As our train rose along an ascending grade into the hills, the harbor below became a pond of Mediterranean blue water, its houses cubes of dice, the land falling away beneath us in a succession of natural terraces, stately palm trees rising as far as the eye could see. And then, in the time it took Clemens to smoke six cigarillos, after our train slowly rose upon what seemed like an endless succession of curving track, the land began to flatten again, and we saw clusters of weepy, sad-looking trees with fronds that dropped to the ground and bore green melons; then countless banana trees and orange groves, neatly divided by avenues; such farms were separated from each other by miles of dense jungle, the foliage so thick and livid with bright tropical flowers that it was impossible to imagine how its birds, of bright plumage, passed through such woods. What fences or stone walls we saw were overgrown with lianas and creepers and blossoms. The air of that place was so pure and delightful that we began to doze, first Clemens, his head slumped against the window, then myself.
Whatever else I knew, I was far away from Wales.
We awakened when the train stopped to take on some produce at a way station in what seemed to be the middle of a sugarcane field; here, the Negroes and Chinese coolies who worked as brakemen and porters got off and, with machetes — cane knives—how well I would come to know them in Africa! — made their way among the high stalks, each cutting off a piece and stripping it of its rind to suck happily upon its pulp. The train would make four more stops along the way, each taking some twenty minutes or more, to load or unload whatever goods were coming from and going to the plantations, much as the riverboats did on the Mississippi, but here, in Cuba, there seemed to be no hurry about anything. Seeing as how some things were being unloaded, we decided to stretch our legs. Perhaps he was just tired, as we had not slept well the night before, but he had said little to me that morning, and I had feared, as I sometimes had with Mr. Stanley, that in my youthfulness I had been too enthusiastic in my gratitude for his friendship. I had made it my habit to express such sentiments to Mr. Clemens each and every day we were together. I should have remembered that he was not one for demonstrations of feeling, and I had resolved to stay mum about such declarations, though it was difficult. But as we stood there waiting, for all my intention to restrain myself, I told him: “Samuel, that I have you here makes a big difference to me. Surely you have chosen to accompany me out of concern for my safety — and if you hadn’t, who knows where I would be right now; surely not so close as I am to finding Mr. Stanley. Indeed, though you may feel some dismay at the foreignness of this place, know well that you have made me your lifelong friend.”
Clemens considered my words and said: “Look, Henry, I don’t mind tagging along with you, and I don’t mind that things seem a little different here: And in a way I’m kind of fascinated with this country; from what I can see this is one very interesting place, and it’s beautiful. But you’ve got to promise me something. Please don’t forget that some folks — namely, myself — don’t need to be reminded of their good deeds, or friendship, for that matter. It’s just something that happens between people sometimes. You understand?”
Funny what memories are: The steep grades of a provincial hillside, the colors of a blossom, the florid plumage of a bird — all such come back to one, even years later, in a dream of idealized perfection; but words, such as which can be recalled, shift about — some more vividly remembered than others, some completely lost. In this instance, concerning my friendship with Clemens, my approximation of what he said may not be entirely accurate to the word, but the sentiment of this and other moments, at their heart, remains true.
IT TURNED OUT that the “town” of Limonar was just another two-building stop in service of a large nearby sugar plantation. To our relief, within half an hour of our arrival, there appeared, on an English-saddled white stallion, a majestically dressed gentleman who dismounted and entered the station house. It was the plantation owner himself, Mr. Bertrand, as I remember, a Frenchman.
“So,” he said in impeccable English. “I take it that you are in need of assistance.”
“Indeed we are,” said Clemens.
Shortly we had made our introductions and explained our situation; as to our concerns, he was immediately helpful. He would rent us two horses the next day and would inquire after the location of Esperanza, apparently a mill of small import in those parts.
“Come to my plantation for the night,” he said. “You will be better refreshed then, in the morning.”
Later we made our way by carriage along a road of what seemed to be pulverized red brick, the color of the clay in that region, and entered into an orange grove, which was another quarter mile in length. Shortly we came out onto the grounds of the plantation proper. In the distance stood a group of white buildings. One was a barracks; the other a sugar mill, its furnace sending up great volumes of black, billowy smoke; a third was a warehouse; a fourth a stable for the oxen: Surrounding these buildings were endless acres of sugarcane — the stalks, some ten feet high, as densely packed as fields of corn — and hundreds of slaves, whether man, woman, or child, at work cutting cane or loading it onto oxen-driven carts. Other slaves, farther on, were busily feeding cane stalks into the mouth of a furnace.
Then, too, there was a separate enclave of some three buildings, at whose center stood a fine mansion, but not in the southern style, with porticoes and columns, but in the Spanish style — a massive house with Moorish flourishes. And as we were each given a small room, even these were of a luxurious nature such as I had never experienced before — a canopied bed, a writing desk, a closet; even an Italianate chamber-pot holder, its shelves of marble as well.
From my window I could see the fields, the slaves laboring into the night. A servant had come to escort me to a bathing room containing a toilet, its drainage abetted by a copper barrel whose spigot flowed with water into the convenience. We each took our turns in the bathing room, and by nine, cleaned up and refreshed, Clemens and I joined Mr. Bertrand and his wife for dinner.
THE MEAL WAS TYPICALLY CUBAN: fried plantains, rice cooked with eggs, sweet potatoes, boiled cassava, and dishes of fowl and vegetables, all drowned in oil and salt and garlic—“Just like breakfast in Havana,” Clemens had said. These dishes we consumed with a lordly quantity of Catalan wine, popular on the island, followed by goblets of French sherry.
“So what do you hear of the war?” Mr. Bertrand asked. “Are the rumors true?”
“Yes, sir,” Clemens said. “I’m afraid it seems likely. When we left Louisiana, a few weeks back, the city was all up for it: For someone like myself — I am a riverboat pilot — it means having to sit the whole thing out. See, much of the Mississippi River traffic has been turned on its head. Anyway, I’d almost forgotten about it ’til you mentioned it, but even in Havana — well, sir, that’s all the Southerners talk about there.”
“And would you fight? And for whom, Mr. Clemens?”
“I suppose if I had to, I would, on the Southern side; I am from Missouri.”
“And you, Mr. Stanley?”
“It’s my intention, sir, when I leave this island, to head back to Arkansas to join up with a regiment called the Dixie Grays.”