Sweetsmoke (29 page)

    Quashee
moved ahead and he carried Hoke through the door and to the cool inside. She
led him to the staircase and he followed her up directly to Hoke's bedroom. He
laid Hoke down on the bed and removed his left boot. Ellen breezed in behind
him, followed by her daughters with the servants hovering in the hallway,
scandalized that Quashee and Cassius should be in the Master's bedchamber.

    "I
did it, Cassius," said Hoke.

    Over
now, said Cassius.

    "My
fault, mea culpa, I did it. You try to be a good master, you do not mean to
kill, they are your property," said Hoke.

    With
any luck, he'll live, said Cassius.

    "I
love them all, you understand," said Hoke.

    You're
tired, said Cassius.

    "You
most of all."

    You'll
sleep.

    "Oh
Lord I killed her."

    Cassius
stopped then, the second boot halfway off, and he moved up near Hoke's face,
put his hand on Hoke's forehead and felt fever.

    Who
did you kill? said Cassius.

    "Lord
forgive me. We both did, we both killed her."

    Emoline?

    "Emoline?"
said Hoke. "What do you mean Emoline?"

    No,
thought Cassius, it had not been Hoke. He had known it before, but this made it
final. Cassius weighed what Hoke was saying, and suddenly knew Hoke spoke of
Tempie Easter. Both Cassius and Hoke had been involved in her sale, and her
life expectancy had grown suddenly short. Perhaps Hoke had had news about her
from Lucas Force, the slave trader.

    Cassius
shook his head. He could more easily live with the responsibility as Quashee
had been saved from Tempie's fate. But Hoke felt it and it ground him down.
Cassius was not inclined to make Hoke's conscience easy.

    Cassius
got the second boot off and left the rest to the others. Hoke would sleep first
and they would clean him later. Cassius turned and his eyes met Ellen's, and
the full look she gave was something unknown. Later he would wonder if it was
jealousy, but the ambiguity of the look made an impression on him.

    Cassius
walked by Quashee and said: Tonight.

    She
appeared startled, but he knew, with the house in an uproar, the time would
never be better. He walked down the hallway to the stairs, then through the
downstairs and back out into the hot sun. The yard was free of planters and
servants, leaving him with the occasional cat and a high-stepping bantam
rooster, a strange and astonishing emptiness after so many men, horses,
planters, and hands had passed through on this foul and rancid afternoon.

    The
lights in the big house were snuffed, but he remained seated on the log he had
positioned for the occasion. He had long since allowed his cigar to go out. It
was late enough that the moon had risen. He watched the roof where moonlight
etched the triangular shapes of the three gables. He had not bothered to burn
elm logs in the carpentry shed hearth. Quashee would light her candle when it
was time, there in the window on the far left, two stories above Hoke's den. So
intent was he on the triangles under the moon that his eyes played tricks and
he watched the shapes change, bloom and contract until they degenerated into
dancing dots.

    It
was some time before a glow lit the inner top rail of the sash, grew brighter
as a hesitant flame quavered into the left lower pane, then settled to a steady
burn. He abandoned his cold cigar on the stump. He made his way to the back
side of the privy, which was built to be hidden from the big house, in a
cluster of trees. He again fingered the pouch inside his shirt, as he had obsessively
throughout the evening, to know the friction matches he thought he would need
remained safely therein. He clung briefly to the rim of the trees, his eyes
checking every window until he settled his gaze on the rear door closest to
Hoke's den. All remained quiet and peaceful as the candle burned for him in the
third-floor window. He had heard Mr. Nettle finish his final rounds hours
before, locking barns and sheds to prevent theft by the hands-he left the
carpentry shed to Cassius—but the big house doors were generally kept unlocked.
Cassius left the shadow of the trees, quick across the open land through the
moonlight, skirting the vegetable gardens, rushing to the big house, and
reaching the shadow made by the big house in the moonlight, glancing one last
time up at the gable. From his extreme low angle he saw the glow in the window
abruptly vanish and he thought the candle was extinguished. He paused right
there, in shadow but still in the open. A warm breeze passed through the rows
of vegetables, shivering the tomato plants while broad flat watermelon leaves
scraped dryly together. An emerging cauliflower head nudged his knee. He
weighed his options. Had she blown out the flame, or did the angle deceive? He
backed up a step into moonlight and was convinced the candle was out. Quashee
was clever but also cautious. She may have extinguished the candle because she
had seen him cross, making the signal no longer necessary. Or something had
happened and she was attempting to warn him. He had to move from this exposed
place, but retreat to the privy, or press on? He knew this to be a unique
opportunity and he had but a small window to complete his mission; the family
would be exhausted by the ordeal of the runaway, followed hard on by the
master's illness. Optimism and hunger for information trumped caution and he
ventured forward. The door was unlocked.

    He
stood inside at the back of the great greeting room near the large fireplace
and allowed his eyes to adjust. After a few moments he was surprised at how
well he could see. Silver light from the plump waning moon angled in through
the large windows in front, and he could readily make out the stairs to his
right as well as the breezeway that led to the dining area and other rooms. To
his left was the closed door to Hoke's study. He moved to the middle of the
room but rather than rush to his task, he stopped and was still for a moment.
He listened attentively to a particular quiet that he had never before
experienced. This was his first visit to the big house in the dead of night
when the planter family and their servants slept. He heard the cavernous hush
as the outdoor world was kept at bay, banished by strong walls and windows and
multiple stories piled above. Within that hush came small irregular creaks as
wood cooled and settled, or someone above turned in sleep. He focused on the
quiet, a sound that so amazed him, he was in danger of becoming hypnotized. He
became aware of his own shallow breathing and then noted in his ears a
high-pitched whine. He attributed the whine to the heft of moonlight pressing
great silver rectangles against the floor. He took a step toward Hoke's study
and a floorboard creaked under his foot. He stopped and listened for warning
shouts and running feet, but heard none. Just as he was about to move again, he
saw a flash of movement on the ground and felt something tickle his leg and his
heart leapt, and he used all his strength to prevent himself from crying out.
He looked down to see Charles's favorite black-and-white cat running the side
of her head against the back of his calf. He tried to slow the racing of his
heart, which was so forceful his chest felt as if it might burst. He knelt and
gave her a scratch around the ears as prelude to shoving her away. She
returned, bumped again, and commenced to purr. Her purr was unacceptably loud
and he walked rapidly and silently, cat trailing, to the study door. He touched
the knob, she slithered between his ankles, the door opened a crack and the cat
bumped it wide open with her head, bounding inside. He closed the door behind
him to seal in her treacherous noise.

    Ellen
Corey Howard gazed down at him from her portrait on the far wall beside the
bookshelf he had built. His heart slowed to a tolerable pitch. He could see
equally well in here as another great window invited the moon. He observed the
way moonlight bent, coming through the blown glass windows, the whorl pattern
creating light and dark spots on the floorboards and rug. Charles's cat sprang
into Hoke's chair, rolled herself into a ball, and lifted her hind leg straight
up, licking its length with a purr that occasionally slipped into nasal
clatter. He slid open the flat wide drawer with Hoke's maps and carried an
armload to the window to examine them in the light. He found a recent map of
the county and another, older map of the Commonwealth of Virginia, and set
those aside. He found maps of the Mediterranean Sea, Southern France, and the
ports of England.

    Hoke
had marked the shipping lanes, following the routes of his fleet. Cassius found
maps unrelated to shipping, maps of land-bound European countries and Asian
countries, maps that Hoke collected for the sake of collecting. He found maps
of coastal Northern states, several maps of the Chesapeake Bay, a map of New
Orleans, as well as a number of maps that detailed the Mississippi River. Some
maps were works of art and some were indifferent presentations of basic
information. He returned all but the first two to the drawer. He rolled up the
county map and the Virginia Commonwealth map. He started to the door, but
returned to the shelves on a whim, reached for and liberated Hoke's copy of
The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.
Charles's cat sat up, alert, leg still high,
looking at the door. Cassius saw moonlight glint off her eyes as she looked at
him. She thumped to the floor and Cassius moved to the door, book under his
arm, rolled maps in his hand. He opened the door quietly, hoping the cat would
leave first, providing an explanation to any curious family member as to the
source of any suspicious noise. But Charles's cat was not there. Cassius looked
back and did not see her. As this was a poor moment to be polite to a house
pet, he slipped back into the great greeting room and heard the soft click of
the door behind him. He listened to detect from which direction the danger
would come. The ambient sound in the house had changed. Initially he was unable
to identify the cause of the change, only that the hush was no longer
prevalent. He angled his head and determined the sound came from above. He
moved to the shadow of a wooden chiffonier. He narrowed himself within the
shadow, as it would have been impossible to reach the door to the outside
before being discovered.

    Gentle
footsteps along the upstairs hallway had arrived at the top of the staircase.
It was clear to Cassius that the person stepped quietly in an effort to remain
undiscovered. This gave him hope that Quashee would descend the stairs. But he
hoped with his emotions; his analytical mind knew it was not Quashee. By revealing
herself, she might reveal his presence, and that was a thing she would know not
to do. With chilling apprehension he realized it was Pet. She had discovered
his plan to steal into the big house and had waited for him. He had
underestimated her; she had lurked in the upstairs hallway while he finished
acquiring that for which he had come, waiting for him to emerge from Hoke's
study with his thieving hands full of evidence, and now she was coming down the
stairs anticipating her sweet sweet revenge. How idiotically bold he had been,
making the sort of mistake every slave learned to avoid in childhood. Cassius
girded himself for exposure.

    He
saw a bare foot placed on a step, the hem of a floor-length dressing gown stretching
to follow, her other foot dropping to the next step. But these were not Pet's
feet, her skin was African dark with light-colored soles. The feet on the
stairs were as pale as the dressing gown, and step by cautious step she
descended until she was at the bottom, a casual hand on the banister. From his
shadow, Cassius was wholly amazed, as he did not recognize this woman with her
black tangled hair that spilled to her shoulders. He became convinced she was
an unearthly spirit. She turned and moonlight reflected from a low angle,
illuminating her face, and he recognized Jacob's wife, Sarah, a woman he had
not seen in at least a year.

    Sarah
pressed her feet flat against the floorboards and he heard her toes excitedly
drumming against the wood. Her hands reached down in a gesture common to a
formal ball and between forefingers and thumbs she lifted her gown so that the
hem rose and exposed her legs up to her knees. She curtsied to an invisible
partner, leaned her body one direction, then with a wide smile she released in
the opposite direction, her feet moving rapidly in an ecstatic, silent waltz.
Her handsome partner led her, and she spun and circled the room. Her dressing
gown was buttressed by imagined petticoats, and she swept around chairs and on
and off rugs, into and out of the moon boxes on the floor, a dance of exultant
freedom. She twirled close to him at one point and he heard that she murmured a
tune as she whispered the one-two-three, da-dum-dum that propelled her dance,
and in her wake he smelled her acrid bed sweat.

    Cassius
understood at that moment that Sarah had been feigning illness, confining
herself to her bed to punish her mother-in-law, Ellen's daughters, and the big
house servants. He was grudgingly impressed with her willful manipulative
power, to have carried out this charade for almost a year out of sheer spite.
He wondered how often she danced alone in the night. Perhaps this was a regular
occurrence, her nighttime exercise, a preventive to atrophied muscles and bed
sores.