Then he said: “And, to tell you the truth, Henry, on one of my journeys downriver, not so long ago, I made the acquaintance of a charming young lady, one Priscilla Hatcher, who is the daughter of a prominent southern gentleman, some kind of businessman, in Havana. I was most attracted to her, I must say; and I have often thought of visiting her.”
“Well, then, Samuel, if you would consider it, I would be honored if you accompanied me.”
When he made no immediate response, I felt gloomy and wished I had not brought up such nonsense, and soon we were speaking of other things. The afternoon passed, the tables around us emptying of people, and then the tables began to fill again with the dinner crowd. As the sun moved from east to west, a shadow slowly descended over the cobblestones and the shop facades turned gray, but when the sun began to set, all turned golden again, only to be overtaken by a shifting arc of darkness, which inched its way along the street below us bit by bit. Slowly gas lamps began to light. A great fraternity of birds chattered wildly in the trees, then quieted down, the sidewalks below that high patio suddenly jammed with pedestrians taking their evening constitutionals.
We were speaking about the coming war, and as Clemens was holding forth on the recruitment rallies being held each afternoon in the plaza of Jackson Square — and about the “great crowds of young men turning up, for the glamour of the uniforms, as the young ladies swoon over such things”—some residual of the ague came over me, and, deeply weakened suddenly, my hands shaking, my body trembling, and sweat forming on my brow, I slumped forward onto the table, in a poor state.
Helped by Clemens to the street, I was taken by a hack carriage to Mr. Clemens’s boardinghouse, near Annunciation Square. I believe that a day, perhaps two, had passed before I could make out my surroundings with some clarity: I saw a window and the foliage of a magnolia tree without, and as I looked about the room and its furnishings I saw Mr. Clemens sitting in a chair in a corner, waiting, his worried expression turning into one of relief when I awakened. “You had me scared half to death, my friend,” he said. “You were a dead man, as far as I could make of you. It put me in quite a state — so that’s malaria, is it?”
“Yes, that’s it — sorry for the trouble.”
“It was no trouble for me — one of the boardinghouse slaves looked after you: I was just a little concerned, that’s all. As I said, you could’ve been a dead man until you started to talk for a spell. And much about your father… well, for what’s its worth to you, Henry, I had some plans to head north to join my brother, Orion, but I’ve since decided to go with you to Havana instead, if you’re still intending to.” Then: “Only thing is that I’ve got to convince Mother Clemens that it will be a safe thing. When you are up and about, come downstairs to meet her.”
AT ABOUT ELEVEN THE NEXT MORNING, I was feeling well enough to bathe and clean myself up, the ague spell having largely passed. Shortly I ventured down to the hotel parlor, where Clemens, dressed entirely in white, sat beside his mother, Jane Lampton Clemens, over tea. Mother Clemens was a congenial woman of about sixty and wore mourning dress: A lacy blouse whose collar was a succession of ruffles was the only touch of adornment about her person. When I walked in, Clemens got up and confided to me that, in regard to Cuba, he would do all the talking. Then he introduced me to her as Mr. Henry Stanley, a dear friend. I joined them for a cup of tea. And as Clemens lit a cigar, which made his mother frown, he spoke of the circumstances that brought her to the city. She had come down from St. Louis on holiday for Mardi Gras and had been left stranded in New Orleans awaiting passage back, as so many of the steamboats had been pulled into other service on account of the coming war. By then, Clemens had found her a place on one of the few ships going upriver a few days hence. Which is to say that at the time I made her acquaintance she had passed many a day in that boardinghouse and was anxious to return home.
“Mother, this young man and I have agreed to undertake an excursion to the island of Cuba. My friend has some pressing business there, and I thought to avail myself of the opportunity to see that foreign land. What’s more, as he is in poor health, I thought it best to help him along — he is determined to go anyway. We won’t be gone for long — I’m going plumb crazy hanging around here — but I would never make this journey without your blessing.”
“Cuba?” she said. “What on earth are you thinking, son?” Then: “Samuel, you’re a grown man, and you’ll do what you want to do, so of course you have my blessing; but if it’s true that you’ll be most likely leaving the river trade shortly, I would think you’d be better off joining up with Orion again. And besides, you’ve never traveled to a strange country before.” She sighed. “But I suppose if it won’t be one thing, it would be the other. Yes, you have my blessing — but don’t be a young fool about it.”
“Now, don’t be worried. And remember that a month or so passes quickly; maybe by the time we get back, the war fever in these parts will be over, though I admit it isn’t likely.”
He waited for her summary judgment. Then, with a flick of a hand, she said, “But do be careful, son. Mercy me if something were to happen to you.” Like all good mothers, she had said her piece.
A FEW DAYS LATER, after Mother Clemens had embarked north to St. Louis on The Crescent City, its decks overflowing with anxious passengers and soldier recruits, Clemens and I made our way to the harbor to book tickets to Havana. It took us an hour to reach the sales window of the Hamburg — New Orleans — Cuba line, as there was a glut of southerners, their faces drained of color, waiting in a long queue to secure their own passage, an air of impatience about them, apprehensive as they were over the prospect of Yankee blockades sealing them off from their concerns on the island. It seemed to us as well that some of them simply wanted to get out of New Orleans before the war started. Within a few hours we booked passage out: It cost thirty-two dollars for the round-trip, and, at dawn, a few days later, we boarded the steamer Malta en route to Havana.
We Arrive in Cuba
ON THE MORNING of our seventh day at sea, after sailing some six hundred nautical miles, we steamed into Havana Bay through its narrow entrance, with fortresses, hooking out on elongated shoals, to either side. Though the tideless waters were sparkling blue and the air was clear as glass, the harbor had the smell of the stagnant and offal-ridden drainage from the city. Diamonds of light quivered in the water alongside shreds of timber and flowing clouds of filth that made the fish scatter. Still, the sun shone brightly, and along all the outcroppings of shore stood tall coconut palms and clusters of other tropical fruit trees that made for hedges of pleasing foliage. Church spires and Moorish minarets rose in the distance, as did a great hill on which stood several neoclassical buildings. The air sometimes became sweet, as if we had come to a city of gardens.