“And do you gentlemen believe it is worthwhile going to war over slaves? Even if they are freed, it will make for many difficulties: Here in Cuba, we are not allowed to buy slaves—we must import them from Africa, at great expense. And then there are laws that require us to free them after so many years: Some slave owners use that as an excuse to work the slaves even harder. And then, even if they are freed, they have no work, most of them—they do nothing but beg, or they become bandits and criminals. I am personally against the war for those very humane reasons.” Then: “Look at my slaves and you will see they are well provided for.”
Mrs. Bertrand had mainly listened in silence, but at this point in the conversation, she said: “I don’t understand it at all. We, of the South, are peaceable: I am mainly worried about our travels back to Georgia, which we undertake once a year.” Then: “Well, it seems stupid to start something up over the slave issue.”
“Then let us make a toast,” Mr. Bertrand said. “To peace, and that there will be no war.”
Afterward Clemens and I retired to this gentleman’s veranda to smoke some cigars. Despite the reputation of Cuban cigars—cohibas, the indigenous word for “tobacco”—which were said to be the finest in the world, Clemens preferred the two-cent cigars he had brought with him from the South, the burned-cord taste reminding him of home. Even at that hour—it was well past eleven—the great mill continued in operation, shadowy figures in the distance barely illuminated in the furnace’s glow; and we saw that a few slaves were still out in the fields, some of them singing Yoruban chants, which would ring out at all hours of the night.
THAT NEXT MORNING MR. BERTRAND had two horses saddled and ready for us. Through inquiries with various of his overseers, he had ascertained some notion as to where Esperanza was located.
“It is my understanding, gentlemen, that it is in the vicinity of a natural spring called San Miguel de los Baños, some twelve miles southeast of here. One of my men will bring you to a crossroad that will take you in that direction; but mind you, part of the route is through the selva—the jungle—and there you will not find any guardes civiles to keep the law. Not to frighten you, but it would be a good idea to bring some arms—have you any?”
“I have a revolver,” I told him.
“Good—if you are harassed by anyone, show the gun and you will be left alone.” Then, as we thanked him for his hospitality, we mounted our horses and, following our guide, left the plantation.
WHAT DAY IT WAS I cannot say—maybe a Tuesday or a Wednesday—but it was about four o’clock when, as we rode along on our horses, a local peasant pointed us to the dirt road leading to the Esperanza plantation. When we came upon the property, an orange grove—like the one at Bertrand’s, but on a smaller scale—first met the eye. Natural gardens were flourishing all around—ceiba, tamarind, and mango trees, mainly. Beyond were the cane field, the processing mill, barns, and a corral for oxen. Slaves were working in teams to harvest the sugar, their ebony backs glistening with moisture. We saw only one overseer among them, but he seemed to have neither a pistol nor a whip. And unlike the slaves we had seen at Bertrand’s plantation, these slaves seemed unafraid to speak to white men before being spoken to, for as we approached, within sight of the owner’s residence, which was a fine-looking house with a wide veranda, an old black female slave greeted us.
I asked to see Señor Stanley.
As she made her way into the house, we dismounted, and another slave of about twenty or so, with a most agreeable smile, took our horses away to a trough. Soon at the veranda railing appeared a well-dressed white gentleman of about fifty. In his right hand he was holding a pearl-handled revolver.
“You are Mr. Davis, I presume?” I asked, and he answered: “I am. And who are you?”
“This is Mr. Samuel Clemens, sir. And I am Henry Stanley, Mr. Henry Hope Stanley’s son. We’ve journeyed here from New Orleans.”
“Ah, he has spoken of you. Forgive the gun—we sometimes have interlopers in these parts. Come, and I will take you to him.”
We followed Mr. Davis inside and found that the interior of this plantation house was much larger than we had assumed from its facade. For when we entered, we were standing in a parlor some forty feet deep, its ceilings, some twenty feet above us, supported by immense cedar beams. There was a dining room directly adjoining it, all its windows shuttered against the light, and behind that were several other rooms off a hallway lined with potted flowers that led to an inner courtyard in the Spanish style, which was a garden at whose center was a trickling fountain, like one would find in a cloister. Off this honeycomb was an old family chapel, dim, with dark stone walls and an immense statue of an angel looming over a small altar, surely a place for prayers and meditation.
Mr. Davis then led us down an interior hallway to Mr. Stanley’s chamber; as we waited, I heard some words—Mr. Davis saying: “Henry, someone is here to see you.” I entered, Clemens behind me, and found Mr. Stanley resting in bed, two young female slaves attending to him, a book on his lap and a weariness about his person that I did not remember from before. At first he did not seem to know me, but when I called out to him—“Father?”—he took another look, no doubt confused by my appearance, for I was still drawn and terribly thin from my bouts with the Arkansas ague. But as soon as he recognized my familiar and friendly face, then brimming over with many emotions, his spirit suddenly brightened, as if he were a man come back from the dead.
“Is it you, Henry?” he asked. “My God, it is!” Of course he was surprised to see me in Cuba. “You’ve come so far. How could I have imagined that it could be so?”
To convey the magnitude of this moment is beyond my powers; but at once, I rushed forward and gave him an embrace, repeating the words, “Oh, Father; my father.” My forwardness surprised him, and he, gently patting me on the back and sitting up, said, “Now, Henry, be calm. Now that you are here, all will be well again.” Then: “Tell me of your journey.”
I related my travels from Arkansas and my good fortune of having a friend like Samuel Clemens to accompany me and that I had been driven to find him for reasons of concern for his well-being.
“To learn that someone cares so much for me,” he declared, “does my soul much good; your devotion touches me greatly.”
Taking in the scene of our reunion, and seeing my need for privacy in such a moment, Clemens went off with Mr. Davis to have a drink and discuss plantation life there. My father instructed a female slave to bring us refreshments. When I then asked my father why I had not heard from him, his answer was forthright and earnest.
“If you have found me resting in my bed during the hours of siesta, it is for a good reason,” Mr. Stanley told me. “For you see, I was gravely ill for several months, and my strength never completely returned: At best I am good for some six or seven hours a day, and then I am left greatly fatigued. This is because of my brother’s illness. When I arrived in Havana this November past, I found my brother in a sorry state with the yellow fever; enormous and hearty and fearless of spirit as he had been, my brother could not defend against his final calling, and early one morning, while I attended to him in his little house by the sea, he said some last few words and expired, his body, by his request, laid to rest in the waters. That he died was in and of itself a great blow to my spirit. But what my brother had—the yellow fever—I soon contracted; and it brought me close to death. My survival I owed to God. Upon my recovery, in a weakened state, I traveled across the island to settle up some accounts, but through all my journeys, I could barely maintain my interest in such things, so greatly despondent and dispirited was I by the recent turn of events.”
Indeed he seemed to have been aged by his troubles: His black beard had become streaked with white, and many lines, as would come from weeping, had accrued around his intelligent eyes.
“I came here in late February, to see my friend and partner in this enterprise, Mr. Davis. I was not completely well and still hindered by weaknesses, but once I arrive
d, my heart so weary, I found that I was much calmed by the beauty of these surroundings. I began to succumb to its many soothing qualities, and I decided to give my life here a chance—what remains of it, anyway. And as there was work to do here, I set myself to those tasks and thereby began to forget my troubles—but never have I forgotten you. Once I had settled things here, I had planned to visit New Orleans, and then it was my intention to find you in Arkansas and bring you back here, if you would have so liked. Yet because of the coming war, I knew that it would not have been the best of times to journey there, and so I have remained.”
“But why could you not have written to me? It would have relieved me greatly.”
“When I heard that you had come down with the ague, some months ago, I was ready to advise you to leave that place. But then my own pressing matters overwhelmed me, and, in any case, knowing Mr. Altschul as an honorable man, I feared not for your safety.
“And there’s something else you must understand, Henry. At my age—I am pressing fifty-eight—the wild rush to get things done quickly does not seem so important. As the days go by more swiftly than in earlier years, it is easy to watch slip by two or three months—for they come now as weeks used to. In other words, my boy, what with my obligations here and the restful nature of these surroundings, I have slowed down considerably, and my mental resources are not what they were even a year ago: Surely you must understand.”
THEN, AS I WAS SOMEWHAT vexed by certain things I had heard about him, I said: “Not so long ago in Havana, my friend Clemens struck up an acquaintance with a man who claimed to have known you—a certain Captain Bailey, whom I met one night at a saloon called the Louvre. Do you know of such a person?”
“Yes, for some years.”
“Well, he told me of some matters regarding you that, I am certain, are wrong.”
“What kind of matters?” Mr. Stanley asked.
“He told me that you are originally from Cheshire in England.”
“A fantasy. We had met on a ship out of England. I had been visiting some distant relatives there, that’s all. What have I of any accent, other than southern? Why would I pretend to be something I am not?”
“Then he said that you were married once before you met your late wife.”
“Yes, that is so. Her name was Angela. She died of the fever. As did Frances, and Mr. Speake, and my own brother—as I almost did. What of it?”
“He also said that during your ministry you exercised a bachelor’s whims to excess.”
He laughed.
“Bailey said that? It figures. You see, Captain Bailey is not the most virtuous of men. And as with such men, he, whatever his reasons, takes pleasure in spreading rumors about the righteous. Why he would choose to tell you this I cannot say. But that is not the truth.”
“And do you, as Captain Bailey told me, have two adopted daughters in St. Louis?”
“Years ago I became the sponsor of two girls who had come from one of the Catholic orphanages there. We paid for their schooling and board—it is something Mrs. Stanley always wanted to do. In the same way that I have been your benefactor, I have been theirs. As to whether they are adopted, no, they are not—no more than you are.”
I felt discomfited by those words.
“But do you still intend to adopt me?”
“I have told you that it was my intention to do so, but as you can well imagine, the question has slipped from my mind in recent times. Surely you know that these matters require certain legalities. Being that there is a war looming, and as such legalities require the assistance of attorneys, and as you are truly not of my blood and yet would inherit what funds and properties I have, it remains something that I must closely consider, for I do not believe it would be so easy a thing to do here in Cuba.”
“Then have I dreamed of your promise to adopt me?”
“You were not dreaming, but I think that perhaps in your fevers, you have exaggerated the urgency of the matter.”
“But did you not say that you would sign a proper letter attesting to my adoption? And have you not sworn, through your promises, to assist me in any way possible?”
“I did—and forgive me if this matter has been absent from my thoughts, as I forgive you for your manner with me now. No doubt you are tired from your travels and, if what you say about the recurring ague is true and you are somewhat strained at your seams from such an illness, I will overlook your hotheadedness, for I have always known you as a far more humble and reasonable person than the angry fellow standing before me. Obviously you are expecting much from me, by way of official adoption, but I must ask you to convince me that this is not the only reason for your coming here. Is it?”
“No, Father.”
“Why, then, do you not exercise some restraint in regard to the legalities of it all? For in the eyes of God, such a promise is a fact. Your sanctified name is Henry Stanley now. Is that not enough?”
I could not answer him. The truth is that I wanted the legal paper, but his words had humbled me, and I felt ashamed of my behavior. And then, just as I turned my head away in a downcast fashion, and could no longer look him in the eye, he softened.
“You will have your document, but I should let you know that I intend to be around for many years. Just the same, in the coming days I will make my letter regarding your adoption, since it is of such urgency to you; but do not mention it to me again, as I am weary of such things.” I was relieved to hear this.
OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, despite our momentary misunderstanding, my father and I enjoyed a felicitous and tranquil existence, such as we had known before in New Orleans. Since he knew my love for books, what modest library he possessed he shared with me.
Reminded of Mr. Stanley’s literate side, I had noticed in him a tendency to spend several hours each afternoon, after lunch, sitting under the shade of a banyan tree, recording his thoughts in a ledger book—the type that, in days past, he had once used for jotting down, in pencil, the details of his business. But here, in Cuba, in the remoteness of his plantation, and with a dulcet orange-and-lemon-scented breeze blowing often, he would lose himself in some absorbing composition.
Clemens, I should say, had the same proclivity. A loner at heart, he, with notebook in hand, tended to wander off early in the morning to watch the slaves milk the cows, tend to the chicken coops, and harness the oxen for the fields. Once their harder labors had begun in the cane fields, he withdrew, feeling some shame at his leisure, and he would return to the main house to sit on the porch, smoke his black cigars, put his boots up on the railing, and take in the enormity of the enterprise. But toward dusk, he was drawn back to the slave barracks, especially when he heard drums or chants being sung. However he presented himself to the slaves, with his few rudimentary Spanish phrases, he won them over, especially the children, who would follow him around in packs. Playing among them, he had learned their spirituals and ways of telling stories, even the manner in which they would speak; in describing such things to me, he had such affection in his voice that I doubted he approved of slavery at all.
“What do you write of these Cuban slaves?” I asked him.
“Aside from having no idea what they say to me, beyond general welcomes and good-byes, I just look at their meager surroundings and try to understand the meanings of the objects they surround themselves with: a drum that barks what to them are meaningful phrases; a gourd that is scraped in a certain way as they sing incantations to their gods—Obatalá and Changó are two that have registered on my dim brain. No crucifixes anywhere. Above all, Henry, at a white man’s kindness, they smile—despite the fact they are slaves.” Then: “I suppose they saw that I am used to their kind, even if they speak a different language.”
For my part, while spending time with Mr. Stanley, I took every opportunity to offer him my services. He seemed to have taken on the role of bookkeeper for the estate, though from what I could observe, their “office” consisted of a single desk set out in the cool inner courtyard, on wh
ich were stacked several ledger books.
“If you would like me to go over your books, it would be a pleasure to do so,” I told him. But of this he felt no need: “Why should you, when you might well decide to leave this place for good?” Then: “In any case, there is not very much to do right now: As you can see, even though I am not what I once was, I don’t mind these little chores.”
It disappointed me that despite my friendliness toward my father and the outward signs of his paternity toward me, he seemed most content to be left alone.
Of the plantation itself I will now speak, for Clemens and I rode around it one morning with Mr. Davis and my father.
It was at least several square miles in size, I would judge, given its distance from the forest surrounding it on all sides. To run it, the partners had about one hundred or so working slaves—not counting the children, who seemed to be everywhere; one white overseer, a Cuban; and several old, experienced slaves also acted as bosses. Two dozen slaves worked in the fields, slashing away at the cane stalks. They moved in unison, in one direction, much like a line of infantry, harvesting yard by yard the seemingly endless forest of cane. Afterward, they gathered the stalks up and loaded them into the oxcarts, and these were pulled to the sugar mill, where the raw cane was laid out in big piles on a platform and fed lengthwise through the trough of a machine whose steam-driven rollers crushed them into a pulp, their juices dripping down into enormous vats. Their residue of leftover bark and fibers was then carried out to dry in a field and stored as fuel for the mill’s furnace. All during the process there was a constant grinding of machinery, the cries of the slaves giving one another instructions—“Dale candela”—and chanting and sometimes singing. The air in that place was so intensely sweet and thick, I imagined it would take a long time to get used to it.
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