by David Fuller
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.
He walked out to the slippery boulder near the trunk. He managed foot—and handholds and stood shakily. He considered his objective. The trunk across the river appeared more unstable from this side, and he feared the sudden weight from his leap was likely to sink it where the current moved swiftly in the gap.
Cassius swung his arms to build momentum and leapt. The trunk plunged under his sudden weight and he was submerged. The current grabbed and held him under. His eyes bulged—he had exhaled on the leap –panicking now, clinging to the trunk, stretching head and neck for the brightness above that was surely the surface. He was afraid to let go. He kicked his legs. His body twisted first to one side, then the other, then he was upside down. He gasped for air, inhaling water. His left foot hit something and he pushed against it and his head miraculously surfaced, choking, coughing, gasping loudly, never in his life so relieved to breathe. After a minute of clearing his lungs, he comically realized he was standing, water moving rapidly around his chest.
He waded against the current with one arm on the trunk, lifted his haversack off the branch, and waded back. He removed his soaked shoes and emptied the muck and stones out of them. He was no longer hungry.
He sat in a sunny spot and his clothes dried quickly. He revisited the good vantage point but made only a modest effort to conceal himself. The day faded.
The Confederate soldiers did not return. He thought to move closer to the bridge, but his belly spoke to him again. He reached for his haversack and pulled out salted pork. He bit into it and it tasted fine, and he leaned back on an elbow to chew.
He scrambled to his knees when he realized the presence behind him, a man aiming a handgun at his chest. He did not know how the man could have silently come up on him.
Don't shoot, mister, said Cassius.
He discerned a small emaciated man in breeches, knee-high boots, frock coat, and a white shirt with a cravat. His clothes were in absolute tatters and hung loose off his shoulders and waist. The man wore a brimmed hat which had once been fancy. He affected elegance, but had been living in the outdoors too long for this act to be effective.
"What the hell you doing here?"
Just, don't know, seemed like a good spot.
"Hiding out. Who are you?" said the man.
Cassius Howard.
"Runaway?"
No sir, got a pass.
"Who gave you a pass, where's it from?"
Sweetsmoke Plantation. Could you turn that away? said Cassius, nodding toward the handgun.
"Sweetsmoke?" said the man, as if it rang a bell.
Handguns sometimes go off when you least expect.
"Then you better hand over that food before it does."
Cassius held out the salt pork. The man came forward, took it, and backed up, then looked at Cassius as if he hadn't imagined anything could be so easy.
"Dear Lord, actual sustenance," said the man, speaking to himself as if Cassius were not there.
The man sat down, his handgun no longer aimed at Cassius, and rushed food into his mouth.
Seem like you ain't had food in a while, maybe you ought slow down, said Cassius.
The man stopped and inspected the pork in his hands. Then he suddenly ate again just as quickly as before.
You a Northerner, said Cassius.
The man looked in Cassius's direction, but not at him, as if he looked at someone sitting beside Cassius. "Northerner," said the man.
Telegrapher, said Cassius.
The man spoke to the food. "There have been raids."
You're the one, said Cassius.
"Runaway," said the man, but again he looked alongside Cassius, not directly at him.
Got a pass, said Cassius.
"What does one say if one has no pass?"
That they got one, said Cassius, admitting the truth.
Again the man looked at his food. "Do not address me in such a manner, or I will eat you more slowly."
Emoline Justice, said Cassius, and studied the man to judge his reaction.
The man stopped eating and even in the grim light of dusk Cassius could see he stared at him. "I know of one named Emoline."
She was my friend.
"' Was.' Sad when a couple has a falling out. Happened to me once."
She's dead.
The man sat in silence and nodded. The man connected in short bursts, then faded, to speak with himself or inanimate objects. He had been starving and alone a long time. The man finished the last bite of salt pork and licked his fingers. Cassius hoped to draw him into a longer conversation.
The man spoke to his dirty fingernails. "I am not much of a hunter. Can't fish to save my life. Eating grubs for weeks. Never thought I'd get to like the taste of insects. Some truly are more palatable than others." He rubbed his greasy fingers on his mustache and then curled his upper lip to smell it. "That will smell good for a week." He looked up suddenly. "How did she die?"
Hit on the back of the head, said Cassius.
"Then we are discovered," said the man absently, rubbing his fingers together. "This will close our operation."
You think you are discovered because of Emoline? said Cassius.
"I am recently discovered by a squirrel. He reads my thoughts therefore I cannot catch him. No matter how hungry I am, his desperation is greater."
&nbs
p; No one left to pass on your intelligence.
"Ralph is merely a conduit."
Cassius was interested to know about Ralph. He recognized Emoline's hand, recruiting a simple popular freed man to be an intelligence courier. Could the middle man have effected her violent end? A question for later. Cassius reconsidered the moment Ralph had called him by name, and knew that Ralph had recognized him, most likely from Emoline's description.
The emaciated man lifted the revolver again, turned it, and looked at it, briefly pointing the barrel toward his own ear. He spoke to himself. "If this handgun went off, it would be nothing short of a miracle."
Why is that? said Cassius.
"What? Oh. Not loaded."
How'd you get here? said Cassius.
"How'd you?"
Walked, mostly.
"That is good." The man's mind appeared to wander. Then he spoke as if to a third person. "I work for Mr. E. S. Sanford, formerly of the American Telegraph Company, now of the United States of America. Barnes. Where the devil is Barnes?"