Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

“I’m Sally,” she said, tossing her head despite a new and spreading bruise on her cheek. Clearly mere beatings couldn’t break her spirit.

Washington mounted again and rode a little apart, watching them, his easy mood of the road broken. He handed Jacka a pistol.

“See they get clear of my land.”

Jacka nodded.

Mr. Bailey wanted a great reception for Colonel Washington, and he intended to line the drive with the servants and slaves, some old retainers, and a few friends at the top, nearest the house, standing well back to be discrete and different from the lower orders on the drive. In the meantime, fires were lit throughout the house, everything was cleaned to a fare-thee-well, and the beds were turned down in the master bedroom. They posted a boy well up the road to give them the signal.

When the boy came dashing back, Mr. Bailey gave the signal, ringing his hand bell, and men and women came running from the nearest farms and outbuildings. Mr. Bailey was appalled to see his master riding up without a coat, with one hand swollen and bleeding and his breeches all muddy. He stood at the great horse’s head and welcomed the colonel, and all the servants and slaves stood silently as Washington reviewed them and nodded. He rarely praised, and in his current mood, although he was aware that a special effort had been made and that something was called for, he merely grunted to Bailey as he completed his review.

He saw new slaves, and he didn’t know them. The tallest of them, a well-built lad, had tiny ridges of scars over his eyes. He’d never seen the like, and it did nothing to improve his mood, as it was a disfigurement on a noble-looking man, and meant he was fresh from Africa. He didn’t like Africans. He’d said so often enough.

“Let me see to your poor hand,” said Mrs. Bailey, and he let himself be dragged inside.

Two chimes of his French watch later, he was dressed in proper clothes, the dust of the road and the dirt of the fight washed clean, and the knuckles of his hands well bandaged. He had taken a glass of rum and mint, cool from the back house, and followed Bailey out on to the lawn to inspect the front walk.

“What’s the bricklayer’s name?”

“Jemmy, sir.”

“He’s done some good work here, Bailey. But the men don’t think much of him. They’ve spoiled the mortar in a few places.”

“Yes, sir. I tried to watch them, Colonel. I made two men replace the gravel. They left holes in the work.”

“I see.”

“He hit them, did this Jemmy.”

“I won’t have it. See that he understands, Mr. Bailey, and get the walk finished. I expect to turn a nice profit on this fellow and his crew when they can pull in harness. Mrs. Carter would pay handsomely this minute to have her outbuildings touched up. I want a new kennel.”

“I understand, Colonel.”

“But it will be a wasted investment if he tries to come it the lord over them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now there is a smith?”

“I haven’t seen much of him, sir. Perhaps I was remiss. I put him to helping at housework, as I didn’t want to test him on your forge. He came with a character for being capable with firearms, but I didn’t see fit to test him on yours.”

“I’ll see to it. I thank you for it. I fairly dread the notion of a wild man loose with my fowlers. And the dogs boy?”

“A likely lad, sir. Young and cheerful, runs like the wind. Beat Tam in a fair race and downed Pompey with his fists. And the dogs like him.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing this paragon. He’s African?”

“He is. Queeny says Yoruba, perhaps…perhaps Ashanti.”

“I don’t take to Africans, Bailey, but we’ll see. I’ve always heard said Ashanti made the worst slaves.”

“Perhaps this one will change your mind, sir.”

“I’ll expect to see him with the dogs this afternoon. Send the smith to me in a few minutes.” He cast a last glance over the new brick walk and the lawn running down to the Potomac.

“You did well in my absence, Bailey. My thanks.”

He was gone in a few long strides, leaving Bailey to enjoy the rare praise alone.

The new boy was working grease into his boots in a cool corner of the shed, a small wooden tub of the stuff under one hand and the boots laid out before him, their laces stripped off to the sides. He also had several of the dog collars laid out in the straw and a leash, as well. The hounds were gathered round him, and he was speaking to them, slowly and clearly, enunciating English words, “This, these, that, those.”

Washington stopped in the doorway and watched him for a moment. “He has something of the air of a soldier.”

Bailey stood behind him, concerned that the floor of the kennel would spoil the boy’s new breeches.

“I remember the regulars with Braddock,” Washington went on. “They cleaned their gear the very same way, everything laid out neat before them.”

Cese was aware of the Master when the first words were spoken, and he betrayed no alarm at being caught sitting barefoot in the kennel, but put his boots off to one side and rose gracefully to his feet without his hands touching the floor. His height was just shy of Washington’s, and he looked him in the eye for a moment before bowing from the waist. He saw a tall man, in a scarlet coat and buff cloth smallclothes, top boots. He had an impression of power, cloaked, a little hidden-like a chief. A more athletic man than any master he had had-more imposing. Mr. Bailey seemed a slight thing by comparison.

“What are you putting on that leather, boy?”

Cese worked it out in his head, to be sure.

“Hog’s fat, suh. Little linseed oil.”

Washington nodded briskly. He examined the dogs; they looked clean and fit.

“I hear you are fast, boy.”

Cese smiled and bobbed his head.

“What do they call you?”

“Cese, suh.”

Bailey actually stepped forward, as if to fight off the African name. “Caesar, Colonel.”

“Ah, Caesar. He has a bit of the Roman look to him, does he not?” Washington was disconcerted for a moment-a rare feeling, quickly dismissed. Then he smiled-a quick flash, without teeth, but one that lit his face-and he turned back on Bailey.

“Am I understanding? Caesar beat Pompey?”

Bailey looked at him without understanding, and Washington shook his head and moaned inwardly; his moments of learned wit were few enough, to fall on such barren ground.

“Perhaps we’ll call him Julius Caesar?”

Bailey was still trying to make out why Washington was so concerned that the new slave had beaten Pompey.

“It were a fair fight, Colonel.”

Washington smiled again, nodded.

“I’m sure it was, Bailey. But I like the name. Julius Caesar. Tell Queeny-he’s with Queeny?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Julius Caesar. I like the look of him, Mr. Bailey. Tell him I will want him and the hounds out tomorrow morning. See to it.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“He has a jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I have the caps in my baggage. See that he has one. All the neighborhood will be riding tomorrow, and he must be smart.” Washington leaned over the stile and looked him in the eye.

“I like to be there when the dogs are fed, Caesar. When you have their food made up, you send to the house for me, if I am by. Do you understand?”

“Yes, suh. Then dogs know you.”

Washington nodded. “Exactly. Boy, what will you feed ’em tonight?”

Caesar took a moment to think over his reply.

“They gun dogs, they rest tomorro’. They get meat. They hounds, they run tomorrow. They get bread soaked in broth, roll’ in balls.”

Washington smiled, a thin-lipped movement that hid his teeth.

“And they’re all well, Caesar?”