Knowing that one bale weighed around fifty pounds, I asked, “Can I have Sandy help, sir?”
“Yes… but let’s turn to.”
Thirty minutes later, both bales rested on a wooden cart with wheels. As we waited for the Captain, I paced the dock with dizzy steps. After weeks of the pitching and rolling of the ship, it would take some time for me to find my land legs.
When the skipper joined us, we began pushing the dolly over the rough cobbles towards the town square. As we walked, the Captain explained the task. Many years before, Mr. Barrel had sailed into this port and made friends with a local merchant who was a renowned cigar maker. Over the years, they had kept in contact, with a few letters delivered by merchant ships traveling to each side of the Atlantic. The cigar maker wanted to add some Virginian leaf to his African tobacco to make a more flavorful roll. Therefore, arrangements had been made for the Virginia tobacco to be delivered to him at thirty dollars a bale. The Captain was to be paid in African cigars that could then be traded with the Pacific natives. The whole scheme was well thought out endeavor and fascinating to hear.
As we moved through an open market, I begin noticing our surroundings in more detail. The market was filled with fruits, meats, and vegetables of every kind, color, and shape. The Africans were all dressed in their bright-colored clothing, and many of the women had large flowers in their hair, making the air smell of jasmine. As we pushed through the busy crowd, I saw some locals pointing our way and then frowning, speaking in a language I didn’t understand. At first I thought it was just normal curiosity at seeing Americans, but it happened so many times that I began to feel uncomfortable.
Finally, we reached a tobacco shop and stopped. All three of us were sweating from the afternoon sun, so we took a moment to wipe our brows.
As we did, the Captain asked, “Joe, do you know what those people were pointing at?”
“No, sir.”
“Your red hair. They thought you were the Devil himself!”
Chuckling, Sandy added, “You should cut it all off, lad. You’re frightening the Afer-cans.”
After the Captain talked to the proprietor, we were told to push the bales down a side alley to the rear of his shop. When we got to the back, we found a large, open air tent with five men sitting at tables in the shade, rolling cigars. With Captain Gray and the proprietor waiting for us, we quickly unloaded the dolly. Then they began cutting open the bales to inspect the tobacco. The proprietor was a lean, older African with short, gray, curly hair. His black skin was shiny, and he had huge hands with white palms.
Obviously, he was the master cigar maker and Mr. Barrel’s old friend. He held a few leaves up to the sky and then smelt them and rolled them in his hand. He seemed quite pleased, as he had a broad smile on his face. As he worked, I turned and watched the other makers. It was delightful to gaze at the way their nimble fingers rolled, tucked, and packed the dark tobacco. When they finished each cigar, trimmed to just the right length, it was given a paper band and placed in a small wooden box. When that box was filled, it would be packed in one of the larger wooden boxes that were stacked all around the tent. From my calculations, each large box held two hundred and forty cigars.
The Captain spoke to the proprietor in both English and Portuguese, a language that sounded similar to Spanish. When their business was completed, the old man invited all of us into the shop for a cup of coffee.
Inside the sweet smelling store, we found shelves lined with all things tobacco. As we waited for the coffee to brew, Sandy and I walked around, looking at the many items. In one area, I found forty or more pipes for sale. They all looked like the work of fine craftsmen, with highly polished stems and bowls made from different woods. But, to my surprise, one looked to have its bowl made out of corn husk. Holding the pipe up, I showed it to Sandy and commented on its design. Just then, the old man moved in my direction and said something to me in Portuguese.
The Captain translated. “If you like that pipe, Joe, he wants to give it to you as a gift. He will also select a good tobacco to go with it. Sandy, you do the same. It’s their way.”
Turning to the old man, I smiled, bowed and thanked him. It was an unexpected gift that I would cherish.
Finally, after we drank the strongest coffee I’d ever tasted, the Captain told us to take two of the larger boxes of cigars back to the ship. As we loaded the dolly, he added that he had more business with the old man and would return later.
The way back was much easier with the lighter load. But as we wove in and out of the crowded marketplace, many of the townspeople still stared and pointed our way. It gave me a sinister feeling to know I was being compared to the Devil.
Just a block from the docks, Sandy spotted a public house and wanted to stop for a tankard. At first I hesitated, as we couldn’t take the load inside, but then agreed to stay with the dolly while he slipped in for a quick flagon. Standing in the shade of the building, I reached into my pouch and took out my new gift. I was amazed with the workmanship and wondered if I would enjoy smoking the African tobacco.
Then I heard a loud cry. “Braaak! Hello, sailor.”
Looking up, I saw a tall, shapely woman approaching me, with a red-and-yellow parrot on her shoulder. She had a soft brown complexion and midnight hair piled high on her head, with an orchid woven in. Twisting her yellow parasol, she stopped right front of me. With my heart racing I stared at her green floral dress, which accentuated her breasts and bright-red lipstick. She was as stunning as any woman I had ever seen.
“I like your red hair, sailor. And your skin is almost as brown as mine,” she said with a smile, in near perfect English.
Her parrot repeated, “Braaak! Hello, sailor.”
Searching for my tongue, I finally stammered, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you buy me a drink?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t leave my crates.”
“What’s in the boxes?”
“Cigars for my ship, ma’am.”
“I love a good cigar,” she said with a strange look on her face. Then, fast as a fox, she reached out and touched my cheek. “Right after I have a good sailor.”
With her hovering over me like a bee at a jam pot, I felt my face flush and wondered what to say next.
Just then, a Portuguese soldier approached and, in the King’s English, demanded, “Move on, Louie.”
The lady twisted to look at him and angrily replied, “It’s none of your affair. I mean this lad no harm.”
Her bird added, “Braaak! Hello, soldier.”
The Portuguese officer had a stern look on his face as he repeated, “Move on, Louie. Now, before I run you in.”
She glared at the officer for a moment and then turned and huffed down the street towards the docks.
As she was leaving, I said to the officer, “You called her ‘Louie.’ Why?”
He grinned back at me. “Because ‘she’ is a he.”
“A
