Juba!

by Walter Dean Myers

  I tried not to be too excited, but I was. I wanted to sit right down and write Sarah and tell her all about it, but I knew I would be home before she received the letter. Mr. Campbell had asked me to come to his office the following Saturday morning, and I said I would.

  Sarah was excited, as I knew she would be, and pressed my shirt so that I would make a good impression on Mr. Campbell.

  “If you are you”—Sarah started off slowly as she held my vest up to the light—“if you are Boz’s Juba, then any moment can bring excitement. Just that little idea makes everything worthwhile. Don’t you think so?”

  “It could be,” I said.

  Yes, I was bubbling inside. It might be a chance to dance again, to move across a stage and know that hundreds of eyes would be watching my every move. Yes. Yes!

  When I got to Mr. Campbell’s office on Saturday morning, there were three other performers there. One by one they presented themselves to Mr. Campbell and discussed jobs with him. Some brought flyers, and I was angry with myself for not bringing the flyer advertising me as Boz’s Juba. Mr. Campbell would certainly have remembered that billing, but it would have given me more confidence.

  What I had done since I had last seen Mr. Campbell was to let my mind do its own dancing. I had built up the engagement at Liverpool to the same size and glory I had lived through at Sadler’s Wells. I imagined the crowd roaring their approval and Sarah waiting for me backstage with a pot of tea.

  “I did speak to the proprietor in Liverpool, Stephen Powell, and he was quite excited about having you perform there,” Mr. Campbell said. “He asked if you had been dancing for the last two years and I told him yes, so you’ll have to back me up on that one, Juba. The deal is two weeks of nightly performances and, if things go well, an additional two weeks. He’ll check his books after that and decide what he wants to do in the future. But believe me, he is a smart operator, and in my mind, Liverpool is set to become the next London.”

  “What kind of dancing is he looking for?” I asked. “Does he have a set program?”

  “I think he’s looking for you to make a contribution there,” Campbell said. “Maybe you can negotiate a separate deal with him for the programming. And do you know any minstrels in the Liverpool area?”

  “No, but if there are chances to perform, I’ll find them,” I said.

  Two weeks was not the month I had hoped for, and the money being offered was far less than I had dreamed of, but it was dancing and it was money, and it was yet another chance to show the world what I could do.

  “You shouldn’t go until the weekend,” Sarah said. “Your cough sounds awful!”

  “I need to go to see the stage, and the theater,” I said. “I want to be ready when I meet the people in Liverpool.”

  It was a day’s journey to Liverpool by a crowded coach. I took the cheapest seat I could get, on top of the coach, and knew it was a mistake as soon as we started. My whole body was shaking with the cold, and as Sarah had said, my cough was getting worse. I tried to pass the time thinking about possible programs. Gil Pell had not been very imaginative in his shows. He would have us sit in chairs, tell a few jokes, play the songs and sing, and then I would dance. It worked in a warm hall, and the dancing performances were always the highlights.

  I thought about the performance at Almack’s, when we did Little Red Riding Hood. The audience had loved the performance, and as Margaret had said, knowing what to expect was a big help.

  It was dark when the carriage reached Liverpool, and much colder than it had been in Dudley. The carriage had stopped at an inn, but I headed toward the waterfront, where I knew I would find cheaper lodgings. I found the dock area easily enough, by just asking everyone I saw on the street and following their directions.

  I looked for a pub, someplace where men gathered to drink, and found one. Once inside, I asked a woman if she knew of somewhere I could find a bed for the night.

  “Are you wanting to pay for one or are you looking to chat one up?” she asked, amused at her own joke.

  I told her I would be willing to pay a reasonable price, and she directed me down the street to a wooden building that looked for all the world as if it might fall over at any moment. I knocked on the door and found myself talking to a rough-looking tattooed man in his trousers and no shirt.

  There were no private rooms to be had, but there was a large room on the second floor with four cots, and one was empty.

  “You’re in luck,” said the man, who I presumed was the owner. “Usually they’re all full by this time of night.”

  I put my case under the cot as quickly as possible after taking out the crackers and sardines Sarah had packed for me. I ate them quietly on the bed and then stretched out. The rough blanket on the bed didn’t do much to warm me up, but I fell asleep soon enough.

  In the morning I woke up with my head reeling.

  Mr. Campbell had given me the address in Liverpool, and I checked it several times as I was putting my clothes on. I was slightly dizzy, I guess from exhaustion and the cold that I couldn’t seem to get rid of. The question in my mind was whether I would take my case from under the bed and carry it around with me. I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want the extra burden of the case, but I didn’t want to leave it behind for someone to take, either. On the ground floor there were men sitting and having tea. I was startled and stopped in the doorway. Suddenly I felt a hundred times better and crossed the floor to where one of the men sat.

  “Stubby! It’s me, Juba! When did you get to England?”

  “You talking at me, chap?”

  “You’re Stubby Jackson, from Five Points, right?” I pulled over a chair and sat down.

  “No, I’m not” came the quick answer. The man before me leaned back and squinted. “And I don’t know who you are, either.”

  Now the face that had looked so clear a moment before looked less clear. It wasn’t Stubby; it was a white man, perhaps Italian, and much older than I imagined my friend must be by now.

  I apologized and quickly retreated.

  The theater, on a side street, was disappointing. The building was badly in need of paint, and the sign above the main entrance seemed sad, rather than the bright sign I would have liked to see. I knocked on the front door, remembered how early it was, and was about to leave when a voice called out, asking who was there.

  “Juba!” I said. “Boz’s Juba!”

  Some words from within that I couldn’t catch, and then the door opened.

  “You must have been caught in the morning rain,” the man said. “You’re soaking wet. I gather you’re the dancer Campbell was crowing about. He said you presented a neat package. Come in.”

  I stepped into the dimly lit room, just noticing that I was wet. I hadn’t got caught in the rain, but the exertion of carrying my case around had brought on a sweat even in the cold air.

  Stephen Powell was nicely built and carried himself well. As we sat in chairs in the lobby, he told me of his plans. More or less, he confirmed what Mr. Campbell had already laid out for me.

  “I want to open in February,” he said. “High-class material. King Lear to start, then perhaps Romeo and Juliet, and then Othello. All good plays. Dramatic stuff. In between the turnarounds, when one play ends and the next begins, I want to do minstrel and variety shows. But it has to be good stuff as well. If you’re half as talented as Campbell says, then you’re the man for the job. I can help you round up some minstrels here in Liverpool, and you can direct them any way you choose. You fit for the job?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Good. Right now I’m getting the first production together. It’s a light two-act piece called Aggravating Sam. Then Lear and the rest.”

  I was feeling faint and wanted to leave immediately.

  “You contact me next Monday, and we’ll work out the details and all that. That’s five days from now,” Mr. Powell said. “Just bang on the door, and either I’ll be home or the wife will let you in to wait for me.”
<
br />   “Yes, sir.”

  Going home was not possible right away. I felt so weak, I was nearly staggering when I left the theater. I went back to where I had secured a cot for the night and arranged for another night’s stay.

  To spend a day on the carriage to Dudley and then another coming back seemed senseless. I would just stick it out for a few days and pull my resources together. I slept most of the day and woke in the middle of the night. My pillow was damp from sweat, and I knew I needed rest. But I had only enough money for two or three days. Five days would not be possible unless I found some money to at least fill my belly.

  The docks. Nothing is drearier, little can be harder. I went down and begged for work.

  “You don’t look like you can lift your head, fellow,” a dark, shoulder-heavy man said. “Let alone a crate.”

  Still, he gave me a job. I was to work with a gang to unload coffee from the Philippines. The sacks were heavy, and the pace was killing.

  As I walked down the narrow gangway from the ship to the dock, I thought of Stubby again. How could I have mistaken the man drinking tea for my friend? But as I carried the bags, I thought I saw him again. This time he was half in the shadows and half colored by the light from a streetlamp. I put the sack of coffee I was carrying on the cart and walked near the dark figure. Again, it wasn’t Stubby.

  Panic. Breathing was getting harder in the cold, wet air of Liverpool. Someone was yelling at me to speed it up. To speed it up.

  Was I falling? Was I home again? Did I make it through the night? Had I been paid?

  I found myself stirring and started to reach for my pockets. Where was my money? I sat up for a moment; then the room began to spin and I fell back again.

  “Hey, the black boy is coming around!” someone was saying.

  I pushed myself to one elbow and looked around me. There were faces, all white, staring at me. Where was I?

  “Where is this place?” I asked.

  “Liverpool workhouse,” a woman answered. “We thought you’d be dead for sure by now. They were poking you yesterday to see if you were alive. I bet you’d be dead for sure by this morning, but look at you, still halfway living, aren’t you?”

  The workhouse. Only the poorest wound up in these places. Those who were about to die or go to prison.

  “I don’t belong here,” I announced.

  “You don’t belong anyplace, but if you want, they’ll take you to the edge of Liverpool and dump you,” a woman said. “You’ve been here almost a week, coughing and sweating and talking out of your mind. One of the men thought you might have had Saint Vitus’ dance, the way your legs were jerking around. Anyway, you might as well stay here. You’ll get a crust of bread in the morning and a bowl of soup.”

  I closed my eyes again. No, I didn’t belong here. I asked around to see what day it was, and it was past the time I was to see Mr. Powell. The moment had come and gone, and I lay on a pallet in the workhouse.

  Visions. Visions that I did not chase, or stumble across the floor to touch or greet. Stubby came to mind; I hadn’t realized how much he was within me. Once I dreamed of Mr. Dickens, not like the last time I saw him, but the first, at Almack’s, with his soft face and long hair. Visions of Miss Lilly and of Peter Williams, grinning, his sly eyes peeking from that round, dark face.

  But the vision I had most was of the one who would save me. It was a vision of Sarah. My Sarah.

  I sat down and wrote a letter. I asked the woman who had spoken to me if she would post it for me. She said she would, and I gave her tuppence. I read it once again to make sure it was right.

  My darling Sarah,

  Things have not gone well here in Liverpool. I am ill, no, sick as I can be. When you get this letter you must not fret. Only come to Liverpool to rescue me. Please don’t take the cheapest seat. The ride is very hard and very long. There is to be a minstrel show here and Mr. Powell has asked me to perform in it. I think he will be annoyed that I did not show up when he requested, but when you come and nurse me back to health and he sees what I can do, he will be glad to have me on board. Sarah, all I need is a chance to show what is in my soul and in my body. Life will take care of me after that, and I will bring my art to the world after all. When this engagement is over, perhaps we should go to New York. You will be delighted to see the huge city, and New York will be delighted to see my precious Sarah.

  Oh, yes, there is a family here in the workhouse. The man looks very bad, and the two children, a boy and a girl, are forlorn. I asked the boy if he could dance, and he said he knew a few steps. Sarah, I showed him how to do a slide using the rhythm of a jig. When he got it down, he smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

  I cannot wait to see you again. You will be like an angel sent from God to revive me. In my heart I know we will be all right. I love you,

  Your Juba

  EPILOGUE

  It is not known if Juba’s letter was actually mailed, or if it ever reached Sarah. It is only known that William Henry Lane, known to the world as Master Juba, the world’s greatest dancer, died in the workhouse in Liverpool. The cause of his death was given as fever.

  Registered death certificate for Bois [Boz’s] Juba, musician, age 30

  Third entry lists Bois [Boz’s] Juba, from the workhouse, age 30, February 6, 1854.

  TIMELINE

  Circa 1825—Born in Providence, Rhode Island

  1842*—Charles Dickens visits Five Points; reviews Master Juba in American Notes

  1844—Juba vs. Master Diamond at John Tryon’s Amphitheatre

  Circa 1844—Juba tours New England

  1845—Juba given top billing imitating famous dancers

  1846—Juba joins Charley White’s Serenaders

  1848—Joins Gilbert Pell’s Serenaders

  August 5, 1848*—Vauxhall Garden Performance, London

  1848*—Tours England with Gilbert Pell

  1849—Tours England with Richard Pell

  1850*—Tours solo (accompanied by Thomas F. Briggs)

  1851*—Resides in Dudley, England, with wife, Sarah, per census

  September 14, 1851*—Appears in Dublin

  January 21, 1854*—Admitted to workhouse in Liverpool

  February 3, 1854*—Dies of fever in workhouse

  February 6, 1854*—Buried in Parochial Cemetery of St. Martin in the Fields in Liverpool

  *Documented

  A NOTE ABOUT THE BOOK

  The story of William Henry Lane, known as Master Juba, was told early on by Marian Hannah Winter in Dance Index, February 1947. The original sources she cites are mostly descriptions, advertising flyers, and reviews of his performances, the first of which was the description by Charles Dickens in his American Notes in 1842. Juba was at that time seventeen or eighteen years old. His early life is not documented, but most sources say he was freeborn in Providence, Rhode Island, and moved to New York City in his midteens.

  The task of telling his story appealed to Walter for a good few years. Here was a very young man born into a time when people of his race were held in slavery. Although New York freed all slaves in 1827, life for a person without many resources was extremely hard whatever his or her race. Poor immigrants and blacks struggled to survive in the area known as Five Points in New York City. Juba was able to become an accomplished performer under these conditions. He traveled to London and was a great success. Information about the times and places that were important in telling the story was easily found, but what happened at the end of Master Juba’s life was not recorded. Many of his performances were documented in reviews, as well as in announcements of future appearances in local papers throughout the British Isles. It is clear that Master Juba performed on a grueling schedule for the first years in England. After that, there is no contemporary record of what happened to him. Walter wanted to tell the story, but he felt that some information about what became of Juba was needed to complete the tale.

  While in London, Walter researched family history records. Finally, in the 1851 ce
nsus, an entry was found in the town of Dudley. It shows a couple living as lodgers in the home of John Preece, a tailor. Here we see Henry Juba and his wife, Sarah. Juba is listed as a professor of dance, twenty-six, from Barbados. The English census does not indicate the race of those enumerated. If Juba had listed himself as American, he would have been considered an alien, but as a person from Barbados, he was a British subject.

  A researcher, Dr. Stephen W. Taylor, was hired to search for some further information about Juba. He was able to find the documents that tell of the final days of Master Juba. In the records of the workhouse of Liverpool, there is an entry for Boz’s Juba. He died February 3, 1854, in the workhouse, Brownlow Hill (Liverpool), listed as a musician who died of febris, or fever. Finally, a burial entry for Juba, age thirty, was found in the Free Parochial Cemetery of St. Martin in the Fields, Silvester Street, Liverpool.

  With the final days of William Henry Lane—Master Juba—now known, Walter was able to craft this story. He had researched the Five Points area extensively for Riot, his book on the draft riot of 1863, and London of the mid-1800s for his book on Sarah Forbes Bonetta, At Her Majesty’s Request. Annie Sieg, an Irish dancer, read the manuscript and contributed many suggestions on dance techniques and some of the feelings of a performer.

  Walter included the following historical characters:

  Charles Dickens—who wrote about his visit to Almack’s in 1842

  Peter Williams—the owner of Almack’s

  Lilly, Peter’s wife—mentioned by Dickens (referred to as the landlady, but not by name)

  Master John Diamond—a famed dancer

  Jim Lowe—an older dancer said to mentor Juba

  Gilbert W. Pell—leader of the Serenaders