University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XIV.

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 overworked;
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 pine-apples, 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 C—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. C—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
C—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 the 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 bendicion," with their "Buenos dias,
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.