Sweetsmoke

by David Fuller

  He waited a little while longer until the cold earth made his thighs numb. He found a Lucifer match in his pouch, relit the lantern, stood up slowly, and set back out on the road. He rounded the elbow and walked toward something white on the ground.

  He picked it up; the same piece of paper that Weyman had thought was a pass. He angled his lantern and read his own handwriting: I got that pearl-handle gun to sell. Meet me tonight.

  He angled the lantern's beam to the level of Weyman's feet, swinging gently. One of his feet still wore a shoe. He folded the note and tucked it in his pouch. He continued to walk down the road toward Sweetsmoke. The pit of rage inside him slowly, slowly burned out.

  Cassius came through the woods, skirting the quarters and Mr. Nettle's place to approach the big house well before dawn. He entered the open area and crossed to the privy, hidden as it was from the big house by a stand of trees. He dragged a stump over to where he could see it from a hiding spot he had chosen in the woods.

  He took a cigar from his pouch, knelt to the frayed cuff of one of his trouser legs, and unraveled a small length of thread. He tied it around the cigar, near the lip end, and placed it on the stump, pointing it at the place where he would wait.

  She came out in the early morning, as he knew she would, but she was not alone, and she no longer carried the chamber pots herself, as he had expected. She was directing Pet and Anne's girl, Susan, and he knew that things had changed for her in the big house.

  He watched her with his heart full. His memory during the time he had been away had done nothing to enhance her; in fact, she was prettier than he had remembered, and she warmed his lonely eyes.

  She kept her distance from the privy. His heart, which had soared when he saw her again, now began a rapid drumbeat as he feared she would not notice his marker. He did not know another safe way to let her know where he was. This was the moment; it had to be now. Cassius saw Pet intentionally drop a chamber pot when Quashee looked away. Quashee grimaced at the prospect of having to help clean up the mess, and then she stopped. Cassius held his breath. He saw that she was looking at the stump. He saw her take a step toward it. He experienced an idiot delight at this success, because he knew she had seen the cigar. But he had expected a different reaction from her, and his pleasure fled as he saw her do battle with shock and confusion when she recognized his signature. Pet asked her a question, and she did not respond. Pet asked again, a little louder, but from where Cassius watched, he could not hear what it was.

  Quashee looked up at Pet, attempting to cover the astonishment that ruled her face, and she waved Pet back to the big house. Susan, who was more clever than Pet, looked to where Quashee had been looking. Cassius recognized the danger in this moment. Quashee walked quickly to the stump and sat on it, thus hiding the cigar, bringing her foot to her knee as if to examine a sliver. Quashee indicated that Susan should follow Pet and take the empty pots, and after a moment, she was alone.

  Cassius watched as Quashee took the cigar in her hands, finger and thumb running along its length, stopping at the thread, and then, as if suddenly picturing something that she dared not believe to be true, she lifted her head. She turned in the direction that the cigar had pointed and looked directly at Cassius. It was a jolt to meet her eyes, but he knew she could not see him, hidden as he was. She knew that if he had come back, then he was right there.

  Quashee stood, a hand at her breast, running suddenly, directly, toward him. After a few steps, she forced herself to slow, throwing a glance over her shoulder toward the big house, but she kept on coming, the longest walk Cassius had ever experienced. She entered the trees with their naked limbs, leaves crunching beneath her feet, and she looked this way and that for him. When he knew she could no longer be seen from the big house, he stood up. She stopped dead in her tracks.

  Still twenty feet away, she lifted her hand toward him, but came no closer. She was in the presence of the dead come back to life. She opened her other hand and revealed the cigar in her palm.

  You, said Quashee in complete amazement.

  I've come for you. To take you with me. To the North.

  You're dead. Jacob's letter.

  I wrote that in his letter. To keep them from looking for me.

  What that did to me. To hear you were—And now you're here, you're alive, she said.

  I had to, I'm sorry. I came as fast as I could.

  She moved to him then, stepped up very close, close enough to breathe his breath, but she did not touch him until she put her hand on his chest to be certain that he stood there. Slowly her hand moved and he felt it graze his neck and cheek, running over his eyelids, his forehead, stopping to rest on his lips. He pressed his head forward against her fingers, kissing them, then kissing her lips. He said quietly and deliberately: I've come for you. I'm here.

  Yes, you're here, yes, said Quashee, her face against his chest, and he heard a small, joyful laugh well up from deep inside her. Her narrow arms wrapped tightly around him, and then, of a sudden, she let go and stepped back. As she stepped, she shook her head.

  I was done, I understood, it's what we have in this life, it's what we are. I was prepared to be lonely, prepared to mourn you. I'd already started.

  Cassius spoke warmly, explaining: We'll go tonight. The nights are long now, so there's more time to travel. Patrollers say they're on alert, but it's winter. With the cold, the whites rather stay inside. Even the patrollers like to be warm, in their homes. We stay alert, stay away from towns and keep moving, we can make it.

  You went off, like you said you would. Never thought to see you again. A man on the road, those were your words. It was different than the man I had at John-Corey's. Worse, so much worse than when he got sold. Didn't even know I was still waiting for you until Jacob's letter. I was relieved, Cassius, do you understand? I was relieved to know for certain you were dead.

  He did not move toward her. He thought that was too risky, as any sudden movement might startle her, like spooking a cautious deer who had already stepped too close.

  You said if you don't take the good too, then you got nothing, said Cassius. Just pain.

  But you were right. Don't love nothing in this life. You only give them power over your mind as well as your body.

  I'm here to take you away. To a place where it's safe to love something again.

  I can't go with you, she said.

  You can.

  No. My father.

  Bring him.

  They think you're dead. They won't look for you, not now, not ever. If you go alone, you'll be safe. What will they do if two house servants run?

  They'll come after you, but I can get us through, I know the way.

  You know the way of a ghost. But they'll catch flesh and blood and make it pay. You won't make it with me. I won't let you give up your freedom.

  He had no answer for that. There was no point to argue. Everything he had seen in their future rushed away from him.

  Don't stay here, said Quashee. Go now. Go tonight. Get away from this place, I can be happy if I know you're away and safe.

  He wanted to say that he would find a way for them to be together. He wanted to tell her how it was to see her again. But he said none of it.

  Maybe the war will end, said Cassius.

  He reached out, but she backed away, shaking her head no, her palms out to keep him from touching her. He knew her resolve was shaky, but he also knew that it would return if he touched her, so he dropped his hands to his side.

  She turned and walked out of the trees into the open, back to the big house and her day's work. He moved to the edge of the trees to watch her go.

  He saw the bantam rooster flit across the yard, come to a sudden halt at Quashee's approach, lift up on his toes, and flee in the other direction. He saw Pet pass by a second-story window carrying pillows. He saw Old Hoke come outside with a blanket, walking uncertainly, stopping to look in both directions, then deciding to approach a chair near what had been the vegetable garden during
the spring and summer. He watched Hoke sit, then fidget in the chair, finally drawing his legs up under him and covering himself with the blanket, curled up like a child.

  She left the backyard, entering the big house without looking back, and he saw her no more.

  He wanted to stay there for the rest of the day, to watch for glimpses of her, anything to fill the well of emptiness inside him. He vowed that he would come back, somehow, someday, for her.

  He watched Hoke for a time, saw his body relax and knew that he had fallen asleep under the blanket. Cassius thought of all that had happened between them, and the small flame of his anger started. But then something came over him, quickly and in a surprise: He smelled that sweet smell of the curing tobacco, and it was good and rich, warm with captured sunlight, and the aroma was intoxicating for him again. The younger Hoke Howard returned to him, the man who had taught him, who had even cared for him. Now he looked across the open ground at the big house and Cassius saw only an old man fallen asleep. Finally, for a moment, he let go of his disgust and acknowledged the fact that Hoke was the only father he had ever known. He wished him a silent good-bye, turned away, and walked deeper into the woods, to wait for dark, when he would begin his journey to the North.

  He was glad to know the rooster was not yet made into a meal.

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  To acknowledge every source would require an extensive bibliography, and would need to include documentaries, films, and Internet sources. Particular thanks must go to Eugene D. Genovese, Harriet Jacobs, Frederick Douglass, Zora Neale Hurston, John Hope Franklin, Loren Schweninger, Peter Kolchin, Kenneth M. Stampp, Ira Berlin, Charles Johnson, Patricia Smith, James D. Russell, Ervin L. Jordan, Jr., The Virginia WPA, Paul Erickson, Anne Kamma, Ellen Levine, Kay Moore, Jason Goodwin, Iain Gately, Webb Garrison, Edwin C. Fishel, Joseph L. Harsh, John Michael Priest, Stephen W. Sears, Douglas S. Freeman, Shelby Foote, James McPherson, and Bruce Catton. These were my primary sources. Finally, to Patrick O'Brian, from whom I borrowed the occasional word that helped keep me in the nineteenth century.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to my family at Hyperion, especially Ellen Archer for her contagious enthusiasm; and Leslie Wells, who made both novel and writer better.

  To Deborah Schneider, fierce and wonderful.

  To the long line of Fuller writers, including my father, John G. Fuller; and to my mother, Joyce V. Fuller.

  Liz Sayre is my patient supporter, co-conspirator, and true companion. This book would not exist without her. Our sons, Tom and Mark, were born shortly before the idea for this novel was hatched. As they have lived with it their entire lives, it truly belongs to them.

  * * *

  About the Author

  DAVID FULLER has been a screenwriter for 25 years and is a VP for Twentieth Century Fox. He lives in Los Angeles. This is his first novel.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen