And so I signed up with a local brigade, with the proviso that I would begin my duty within a few months’ time.
Adrift Again
IT TOOK ME TEN DAYS to go downriver to New Orleans: Of the possessions I carried with me in a carpetbag was a Colt six-shooter, my Bible, and some quinine tablets and calomel potion that the doctor had given me in the event that my fever should return. Of my fineries I packed a suit, a pair of boots, a gentleman’s toilet kit, a watch and chain, various undergarments and kerchiefs, and some fifty dollars in two gold eagles that Mr. Altschul had paid me; these I kept in a money belt with some other funds I’d saved and was covetous to protect.
When Louisiana left the Union in January (the twenty-sixth), New Orleans itself had begun its conversion toward military preparations. Along the levee I saw that a recruitment stand for the Louisiana auxiliaries had been set up in front of one of the wharves, and a great number of young men, many of them laid-off sailors from ships that had been stopped in harbor and requisitioned as transport boats, were waiting in lines to sign up, their patriotic fervor aroused by an old officer, dressed splendidly in epaulets and a plumed hat, who held forth in a fine baritone, saying, “Now is the time for brave young men to show their valor.” His words were accompanied by a nearby band that had struck up “Dixie,” and a festive atmosphere prevailed. Later, in several clothing-shop windows, I saw fine military uniforms on display; and Tchoupitoulas Street itself was busy in a different way from before: Military officers were coming in and out of the grocers’ warehouses and making arrangements for such provisions as were needed for training camps upstate. Here and there banners saying SECESSION NOW and SLAVERY FOREVER were hanging in shopwindows and draped over balconies.
The slaves I saw here and there, off in their labors, seemed more quietly disposed than before I left, a sheepish spirit attending them, as if they’d felt some blame for the coming war.
Since Mr. Stanley’s whereabouts and condition were foremost in my mind, I made my way to the house on St. Charles Avenue to see if, by some chance, he had returned, sound and welclass="underline" Mr. Stanley, I was told, had continued to pay for his lodging for several months, but then his payments stopped coming the past December. His former quarters, the delightful rooms where I had spent many happy moments, had been rented out to a family. And had he left any kind of word? None, I was told by the owner. Naturally, I was disappointed to hear such news — or lack of it — and in a disconsolate state I repaired to Mrs. Williams’s boardinghouse in the hope of finding a room.
Happy to see me at her door again, Mrs. Williams looked me over, saying that I must have been through some considerable hard times upriver. It turned out that my attic room, being empty, was available, and after supper, somewhat fatigued and having told her and her boarders at dinner about my experiences at Cypress Bend, I retired.
The next morning, I weighed my options regarding Mr. Stanley: I could wait until some undetermined time for his return to New Orleans from Havana; or, before any greater curfews were invoked on the navigational traffic coming in and out of New Orleans because of the war, I could set out to find him in Cuba.
A DEEP LONELINESS MADE ME seek out my pilot friend that next day: More than a year had passed since we had spoken about books on the deck of the Arago, but I cherished his letters and friendship and longed for his advice and blessing.
After some fruitless wanderings, I came to the entranceway of one of the pilots’ association rooms, which was tucked off in a side courtyard, in one of those plant-filled Spanish culs-de-sac so common to that city.
I found Clemens sitting by a table in the back of a billiard room where some old salts were gathered. Wearing a fine broadcloth jacket, his pilot’s hat set before him, he was the most finely dressed man in the room; the immense trouble he took with his appearance was evident. At the time he seemed deep in thought and was scribbling in a book. When I approached him, saying, “Mr. Clemens,” it was if I had appeared like an apparition from the darkness. A great look of surprise came over his face: “I’ll be d — d,” he said. Then, looking me over: “My God, Henry, what did those backwoods folks do to you?” He knew that I had contracted malaria up in Cypress Bend — I had written him about it — but he seemed surprised to find me so thin. During my bouts with the illness, I had dropped some fifty pounds, and my clothes hung loosely off of me. (I then weighed about ninety-five pounds — within three of seven stone.) In my diminished state I sat with him for a while, describing my trip downriver, but it was approaching the lunch hour, and as he seemed to feel pity for me, our first order of business was to head out for a good meal — one of his favorite pastimes. Shortly we had left the coolness of that place for the balminess of the day and headed over to the French Quarter. He knew of a good restaurant along Toulouse Street, where he had pledged to make sure that I put a little more skin on my bones. As we walked along, he smoked a thin black cigar, and as soldiers passed by, he seemed to take an amused delight in flicking quick salutes at them.
We were sitting on a terrace, and our table, some two stories up, had a view of Bourbon Street in the distance. For our lunch, Clemens, flush with money, ordered a great many courses as well as wines to go with them and snifters of absinthe, of which he was most fond. That afternoon, my belly full and my tongue loosened, I related my very deep concern as to Mr. Stanley’s whereabouts in Cuba and said that I would perhaps book passage there in the next few days. The very mention of it seemed to intrigue him.
“Cuba? And you suppose that your father has encountered some misfortune there?”
“Yes: I am hoping to find him — with luck, I will find him quickly; if he is ill, I will stay with him until he is better.”
“And you’ve heard nothing from him?”
“Not for several months.”
“And you intend to leave in a few days?”
“Yes, as soon as I can book passage.”
“Cuba: Well, it seems a likely interesting place. I know a great number of captains who have been there, hauling to and fro across the gulf out of New Orleans, and they speak sweetly of it. Not so much for the usual harborside bawdiness of such places but for more dulcet reasons — mainly climatic — but you’ve got a lot of fever there, too. Seeing as how you’ve gotten the ague, what on earth makes you want to tempt fate again?”
“He is my father. If not for him, I would have come to nothing.”
“I doubt that, my friend. But I reckon that you’re determined enough; and to tell you the truth, Henry, I have thought of journeying there myself.”
Then: “Some time ago, as I was coming downriver, my interest in that place was piqued by an old Spanish gentleman, a fine chess player — that’s how we met, over a game of chess in one of the public rooms. His name was García, a fellow from Alicante, Spain, and he told me that he had in his possession the deed to a small parcel of Cuban land somewhere outside Havana and that he would be willing to sell it to me for the sum of two hundred dollars. ‘A piece of land with a view of the beautiful Cuban sea’ is how he put it. As I was financially comfortable and felt sorry for the man, I thought to buy this deed from him, sight unseen, considering it an act of charity. But my practical side prevailed. Still, he had filled my head with the idea that Cuba was worth a look: I mean, Henry, there were tears in his eyes as he described it to me — by his lights it was as beautiful, in parts, as any locale he had ever visited. And as any woman… Even if I don’t care for their cigars, I have kept that country in mind; I have also often wondered if I’d passed up something good or whether I might have been gypped. So Cuba?”