itself in the soft haze of the horizon. Everything seemed so still & quiet & yet the air was full of the humming of insects & the odd notes of strange birds. Inside the room friend Twose was at the piano playing softly snatches from Songs without Words & other dreamy music, while, to complete the poetry of the picture, I sat in a low rocking chair, with my feet on the balcony rail, & smoked, refreshing myself at intervals with an iced blend of ginger ale & lager beer.^[3]

Pity the sorrows of a poor bag-man. Jack