Admiral Schley, in describing his expedition for the relief of Greeley, once told me that during the last lap of his voyage, in order to make greater speed, he blew his way through the ice with dynamite. When he found Greeley and his men, there was not twenty-four hours’ life in any of them. If he had not put on that extra spurt of speed, he would have come too late.
“What made you think of using the dynamite?” I said.
The Admiral answered with an inscrutable look. I saw that I had touched the edge of one of those mysteries men do not talk about to a chance acquaintance, even a young lady, at a dinner party.
From Santo Domingo we set sail for Cuba, then a province of Spain, ruled by a despotic Spanish governor, who was cordially hated by the Cubans. All the offices of trust or power were held by Spaniards, who had come to Cuba bent on making their fortunes and caring little for the development of the beautiful island intrusted to their care. The Cubans to whom my father brought letters were mostly planters, farmers, or lawyers. With the exception of a few navy officers, I do not remember having made the acquaintance of a single Spaniard.
I was fortunate in making friends with a famous Cuban belle under whose protection I caught some glimpses of the beau monde of Havana. In the afternoon I drove with her in a volante on the fashionable paseo; in the evening we drove again through the gaily lighted plaza, the center of the city’s social life. The volante would draw up outside one of the chief cafés; here ices were served to us as we sat in the carriage, which was quickly surrounded by a group of young men. A certain handsome officer, named Antonio Sarabria, paid us distant and respectful court in true Spanish fashion. For several afternoons and evenings he followed our carriage in a cab, and when we stopped for ices sent us each a bouquet of gardenias with his compliments. We visited a Spanish warship, the Saragossa, lying in the harbor near the Moro Castle. Though the officers were friendly and hospitable, the visit proved a disappointment, for I had vainly hoped to find Antonio Sarabria on board! The same afternoon we were made welcome on a Prussian man-of-war, where a pompous young German officer did the honors. He spoke English fairly well but had an irritating habit of answering every remark with, “Why, of course they are,” or “Why, of course it is!”
I remember a visit to our fair friend at her own house. She received us in a perfumed boudoir where the toilet apparatus, basin, pitchers, mugs, as well as combs and brushes, were of handsome wrought silver. The Cuban beauties, with their mate skins and languorous eyes, dressed in the latest Paris fashion except on Sundays, when at mass the mantilla took the place of the bonnet. The only religion tolerated by the government was the Roman Catholic. With my friend I visited the cathedral, where for a second time I stood beside a tomb of Columbus; this mausoleum really contained the Great Adventurer’s dust, brought here from Santo Domingo in the year 1796. In Havana I saw my first convent, where the nuns showed me a crêche, and explained the working of the cradle, which at night was turned outward into the street to receive the little foundlings committed to their care.
My father meanwhile was making a thorough study of the work of the newly formed Sociedad Economica, whose object was the improvement of public education and popular industry. I remember his saying that not a tenth part, even of the children of free parents, received any education whatever. Current literature can hardly be said to have existed in Cuba at this time. There were a few daily and weekly papers, rigidly censured, and as far as we saw, little other reading matter.
We made several expeditions from the capital, visiting Matanzas, where we stayed at the Golden Lion, a pleasant hotel, and were shown the sights by Mr. Hall, the American Consul. The visit to the great caves whose entrance lies three hundred feet below the earth’s surface made a deep impression upon me. The stalactites hanging from the roof of the cavern, the stalagmites rising from the floor to meet them, were of the color and texture of yellow alabaster. I dreamed so often of this cavern that it is now inextricably confused with my childish ideas of Aladdin’s Cave. At Matanzas we saw a large plantation worked by Chinese coolies whose condition, little better than slaves, roused my father’s indignation. Of an expedition to Toledo Marinao I remember little save the visit to the sugar factory. The slender record of my journal says:
“Our cicerone was kind Mr. Salmon. We saw a great many Chinese, as well as negro slaves; the former are much the best workers and are, I believe, more valuable. We saw the whole process of sugar-making, from the grinding of the cane to the final packing of the white sugar.”
Our departure from “the Havana” was hastened by an incident, for which I was to blame. I accompanied my father on a visit to the prison. Here we saw huddled together in a miserable cell a group of boys of about my own age; one indeed was much younger, being only fourteen years old. These poor lads were under a sentence of death for a trifling offense, the desecration of the grave of some official who had oppressed the people. The boys had broken or overturned the tombstone on one of the Cuban holidays, as their part of a political demonstration against the tyranical Spanish officialdom. I was so much wrought up over the fate of these youths that I talked unguardedly about them to my friends and later managed to send to the prison a gift of tobacco and fruit. In consequence of this expression of sympathy, my father received a warning from the Cuban authorities, and without waiting for a second hint, he bundled us out of Cuba and over to Key West, much to my regret. Havana, with its bullfights, cock fights, Spanish officers, languid beauties, water ices, and guava marmalade, was an attractive place to a young traveler on her first journey!