The doctor had come to my bedside, administering to me some grains of quinine, so that within another six hours, around noon the next day, I had an appetite and was ravenously hungry. Within another day I went back to my duties in the shop, but then, as a week or so passed, I was suddenly overcome with the same sequence of symptoms. It was during my second convalescence that the doctor told me that I should expect such things to happen again, and the ague did return, at regular intervals, for as long as I remained in Cypress Bend and for some time thereafter.
HAVING BEEN THUS AFFLICTED, I wrote to Mr. Stanley in Havana, relating the particulars of my illness and my general dissatisfaction with my situation. And yet when I had finished writing down my complaints, I struck a more congenial tone, putting forth my continuing devotion to and affection for my father, my most hidden hope being that Mr. Stanley would instruct me to leave that place and resume my mercantile pursuits by his side in Havana.
But as the weeks passed I heard nothing from him, and though this had become a matter of concern to me, and even as fevers seemed to come back every ten days or so, I resolved to await his final word.
UNFORTUNATELY, MY PERSONAL DISTRESS had come at a time of mounting national disharmonies. During those months, as I lingered with my recurring illnesses in Cypress Bend, the issue of slavery versus abolition had boiled over, and war talk had become prevalent among the planters. Then it had become a fact. By March of 1861, a number of Southern states, among them Alabama, Georgia, and Louisiana, had formed a government separate from the Union, its newly appointed president being one Jefferson Davis. Several of these states had seized federal arsenals, forts, and men-of-war. Even the fortresses below New Orleans had been commandeered by Louisiana. The whole thing, Dan Goree—a planter—said, had come to a head the past November with the election of Abraham Lincoln, who’d promised, upon taking office, to free all the slaves, whereupon the planters and therefore the economy of the South would be ruined.
In the meantime, the local inhabitants of Cypress Bend, expecting that Arkansas would soon be joining the other states, had begun to form their own militias.
My first thoughts, upon hearing such news, had been to wonder how commerce would be affected by a war. Most river traffic would be disrupted, and, in any event, many of our provisions, ordered from Northern cities such as Cincinnati and Chicago, would be cut off. It was already being said that many a steamboat had been either requisitioned by Southern forces or was being held in port. Travelers coming into Cypress Bend from the big port towns told us that fewer steamboats were coming up-and downriver. Somehow I felt consoled by believing that this emergency had affected communications with foreign places such as Cuba: I reasoned that somewhere downriver there was a parcel of mail sitting in a postal warehouse and that a new letter from my father, reporting that all was well with him, awaited me: Yet on one of those days, in March, when I finally received a piece of correspondence, it was from Samuel Clemens. This is as I remember it:
Dear Henry,
These days I am knocking about New Orleans, mainly playing chess and games of whist in the pilots’ association rooms and winning more than losing; I have also had the opportunity of showing my mother around the city—but, truth be told, with all the war talk in the air, I am a little weary about my future as a steamboat pilot. When I hear the debates about the North versus the South, mainly over the central concern of slavery, I think it seems hardly worth it to go to war over such a thing. But it now seems inevitable. I go all which ways: My older brother, Orion, whom I told you about, is a dignified man who has always been an abolitionist and has his own strong opinion on the subject. He believes the Yankees are in the right. Then I talk to a plantation man who is on the verge of tears about losing his beloved (and profit-making) slaves—and his livelihood—and I am of another opinion. I go back and forth on the subject constantly: Mainly I, and the rest of my cohorts on the river, are afraid of being forced at gunpoint to pilot a ship for the Yankees—all the pilots are wary of that; I am not a Confederate or a Yankee yet. Most of us are cooling our heels and staying put: I do not want to be conscripted by either side—
In the meantime, I have decided to linger a bit in New Orleans, until the war fever has played out.
Yours fondly,
Samuel Clemens
I CANNOT SAY WHETHER IT was that letter from Samuel Clemens or the ague that prompted me to leave the store and head downriver to New Orleans, but by then, I reasoned that I might not be able to escape Cypress Bend at all once a war broke out. Approaching Mr. Altschul about the situation, I stated my case, and he, being aware of my distracted state of mind in regard to Mr. Stanley, allowed me some six weeks to attend to my business. Although I abhorred the mistreatment of the slaves, wanting to prove myself a good Southerner and American I had thought to eventually join up with one of the local militias upon my return. To become a soldier, fighting for a glorious cause, seemed a romantic idea filled with promise of adventure—and besides, to not do so would have marked me as a coward with a “yellow streak” among the locals.
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 well: 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 undetermin
ed 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?”
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 cig
ar, 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.”