by David Fuller
Some minutes passed before Hoke Howard came up in his carriage. Sam made the wide turn into the road to the big house, wheels coming up over the ruts. Hoke pulled Sam to a stop and looked at Cassius without a word.
At one time, up until five years before, Cassius had been Hoke's favorite. During the subsequent years, Cassius struggled to disguise his hostility toward the man. He would see Hoke most days, but for the times when he was loaned out, specifically the six months he spent building the addition to The Swan of Alicante, Lamar Robertson's plantation. Not once in that time apart was his anger diminished.
Hoke made a clicking sound out of the side of his mouth and Sam lurched forward, carrying them under the arch of the gate.
Cassius sat back in the shade and watched Hoke get smaller. The sun was two hands up from the horizon. An early mosquito tested his ear. They would call for him when they were ready. Cassius knew he was facing a late supper.
Cassius was called to the big house after the bell rang for the field hands, and he heard them dragging back to the quarters in the twilight. The sun was gone, the black trees framed a pale blue sky, and the big house grew larger with each step. The indoor lamp flames fluttered and flitted across the warp of the large blown-glass windows. Crickets chirked, a mourning dove warned a mockingbird of excessive celebration, and under it all he felt more than heard the munching hornworm jaws out in the fields.
Something pulled his attention to his left near the kitchen. He saw a figure in the dark and recognized Tempie Easter. Curious that she was hanging around the big house, as she had no legitimate business there. Tempie had come from another plantation, the only slave who insisted on a last name. She had arrived alone, an unattached high yellow, and for a time, the single stallions circled her. They moved on when it became apparent that her mind was otherwise occupied. She had brought with her nice clothes and campaigned to join the big house staff. Cassius thought she might have been what she claimed, a big house negro, as she carried herself in that superior way, with her aristocratic chest and small upturned breasts, her high hips and swaybacked walk. Cassius saw a second head peer around the corner and met Pet's eyes. So it was business. Pet had allowed some trinket to slip into her apron, something Tempie might offer to a customer. Pet backed up and he knew she would run to the side and come through the house to answer the front door as if she had been indoors all this time.
Cassius stepped onto the porch where only hours before Otis Bornock had stood, and Pet opened the door.
Two winters had passed since Cassius had been inside the big house. The subtle smell of fish embraced him, a smell he associated with wealth and power; despite the deprivations of war, they still had whale oil for the lamps. The big house was alive, children upstairs emitting occasional shrieks of delight or misery, their footfalls thunderous. The main foyer opened to a majestic greeting room that extended all the way to the back of the house, where a grand fireplace dominated and the walls were covered with paintings. In the far corner, a door led out to the rear gardens. In the wall to his right was the door to Hoke's study. To his left, the staircase ran halfway up, to a landing at the back wall, turned, and finished its climb to the second floor. On the far side of the stairs, a wide breezeway opened into the dining area and other rooms. The ceilings were high, the rooms large, the floorboards scrubbed clean, the rugs elegant, the windows huge. The volume of light was staggering, coming from a multitude of candles and whale oil lanterns that filled this room and leaked from other rooms, around corners, down the stairs.
Anything left in Mam Rosie's kitchen? said Cassius. Or did all them starving planter children eat up the leftovers?
Pet shook her head at him, mouth set, eyes grim.
Cassius understood. It was going to be bad for him. But bad news was a constant, bad news was forever and bad news would keep because right then he was more interested in his belly.
Pet scrutinized the grime that clung to Cassius from the day's work. She shook her head and rushed out of sight, returning with a damp cloth. She did what she could to clean his face and arms and hands, saying nothing. She left him alone with a warning look.
Cassius heard Hoke Howard's voice from his study.
"I'll not repeat the error of bringing you gifts in the future, if this is how they are to be received."
"This locket appears to be gold. How can we afford it, Mr. Howard?"
"Perhaps it is extravagant, but we can still afford special things."
"That is a crooked path to an answer, husband."
"I had a bit of luck gambling."
"You know very well my opinion of gambling," she said.
"I never bet more than I can afford to lose," said Hoke pompously.
Cassius moved to change the angle of his view of the inside of the study through the slightly open door. He could make out Ellen with her back to the door, but her full skirt blocked Hoke at his desk.
"And you were not gambling," said Ellen decisively.
"Was I not?"
"You have taken advantage of that tax business up North."
"You refer to the Morrill Tariff Act."
"Just so, you and your specificity, the Morrill Tariff Act then."
"There are certain benefits to—"
"You met with that man Logue."
"Now, Ellie."
"Gabriel Logue is a—he is a—"
"Logue is a businessman, no more, no less, just as I am a businessman, and I will tend to my business." His voice was loud and she was silent and Cassius backed up so that he would not be observed. Weyman had told him the truth. "If the North sees fit to tax tobacco, then I am but a damned fool if I do not take advantage. People desire my product and dislike being taxed. Logue offers me an excellent price, but lest you think me greedy, I have held back a portion of last year's crop to satisfy Mr. Davis's government so that we do not incite suspicion. And it is damned lucky I was able to make Logue's deal. You see the condition of the crop. If we do not terminate this affliction, we will need Logue just to see us through the winter!"
"I do not approve of you dealing with men like Gabriel Logue," said Ellen quietly.
"We are at war, and this is man's business."
"War and man's business," she said derogatorily.
Cassius heard Hoke's chair scrape against the floor as he pushed himself back.
"I have summoned Nettle and we will attend to it. It is his fault we are in this mess, I let him convince me to use the south fields for the third straight year and the soil is played out. This winter we will clear cut the parcel I took from Buffalo Channing's grandson. I cheated him out of that one, at least."
"Is the Produce Loan from the government inadequate?"
"Will you leave man's work to men, Mrs. Howard!?"
Cassius listened to the ensuing silence. If the Howards sold property to pay debts, life would change irrevocably. His carpentry skills could transfer to a new master, but would a new master allow Cassius to rent himself out? Would a new master allow him to retain his saved money? Cassius might even be sold to a cotton state. At that moment, life seemed not unreasonable in Sweetsmoke.
"Was there word from Jacob?" said Ellen.
"Nothing today, my dear, but do not fret, your son has never been a regular correspondent. Remember that in March we received a collection of his letters in a bundle."
"Does he not understand what it does to me?"
"You must consider that, with Sarah…" His voice trailed off.
"Yes, he married a ninny, which does not excuse him from communicating with his mother."
"Hush now, lest she hear through the floorboards."
Cassius glanced up at the ceiling. Pretty Sarah Greenleaf had been a sickly thing well before Jacob had taken her as his wife. She brought him one son, Charles, and in the ensuing ten years had yet to recover from childbirth. Not long after Jacob announced he would be joining Ashby's cavalry, Sarah was rushed to her bed with an undisclosed illness. Her husband, expected to remain behind to nurse her to
health, had instead ridden away sooner than originally planned. Her illness persisted and she remained in her bed to this day.
Pet crossed to the Old Master's study and pushed open the door, entering as if she was but a gust of wind. Cassius now saw Ellen and
Hoke standing in opposition, but then Pet closed the door behind her and he heard the latch click.
The knot in his belly tensed. A slave never closed a door. It was difficult to hear through a closed door.
A moment later, Pet opened the door, Ellen emerged and marched past Cassius without making eye contact. Pet nodded that he should enter the study. Cassius did not move. Pet followed her Missus Ellen to the stairs, and spoke rapidly.
I don't know if this be the time, Missus Ellen, said Pet, but I was thinkin that if Missus Sarah was goin get herself a personal servant, ain't no one better than Tempie.
"Do not say 'ain't,' Pet."
Sorry, Missus.
"Tempie, now who is this Tempie?" said Ellen.
Why surely, Missus Ellen, you know her, Tempie Easter, she the one wear them nice clothes and such?
"I will have to consider that, Pet. I have yet to meet with John-Corey's people, and they were in his house."
Oh but Missus Ellen, Miss Genevieve got herself a personal servant and Miss Anne do, too—but Tempie, she been here a while and she know everythin 'bout the place.
From the stairs, Pet caught Cassius's eye and made a more urgent nod toward Hoke's study.
Still Cassius did not move.
"Cassius? Come on in here now," said Hoke.
Cassius entered the study. Hoke sat behind his desk, writing. Cassius noted that his pen hand moved with more deliberation than usual.
Cassius knew that Hoke was not the tower of strength he had once been. In the past, his wife would not have dared challenge him. Hoke nevertheless maintained the image of authority in front of his servants. The calculated time spent writing was meant to intimidate Cassius. But now that Cassius was here, he found himself in no hurry to learn the bad news. He took this time to observe his old master. Age and gravity crept in relentlessly, tugging at his neglected edges. Loose skin draped off his jawbone, gray tufts spiked from the tops of his ears and inner caverns, his eyebrows curled into his eyes, and the backs of his hands wore a pattern of liver spots. At fifty-four, Hoke Howard may have had power, but Cassius took no small satisfaction in his own relative youth, his physical strength and the tautness of his skin. Time had squeezed and bruised and softened Hoke as if he were an overripe pear.
Cassius examined the room. Once it had been a sitting room, but Hoke had chosen to make it his office and the room had been transformed accordingly. Cassius had, in fact, done the work. He remembered back, seven or eight years, to the months he had spent in this room. He had built the wall of shelves. He had erected the wainscoting and created the decorative interior casing for the windows. He had built all of the furniture, particularly the great desk, as well as the chair in which Hoke now sat. The old man had a fondness for wooden boxes of different sizes in which he stored personal items. A low rectangular box held paper alongside a taller, more narrow box with writing instruments. On the shelves were boxes appropriate for chewing tobacco, snuff, and his decorative pipes which Cassius had never seen Hoke smoke. There were boxes for medicines and candies, and some that were either empty or held items about which Cassius did not know. Cassius had made many of the boxes, some simple, others elaborate, but the most ornate boxes had been purchased during Hoke's travels. His eyes moved around the room. Even the picture frames were his work.
Behind Hoke was the oil portrait of his wife, Ellen Corey Howard, in younger days. The painter had captured an expression in her eyes Cassius did not recognize, and it made the portrait appear false to him. Cassius had also not remembered her ever being so pretty. He did not consider that the artist had shrewdly idealized her; only that the artist may have been mediocre or worse, blind. On the opposite wall, so placed for Hoke's pleasure, was the portrait of his sons John-Corey and Jacob. John-Corey was thirteen in the portrait, Jacob ten. The portrait of his daughters was in another area of the house.
"Well, Cassius," said Hoke, looking up. "Did you finish work on the gate?"
No sir.
"No," said Hoke thoughtfully. The issue of the gate seemed to hold little meaning to him, and Cassius was surprised at how quickly he abandoned it. Hoke Howard rubbed the root of his nose between his eyebrows with his left thumb and forefinger. Cassius had seen him perform this gesture many times, and remembered the same gesture made by his son.
"I do not know how things will turn out, I simply do not." Hoke looked not at Cassius but at the space beside him, as if he spoke to someone else. "What will be my legacy, with my son gone to war and showing no inclination to take his natural place at Sweetsmoke? The government raids our essentials to supply the troops, they appropriate the crop before it can reach market and achieve its legitimate price, and yet, and yet, when I consider all things, we are well supplied in comparison to our neighbors. And I'm still in fine health, so there is time for Jacob to come around, still time, still time. It does not help that my children and their families are drawn to Sweetsmoke as if to a center of gravity, yet we nevertheless, with careful management, produce enough to care for them all, Genevieve, Anne and her family, Nettle and his flock of children, good God, John- Corey's people, of course, our people. The burden is great, Cassius, great, but manageable, and yet, so many to care for, so many. My God, on a daily basis, I know only exhaustion, it resides in every fiber of my being, the responsibility, and I worry about my health, Cassius. The responsibility is crushing."
Cassius was alarmed to hear him speak this way. The man had opened up a private part of himself to his slave. Cassius thought back, wondering if Hoke had ever revealed himself to Cassius before, and realized he certainly had not in the last five years.
Hoke looked directly at him without seeming to see him. His eyes were unfocused, as if searching for something within his own mind. "Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look." His words were sad, spoken as if the words were unrelated to his true meaning, spoken as if he was unaware of an audience.
Cassius was further convinced that everything was different.
Yond Cassius? said Cassius.
"Eh? Oh. I must have been thinking aloud."
You said Yond Cassius.
Hoke lightened for a moment, as if taking advantage of a momentary reprieve. "I named you, Cassius. You were quite the lean sprig when you were born. I thought you might grow to be a runt."
I think I heard you say that once before.
"Did I? Yes, of course. Yond Cassius. From Julius Caesar. It's a play by Shakespeare," said Hoke condescendingly. "Julius Caesar was a great general, although when the play begins, he is emperor of Rome. 'A lean and hungry look' came immediately to mind when I saw you and I always trust my first instincts, as I have so often been proven correct. A man named William Shakespeare wrote the play, but you would not have heard of him."
In fact, Cassius had heard of Shakespeare. But he said, No sir.
"Well, have no fear, Cassius is an honorable man," said Hoke and laughed to himself.
Cassius took a step toward the shelves as if looking for the book. Hoke watched him indulgently.
"Would you like to see the book that gave you your name?"
I think I would, Master Hoke.
Hoke moved to his bookshelf, his step assured, abounding with pride. For an instant Cassius saw the young Hoke, with power invincible. But perhaps he had never truly possessed that power, perhaps the young Cassius had imposed it upon him. Hoke reached without hesitation toward the shelf that held the Shakespeare volumes, but then his hand hesitated as he did not immediately see Julius Caesar. Cassius had already located it, but said nothing.
"Now where is that?" said Hoke.
Hoke found the book and with his finger atop the spine, drew it from its slot. He cradled it in his hands, then turned its cover to Cassius. The Traged
y of Julius Caesar.
"Although I cannot imagine what good it does you," said Hoke. He did not bother to mention that Cassius could not read.
Cassius had been fully aware of the change since the death song in the field, but what pursued him into this room was something quite remarkable. Hoke was not only speaking as if he regarded Cassius with respect, he was revealing personal limitations through candor. Recognizing this sliver of an opening, and knowing it would soon come to an end once Cassius learned the identity of the dead, Cassius decided to press his advantage.
Curious about my name, said Cassius. How it looks written in a book.
"Well," said Hoke. He opened the book and flipped through a series of pages until he found the name, put his finger under it, and turned the book to him. "See? That word there. That is your name. C-A-S-S-I-U-S."
Hoke glanced away, holding the book carelessly, unaware that the leaves flipped until a different page was revealed, and Cassius read a passage to himself:
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
Hoke snapped the book shut and returned it to the vertical space it had vacated. "Trust me, were you able to read, you would greatly admire Mr. Shakespeare."
Cassius memorized its place on the shelf. Then he asked the terrible question: Will you keep us together? With things as they are, will you keep us or will you sell us?
If Hoke thought Cassius overpressed his advantage, he did not show it. "I will do everything in my power to keep our family together, Cassius. You are my family, you are aware of that, are you not?"
Cassius held his tongue a moment too long before he said: Yes.
Cassius knew he dared press no further. Hoke returned to his desk and sat in the chair. He set his elbows down and folded his fingers together.