We approached one of these Americans, a tall and lanky man in a stovepipe hat, as to the whereabouts of the Stanley Bros. & Co. concern, but he seemed to have never heard of them, being new to the island. A second gentleman, however, directed us to the offices of the Ward Line Company, and there we spoke to an official who knew something of the Stanley brothers’ business, the Ward Line being their landlords. He then instructed one of his underlings to take us to a man named Jacob, who sometimes worked for the Stanleys. We passed through several warehouses and long, slop-filled alleys to reach the smallish room at the back of a loading dock that had apparently served as Mr. Stanley’s place of business in the harbor. Jacob, a somewhat dissipated-looking man, had been asleep on a cot: The room smelled vilely of urine and liquor. When roused, he was at first annoyed and unfriendly, his cantankerous manner no doubt influenced by the fact that he was jaundiced and probably not long for this world. But once I explained the purpose of our visit there, he told us, with the gleam of self-interest in his rheumy eyes, “Yes, there are ways that I can help you and things that I can relate, but I won’t do it here. First you must buy me some drinks, for I have a horrid headache and ain’t in no mood to speak to strangers otherwise.”
And so it was that we spent the remainder of that afternoon in a dingy harborside saloon, drinking from dirty glasses, and tolerating for several hours what seemed the incoherent ramblings of Jacob.
“What of Mr. Stanley?” I would ask, but he would go on — speaking of his own fatherless childhood and of beatings at the hands of ruffian urchins when he was a young boy; of jails and a long stint as a sailor and of somehow ending up in this sorry state in Cuba.
“But what of Mr. Stanley?” I asked again.
Finally, just when the saloon had filled up with a great number of unsavory types who had begun to regard our nice clothes and good shoes — and Clemens’s gold watch chain — with menacing interest, then did he speak of the man.
“Mr. Stanley was my one saving grace,” he said with sadness. “Worked for him and his brother, the captain, for nearly ten years. The captain was not a kindly man; he never understood why Mr. Stanley — who, it seemed, had a soft spot for lost souls — would give a drunk like myself a job. I worked hard for them, looking after their shipments out of port — that little office, that hovel, was my only home — and it is only through the indifference of the managers that I keep it even now.”
“But do you know where Mr. Stanley is?”
“The captain liked to give me a good beating for no good reason from time to time. Heaven help me if he whiffed a drink on my breath. Down would come the cane. So I was very happy that he caught the fever and died. Yes, he is dead. But then Mr. Stanley himself got the fever, and in his sickness he became a different sort of man — or maybe he was all grieved over his wife’s death, but I know that when I last saw him, a few months ago, he didn’t have much concern for me. Just gave me a few gold coins and told me that he was done with Havana and with many other things. But first he said that he would have to tidy up after some of his business affairs: You know, he and the captain had traveled all over this island. The very day he set out, I had the feeling I wouldn’t see him again, but I know where you will probably find him, if he’s still alive.”
“Where?”
“Buy me two more bottles of rum to take home, and I will tell you.”
To this I reluctantly agreed.
“Well, I know he took off to various parts to collect on debts and settle up accounts with his planters. I know he went out west to Pinar del Río for a spell; the best tobacco growers are there. Then he came back here for a few days, but soon left by schooner to the city of Santiago de Cuba, which is at the far southern end of the island, on account of his wanting to sell off his share in some business. Where else he’s gone I can’t say, but my guess is that he went out to Matanzas. He’s owned a share in a sugar plantation there for quite some time — owned it with his brother and an Englishman named Mr. Davis, who has the biggest stake. Used to talk about it as a place he was fond of. But it’s only a guess that he’s there. More than that, I cannot say.”
“And this plantation, Jacob. Where is it?”
“I’ve never seen it myself, but it’s about sixty-five, seventy miles southeast of Havana as the crow flies, somewhere near a town — really just a little settlement — called Limonar, maybe a half day’s ride out from there, through bandit country. And I can tell you something else: The plantation is called the Esperanza.”
And then, asking our pardon, Jacob, toothless and with gums swollen, took another drink and smacked his lips in savory delight. Leaving him, Clemens and I headed back to our hotel.
BEFORE WE SET OUT for Matanzas, Clemens, having come such a long way, wanted to spend a few days in Havana sightseeing. For several mornings, with his guidebook in hand, Clemens would, with some vague itinerary in mind, lead our somewhat haphazard excursions through the city, the main points of interest being the architectural grandeur of the main boulevard of Havana, el Paseo Tacón, named after a past governor of the island; several old convents; and several churches. Foremost of these was the cathedral near our hotel, in the old colonial quarter. The bones of Christopher Columbus were said to be interred there, and Clemens, reading of this, had been most anxious to see the supposed crypt. In that somewhat gloomy place, we had stood for some time facing Columbus’s mortal remains. This comprised the only instance when I had seen Clemens possess a sense of wonder and nearly religious awe for anything: “To be a great explorer who finds a new world,” I heard him say. “Now, that would be worth a thousand years of living.” But on the whole, he remained unmoved by the atmosphere in that church. In this regard, his Presbyterian upbringing notwithstanding, he remained curiously coldhearted about religion and matters such as the afterlife, dismissing them as the wishful fantasies of people trying to make sense of this world.
“Even at my young age,” he told me, “I can see there’s no rhyme or reason to the way things go, or any fairness about it. I’ve only to think of my younger brother to see that.” Then: “As for this ‘Father in Heaven’ business, as far as I am concerned we may as well revert to being cavemen and worshipping the trees.”
Nevertheless he remained particularly interested in the occasional mendicant we encountered — religious folk who preached on the sidewalks and, for a small fee, gave a personal blessing. Whenever we passed such a mendicant, Clemens had to stop and watch the incantations of prayer; in general he seemed quite skeptical — but fascinated just the same — in things supernatural, which were in evidence everywhere. It was unavoidable, as the city had an undercurrent of animistic beliefs.
This was particularly evident at night, when, in alleys and hidden courtyards, groups of Negroes gathered to sing — not church hymns but strange Yoruban chants evoking the African gods, such activities being accompanied by the beating of drums and wild dances. Twice in the course of our nightly wanderings did we see such things — these rituals, I should add, were conducted on streets that the Spanish guards purposely ignored, for, as Mrs. Rosedale informed us, such practices, though against the law, were impossible to repress, so much were they a part of the slave culture.
ON OUR THIRD DAY in Havana, Clemens decided to look up the young lady of his passing acquaintance, Miss Priscilla Hatcher, whose father was doing business in Havana. We went to visit her at her home up on the great hill over the city, where many of the consulates were to be found, and had arranged to do so through Mrs. Rosedale, who had some acquaintance with her family.