From flag to flag

A Cuban life is intolerably monotonous to one who has always known activity and enterprise. In the cities there are amusements and distractions, though of a very insipid and languid nature, but in the country the dullness is oppressive. We wearied of the eternal soft, mild air; the never-varying green of the landscape; the perpetual equable temperature that made the thinnest linen comfortable—the seasons only varied by dry and wet—the dry very dry and dusty, and the wet—very wet and muddy. The country roads are so narrow that the constant travel with loaded ox-teams all winter cuts them into deep ruts, and the summer rain soon makes them well-nigh impassable. A climate like this palls upon one who has been accustomed to the variations of the temperate zone. Unchanging verdure is like the everlasting, simpering smile on a pretty woman’s face—so constant as to become meaningless and insipid.

We wearied of the senseless platitudes of our few visitors, and of the foreign tongue, that, with all its smoothly flowing euphony, could never be to our ears as sweet as the voices of our fatherland. In our isolation, every new book, magazine article, or newspaper topic, started a discussion that enlivened the table at meals from one steamer-day to the next; and even a quaint advertisement was commented upon, giving food for thought and speech other than the details of the plantation, that were becoming so tiresome and threadbare.

As Ellie and I could not spend all our leisure in reading—neither of us being particularly literary or studious—the wonderfully brilliant heavens offered attractive astronomical research, and with the aid of an odd volume of Dick’s “System”—the only book on the subject we had, and a good field-glass—we were quite successful in locating the position of stars and constellations, many of which are not visible in more northern latitudes.

We had very little fancy-work. No Berlin wools work was needed in that climate, so the materials were not procurable. The laborious drawing of thread-in fine linen and embroidering over the drawn places in delicate, cobwebby designs, so intricate that it makes one’s eyes ache to look at them, had no charms for us, though it was the favorite occupation of Cuban señoras. We embroidered conventional morning glories and wheat on pillow-shams; scalloped flounces and dress-waists, and made yards upon yards of senseless tatting, till we wearied with the work. Sewing-thread could be had in abundance, and our busy fingers produced wonderful tidies and spreads, for which we had no use. There remains in my possession a round-table cover, five yards in circumference, crochetted in Spanish sewing-thread—the center an elaborate arrangement of pansies and fuchias, the border enlivened by forty performing monkeys in the midst of acrobatic feats. This pure white spread is not only valuable as a memento of a dull summer’s occupation, but an ingenious specimen of handicraft accomplished with scarcely an outline of instruction or pattern. Improvising a design to widen from a center to a periphery of sixteen feet, though by no means a slight undertaking, is diminutive compared with successful execution of the work.

Martha had time to “take in” sewing, and Ellie and I amused ourselves by designing—even frequently helping in the work itself—tombo dresses for the African belles on the plantation. Any new occupation that presented itself was eagerly welcomed. Zell brought us, from the swamps in the rear of the marquis’s place, quantities of palmetto, which we bleached in the sun, split into suitable widths, and braided into hats, pressing the crowns into shape by ironing them over a perfectly round tin pail! Soon every one had a brand-new palmetto hat, which a few showers ruined.

Henry, who, with the keen perception of boyhood, saw so much in his out-door life which brightened and cheered us, and whose incoming always brought a breath of fresh air—was gone. The daily duty of hearing him recite lessons amid countless interruptions that at the time were so trying, was sadly missed now. His father walked in and out of the rooms with a weary, listless air, missing the boy at every turn; while Ellie ceased to care for the early morning rides which they had so often enjoyed together.

Life was becoming a burden: we were wearying and losing heart; it was not occupation we needed, it was recreation, but the only change available in our dull lives was change of work. Ellie offered to teach Zell and Martha to read, but Zell “low’d half dese here white folks can’t read; I’se no time fur dictionary work. While I’se settin’ down readin’, who’s waitin’ on Lamo and ’terpretin’ fur him?” The faithful soul, now that “little Mars Henry” was gone, followed Lamo around, hoping to cheer and assist him in the varied occupations of the day. Martha was more easily persuaded, but she was rather dull, and at the end of a winter’s schooling, coming up every night with her book, had only advanced to words with two syllables. So the experiment was not very encouraging.

Finding Zell, now twenty years old, was casting amorous glances at a dusky Maud Muller, who raked cane in the field, I suggested that, if he contemplated marriage, it would be well to open a bank account, for he was inclined to be extravagant with his money. Martha, whose opportunities to spend her earnings were limited to an occasional visit with me to Havana, also brought up her little savings. In return I gave to each a note bearing ten per cent. interest. From time to time they were encouraged in adding to the amount; and when, at the end of the first year, the notes with accrued interest were renewed, and they understood how the money “grow’d,” they became enthusiastic capitalists.

Notwithstanding our heroic efforts to amuse and divert the mind with something to relieve us of the tiresome and busy routine of work, we found in time that a radical change was imperatively necessary, first to one, then to another, of the brave little household. Ellie, who had so lovingly and unselfishly shared my burden and lightened my cares, went home to her mother and remained several months. I had made various short and rapid trips to New York, which were exceedingly refreshing. Lamo, who felt his presence absolutely necessary at Desengaño, as indeed it was, valiantly staid year after year at his post, until his step began to falter, a paleness overspread his once ruddy countenance, a tired, dull look crept into his eye, and the faint smile that replaced his old cheery laugh, warned us there was a limit to the endurance of even the bravest spirit. When I spoke firmly and determinedly of a trip to the United States, insisted upon the (somewhat imaginary) business that needed his personal attention, and urged that the storm had so reduced the crop that it could easily be harvested without his aid, I think he realized that a still stronger motive was hidden in the proposition, and that his overtaxed mind and body demanded an entire change of climate. Deeply regretting the urgency of the step, he could no longer hesitate; and one of the bravest acts of an unselfish life was, turning his back on Desengaño for a whole six months, and leaving me there. Henry’s departure had already sundered one of the ties that bound us to the Cuban home that the boy loved so well. It was easy for us to break away after that. A few years later we left the island forever.

During the latter years of our residence, and those that immediately followed, military exactions and ruinous taxation crushed the life out of Cuba.

The gradual emancipation of slaves was enforced, the importation of coolies prohibited, and, as an inevitable sequence, an untold number of valuable estates were abandoned by their impoverished owners, thereby revolutionizing the entire financial and domestic status of the island.

Brito’s beautiful plantation, notwithstanding the rare administrative ability of its owner, is to-day a forsaken wilderness; and the once genial, whole-souled Don José, now broken-hearted, walks dejectedly the roads he erst traveled in such magnificent state.

The buildings of the “Josefita” were destroyed by fire; the family wealth taxed out of existence; Don Pancho, who was so attentive to Ellie, and such a kindly neighbor, dead of gout; the family all impoverished and scattered, and the hospitable old Cuban home wiped off the face of the earth. All the prancing steeds were seized by the Spaniards on the one side or the insurgents on the other; no cattle left for the boyero to care for, or labor for the mayoral to superintend; no engine for the sturdy Scotch engineer to run—all gone—and little else than a waste of weeds and choked cane left to indicate the spot where, little more than a decade ago, stood a magnificently equipped and managed sugar estate! If Spain had ravaged her “siempre fiel Isla de Cuba” with fire and pestilence, the destruction could scarcely have been more rapid and complete.

That superb province, whose natural resources are almost inexhaustible, has been bled to death by the leeches and parasites to whom her welfare and government were intrusted.

Zell, having already formed the strongest of ties, decided to remain at Desengaño, with his wife and children, even after it had passed into other hands. Through Mr. Hall, our consul-general in Cuba, he was furnished with all the necessary papers of United States citizenship. After assisting him in making a favorable contract for work with the new owner of the plantation, in the same capacity as in the past, viz., mandadero (messenger), we paid him several hundred dollars, the accumulated amount of his savings. Year after year we received letters from him, written in Spanish by some plantation employé, giving all the neighborhood news of interest, and messages from the Chinese and negroes, among whom we had lived and labored almost ten years—invariably subscribing himself “Your devoted and faithful slave.” Serviente was the conventional phrase used from equal to equal, and may not have appeared expressive enough to suit Zell, so it was esclavo (slave). One day a mourning letter came to Henry. Zell was dead! congestion or fever, it mattered little—Zell was dead! Bitter tears we wept over that black-bordered letter, the last one we ever received from Desengaño. Faithful friend—not slave!

Martha returned to the United States with us, and, when she married, her savings were found sufficient to purchase a lot and pay for the building of a comfortable house in Virginia, near enough for us to see her almost every year, when she could take our daughter, already taller and larger than herself, in her loving arms, and call her “my Mexican baby.”

Now that tender, faithful soul, who ministered to our comfort, not as slave but helpful companion during those trying years, has gone “where change shall come not till all change end”—thus severing one of the few remaining links that bound us to the old, old life.

THE END.