Chapter Twelve

    Cassius walked in bluish gray light, fog clinging to hollows in the surrounding fields as he traveled the turnpike. The sun was still hidden behind the low hills. He enjoyed the coolness knowing the midday heat would test his stamina. He carried Jacob's old haversack, a boy's bag and hand-me-down given to him ten years before. Inside was a kerchief that wrapped salt pork and ashcakes, enough to last him two days, after which he would need to scrounge. He carried no water, but the map foretold a series of creeks, and he had no reason not to trust whites when it came to mapmaking. He stopped under the little bridge and drank, lingering for only a moment as the swift current rushed by. At the fork, he turned north away from town and approached the small farm of Thomas Chavis, where he looked forward to speaking with Weyman.

    He saw the Chavis barn shrouded in ground fog so that the upper barn and roof appeared to float. He drew closer and an air current twisted a horizontal sash of fog into a coil as if someone unseen had run through it. The barn was in questionable condition, in need of paint with the random missing board, but the siding that was in place appeared unwarped and flush. He thought that if Thomas Chavis had a better than average harvest, Cassius might convince Hoke to rent him out to work the property. With each step the farmhouse emerged from behind the barn, small and simple and well kept, and he thought that on Sweetsmoke it would have been mistaken for a shed. He slowed to a deliberate pace, expecting to see them leaving for the field, and when they did not, he hesitated. He began to walk on, but the ominously quiet house made him curious, so he crossed to the far side of the turnpike and sat on a stony spot alongside grass still damp with dew.

    After a few minutes, Bunty emerged from the privy, pulling tight a rope belt, and walked unhurriedly toward the farmhouse.

    Cassius called out to him. Bunty turned, saw Cassius and nodded, then continued inside. A moment later Weyman came out and waved him over with a full arm movement. Cassius made his way, admiring the worn but well-kept tools lined up alongside the house under the makeshift porch roof: butter churn, washboard and tub, large crock pots, small barrels, and a heavy iron pot that had a hole in its side. Weyman greeted him at the door.

    Cassius, what y'all doin out here?

    On a task for Old Hoke.

    "Come in, Cassius," said Thomas Chavis from inside. "We are slow to the fields today as it is Martha's birthday."

    Cassius removed his hat and stepped inside, bowing his head to her.

    A good one to you, Missus, said Cassius.

    "I thank you, Cassius, have you had your breakfast?" said Martha Chavis.

    I'm fine, Missus, thank you.

    "Nonsense," she said, and scooped beans and meat from a hog jowl onto a tin plate. Cassius noted that she was in no way the disagreeable creature Weyman often made her out to be, as she smiled at him with her small handsome face, leathered by weather and brutal years, but all in all pleasing to behold. Her pregnancy was evident, and as he glanced around at the one-room farmhouse—an area with a curtain for the married couple, pallets on the floor across the room for the hands—he wondered how they would arrange the sleeping once the baby was born. He sat gratefully and ate, and was surprised at the intensity of his hunger. He looked up midway through the plate, aware that he ate alone for an audience, and remembered that everyone in Thomas Chavis's home sat at the common table and ate at the same time, Thomas at the head, his wife opposite, Bunty and Weyman facing each other on the long ends. The other plates had been cleared and Thomas indulged in what Cassius imagined was his second cup of coffee, which smelled like the coffee in the quarters, made of roasted okra flavored with molasses. While Weyman had often spoken of it, to physically consume a meal in the company of a master and his wife brought the experience home with a considerable jolt. Weyman had a most unusual life for a slave, in that he lived in conditions which were better than for many poor whites in town. Cassius envied him, treated with decency and dignity, and he flashed on Hoke waxing poetic on the idyllic life of the happy-go-lucky slave with no crushing burden of responsibility. Surely this was Weyman's world, and Cassius's envy lasted but a moment longer when he suddenly grasped that he was ensnared in white man's romantic twattle. Weyman was not free, he-was-not--free.

    Cassius finished the food on his plate, and Thomas stood.

    I thank you, Missus, said Cassius.

    Bunty and Weyman stood as well, and Cassius understood that Thomas had waited for him before leading his people to the field. Politeness was something Cassius rarely experienced, and it was the second jolt of the morning. He nodded and smiled at Martha Chavis, who took the plate from him as he tried to put it in the bucket to be washed. He followed the men outside, and as Bunty went with Thomas into the field, Weyman walked him to the road.

    Just looking for a chance to say hello, said Cassius. Didn't expect a meal.

    Yeah, y'all got more'n hello this mornin, said Weyman proudly. That look to be a full belly.

    Not so full as your ugly mistress.

    She a possum hound, ain't she? said Weyman.

    Just the way you described her, with a litter on the way.

    Didn't want you feelin too jealous, Cassius, said Weyman grinning.

    I see why you're happy, said Cassius.

    A look of incomprehension entered Weyman's eyes but was gone that fast.

    Nice job y'all did on that Tempie, gettin rid a' her that way, said Weyman. My business done picked up considerable.

    Cassius winced and was about to answer, but he stopped himself.

    Where you off to, again? said Weyman.

    Work for Hoke.

    I done heard that. What, some mystery task?

    Something he needed done.

    Word is he laid up.

    Heard you were getting herbs from Emoline, said Cassius, turning the conversation. He knew to protect Weyman from knowing anything about his journey in case things went wrong.

    Now where you hear 'bout that? said Weyman, looking shy.

    Maybe you got the gout from that fancy cheese and wine you been putting down your throat? said Cassius, meaning to tease Weyman, but Weyman did not laugh.

    Naw, somethin else, some herb I done forget the name of. Start with a M or somethin.

    Yeah, one of them letters of the alphabet, said Cassius, looking at him out of the sides of his eyes.

    Yeah, one of them.

    Emoline's papers linked Weyman to jalap bindweed. Cassius had not expected Weyman to be embarrassed about it.

    Getting it from someone else now? said Cassius.

    Weyman looked at him slyly: I got Bornock's shooter.

    That pretty pearl-handled revolver? said Cassius.

    Colt Army. Doin some business with them paddyrollers and saw the chance, took it right under his nose.

    Cassius remembered he had not seen the revolver on Bornock's person that night in the rain.

    Guess you can make a nice profit, said Cassius.

    Could at that, but now that I got it hid, I kinda like havin it around.

    You got those patrollers mad at each other. I heard Bornock accuse Mule of stealing it.

    Weyman shook his head with glee: I remember what y'all said at the Big-To-Do.

    What was that?

    You 'member, when I said I like to shoot that Tempie and you said I could use my finger, but I already had the way and you didn't know it.

    No, guess I didn't, said Cassius.

    They said their good-byes. As Cassius walked along the turnpike, he saw over his shoulder Weyman joining Thomas Chavis and Bunty in the field.

    Cassius walked a ways and then he got lucky. A worn-out buggy pulled by a worn-out but game horse named Carolina drew up alongside him. A worn-out freed black man by the name of Ralph offered him a ride. Ralph was heavy and gray and he did like to talk, but Cassius could not for the life of him remember afterward what they had talked about. They were not bothered to produce passes, as Ralph was a frequent traveler and well known on the road. The whites treated him with jocular humor, all at Ralph's expense, and he laughed effortlessly, although at one moment Cassius thought he sensed something lurking under Ralph's friendly demeanor. Some hours into their journey, Ralph called him by his name, and Cassius was surprised, not having remembered introducing himself, but after he gave it some thought he decided that he must have done it when he first accepted the ride. By midday, sooner than Cassius had estimated by looking at the map, they reached the spot where Cassius was to continue on foot. Ralph steered him left, informing him that York Road would eventually cross railroad tracks, and he'd been over the bridge there hundreds of times. Cassius asked if Ralph had seen soldiers in the area, and for the first time in their short journey Ralph was silent.

    He walked York Road for an hour, and one time heard the whistle of a locomotive way off to his right. He knew from memorizing Hoke's map that he was walking parallel to the tracks, and hoped to arrive at his destination by nightfall. He had, of course, left the map behind, hidden in the carpentry shed. The heat made him lightheaded, and he fell into a dreamlike state. He had committed to memory the thin lines from the map and expected the road to turn sharply north. As he continued he was unaware of the gradual shift of the sun's angle as its force concentrated on his left shoulder. His thoughts ran to punishment of Emoline's killer, gratifying himself as he imagined different methods of revenge, some rapid and charitable, others slow and cruel, with each possessing its own allure and charm. In time, his mind moved on to the first two acts of Julius Caesar, which was as far as he had read. After his initial irritation, thinking Hoke had named him after an unpleasant fellow, he realized Hoke had had no sense of his slave child's personality when he chose the name. It was but idle whimsy on his master's part, a book he happened to be reading, a passage remembered at a coincidental moment. If Cassius had grown to resemble the man in the play, perhaps Hoke was prescient. Or perhaps Hoke had molded Cassius, inadvertently or otherwise, to resemble this Cassius of Shakespeare. Or perhaps Cassius was reimagining his personality through the prism of Shakespeare's Cassius.

    He heard the babble of moving water to his left and scrabbled down an incline to the muddy bank of a creek. He left his haversack on dry ground and, with cupped hands, scooped cool water to his mouth. He removed his hat and submerged it, bringing it back onto his head, letting the cold clear stream cascade down his skin, returning to him the memory of local creeks and reckless boyhood. He rested in shade wondering how far he had yet to travel, when he heard a steady growl much closer than expected. As the sound grew, he detected a regular beat, wheels clacking rhythmically on a track propelled by a chuffing steam engine. He took his haversack and scrambled low along the bank, coming out where the creek spilled into a lean river not sixty feet across. The steel trestle above was immense but with wide spaces between the girders and he feared it would not hold the train. The iron horse came on and charged across, leaving behind a great cloud as though the air bled smoke. Cassius had never in life seen anything move with such speed. He stood in motionless awe. This was an astounding creation, of steel and smoke, of heft and heat. The thing that rolled above him devoured his vision. He marveled at the men who had imagined and built it. Smoke filled the shape defined by the girders and rolled over the sides and down the walls of the ravine to the water. He realized that had he continued on the road a few minutes longer, he would have reached the trestle. He had arrived at his destination with most of the afternoon before him.

    The locomotive and its dozen freight cars were long gone before he no longer heard their thunder or breathed their smoke. Cassius listened to the moving river and considered a plan of action. He chose a concealed position high in the ravine from which he could view trestle and York Road. He had a decent view of telegraph poles planted beside the tracks. He continued to wonder about the W in W York, and after taking in the land, he decided it was not a proper name but a direction, west of York Road, which put him on the wrong side of the river. He was at a disadvantage as he was not intimate with the terrain, and the man who might have information that could lead to Emoline's killer could be anywhere. He decided to devote the following day to luring him out. He considered returning to the road, to reach the west side by crossing at the trestle, but thought better of it.

    He heard horses on the road. From his vantage he momentarily viewed shoulders and heads of men wearing butternut kepis. He counted three, but the sound of the hooves suggested more. They rode ahead but did not cross via trestle. He moved again, staying high on the ravine's bank. From his new angle he made out a modest bridge not a quarter mile beyond the trestle, and saw five riders continue on toward the forested hill. If Whitacre's men were patrolling, it was likely that the telegraph man was still here.

    Cassius made his way down the ravine to seek a ford. The river appeared deep and he could not swim. He scouted upstream and saw a place. A tree had fallen across much of the river's width. Boulders narrowed the river on both sides, and the current ran fast through the gap. He judged the distance and thought he could make the jump. He reached the spot where the tree came closest to a boulder on the opposite bank. Up close, the distance appeared more ominous. Slowly, warily, he balanced on the trunk.

    As he shifted his weight back to jump, the trunk dipped and water swamped his shoes. He hit the boulder sliding, grabbing an edge. His grasp held and he caught his breath as the pain from his banged knees diminished. Gradually he moved to the next boulder and was across.

    He spent the next hour and a half in motion, becoming familiar with the terrain. Under the trestle he looked for evidence of the telegraph man's camp near the stanchions. He approached the cart and pedestrian bridge, a sturdy wooden structure whose planks clattered when a farmer crossed in his cart. The reality of his situation became clear. He had scant knowledge of the terrain and hiding places were countless. The quartermaster had numerous troops and unlimited time to find this elusive man, and to date they had been unsuccessful. His mission more and more resembled a fool's errand.

    As he could not return before morning, he chose to make the most of it. He found what he judged a well—concealed position where, through leafy branches, he was afforded a view of trestle, wood bridge, and river. He became still, and gradually the rhythms of wildlife were revealed, as upstream a doe came to the water to drink, and two young foxes tumbled down the far side of the bank in raucous play. Travelers came upon the road at irregular and unpredictable intervals. His belly nudged him, and he reached for his haversack, only to find it gone. He patted himself, then the ground around him. He backtracked, no longer as cautious, returning to the riverbank and the fallen tree. The haversack had snagged on an erect branch off the tree's trunk. He understood how it must have slipped off his shoulder when his concentration centered on his leap. The haversack was dry, but to retrieve it he would need to leap twice more, over and back again, unless he wanted to cross the wood bridge twice. He decided to risk the river.

    He walked out to the slippery boulder near the trunk. He managed foot—and handholds and stood shakily. He considered his objective. The trunk across the river appeared more unstable from this side, and he feared the sudden weight from his leap was likely to sink it where the current moved swiftly in the gap.

    Cassius swung his arms to build momentum and leapt. The trunk plunged under his sudden weight and he was submerged. The current grabbed and held him under. His eyes bulged—he had exhaled on the leap –panicking now, clinging to the trunk, stretching head and neck for the brightness above that was surely the surface. He was afraid to let go. He kicked his legs. His body twisted first to one side, then the other, then he was upside down. He gasped for air, inhaling water. His left foot hit something and he pushed against it and his head miraculously surfaced, choking, coughing, gasping loudly, never in his life so relieved to breathe. After a minute of clearing his lungs, he comically realized he was standing, water moving rapidly around his chest.

    He waded against the current with one arm on the trunk, lifted his haversack off the branch, and waded back. He removed his soaked shoes and emptied the muck and stones out of them. He was no longer hungry.

    He sat in a sunny spot and his clothes dried quickly. He revisited the good vantage point but made only a modest effort to conceal himself. The day faded.

    The Confederate soldiers did not return. He thought to move closer to the bridge, but his belly spoke to him again. He reached for his haversack and pulled out salted pork. He bit into it and it tasted fine, and he leaned back on an elbow to chew.

    He scrambled to his knees when he realized the presence behind him, a man aiming a handgun at his chest. He did not know how the man could have silently come up on him.

    Don't shoot, mister, said Cassius.

    He discerned a small emaciated man in breeches, knee-high boots, frock coat, and a white shirt with a cravat. His clothes were in absolute tatters and hung loose off his shoulders and waist. The man wore a brimmed hat which had once been fancy. He affected elegance, but had been living in the outdoors too long for this act to be effective.

    "What the hell you doing here?"

    Just, don't know, seemed like a good spot.

    "Hiding out. Who are you?" said the man.

    Cassius Howard.

    "Runaway?"

    No sir, got a pass.

    "Who gave you a pass, where's it from?"

    Sweetsmoke Plantation. Could you turn that away? said Cassius, nodding toward the handgun.

    "Sweetsmoke?" said the man, as if it rang a bell.

    Handguns sometimes go off when you least expect.

    "Then you better hand over that food before it does."

    Cassius held out the salt pork. The man came forward, took it, and backed up, then looked at Cassius as if he hadn't imagined anything could be so easy.

    "Dear Lord, actual sustenance," said the man, speaking to himself as if Cassius were not there.

    The man sat down, his handgun no longer aimed at Cassius, and rushed food into his mouth.

    Seem like you ain't had food in a while, maybe you ought slow down, said Cassius.

    The man stopped and inspected the pork in his hands. Then he suddenly ate again just as quickly as before.

    You a Northerner, said Cassius.

    The man looked in Cassius's direction, but not at him, as if he looked at someone sitting beside Cassius. "Northerner," said the man.

    Telegrapher, said Cassius.

    The man spoke to the food. "There have been raids."

    You're the one, said Cassius.

    "Runaway," said the man, but again he looked alongside Cassius, not directly at him.

    Got a pass, said Cassius.

    "What does one say if one has no pass?"

    That they got one, said Cassius, admitting the truth.

    Again the man looked at his food. "Do not address me in such a manner, or I will eat you more slowly."

    Emoline Justice, said Cassius, and studied the man to judge his reaction.

    The man stopped eating and even in the grim light of dusk Cassius could see he stared at him. "I know of one named Emoline."

    She was my friend.

    "' Was.' Sad when a couple has a falling out. Happened to me once."

    She's dead.

    The man sat in silence and nodded. The man connected in short bursts, then faded, to speak with himself or inanimate objects. He had been starving and alone a long time. The man finished the last bite of salt pork and licked his fingers. Cassius hoped to draw him into a longer conversation.

    The man spoke to his dirty fingernails. "I am not much of a hunter. Can't fish to save my life. Eating grubs for weeks. Never thought I'd get to like the taste of insects. Some truly are more palatable than others." He rubbed his greasy fingers on his mustache and then curled his upper lip to smell it. "That will smell good for a week." He looked up suddenly. "How did she die?"

    Hit on the back of the head, said Cassius.

    "Then we are discovered," said the man absently, rubbing his fingers together. "This will close our operation."

    You think you are discovered because of Emoline? said Cassius.

    "I am recently discovered by a squirrel. He reads my thoughts therefore I cannot catch him. No matter how hungry I am, his desperation is greater."

    No one left to pass on your intelligence.

    "Ralph is merely a conduit."

    Cassius was interested to know about Ralph. He recognized Emoline's hand, recruiting a simple popular freed man to be an intelligence courier. Could the middle man have effected her violent end? A question for later. Cassius reconsidered the moment Ralph had called him by name, and knew that Ralph had recognized him, most likely from Emoline's description.

    The emaciated man lifted the revolver again, turned it, and looked at it, briefly pointing the barrel toward his own ear. He spoke to himself. "If this handgun went off, it would be nothing short of a miracle."

    Why is that? said Cassius.

    "What? Oh. Not loaded."

    How'd you get here? said Cassius.

    "How'd you?"

    Walked, mostly.

    "That is good." The man's mind appeared to wander. Then he spoke as if to a third person. "I work for Mr. E. S. Sanford, formerly of the American Telegraph Company, now of the United States of America. Barnes. Where the devil is Barnes?"

    I don't know Barnes, said Cassius.

    "Jefferson Barnes? Oh, you should meet him sometime, he's military, came south with me. Didn't wear a uniform, though."

    Barnes, you say, said Cassius.

    "I knew a man named Barnes. He knows this area, has family down here."

    Where is Barnes?

    "Over there," said the man, pointing.

    Can I talk to him?

    "Can if you want."

    Take me to him?

    The man snickered. "Not likely to talk back, though. He's that way, Barnes."

    Why won't he talk back?

    "I do believe it would be the bullet," said the man. "Got shot while out hunting for victuals, dragged himself all the way back here but forgot to bring the food. His sacred dust is but a half mile that way. This is his," he said holding up the handgun as if he had just discovered it. Then he whispered: "I accidentally buried the ammunition with him, but I didn't have the stomach to dig him back up."

    When was the last time you saw Emoline?

    "Emoline? You mean Emoline Justice? I never saw Emoline Justice."

    What's that, never?

    "Never met her. Heard about her."

    Do you know if she was revealed as a spy?

    "Did you notice that Ralph likes to talk?"

    Sir. Was she revealed as a spy?

    "Who?"

    Cassius exhaled. This man knew nothing about her murder.

    "Ralph brought food, but not since the Johnny Rebs moved in."

    You know a man name of Logue? said Cassius.

    "I know a man named Georgevitch."

    Gabriel Logue? Angel Gabriel?

    "The Angel Gabriel came to Daniel. 'And when he came I was afraid and fell on my face.' Is that it? I may have forgotten. Been some time since I saw a Bible."

    Never met Emoline and you don't know Logue. You're just a spoke on the wheel.

    "Well you goddamned nigger, is that how niggers talk to white folks down here? Spoke on the wheel? I work for the United States Government, I was recognized by President Lincoln himself." He dug into his frock coat and pulled out a worn piece of paper. He held it open for Cassius.

    A list of dry goods, said Cassius, reading in the last light of the day.

    "Ah. So you can read," said the emaciated man, his animosity vanishing as if he had never been offended, folding the piece of paper and returning it to his coat. "I congratulate you on your skills."

    Cassius made a fist and knocked on a piece of wood, rap-rap, pause, rap, imitating the code he had learned from Maryanne. The man appeared puzzled so Cassius repeated it.

    "I believe the door is open, sir."

    Emoline's code knock, said Cassius.

    "How do you do, my name is Morningside."

    Mr. Morningside, said Cassius.

    "A man was here just a moment ago," he said.

    What man?

    "Negro. He was clever the way he found me." The man spoke directly to Cassius this time.

    You think I found you?

    "A very clever method, he taught me something: If you're ever looking for someone that you have no hope of finding, make him come to you."

    Make him come to you, repeated Cassius in wonder.

    "Sit out in the open, take out your dinner and start eating. He knew it would bring me out."

    Because you were starving.

    "Smart. He started by lowering my opinion of him as he made himself out to be ridiculous. Fell right in the river so that I would underestimate him. Most amusing. I'm sorry you weren't here to see it."

    Amusing and amused, thought Cassius, to be given credit for such cleverness. It pulled him out of the sense of sinking into which he had fallen, which had begun the moment he had started to speak to this man. He would learn little about Emoline's death here, and it was clear that he was not in the company of her killer.

    "I don't meet a lot of negroes up north. And down here I've met only Ralph, who is free. What's it like being a slave?"

    Cassius was so surprised by the question that he answered truthfully: Don't know.

    "That, sir, is an interesting answer. Why is it you don't know?"

    Because I don't know what it is not to be a slave. I know my life ain't my own. I know my time ain't my own. I know I can't make big decisions for myself, and small decisions get changed when some planter gets tired or moody or just plain stupid. Maybe planters know, since they're free but also chained to slavery. We make them rich but to stay rich, they got to watch us, take care of us and guard us. Their whole lives they're surrounded by the enemy, because we're always looking to be free.

    "I'm no abolitionist, after all, those people are godforsaken lunatics, but you sir make a fine case against slavery."

    Grateful to hear it.

    "You mock me," said the man, with a convoluted smile.

    Not without cause.

    "I haven't carried on a conversation in a good long while, perhaps one time you'll join me?"

    Cassius laughed to himself and shook his head.

    "What a foolish man you are," said the man to himself, "you mustn't put pressure on this sad fellow. They have proven that negroes have smaller brains, although I met one in the woods who seemed unusually intelligent for his race."

    Thank you, said Cassius not bothering to disguise his sarcasm.

    It was dark. Cassius could no longer make out the trestle and bridge.

    "I think I will climb my pole." Morningside came to his feet.

    Your pole?

    "Have you not met my pole? I gather intelligence from it for my government."

    You think that wise?

    "I have done it many times before."

    There are men out here looking for you.

    "You have an opinion. I am enchanted. A negro with an opinion. How good of you to share it with me. But do leave this decision to me. The men are gone."

    Your friend Barnes, what did he do before you—?

    "Have you ever seen a climbing iron?" Suddenly the man was excited.

    No.

    He scrambled to a place a few yards away; Cassius could barely see that he pulled something from a hiding place in the dark, and came back with it in his hand. There was just enough light for Cassius to make out a pair of metal bars with one end a spike. Morningside attached them to his boots so that the spike was worn like a bayonet, and Cassius saw the cleverness in the design and how it would allow him to climb the pole.

    Cassius followed him up the side of the ravine to the cleared space, across which were the tracks and the telegraph poles. Morningside set down his haversack. Cassius remained in the brush as the man set out across the open toward the telegraph wires. Midway across, he pointed to a telegraph pole that Cassius was unable to see, as it was deep in shadow. The next moment the man was in flight, feet off the ground, twisting unnaturally in air, the tatters of his clothing bursting out in every direction, his flight concluding as quickly as it had started as his body flopped suddenly to the ground. The retort of a gunshot was almost instantaneous but still too late for the man to have known what hit him. The open ground came alive with men closing in from three sides, seven of them emerging at once. Cassius held still a moment as they converged on the body.

    "Look there! Over there, I see something!" One of the men pointed directly at Cassius.

    Cassius grabbed Morningside's haversack and scrambled down the incline just far enough to be out of sight. He knew he could not outrun these men. He tore off his shirt and his trousers, rolling them into a ball with the two haversacks. Naked, he moved back to where they had seen him and he hid the light-colored objects underneath his body as he curled up on fallen leaves around the trunk of a small bush. His skin was his ally, becoming one with the shadow under the bush. Voices came closer, and a horse cantered directly at him. He thought he had made a mistake, wishing he had run, at least then he would have had a fighting chance. Two men crashed into the brush beside him, running in the direction he had originally gone. More horse hooves came on, moving along the edge of the brush.

    A voice above him, close, oh so close, said, "Spread out, he can't get far."

    The man on horseback stayed right there, almost on top of him, and Cassius made his breathing shallow, as insects crawled on his skin.

    The man above him bit into an apple and chewed with an open mouth. His horse dropped its head and munched on something near Cassius's feet. Cassius had a moment of terror, that the horse would step on him and he would cry out.

    Another horseman rode up.

    "Haven't found him, sir."

    Cassius took this opportunity to glance up, assuming that the man and his commanding officer would be facing each other. The officer's lantern allowed Cassius to see that he was a small man sitting his horse, wearing a tan slouch hat. The officer wore his hat with an unusual affectation: He folded up the front of the hat's brim so that it looked as if the wind held it vertical against the crown.

    "Assuming there was another man," said the officer, spitting.

    "Sir?"

    "Lewis sees things. Ghosts and such. Goddamned rot."

    "Captain, Lewis has seen the elephant."

    "Yes, I know, and you'll get your own damned chance when Lee hands over to me the command he promised."

    Captain. Captain Solomon Whitacre. Cassius moved his head for a better look. Whitacre had a lantern, and he opened it to light the end of his cigar with the burning wick.

    Cassius would not have recognized Whitacre from the glimpse he'd had of him the night of the Big-To-Do. Solomon Whitacre was a small man with a full beard but no mustache. By the way he extended his pinkie when lighting his cigar, Cassius thought he had the manners of a gentleman, but he wondered about the man's abuse of the language. Whitacre seemed unnecessarily coarse.

    "You see the clothes on that whore's chinch?" Whitacre said, motioning to Morningside's body. "Mr. Fancy Hat in rags. Been out here weeks. If he had a partner, surely one of them would have gone off for food."

    "I imagine that's true, Captain."

    A second rider joined him. "Nothing, sir. But he's out there somewhere. We may need to wait until morning."

    "Morning?" said Whitacre. "God's balls, Lewis, I'm not waitin till mornin. Far as I'm concerned, there warn't no second man. We got our spy, and I am anxious to take my leave of this place. If we stay longer, they'll order us to wait on the harvest. Let some other backwater captain rape the people of their crops, I am dog tired of scrapin this damned county bald. No, we are goin to join the wagons and follow them to Lee. The whisper is, Lee will take the fight to the Yanks. Imagine it, boys, an invasion of the North. If I get that command, I promise you won't miss out. You either, Lewis, don't want to miss the last battle of the war. Once we take the fight to the Yanks on their ground, they'll give it up."

    "Yes, sir."

    "Lieutenant, assemble the men and convene on the far side of the bridge, we're goin north."

    Whitacre turned his horse and rode away. The two others held their ground.

    "You really see someone, Lewis?"

    "Don't matter now. Reassemble on the other side."

    Cassius was left alone. He stayed on the ground, motionless for a while longer, listening to the distant voices, shouts, and horse hooves, and finally to nothing more than the sounds of the night aging around him. He sat up. He was alone. They had taken Morning- side's corpse, but he had the man's haversack with his papers. He slapped at the places on his body where he had been bitten, then put on his clothes. He took the papers from Morningside's haversack and hid them in the band of his trousers. Then he stepped onto York Road, to follow it south to return to Sweetsmoke.