Washington and Caesar. Christian Cameron

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ