Washington and Caesar Read online

  He nodded at Bludner on the ground, and at their camp.

  “Take any crabs you already have ashore—I won’t have them go to waste. Then get you gone. If I see you in the country, I’ll have you taken up on a charge.”

  The little man merely nodded.

  Jacka was watching the pretty girl. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—prettier than Queeny—with her almond eyes and pouty lips. She met his eye boldly.

  “What’s you’ name?” he asked.

  “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?”

  “Blue heah…Blue here, she’s coat be dull, be’nt it, suh?”

  “You tell me.”

  “An’ she won’ take huh food. Her food.”

  Amused at the boy’s eagerness and air of confidence, Washington leaned out farther over the stile.

  “What do you do for a dog like that?”

  “I wash her in broth and see dat…that she licks herse’f and get her some food.”

  “I take a little turbith mineral, I make it into a ball with corn syrup, and I give it her to eat.”

  “Neva heard that one, suh. What’s turbit?”

  “Mr. Bailey, would you be so good as to reach down the second tin. The very one. Look here, boy. I take as much as will cover a nail. See? I’ll mix it with a dash of syrup. Damn it, there used to be corn syrup here.”

  “Right here, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bailey. I mix them together and then roll it in a pill, like this. Now you give it her, Caesar.”

  Caesar took the sticky pill and stroked the dog for a moment before running his fingers along the bottom of her jaw, where he pressed. The dog opened her mouth wide and Caesar laid the sticky pill on her tongue. It was gone in a single lick, the dog looking back and forth between the people with the weary air of one who has been practiced upon.

  “Four times a day until she takes food. I do rather like the notion of bathing a dog in broth, though. Do you find that it answers?”

  “They can’t he’p but lick, suh.”

  “I learned about the turbith mineral from Lord Fairfax, and there is no man in America knows more about dogs. I long to tell him about bathing a dog in broth. Do both: I wish to see it in action.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Washington left the boy to Bailey, and headed for his house.

  He read in his library for a while, then looked at his latest drawing for an improved stable, made a change where he thought he could run water straight from the spring with pipes, and thought better of it. He was restless, and he walked through the house as he sometimes did when he couldn’t concentrate his mind. The servants and slaves in the kitchen were surprised by his passage, but pleased at his satisfaction. Other house slaves looked worried when he passed, or were long in bed themselves, according to their tasks.

  Washington stopped on the central stairs and found Martha sitting in the blue parlor. “Are you ready for bed, ma’am?”

  She lifted her book to him with a smile and went back to reading, a habit he had once found rude and was now used to. The smile, at least, meant she was in good humor. He nodded, almost a bow, and went up. The stair had never satisfied him. It was too narrow, and lacked something in sweep compared to other houses. It dated from a time when Mount Vernon had been considerably smaller. He began to plan a new staircase, trying to picture where he would have the space for a broader sweep.

  “Are you going to bed now, sir?” asked his personal slave, Billy.

  Washington realized he was standing at the top of the stair, unmoving, and that his hands were cold. He had been there some time.

  “I am, Billy. I am.”

  “Will you want anything while you undress?”

  “I think I’ll have a small brandy, Billy.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll be with you in an instant.”

  Before Washington had done more than enter his bedroom and take his watch out of his breeches, Billy was back with a trumpet-shaped glass on a silver tray. His presentation was elegant, indeed, everything about Billy was elegant, and he did it so quietly that Washington seldom heard him coming.

  Washington swallowed a third of the contents in a gulp, surprising himself. He smiled. “My thanks on that, Billy. Will you see to my watch case? It’s dull.”

  “Yes, sir.” Billy took his coat and handed it to a young boy, who took it away with something like reverence.

  “I can get my own boots, Billy.”

  “I’m sure you can, sir. But you won’t while I’m here.”

  Billy had the softest touch of the slave accent, never enough to make sir into suh, but enough to make his tone husky. He was always softly spoken. Washington sat and allowed Billy to pull off his riding boots, which were handed to the same boy for polishing. Billy left his slippers by the fire. Washington would never submit to anyone putting his slippers on. Washington turned, his aquiline profile strong against the dark outside. He sipped his brandy.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “Have you met the new boy, Billy?”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “The African, Billy. The dogs boy.”

  “Cese, sir?”

  “That’s him, Billy. Caesar, if you please. What do you think of him?”

  “He’s a good boy. Queeny likes him, and that’s somethin’.”

  Billy didn’t exactly approve of Queeny, as he was a Christian man and she was easy in her affections. But at another level, they were allies.

  “We’ll know what he’s made of when we see him on the hunting field, eh?”

  Billy attended Washington even on horseback. They had been together for a long time, and Billy was probably the best black horseman in Virginia. In fact, he was better than most gentlemen, although still not the equal of Washington.

  “I think he’ll do fine, sir.”

  Washington still seemed in doubt. “I think he’s too…African,” he said, shaking his head. “But he has the makings of a fine young man, I’ll grant you that. Get to bed, Billy.”

  The new boy cut quite a figure in his cap and jacket. He had a stick in his hand, almost like a crop, and it seemed to Washington that the stick might be coming it a bit high for a slave, especially if that stick were meant for his dogs.

  Washington edged his horse across the drive in the early morning light to the edge of the pack, and watched Caesar separate one of his bitches from one of the visiting Lee hounds with the stick, never a blow, just a firm pressure with the stick and a slap of the hand.

  “Where did you buy the dogs boy, sir?” young Henry Lee asked with open admiration. “He’s rather fine.”

  Caesar recognized the look and nodded his head to Mr. Lee, leaving Washington uncomfortable again. It was an easy nod—far too easy for a slave, and yet not in any way a breach of etiquette. The nod was of a piece with the stick.

  “I had him from a failed plantation in Jamaica, Henry.”

  “And I may wish papa will do as well.”

  “He does seem singular. That’s a fine mare, Henry.”

  “I had him from my uncle at Stratford Hall. Part Arab, they say. I hope so, for the price.” The mare began to circle, and Lee was frustrated by the lack of effect his new silver spurs had on her. He pressed her with his crop and still she turned, her interest divided between worry at the dogs and interest in Washington’s mount, a big bay called Nelson.

  “Damn you.” He hit her with his crop.

  Washington shook his head. “Not her fault, sir.”

  Lee, unused to being checked, looked up, but Washington was already moving away, backing his horse to the open area beyond the hunt. The huntsman, a local tenant, came in and pointed off over the lane to a distant copse, motioning with a long old-fashioned whip. Lee let his horse have her head a moment and then pushed her away from the dogs, where she instantly settled down. Billy, Washington’s constant attendant, trotted easily around Henry Lee and gave Caesar a smile. Then he followed his master.

  The pack gave voice, answered thinly by the select pack over the hill. Someone had found a fox. The huntsman gave Caesar the signal, and he released the hounds, his eyes still following the young
man his master had rebuked and the elegant black man on horseback. The hounds leapt away, and the hunt began to take shape behind them.

  It was the third draw that produced a fox, with the select dogs of the county behind it and the rest of the pack following from reserve. No one had expected the first draw to produce anything; the night had been very windy and the ground was cold. But the fox found in the wood hard against Dogue Run went away at a view by the schoolhouse, crossed the Alexandria road back into Mount Vernon plantation and ran north toward Belvale, the seat of the Johnstons. Just short of the park wall he turned left and ran the whole length of the new-laid brick, but hesitation at the steep banks of the creek cost him a precious moment. He was headed at the wall and killed in the cart shed behind Belvale, the dogs in fine voice and the copper blood and ordure scent over the whole winter morning. Washington was in at the kill, his horse an extension of his will, Billy at his elbow like a standard-bearer, fine in Washington’s red and buff livery. Caesar was never far from the dogs, running from scent to scent, his eyes on the country ahead. Twice he outguessed the select pack and the bitch in the lead, crossing to a new cover before the pack found a new voice, and his prowess did not pass without note.

  Belvale Shrubbery was the next draw, and here there were three foxes. The field was tired, and etiquette was slipping; the pack split, with the larger part chasing an older female and the smaller a younger male. The field divided in proportion to the hounds and privately held views on the ethics of the thing. The older hunters chased the larger part of the pack; the younger members followed the younger dogs and chased over more difficult country.