Washington and Caesar by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online

already heard rumors from the others of things that might have been done to the walk—chalk in the mortar, holes under the bricks to make cracks appear. Cese watched and learned, keeping his thoughts to himself.
    The other slaves were a mixture, their names and faces still a blur in his head, alien faces, Ebo and Efik and Teke, Luo and Seke and others from further inland. There were no other Yoruba or Ashanti soldiers, hardly any Benin at all, and they half-castes from the coast. His mother had once said that there was good even in an Ebo, if one was patient, and he schooled himself to patience. Queeny was good company, and the work was light compared to the Indies.
    He asked Queeny about the threatened attacks on the front walk.
    “Oh, it do happen, Caesa’. It do.”
    “In the Indies they rack a slave till they know who done it.”
    Queeny shook her head. “This ain’t the Indies, boy. You be ‘spectful, you smile, but then you keep some fo’ you. If’n they push hard, you break yo’ tools. If’n they ‘spect you to work all night, you spoil yo’ work. Every one of us know to do this, Caesa’. You pay ‘tention, boy.Indies slaves work too hard, too ‘fraid. Make the otha’s look bad.”
    “Queeny, I be’nt afraid. If’n you’s so brave, why not run?”
    “Some do. It be a hahd life, Caesa’. Hahd in woods, and hahd on the road, and the devil to pay if they catch you.”
    “I heah no slaves in England.”
    “English ship brought me heah. English mans run the farms. You know ‘bout Flo-ri-da?”
    “No. You tell me.”
    “Some time I tell you ‘bout John Canno. But you walk careful, listen to what I tell you. Be ‘spectful, but keep some back.”
    “I heah you. I hear you.”
    “Cause they don’ really thank you fo’ it, Caesa’. If’n they nice o’ if’n they nasty, you still a slave.”
    “You know ‘bout Somerset, though?”
    “I know I hear fools say we all be free. He one man. Good fo’ him, I say. He free. I ain’ free.”
    Cese looked at the ground a minute, and kept his thoughts to himself.
    Today, I am a slave.
    Washington rode easily, one leg cocked up over the pintle of his saddle. He had almost reached his own land and had nothing but pleasure ahead of him. He looked forward to a release from politics for a few days, because the incessant clamor against the home country could be fairly shrill. In darker moments, he wondered that they dared. In others, he suspected that they were simply grumbling like soldiers on a long march. Soon enough, the debts from the Great War would be paid, and surely then the politics would return to something like normalcy.
    Jacka was up on a new bay behind him, riding out in circles when the ground allowed to try to work the friskiness out of the big horse. Washington looked at him andgrunted in approval. As he looked, his gaze was caught by something well to the east over Jacka’s shoulder and he sat up, tacked his free foot back in the stirrup, and put his spurs to his horse. Jacka, caught off guard, was well behind him in an instant.
    There was a man, a big man, taking crabs from the river in a little punt. Two black women and another man were building a fire on the bank. Washington rode up to the big man, already angry.
    “What are you about, sir!” he called.
    “Takin’ crabs, squire,” said the man. His tone was insolent. “They’re God’s crabs, I think.”
    Washington dismounted and walked along the bank until he was opposite the little boat.
    “What’s your name, then?”
    The man was as big as Washington or even bigger, with a strong, even brutal, face and a squint. He was dressed in an old overshirt and filthy linen.
    “I’m Hector Bludner, squire. I was in the Virginny regiment, I was.” He chuckled, clearly sure that such a point would clear him of any wrongdoing. “I know you, too, Colonel.”
    “All right, Mr. Bludner. Bring that punt back in here and get off my land.”
    Bludner looked at him as if genuinely