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 arrived, 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.