“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.”