Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

I fled from that house and, with Harry’s voice calling after me, made my way contritely back to the ship.

Now, the captain who had tricked me aboard in the first place perhaps hoped that I had indeed jumped ship, for it was a strategy of such men to gain an additional profit from their voyages by making conditions so intolerable for temporary seamen such as myself that the workers simply bolted without their wages. And so the next day, when the captain found that I had not “vamoosed,” he put me to work at some very harsh labors. He worked me so hard that I could not so much pause for a moment to wipe the sweat from my brow. Alone in my cabin at night, while pondering my plight, I decided to leave that ship for good, come what will.

Late on the fifth evening, when Harry returned from one of his rambles through the city and collapsed, dead drunk, on the bunk above me, I lit the cabin’s pewter lamp, packed my few possessions into a sack, and, slipping off the Windermere , made my way onto the levee. About a half mile from the ship I lay down by a pile of cotton bales to sleep and had wistful, odd dreams.

AWAKENED AT AN EARLY HOUR by the clanging of bells and first mates’ whistles coming from the harbor, I left the levee and made my way toward the commercial district, moving among the din of passersby. My general distress was only alleviated by my trust in Providence: For whatever reasons I had been brought to that juncture, I believed it part of some kind of design. I had no money, not even enough for a simple breakfast. My situation was perilous: Had I been struck down by a bolt of lightning, what would have been found on my person were a few letters that I had intended to send to Thomas and Maria Morris, my aunt and uncle in Liverpool, each of them signed, “Yours, John Rowlands.” And I had a certificate of graduation from St. Asaph’s, folded into quarters; a passport saying who I was; and my Bible, which also bore my name.

And yet despite my many faults, luck smiled upon me that day. As I came up from the harbor and made my way to Tchoupitoulas Street, Negroes were everywhere, sweeping the sidewalks and attending to the arrangement of goods and barrels in front of the many stores, which seemed to become progressively larger as I walked farther along. Among them was a warehouse from whose facade hung a great sign that read:

SPEAKE AND MCCREARY, WHOLESALE AND COMMISSION MERCHANTS

There I saw an immense and bearded man of middle age in a dark alpaca suit and stovepipe hat sitting in a chair in front of its doorway, newspaper in hand, a slave standing by his side fanning him. Sucking on a thin black cigar, his dark blue eyes focused intensely upon his reading matter through a pair of spectacles, he had been, at first, indifferent to my approach; but then when I, taking him as the proprietor, finally piped up, asking if he needed a “boy,” he could not have been less interested.

“What would I need with a boy when I have my slaves?” he said. But then he noticed my Bible.

“And what is that?”

“My Bible, sir.”

“Then let me see it.”

Opening it, he was pleased by what he saw: Inside its cover was an inscription that read: PRESENTED TO JOHN ROWLANDS BY THE RIGHT REVD. THOMAS VOWLER SHORT, D.D., LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH, FOR DILIGENCE TO HIS STUDIES, AND GENERAL GOOD CONDUCT. JANUARY 5TH, 1855.

“Most commendable,” he said. “So you are from Wales?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this ‘St. Asaph’?”

“It was a parish workhouse: I was sent there as a boy.”

“What are you doing here in New Orleans?”

I then told him the tale of my misfortunes on the Windermere .

“And why do you carry a Bible?”

“I carry it because, whatsoever are my difficulties, I have the faith.”

“And your favorite sections of the Bible?”

“The book of Genesis. The beginnings of this world impress me very much. And, of course, the New Testament, which contains the good teachings.”

“A fine response. It happens that I am a former preacher and would have answered the same.” Then: “And you are looking for work?”

“I am, sir. Or for any advice about how I can find it.”

“Can you read?”

“Well enough.”

“Then read this.”

And the gentleman handed me his morning paper, the New Orleans Daily Picayune , an article from which I began to recite aloud.

“Enough. That is a correct reading, but are you aware, young man, that you have a very strong accent?”

“I do. But I would strive to correct it.”

“I see.” Then: “Can you write?”

“My script was said to be the finest in my school.”

“Then take a brush and a can of black paint to those coffee bags piled against the wall there and affix my trademark and their destinations to them. Here, I will show you how.”

I shortly set to work, and after his example, I inscribed his trademark, a letter S inside a quadrangle, onto each fibrous covering, along with its eventual destination upriver, Memphis, Tennessee. I did so in a firm hand and with the most beautiful letters. When I had finished addressing about twenty such sacks, this gentleman, greatly satisfied, told me that I indeed possessed an elegant and legible script.

“I could not have done better myself,” he said. “Well, let me see what I can do for you. Mr. Speake, the owner of this warehouse, always comes in after nine. Until then, we will have ample time to discuss the nature of his business. Perhaps he will have a use for you.”

We stopped in a restaurant, where, famished, I ate to my heart’s content; and because I was in such a disreputable state we then visited a barbershop, where, at my benefactor’s suggestion — and expense — I was cleaned up, my hair shampooed and trimmed, and my face shaved: Then a Negro boy dusted off my coat, pressed it under an iron, and polished my boots. By the time we returned to the warehouse Mr. Speake was in his office. I do not believe I have ever seen so thin a man outside of a circus or one who used so much hair dye and tonic, for, parted in the middle, his hair glistened like wet coal, and he possessed a nervous twitch, which made his sharp nose seem skittish.

He conducted a short interview with me on the spot, asking if I could add. When I told him I could, he smiled and, winking at his gentleman friend — my benefactor — posed the following question:

“What say you of the following addition: If there are twenty-seven cases of soap at four cents a bar, with ninety-six bars per case, and a markup of one and one-half cents per each — what profit would that yield per case?”

“One dollar and forty-four cents,” I said after a few moments of calculation.

Mr. Speake hired me that day, on a temporary trial basis, for what seemed at the time like the princely sum of five dollars per week. I would be a general assistant in that place, to perform at first many menial tasks until I learned the ropes. But he told me that he would be away for a month or so, traveling upriver with his consignments, and that he hoped to hear good accounts of my work upon his return.

That same evening, after acquainting myself with some of the inventory in the store, since I had no place to go, I was given a cot and a blanket and shown to a storage room in the back. Resting in my cot that night, I had the strange thought that just a few days before I had been in a more or less untenable situation and that my status as a ship’s lackey was changed by the simple possession of my Bible.

NOW, IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED I was put to work alongside the two slaves — Dan and Samuel — preparing all manner of items for shipment. It was my direct superior, Mr. Richardson, who prepared the bills of lading, and it was my responsibility, being able to read, to retrieve such goods from storage. Many of my hours were spent up on a ladder with a slip of paper in hand, sorting through the disorder of the inventory, which seemed quite arbitrarily arranged, in one or another of the three lofts that stretched above the ground floor some one hundred feet along the length of the premises. Cases of wine and brandies and syrups and other groceries were stacked randomly without concern for order: Bottles of Scotch whiskey might be found in three or four different locations; a crate of a certain brand of rye would be sitting under a stack of crated candles or soaps; tins of chewing tobacco would be lost somewhere under a pyramid of English tea tins. The ground floor was no better organized.