Sweetsmoke (3 page)

    The
main gate was from a vineyard in France, bought off the property by Hoke Howard
on a European visit back in the days when money was in season. The field hands
often told the story, heard second—or thirdhand, of Master Hoke riding in the
French countryside, pulling up when he saw the magnificent gate. Well, Ol'
Massa Hoke, he used to gettin what he want and he knows that gate belong not in
France but on his plantation in the Commonwealth of Virginie, so he do what any
self-respectin massa'd do, he walk on up to that ol' Frenchy's door and offer
up a big ol' sack a money like them burlap ones we got in the fields. The hands
seemed to think it was so much money—and with every recounting the amount
increased—that Mr. Frenchy had been astonished, but when Cassius heard the
story, he imagined the Frenchman suppressing a smirk as he allowed himself to
be overpaid. Cassius knew that when Hoke was flush, he threw around his money
the way he threw around his weight, randomly, in grand pointless gestures. So
Hoke had hired people to systematically break down the gate, numbering each
piece as a local man made a drawing. The crates were then shipped back to the
Commonwealth in one of his merchant ships—before the blockade, when Hoke was
still part owner of a fleet—but along the way, the numbered drawing was lost.
Here the hands out-embellished one another, describing the Old Master in a
comic rage dismissing ships full of careless white men.

    The
gate was made of cedar, an overblown trellis that straddled the narrow road
leading up to the big house, a vain and solitary structure in a vast landscape.
While performing his apprenticeship as a carpenter—and it was Hoke who had
offered to take him out of the fields so he could learn carpentry-Cassius had
helped reconstruct the gate as it emerged from the crates, piecing it together
like a puzzle. Hoke had then painted the name of the plantation across the top:
Sweetsmoke.

    The
wind shifted and Cassius heard it move above him, through the highest leaves of
the tall oaks where it did him no good, and the immediate air around him went
dead and he stood in a hollow of stillness. A sensation of dread came over him,
one he had had before: He was living in another man's dream. The dreamer was
like the wind rushing through the oak leaves above, indifferent and unaware of
his presence. Cassius made no mark on either the man or the dream. The
stillness crowded him and Cassius was afraid to move.

    He
believed he had already lived long enough. He thought he was over the age of
thirty-Jacob Howard was thirty, and they had been born around the same time—and
Cassius looked that and more. He now studied the land as if he would never see
it again, and tried to memorize it as if he might need to describe it one day.
Indeed the land was elegant and sculpted and green and fertile, yet he was so
unconnected to it that its beauty did not move him. He believed that he made no
mark whatsoever on the land. He memorized but did not imagine carrying the
memory with him to a better world. He could not imagine any kind of world that
would come with death. He simply saw the end of his time, and in the quiet that
followed, he found comfort. It would be an end to a life that had given him
little pleasure, hope, or ease. He believed that he had turned his heart cold.

    A
hornworm clung to a long sprig of switch grass and he reached down and plucked
it off, its stubborn legs letting go one at a time. The creature fit in his
palm. Its head was thick and bulbous with grooves that resembled a series of
folds, its flabby legs grabbed at his skin, its jaw chewing on the air. Cassius
looked at the small white ovals that ran down its side, outlined in orange with
an orange dot in the middle so that they appeared to be a row of miniature
painted eyes.

    It
was early in the season, yet it felt late; the light of the sun seemed darker,
older. He wondered if the field song was prescient and the death was his own.
That would be a bit of good luck. He set down the hornworm without killing it.

    Sounds
of the plantation slipped in clear and bright, then were just as quickly
muffled, a fragment of work song followed by a ghostly stillness, the drifting
laughter of children, blown away by the rush of overhead wind. A deep ache
built inside him as he listened to people living, working, and being together.
A fierce and terrible melancholy gripped him and he did not understand why the
feeling made him desire to live.

    Finally,
a breath of breeze passed under the brim of his hat and cooled the sweat, and
Cassius was released from the moment.

    He
began to work. He tied a length of rope to the top of the gate and tied the
other end around a stone and let it hang to make a plumb line. He secured one
end of another piece of rope high on the opposite side, and pulled the far end
around the trunk of a tree. With a steady pull, the gate came near to upright
and the stone hung closer to the wood. He secured the rope around the trunk and
moved to sit in shade. He hooked his hat over his knee to dry. No one wanted or
expected this work to be done. Cassius was there to be separated from the big
house until Hoke returned. He watched the road. The ruts were deep after the
rains in April and early May.

    Dust
came off the road to the west in the direction of town, and he watched the cloud
grow larger. Not Hoke, as he would come from Edensong Plantation in the
opposite direction. A neighbor perhaps, or a traveler.

    Cassius
smiled as he recognized Weyman driving the buckboard of his owner, Thomas
Chavis. Cassius remained in the shade, and when Weyman drew near he pulled up
the horse.

    Woo,
Cassius, you hidin out? said Weyman.

    Hiding
out?

    What
y'all doin down here, messin with that overgrown door frame? Must be in a heap
a' trouble.

    No
trouble here, said Cassius. He noticed something off in Weyman's manner. Around
the eyes, maybe.

    Right,
'cause they always send you down here to rest your black backside in the shade.

    Can't
have the sun looking over my shoulder, said Cassius. Like to make me self-conscious.
Could miscalculate and build a gate that leans.

    Weyman
laughed and Cassius was suddenly curious, never before having heard Weyman
force a laugh. Cassius took note of something he might not have noticed
otherwise, that he generally was at ease in Weyman's company. Right then
Cassius felt like a dog whose fur had been shaved backward with a dull blade.

    Coming
from town? said Cassius.

    Equipment
in at the dry goods for Thomas, said Weyman, nodding to items in the back of
the buckboard covered by a tarpaulin.

    Taking
the long way home, said Cassius.

    Got a
customer over at Edensong.

    Cassius
nodded and looked in that direction and wondered when Hoke would return. Then
Cassius said, abruptly:

    Tell
me who died.

    Weyman
looked away and Cassius understood Weyman's unusual manner. Weyman looked back
and shrugged.

    Wouldn't
know, said Weyman.

    Cassius
nodded and his insides twisted into a knot. Weyman knew and Weyman would not
say. This was likely to be bad news indeed for Cassius. From the moment Ellen
had shut him out, he had suspected the identity, knowing whose death was most
likely to bring him grief, but much as he tried not to be superstitious, he did
not want to think of her at that moment, for fear he would make it so.

    When
you goin make me some more a' them little soldiers? said Weyman.

    They
take time, said Cassius.

    The
white children like 'em. Remind 'em of they daddies. I can sell 'em at a good
price, people been askin.

    See
what I can do.

    A real
good price, Cassius, and you know I always share.

    I
know you say you do.

    Now
that's a fact, said Weyman, nodding in appreciation.

    One
day I'll make you hundreds of soldiers so you can be rich, said Cassius.

    Rich.
Can't rightly imagine what that be like.

    Give
it some thought, maybe you'll come up with something, like sitting down
regularly to a fancy spread for supper or walking around in decent shoes.

    No
sir, tell you what I'd do if I ever was rich, I reckon I'd like to own that
Colt sidearm of old Otis Bornock.

    Maybe
a new hat, that one got holes in the holes. You don't look out, pretty soon
your hat'll be around your neck.

    Got
that sweet pearl handle and all, said Weyman, but he pulled his hat off his
head and looked at it.

    Bornock
sooner cut his own throat than give up his gun, said Cassius, shaking his head,
amused.

    I
seen somethin, said Weyman, growing serious.

    What'd
you see? I know, Bornock coming around to gift you that gun 'cause he's so
doggone fond of you, said Cassius, enjoying himself.

    No,
this serious. Seen your ol' massa consortin with The Angel Gabriel.

    Cassius
felt a chill run up the backs of his arms.

    Maybe
you got mixed up, said Cassius, but his smile was gone.

    No
sir, seen it with my own eyes.

    Gabriel
Logue, said Cassius, weighing the significance of the name.

    Cassius
and Weyman looked at each other in silence, roasting under an indifferent sun.
Gabriel Logue, nicknamed The Angel, was a smuggler, although he did not trade
in human flesh. His goods flowed both north and south, across a porous border.
The Confederate Army would be particularly satisfied to have Gabriel Logue in
their custody. If Hoke was doing business with Logue, then he was again
suffering financial difficulties, and that was not good.

    Your
old master still lets you ride around in that thing, said Cassius finally,
changing the subject with a smile.

    Oh
yeah, Thomas trust me, he even trust me out here on the road with y'all
wastrels and vagabonds, said Weyman.

    Now
that's the second time you call your old master by his Christian name. Pretty
soon he let you lay down with that pretty woman of his.

    Weyman
laughed naturally this time. He and one other slave, an older man named Bunty,
were owned by Thomas Chavis, and they worked his small family farm side by side
with Thomas and his wife Martha. The white family sat with their slaves at the
supper table and ate the same food at the same time, like equals. For a slave,
Weyman's life was good.

    Pretty
woman? Why, one time, that speckled old hen lean over to make a reflection in a
pond and damned if that pond didn't pucker up and soak into the ground.

    I
heard that, said Cassius laughing. He had never met Thomas Chavis's wife, but
Weyman always had a good story about her.

    A
skunk took one look at her and his stink peeled off his tail end and ran for
cover.

    Makes
a man wonder how old Thomas got her belly rounded, said Cassius.

    Some
time after dark, I s'pect.

    Cassius
saw the first indication of a dust cloud to the east, from the direction of
Edensong Plantation. He moved casually to the rear of Weyman's buckboard,
testing the ropes that held the tarpaulin in place, forcing Weyman to turn his
back on the cloud.

    But
you doin all right yourself, carpenter, said Weyman. Long as your old
"secesh" master be loanin you out to other planters. Just keep hidin
your half pay from them field negroes and you can buy your freedom by 'n' by.

    A
free man, Cassius said thoughtfully. Tell me something, Weyman, what does a
free man do? Where does a free man go? I better know so I can make plans.

    A
serious look crossed Weyman's eyes as he said: Free man go wherever he want,
Cassius. Free man free to go hungry with no roof over his head, free man free
to get picked up by the paddyrollers without a note from the Old Master to keep
him safe. Free man free to be whipped like a common slave, since he look no
different to the white man.

    Well,
Weyman, I guess you best stick with your Thomas.

    And
his handsome nestin wife, said Weyman.

    The
dust cloud was a certainty now. Cassius watched it peripherally.

    Got
your story set for Saturday night?