Sweetsmoke (33 page)

    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."

    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?"

    I
don't know Barnes, said Cassius.

    "Jefferson
Barnes? Oh, you should meet him sometime, he's military, came south with me.
Didn't wear a uniform, though."

    Barnes,
you say, said Cassius.

    "I
knew a man named Barnes. He knows this area, has family down here."

    Where
is Barnes?

    "Over
there," said the man, pointing.

    Can I
talk to him?

    "Can
if you want."

    Take
me to him?

    The
man snickered. "Not likely to talk back, though. He's that way,
Barnes."

    Why
won't he talk back?

    "I
do believe it would be the bullet," said the man. "Got shot while out
hunting for victuals, dragged himself all the way back here but forgot to bring
the food. His sacred dust is but a half mile that way. This is his," he
said holding up the handgun as if he had just discovered it. Then he whispered:
"I accidentally buried the ammunition with him, but I didn't have the
stomach to dig him back up."

    When
was the last time you saw Emoline?

    "Emoline?
You mean Emoline Justice? I never saw Emoline Justice."

    What's
that, never?

    "Never
met her. Heard about her."

    Do you
know if she was revealed as a spy?

    "Did
you notice that Ralph likes to talk?"

    Sir.
Was she revealed as a spy?

    "Who?"

    Cassius
exhaled. This man knew nothing about her murder.

    "Ralph
brought food, but not since the Johnny Rebs moved in."

    You
know a man name of Logue? said Cassius.

    "I
know a man named Georgevitch."

    Gabriel
Logue? Angel Gabriel?

    "The
Angel Gabriel came to Daniel. 'And when he came I was afraid and fell on my
face.' Is that it? I may have forgotten. Been some time since I saw a
Bible."

    Never
met Emoline and you don't know Logue. You're just a spoke on the wheel.

    "Well
you goddamned nigger, is that how niggers talk to white folks down here? Spoke
on the wheel? I work for the United States Government, I was recognized by
President Lincoln himself." He dug into his frock coat and pulled out a
worn piece of paper. He held it open for Cassius.

    A
list of dry goods, said Cassius, reading in the last light of the day.

    "Ah.
So you can read," said the emaciated man, his animosity vanishing as if he
had never been offended, folding the piece of paper and returning it to his
coat. "I congratulate you on your skills."

    Cassius
made a fist and knocked on a piece of wood, rap-rap, pause, rap, imitating the
code he had learned from Maryanne. The man appeared puzzled so Cassius repeated
it.

    "I
believe the door is open, sir."

    Emoline's
code knock, said Cassius.

    "How
do you do, my name is Morningside."

    Mr.
Morningside, said Cassius.

    "A
man was here just a moment ago," he said.

    What
man?

    "Negro.
He was clever the way he found me." The man spoke directly to Cassius this
time.

    You
think I found you?

    "A
very clever method, he taught me something: If you're ever looking for someone
that you have no hope of finding, make him come to you."

    Make
him come to you, repeated Cassius in wonder.

    "Sit
out in the open, take out your dinner and start eating. He knew it would bring
me out."

    Because
you were starving.

    "Smart.
He started by lowering my opinion of him as he made himself out to be
ridiculous. Fell right in the river so that I would underestimate him. Most amusing.
I'm sorry you weren't here to see it."

    Amusing
and amused, thought Cassius, to be given credit for such cleverness. It pulled
him out of the sense of sinking into which he had fallen, which had begun the
moment he had started to speak to this man. He would learn little about
Emoline's death here, and it was clear that he was not in the company of her
killer.

    "I
don't meet a lot of negroes up north. And down here I've met only Ralph, who is
free. What's it like being a slave?"

    Cassius
was so surprised by the question that he answered truthfully: Don't know.

    "That,
sir, is an interesting answer. Why is it you don't know?"

    Because
I don't know what it is
not
to be a slave. I know my life ain't my own.
I know my time ain't my own. I know I can't make big decisions for myself, and
small decisions get changed when some planter gets tired or moody or just plain
stupid. Maybe planters know, since they're free but also chained to slavery. We
make them rich but to stay rich, they got to watch us, take care of us and
guard us. Their whole lives they're surrounded by the enemy, because we're
always looking to be free.