Sweetsmoke (32 page)

    A
good one to you, Missus, said Cassius.

    "I
thank you, Cassius, have you had your breakfast?" said Martha Chavis.

    I'm
fine, Missus, thank you.

    "Nonsense,"
she said, and scooped beans and meat from a hog jowl onto a tin plate. Cassius noted
that she was in no way the disagreeable creature Weyman often made her out to
be, as she smiled at him with her small handsome face, leathered by weather and
brutal years, but all in all pleasing to behold. Her pregnancy was evident, and
as he glanced around at the one-room farmhouse—an area with a curtain for the
married couple, pallets on the floor across the room for the hands—he wondered
how they would arrange the sleeping once the baby was born. He sat gratefully
and ate, and was surprised at the intensity of his hunger. He looked up midway
through the plate, aware that he ate alone for an audience, and remembered that
everyone in Thomas Chavis's home sat at the common table and ate at the same
time, Thomas at the head, his wife opposite, Bunty and Weyman facing each other
on the long ends. The other plates had been cleared and Thomas indulged in what
Cassius imagined was his second cup of coffee, which smelled like the coffee in
the quarters, made of roasted okra flavored with molasses. While Weyman had
often spoken of it, to physically consume a meal in the company of a master and
his wife brought the experience home with a considerable jolt. Weyman had a
most unusual life for a slave, in that he lived in conditions which were better
than for many poor whites in town. Cassius envied him, treated with decency and
dignity, and he flashed on Hoke waxing poetic on the idyllic life of the
happy-go-lucky slave with no crushing burden of responsibility. Surely this was
Weyman's world, and Cassius's envy lasted but a moment longer when he suddenly
grasped that he was ensnared in white man's romantic twattle. Weyman was not
free, he-was-not-
-free.

    Cassius
finished the food on his plate, and Thomas stood.

    I
thank you, Missus, said Cassius.

    Bunty
and Weyman stood as well, and Cassius understood that Thomas had waited for him
before leading his people to the field. Politeness was something Cassius rarely
experienced, and it was the second jolt of the morning. He nodded and smiled at
Martha Chavis, who took the plate from him as he tried to put it in the bucket
to be washed. He followed the men outside, and as Bunty went with Thomas into
the field, Weyman walked him to the road.

    Just
looking for a chance to say hello, said Cassius. Didn't expect a meal.

    Yeah,
y'all got more'n hello this mornin, said Weyman proudly. That look to be a full
belly.

    Not
so full as your ugly mistress.

    She a
possum hound, ain't she? said Weyman.

    Just
the way you described her, with a litter on the way.

    Didn't
want you feelin too jealous, Cassius, said Weyman grinning.

    I see
why you're happy, said Cassius.

    A
look of incomprehension entered Weyman's eyes but was gone that fast.

    Nice
job y'all did on that Tempie, gettin rid a' her that way, said Weyman. My
business done picked up considerable.

    Cassius
winced and was about to answer, but he stopped himself.

    Where
you off to, again? said Weyman.

    Work
for Hoke.

    I
done heard that. What, some mystery task?

    Something
he needed done.

    Word
is he laid up.

    Heard
you were getting herbs from Emoline, said Cassius, turning the conversation. He
knew to protect Weyman from knowing anything about his journey in case things
went wrong.

    Now
where you hear 'bout that? said Weyman, looking shy.

    Maybe
you got the gout from that fancy cheese and wine you been putting down your
throat? said Cassius, meaning to tease Weyman, but Weyman did not laugh.

    Naw,
somethin else, some herb I done forget the name of. Start with a
M
or
somethin.

    Yeah,
one of them letters of the alphabet, said Cassius, looking at him out of the
sides of his eyes.

    Yeah,
one of them.

    Emoline's
papers linked Weyman to jalap bindweed. Cassius had not expected Weyman to be
embarrassed about it.

    Getting
it from someone else now? said Cassius.

    Weyman
looked at him slyly: I got Bornock's shooter.

    That
pretty pearl-handled revolver? said Cassius.

    Colt
Army. Doin some business with them paddyrollers and saw the chance, took it right
under his nose.

    Cassius
remembered he had not seen the revolver on Bornock's person that night in the
rain.

    Guess
you can make a nice profit, said Cassius.

    Could
at that, but now that I got it hid, I kinda like havin it around.

    You
got those patrollers mad at each other. I heard Bornock accuse Mule of stealing
it.

    Weyman
shook his head with glee: I remember what y'all said at the Big-To-Do.

    What
was that?

    You
'member, when I said I like to shoot that Tempie and you said I could use my
finger, but I already had the way and you didn't know it.

    No,
guess I didn't, said Cassius.

    They
said their good-byes. As Cassius walked along the turnpike, he saw over his
shoulder Weyman joining Thomas Chavis and Bunty in the field.

    Cassius
walked a ways and then he got lucky. A worn-out buggy pulled by a worn-out but
game horse named Carolina drew up alongside him. A worn-out freed black man by
the name of Ralph offered him a ride. Ralph was heavy and gray and he did like
to talk, but Cassius could not for the life of him remember afterward what they
had talked about. They were not bothered to produce passes, as Ralph was a
frequent traveler and well known on the road. The whites treated him with
jocular humor, all at Ralph's expense, and he laughed effortlessly, although at
one moment Cassius thought he sensed something lurking under Ralph's friendly
demeanor. Some hours into their journey, Ralph called him by his name, and
Cassius was surprised, not having remembered introducing himself, but after he
gave it some thought he decided that he must have done it when he first
accepted the ride. By midday, sooner than Cassius had estimated by looking at
the map, they reached the spot where Cassius was to continue on foot. Ralph
steered him left, informing him that York Road would eventually cross railroad
tracks, and he'd been over the bridge there hundreds of times. Cassius asked if
Ralph had seen soldiers in the area, and for the first time in their short
journey Ralph was silent.

    He
walked York Road for an hour, and one time heard the whistle of a locomotive
way off to his right. He knew from memorizing Hoke's map that he was walking
parallel to the tracks, and hoped to arrive at his destination by nightfall. He
had, of course, left the map behind, hidden in the carpentry shed. The heat
made him lightheaded, and he fell into a dreamlike state. He had committed to
memory the thin lines from the map and expected the road to turn sharply north.
As he continued he was unaware of the gradual shift of the sun's angle as its
force concentrated on his left shoulder. His thoughts ran to punishment of
Emoline's killer, gratifying himself as he imagined different methods of
revenge, some rapid and charitable, others slow and cruel, with each possessing
its own allure and charm. In time, his mind moved on to the first two acts of
Julius Caesar,
which was as far as he had read. After his initial
irritation, thinking Hoke had named him after an unpleasant fellow, he realized
Hoke had had no sense of his slave child's personality when he chose the name.
It was but idle whimsy on his master's part, a book he happened to be reading,
a passage remembered at a coincidental moment. If Cassius had grown to resemble
the man in the play, perhaps Hoke was prescient. Or perhaps Hoke had molded
Cassius, inadvertently or otherwise, to resemble this Cassius of Shakespeare.
Or perhaps Cassius was reimagining his personality through the prism of
Shakespeare's Cassius.

    He
heard the babble of moving water to his left and scrabbled down an incline to
the muddy bank of a creek. He left his haversack on dry ground and, with cupped
hands, scooped cool water to his mouth. He removed his hat and submerged it,
bringing it back onto his head, letting the cold clear stream cascade down his
skin, returning to him the memory of local creeks and reckless boyhood. He
rested in shade wondering how far he had yet to travel, when he heard a steady
growl much closer than expected. As the sound grew, he detected a regular beat,
wheels clacking rhythmically on a track propelled by a chuffing steam engine.
He took his haversack and scrambled low along the bank, coming out where the
creek spilled into a lean river not sixty feet across. The steel trestle above
was immense but with wide spaces between the girders and he feared it would not
hold the train. The iron horse came on and charged across, leaving behind a
great cloud as though the air bled smoke. Cassius had never in life seen
anything move with such speed. He stood in motionless awe. This was an
astounding creation, of steel and smoke, of heft and heat. The thing that
rolled above him devoured his vision. He marveled at the men who had imagined
and built it. Smoke filled the shape defined by the girders and rolled over the
sides and down the walls of the ravine to the water. He realized that had he
continued on the road a few minutes longer, he would have reached the trestle.
He had arrived at his destination with most of the afternoon before him.

    The
locomotive and its dozen freight cars were long gone before he no longer heard
their thunder or breathed their smoke. Cassius listened to the moving river and
considered a plan of action. He chose a concealed position high in the ravine
from which he could view trestle and York Road. He had a decent view of
telegraph poles planted beside the tracks. He continued to wonder about the
W
in W York, and after taking in the land, he decided it was not a proper
name but a direction, west of York Road, which put him on the wrong side of the
river. He was at a disadvantage as he was not intimate with the terrain, and
the man who might have information that could lead to Emoline's killer could be
anywhere. He decided to devote the following day to luring him out. He
considered returning to the road, to reach the west side by crossing at the
trestle, but thought better of it.

    He
heard horses on the road. From his vantage he momentarily viewed shoulders and
heads of men wearing butternut kepis. He counted three, but the sound of the
hooves suggested more. They rode ahead but did not cross via trestle. He moved
again, staying high on the ravine's bank. From his new angle he made out a
modest bridge not a quarter mile beyond the trestle, and saw five riders
continue on toward the forested hill. If Whitacre's men were patrolling, it was
likely that the telegraph man was still here.

    Cassius
made his way down the ravine to seek a ford. The river appeared deep and he
could not swim. He scouted upstream and saw a place. A tree had fallen across
much of the river's width. Boulders narrowed the river on both sides, and the
current ran fast through the gap. He judged the distance and thought he could
make the jump. He reached the spot where the tree came closest to a boulder on
the opposite bank. Up close, the distance appeared more ominous. Slowly,
warily, he balanced on the trunk.

    As he
shifted his weight back to jump, the trunk dipped and water swamped his shoes.
He hit the boulder sliding, grabbing an edge. His grasp held and he caught his breath
as the pain from his banged knees diminished. Gradually he moved to the next
boulder and was across.

    He
spent the next hour and a half in motion, becoming familiar with the terrain.
Under the trestle he looked for evidence of the telegraph man's camp near the
stanchions. He approached the cart and pedestrian bridge, a sturdy wooden
structure whose planks clattered when a farmer crossed in his cart. The reality
of his situation became clear. He had scant knowledge of the terrain and hiding
places were countless. The quartermaster had numerous troops and unlimited time
to find this elusive man, and to date they had been unsuccessful. His mission
more and more resembled a fool's errand.

    As he
could not return before morning, he chose to make the most of it. He found what
he judged a well—concealed position where, through leafy branches, he was
afforded a view of trestle, wood bridge, and river. He became still, and
gradually the rhythms of wildlife were revealed, as upstream a doe came to the
water to drink, and two young foxes tumbled down the far side of the bank in
raucous play. Travelers came upon the road at irregular and unpredictable
intervals. His belly nudged him, and he reached for his haversack, only to find
it gone. He patted himself, then the ground around him. He backtracked, no
longer as cautious, returning to the riverbank and the fallen tree. The
haversack had snagged on an erect branch off the tree's trunk. He understood
how it must have slipped off his shoulder when his concentration centered on
his leap. The haversack was dry, but to retrieve it he would need to leap twice
more, over and back again, unless he wanted to cross the wood bridge twice. He
decided to risk the river.