Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

“Do you fish yourself, in Virginia?”

“All too seldom, Captain. We don’t have salmon, and the only trouts I have seen are in the mountains. Have you seen our mountains, Captain?”

“Only from a distance, sir. You always seem to be keeping me from them.”

This last prompted a burst of nervous laughter. Stewart could tell he was sailing close to the wind, but Washington did not seem an utterly formal man, and was obviously used to men of good breeding and good conversation. Judging by Hamilton and Fitzgerald, better breeding than his own. He smiled for the absent Jeremy, who had trained him so well. He looked at George Lake, who was chewing carefully and trying not to be seen.

“Are you a farmer at home, Captain?” Washington clearly wanted him to say yes, as everyone knew that Washington liked to go on about farming. Stewart shook his head.

“I fear not, sir, although I gather that you are an eminent farmer. My father is a Turkey merchant.”

“How many turkeys does he have?” asked George Lake from across the table. It was almost his first comment since they had been seated. The roar of laughter in return was like a volley of musketry, it was so loud and so high. Lake shrank with embarrassment.

“Look how different the language is already,” said Stewart into the last of the laughter. “My father owns ships that trade between Edinburgh and Smyrna, in the Empire of the Grand Seigneur.”

“Goodness,” said Hamilton. “Have you been there yourself?”

“I have, too. A wonderful place, like the Arabian Nights brought to life. I went twice as a lad.”

Hamilton nodded along eagerly. Again, Stewart had the ears of the whole table.

“Did you like it much? In Turkey?” asked Fitzgerald. Stewart thought that when alone, he might ask about the women there. Everyone did. Veils made men so curious.

“All but the absolute nature of the place. The slavery had worked its way into the national fabric,” he said, and winced. The table fell totally silent.

“Polly was never a slave,” said her father, looking at her with affection. “She was born one, of course, but her mother and I were free before any man ever told her what a slave might be.”

Polly nodded. “I remember England. Most of the ladies were very kind, although I did tire of being a curiosity. Because of my color, I mean, and being from America. Other people were from America, but they didn’t have to wear a sign on their skin to say as much.”

“And you were a slave for Washington,” Marcus said.

“I met Washington once,” said Sally. They all looked at her in surprise.

“I was with Bludner. My mother was still alive then, I think. We was taking crabs on his river, an’ he came an’ near beat Bludner to death. I liked him fine.”

“Washington?” Caesar looked surprised. “He beat Bludner? I’d have paid good money to see that.”

“Who is Bludner?” asked Polly, quietly.

“He’s a slave-taker from Virginia. He almost killed me, and Virgil and Jim when you come to it, back in ’75.”

“He owned me my whole life,” said Sally, her lips trembling, and she spilled a little wine from her glass.

“He doesn’t own you now,” said Marcus White, but Sally rose and bolted out the door. Marcus made to follow but then came back. Caesar shook his head.

“I don’t know what you see in her, Reverend,” he said. “She’s been trouble since I knew her. And men get ideas, seeing you going around with her.”

“Perhaps they should get ideas if I don’t go around with her, Caesar. Do you know your Bible?”

“Not as well as you, I dare say. But I’ve read it, yes.”

“Then you know that Our Saviour spent a great deal of time with prostitutes. And soldiers and tax men, too, I think.”

Caesar bowed his head at the answer.

“It’s never as easy as you think, Caesar. No matter how hard your life has been, hers was harder. And no matter how brave you are, she has been braver. Think on that before you jibe at her again.”

Sally came back with a little powder over the tear tracks she had made, and sat composedly.

The silence dragged on. Stewart knew he could end it with an easy apology, but some part of him knew that he had wanted to say those words since he sat down with them, and that he wasn’t sorry. But he hated to seem a boor, so he attempted to change the subject.

“May I ask what kind of fish they do have in Virginia?” he asked. George Lake was white as a sheet.

Lafayette leaned forward, smiling as if he had followed this point for some time. He blinked his eyes, and Stewart suddenly knew he had an ally, someone else who had long wanted to speak out.

“I have always felt that slavery leaves an indelible mark on a country,” he said. And the silence deepened.

Hamilton turned to Stewart and shook his head.

“This is a most unfortunate subject for this table. Are you a particular enemy to slavery?”

“I didn’t think so, before,” said Stewart.

“You had a slave of your own, I think?” said Johnson.

“No, sir. A servant. Closer than servant.”

Washington spoke up from the end of the table, where he had been silent.

“A slave may be close, I think. Both the ancients and the Bible tell us as much.” Washington was careful in his speech, and Stewart realized that he was quite angry.

“Oh, aye, they do. But not as close as a true friend, surely?”

Washington considered Billy, and his fury grew. “Surely not only equality can bring true friendship? So that a slave can be as much your friend as a servant?” Washington was just civil. He knew he was berating a guest at his own table, a sin at least as great as the one the guest had committed by starting this fox, this damnable subject, at his table. And yet he realized that his views were not as simple as they had once been.

“And yet, are not these men your friends, though they also serve you?” Stewart thought, I am contending with a man at his own dinner table. Jeremy would have my head. And he thought this is the arch-rebel himself. I’ll say what I please. “And how do you know that the friendship of a slave is not compelled or feigned? A servant can leave. Even a staff officer…” He smiled, willing them to laugh.

“And can you speak in comfort of our having slaves when you attempt to impose tyranny over us by violence?” said Henry Lee.

Stewart smiled, relishing his response. He no longer cared to be perfectly civil.

“Can you speak in comfort about liberty, sir, when you keep slaves?”

Henry Lee turned a bright crimson. Lafayette leaned forward attentively.

“Yes,” he said decisively, as if he had just decided a question. “Yes. Slavery is a blot on the escutcheon of liberty that this country bears.”

Stewart feared an explosion from General Washington, but instead he appeared troubled.

“It is not a simple issue.” He looked at the table. “I once thought that it was a mere matter of property, but it does have to do with rights. And yet, if a man treats his slaves fairly…”

“They are yet slaves,” said Stewart firmly. Washington loved Lafayette like a son, and Hamilton not much behind, and Stewart felt strongly that they were both of his opinion, and it made him bold.

Washington turned on him. “What do you know of how a man treats his slaves, then?”

“I know one of yours, sir.”

Stewart suspected that if he had been hale, he’d have been summoned to a duel by half the room, but he was not daunted by their looks, although George Lake was cringing.

“Who?” like a pistol shot.

“Do you recall Julius Caesar, sir? He is now a sergeant in our army.”

Washington sat a moment, as if stunned, and looked at Stewart. He was seeing the black man at Brandywine, and the one who had taken his cloak at Kip’s Bay, and the new African boy with the scars over his eyes.