engaged in conversation, agreeable and instructive to me, on those
topics likely to present themselves to a person placed as I was--the
state of Cuba, its probable future, its past, its relations to Europe
and the United States, slavery, the coolie problem, the free-Negro labor
problem, and the agriculture, horticulture, trees and fruits of the
island. The elder gentleman retired early, as he was to take the early
train for Matanzas.
My sleeping-room is large and comfortable, with brick floor and glass
windows, pure white bed linen and mosquito net, and ewer and basin
scrupulously clean, bringing back, by contrast, visions of Le Grand's,
and Antonio, and Domingo, and the sounds and smells of those upper
chambers. The only moral I am entitled to draw from this is, that a
well-ordered private house with slave labor, may be more neat and
creditable than an ill-ordered public house with free labor. As the
stillness of the room comes over me, I realize that I am far away in the
hill country of Cuba, the guest of a planter, under this strange system,
by which one man is enthroned in the labor of another race, brought from
across the sea. The song of the Negroes breaks out afresh from the
fields, where they are loading up the wagons--that barbaric undulation
of sound:
"_Na-nú, A-yá,--Na-né, A-yá:_"
and the recurrence of here and there a few words of Spanish, among which
"Mañana" seemed to be a favorite. Once, in the middle of the night, I
waked, to hear the strains again, as they worked in the open field,
under the stars.
XI.
A SUGAR PLANTATION: The Life
When I came out from my chamber this morning, the elder Mr. Chartrand
had gone. The watchful negress brought me coffee, and I could choose
between oranges and bananas, for my fruit. The young master had been in
the saddle an hour or so. I sauntered to the sugar-house. It was past
six, and all hands were at work again, amid the perpetual boiling of the
caldrons, the skimming and dipping and stirring, the cries of the
caldron-men to the firemen, the slow gait of the wagons, and the
perpetual to-and-fro of the carriers of the cane. The engine is doing
well enough, and the engineer has the great sheet of the New York Weekly
Herald, which he is studying, in the intervals of labor, as he sits on
the corner of the brickwork.
But a turn in the garden is more agreeable, among birds, and flowers,
and aromatic trees. Here is a mignonette tree, forty feet high, and
every part is full and fragrant with flowers, as is the little
mignonette in our flower-pots. There is the allspice, a large tree, each
leaf strong enough to flavor a dish. Here is the tamarind tree: I must
sit under it, for the sake of the old song. My young friend joins me,
and points out, on the allspice tree, a chameleon. It is about six
inches long, and of a pea-green color. He thinks its changes of color,
which are no fable, depend on the will or on the sensations, and not on
the color of the object the animal rests upon. This one, though on a
black trunk, remained pale green. When they take the color of the tree
they rest on, it may be to elude their enemies, to whom their slow
motions make them an easy prey. At the corner of the house stands a
pomegranate tree, full of fruit, which is not yet entirely ripe; but we
find enough to give a fair taste of its rich flavor. Then there are
sweet oranges, and sour oranges, and limes, and coconuts, and
pineapples, the latter not entirely ripe, but in the condition in which
they are usually plucked for our market, an abundance of fuchsias, and
Cape jasmines, and the highly prized night-blooming cereus.
The most frequent shade-tree here is the mango. It is a large, dense
tree, with a general resemblance, in form and size, to our lime or
linden. Three noble trees stand before the door, in front of the house.
One is a Tahiti almond, another a mango, and the third a cedar. And in
the distance is a majestic tree, of incredible size, which is, I
believe, a ceiba. When this estate was a cafetal, the house stood at the
junction of four avenues, from the four points of the compass: one of
the sweet orange, one of the sour orange, one of palms, and one of
mangoes. Many of these trees fell in the hurricanes of 1843 and '45. The
avenue which leads from the road, and part of that leading towards the
sugar-house, are preserved. The rest have fallen a sacrifice to the
sugar-cane; but the garden, the trees about the house, and what remains
of the avenues, give still a delightful appearance of shelter and
repose.
I have amused myself by tracing the progress, and learning the habits of
the red ants, a pretty formidable enemy to all structures of wood. They
eat into the heart of the hardest woods; not even the lignum vitæ, or
iron-wood, or cedar, being proof against them. Their operations are
secret. They never appear upon the wood, or touch its outer shell. A
beam or rafter stands as ever with a goodly outside; but you tap it, and
find it a shell. Their approaches, too, are by covered ways. When going
from one piece of wood to another, they construct a covered way, very
small and low, as a protection against their numerous enemies, and
through this they advance to their new labors. I think that they may sap
the strength of a whole roof of rafters, without the observer being able
to see one of them, unless he breaks their covered ways, or lays open
the wood.
The course of life at the plantation is after this manner. At six
o'clock, the great bell begins the day, and the Negroes go to their
work. The house servants bring coffee to the family and guests, as they
appear or send for it. The master's horse is at the door, under the
tree, as soon as it is light, and he is off on his tour, before the sun
rises. The family breakfasts at ten o'clock, and the people--la gente,
as the technical phrase is for the laborers, breakfast at nine. The
breakfast is like that of the cities, with the exception of fish and the
variety of meats, and consists of rice, eggs, fried plantains, mixed
dishes of vegetables and fowls, other meats rarely, and fruits, with
claret or Catalonia and coffee. The time for the siesta or rest, is
between breakfast and dinner. Dinner hour is three for the family, and
two for the people. The dinner does not differ much from the breakfast,
except that there is less of fruit and more of meat, and that some
preserve is usually eaten, as a dessert. Like the breakfast, it ends
with coffee. In all manner of preserves, the island is rich. The almond,
the guava, the cocoa, the soursop, the orange, the lime, and the mamey
apple afford a great variety. After dinner, and before dark, is the time
for long drives; and, when the families are on the estates, for visits
to neighbors. There is no third meal; but coffee, and sometimes tea, is
offered at night. The usual time for bed is as early as ten o'clock, for
the day begins early, and the chief out-door works and active
recreations must be had before breakfast.
In addition to the family house, the Negro quarters, and the
sugar-house, there is a range of stone buildings, ending with a kitchen,
occupied by the engineer, the mayoral, the boyero, and the mayordomo,
who have an old Negro woman to cook for them, and another to wait on
them. There is also another row of stone buildings, comprising the
store-house, the penitentiary, the hospital, and the lying-in room. The
penitentiary, I have described. The hospital and lying-in room are airy,
well-ventilated, and suitable for their purposes. Neither of them had
any tenants to-day. In the center of the group of buildings is a high
frame, on which hangs the great bell of the plantation. This rings the
Negroes up in the morning, and in at night, and sounds the hours for
meals. It calls all in, on any special occasion, and is used for an
alarm to the neighboring plantations, rung long and loud, in case of
fire in the cane-fields, or other occasions for calling in aid.
After dinner, to-day, a volante, with two horses, and a postilion in
bright jacket and buckled boots and large silver spurs, the harness
well-besprinkled with silver, drove to the door, and an elderly
gentleman alighted and came to the house, attired with scrupulous nicety
of white cravat and dress coat, and with the manners of the _ancien
régime_. This is M. Bourgeoise, the owner of the neighboring large
plantation, Santa Catalina, one of the few cafetals remaining in this
part of the island. He is too old, and too much attached to his
plantation, to change it to a sugar estate; and he is too rich to need
the change. He, too, was a refugee from the insurrection of Santo
Domingo, but older than M. Chartrand. Not being able to escape, he was
compelled to serve as aid-de-camp to Jacques Dessalines. He has a good
deal to say about the insurrection and its results, of a great part of
which he was an eye-witness. The sight of him brought vividly to mind
the high career and sad fate of the just and brave Toussaint
L'Ouverture, and the brilliant successes, and fickle, cruel rule, of
Dessalines--when French marshals were out-maneuvered by Negro generals,
and pitched battles were won by Negroes and mulattoes against European
armies.
This gentleman had driven over in the hope of seeing his friend and
neighbor, Mr. Chartrand, the elder. He remained with us for some time,
sitting under the veranda, the silvered volante and its black horses and
black postilion standing under the trees. He invited us to visit his
plantation, which I was desirous to do, as a cafetal is a rarity now.
My third day at La Ariadne is much like the preceding days: the early
rising, the coffee and fruit, the walk, visits to the mill, the fields,
the garden, and the quarters, breakfast, rest in-doors with reading and
writing, dinner, out of doors again, and the evening under the veranda,
with conversations on subjects now so interesting to me. These
conversations, and what I had learned from other persons, open to me new
causes for interest and sympathy with my younger host. Born in South
Carolina, he secured his rights of birth, and is a citizen of the United
States, though all his pecuniary interests and family affections are in
Cuba. He went to Paris at the age of nine, and remained there until he
was nineteen, devoting the ten years to thorough courses of study in the
best schools. He has spent much time in Boston, and has been at sea, to
China, India, and the Pacific and California--was wrecked in the Boston
ship "Mary Ellen," on a coral reef in the India seas, taken captive,
restored, and brought back to Boston in another ship, whence he sailed
for California. There he had a long and checkered experience, was
wounded in the battle with the Indians who killed Lieut. Dale and
defeated his party, was engaged in scientific surveys, topographical and
geological, took the fever of the south coast at a remote place, was
reported dead, and came to his mother's door, at the spot where we are
talking this evening, so weak and sunken that his brothers did not know
him, thinking it happiness enough if he could reach his home, to die in
his mother's arms. But home and its cherishings, and revived moral
force, restored him, and now, active and strong again, when in
consequence of the marriage of his brothers and sisters, and the
departure of neighbors, the family leave their home of thirty-five years
for the city, he becomes the acting master, the administrador of the
estate, and makes the old house his bachelor's hall.
An education in Europe or the United States must tend to free the youth
of Cuba from the besetting fault of untravelled plantation-masters. They
are in no danger of thinking their plantations and Cuba the world, or
any great part of it. In such cases, I should think the danger might be
rather the other way--rather that of disgust and discouragement at the
narrowness of the field, the entire want of a career set before them--a
career of any kind, literary, scientific, political, or military. The
choice is between expatriation and contentment in the position of a
secluded cultivator of sugar by slave labor, with occasional
opportunities of intercourse with the world and of foreign travel, with
no other field than the limits of the plantation afford, for the
exercise of the scientific knowledge, so laboriously acquired, and with
no more exciting motive for the continuance of intellectual culture than
the general sense of its worth and fitness.
XII.
FROM PLANTATION TO PLANTATION
If the master of a plantation is faithful and thorough, will tolerate no
misconduct or imposition, and yet is humane and watchful over the
interests and rights, as well as over the duties of the Negroes, he has
a hard and anxious life. Sickness to be ministered to, the feigning of
sickness to be counteracted, rights of the slaves to be secured against
other Negroes, as well as against whites, with a poor chance of getting
at the truth from either; the obligations of the Negro _quasi_ marriage
to be enforced against all the sensual and childish tendencies of the
race; theft and violence and wanderings from home to be detected and
prevented; the work to be done, and yet no one to be over-worked; and
all this often with no effectual aid, often with only obstructions, from
the intermediate whites! Nor is it his own people only that are to be
looked to. The thieving and violence of Negroes from other plantations,
their visits by night against law, and the encroachments of the
neighboring free blacks and low whites, are all to be watched and
prevented or punished. The master is a policeman, as well as an
economist and a judge. His revolver and rifle are always loaded. He has
his dogs, his trackers and seizers, that lie at his gate, trained to
give the alarm when a strange step comes near the house or the quarters,
and ready to pursue. His hedges may be broken down, his cane trampled or
cut, or, still worse, set fire to, goats let into his pastures, his
poultry stolen, and sometimes his dogs poisoned. It is a country of
little law and order, and what with slavery and free Negroes and low
whites, violence or fraud are imminent and always formidable. No man
rides far unarmed. The Negroes are held under the subjection of force. A
quarter-deck organization is established. The master owns vessel and
cargo, and is captain of the ship, and he and his family live in the
cabin and hold the quarter-deck. There are no other commissioned
officers on board, and no guard of marines. There are a few petty
officers, and under all, a great crew of Negroes, for every kind of
work, held by compulsion--the results of a press-gang. All are at sea
together. There are some laws, and civil authorities for the protection
of each, but not very near, nor always accessible.
After dinner to-day, we take saddle-horses for a ride to Santa Catalina.
Necessary duties in the field and mill delay us, and we are in danger of
not being able to visit the house, as my friend must be back in season
for the close of work and the distribution of provisions, in the absence
of his mayoral. The horses have the famous "march," as it is called, of
the island, an easy rapid step, something like pacing, and delightful
for a quiet ride under a soft afternoon sky, among flowers and sweet
odors. I have seen but few trotting horses in Cuba.
The afternoon is serene. Near, the birds are flying, or chattering with
extreme sociability in close trees, and the thickets are fragrant with
flowers; while far off, the high hills loom in the horizon; and all
about us is this tropical growth, with which I cannot yet become
familiar, of palms and cocoas and bananas. We amble over the red earth
of the winding lanes, and turn into the broad avenue of Santa Catalina,
with its double row of royal palms. We are in--not a forest, for the
trees are not thick and wild and large enough for that--but in a huge,
dense, tropical orchard. The avenue is as clear and straight and wide as
a city mall; while all the ground on either side, for hundreds of acres,
is a plantation of oranges and limes, bananas and plantains, cocoas and
pineapples, and of cedar and mango, mignonette and allspice, under whose
shade is growing the green-leaved, the evergreen-leaved coffee plant,
with its little dark red berry, the tonic of half the world. Here we
have a glimpse of the lost charm of Cuba. No wonder that the aged
proprietor cannot find the heart to lay it waste for the monotonous
cane-field, and make the quiet, peaceful horticulture, the natural
growth of fruit and berry, and the simple processes of gathering,
drying, and storing, give place to the steam and smoke and drive and
life-consuming toil of the ingenio!
At a turn in the avenue, we come upon the proprietor, who is taking his
evening walk, still in the exact dress and with the exact manners of
urban life. With truly French politeness, he is distressed, and all but
offended, that we cannot go to his house. It is my duty to insist on
declining his invitation, for I know that Chartrand is anxious to
return. At another turn, we come upon a group of little black children,
under the charge of a decent, matronly mulatto, coming up a shaded
footpath, which leads among the coffee. Chartrand stops to give a kind
word to them.
But it is sunset, and we must turn about. We ride rather rapidly down
the avenue, and along the highway, where we meet several travellers,
nearly all with pistols in their holsters, and one of the mounted
police, with carbine and sword; and then cross the brook, pass through
the little, mean hamlet of Limonar, whose inmates are about half blacks
and half whites, but once a famed resort for invalids, and enter our own
avenue, and thence to the house. On our way, we pass a burying-ground,
which my companion says he is ashamed to have me see. Its condition is
bad enough. The planters are taxed for it, but the charge of it is with
the padre, who takes big fees for burials, and lets it go to ruin. The
bell has rung long ago, but the people are waiting our return, and the
evening duties of distributing food, turning on the night gang for night
work, and closing the gates are performed.
To-night the hounds have an alarm, and Chartrand is off in the darkness.
In a few minutes he returns. There has been some one about, but nothing
is discovered. A Negro may have attempted to steal out, or some strange
Negro may be trying to steal in, or some prowling white, or free black,
has been reconnoitering. These are the terms on which this system is
carried on; and I think, too, that when the tramp of horses is heard
after dark, and strange men ride towards the piazza, it causes some
uneasiness.
The morning of the fourth day, I take my leave, by early train for
Matanzas. The hour is half-past six; but the habits of rising are so
early that it requires no special preparation. I have time for coffee,
for a last visit to the sugar-house, a good-by to the engineer, who will
be back on the banks of the Merrimack in May, and for a last look into
the quarters, to gather the little group of kneelers for "la
benedición," with their "Buenos días, Señor." My horse is ready, the
Negro has gone with my luggage, and I must take my leave of my
newly-made friend. Alone together, we have been more intimate in three
days than we should have been in as many weeks in a full household.
Adios!--May the opening of a new home on the old spot, which I hear is
awaiting you, be the harbinger of a more cheerful life, and the creation
of such fresh ties and interests, that the delightful air of the hill
country of Cuba, the dreamy monotony of the day, the serenity of nights
which seem to bring the stars down to your roof or to raise you half-way
to them, and the luxuriance and variety of vegetable and animal life,
may not be the only satisfactions of existence here.
A quiet amble over the red earth, to the station, in a thick morning
mist, almost cold enough to make an overcoat comfortable; and, after two
hours on the rail, I am again in Matanzas, among close-packed houses,
and with views of blue ocean and of ships.
XIII.
MATANZAS AND ENVIRONS
Instead of the posada by the water-side, I take up my quarters at a
hotel kept by Ensor, an American, and his sister. Here the hours,
cooking, and chief arrangements are in the fashion of the country, as
they should be, but there is more of that attention to guests which we
are accustomed to at home than the Cuban hotels usually give.
The objects to be visited here are the Cumbre and the valley of the
Yumurí. It is too late for a morning ride, and I put off my visit until
afternoon. Gazzaniga and some of the opera troupe are here; and several
Americans at the hotel, who were at the opera last night, tell me that
the people of Matanzas made a handsome show, and are of opinion that
there was more beauty in the boxes than we saw at the Villanueva. It
appears, too, that at the Retreta, in the Plaza de Armas, when the band
plays, and at evening promenades, the ladies walk about, and do not keep
to their carriages as in Havana.
As soon as the sun began to decline, I set off for the Cumbre, mounted
on a pacer, with a Negro for a guide, who rode, as I soon discovered, a
better nag than mine. We cross the stone bridges, and pass the great
hospital, which dominates over the town. A regiment, dressed in
seersucker and straw hats, is drilling, by trumpet call, and drilling
well, too, on the green in front of the barracks while we take our
winding way up the ascent of the Cumbre.
The bay, town, and shipping lie beneath us; the Pan rises in the
distance to the height of some 3,000 feet; the ocean is before us,
rolling against the outside base of the hills; and, on the inside, lies
the deep, rich, peaceful valley of the Yumurí. On the top of the Cumbre,
commanding the noblest view of ocean and valley, bay and town, is the
ingenio of a Mr. Jenkes, a merchant bearing a name that would put
Spanish tongues to their trumps to sound, were it not that they probably
take refuge in the Don Guillermo, or Don Enrique, of his Christian name.
The estate bears the name of La Victoria, and is kindly thrown open to
visitors from the city. It is said to be a model establishment. The
house is large, in a classic style, and costly, and the Negro quarters,
the store-houses, mechanic shops, and sugar-house are of dimensions
indicating an estate of the first class.
On the way up from the city, several fine points of sight were occupied
by villas, all of one story, usually in the Roman or Grecian style,
surrounded by gardens and shade-trees, and with every appearance of
taste and wealth.
It is late, but I must not miss the Yumurí; so we dive down the short,
steep descent, and cross dry brooks and wet brooks, and over stones, and
along bridle-paths, and over fields without paths, and by wretched
hovels, and a few decent cottages, with yelping dogs and cackling hens
and staring children, and between high, overhanging cliffs, and along
the side of a still lake, and after it is so dark that we can hardly see
stones or paths, we strike a bridle-path, and then come out upon the
road, and, in a few minutes more, are among the gas-lights and noises of
the city.
At the hotel, there is a New York company who have spent the day at the
Yumurí, and describe a cave not yet fully explored, which is visited by
all who have time--abounding in stalactites, and, though much smaller,
reminding one of the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky.
I cannot leave Matanzas without paying my respects to the family to
whose kindness I owe so much. Mr. Chartrand lives in a part of the
suburbs called Versailles, near the barracks, in a large and handsome
house, built after the style of the country. There I spend an agreeable
evening, at a gathering of nearly all the family, sons and daughters,
and the sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. There is something strangely
cosmopolitan in many of the Cuban families--as in this, where are found
French origin, Spanish and American intermarriage, education in Europe
or the United States, home and property in Cuba, friendships and
sympathies and half a residence in Boston or New York or Charleston, and
three languages at command.
Here I learn that the Thirty Millions Bill has not passed, and, by the
latest dates, is not likely to pass.
My room at Ensor's is on a level with the court-yard, and a horse puts
its face into the grating as I am dressing, and I know of nothing to
prevent his walking in at the door, if he chooses, so that the Negro may
finish rubbing him down by my looking-glass. Yet the house is neatly
furnished and cared for, and its keepers are attentive and deserving
people.
XIV.
REFLECTIONS VIA RAILROAD