Rafe (17 page)

“Weapons,” Butkis growled.

Jomo stepped forward and passed his axe handle first to the overseer. Brutus and Tater cast a questioning glance at Rafe. “You get 'em back,” he reassured them. “Pitbucks not allowed to carry no weapon through a crowd.” The two followed Jomo's lead and gave up their machetes.

“All right. Let's go.” Butkis took a last look at the pitbucks near the longhouse. “Don't want no shit from y'all,” he said, then turned and led the way through the gate. Once out the door, the procession took on the aspects of a somber parade. Butkis, cutlass shining in the noonday sun, swaggered in the lead. Rafe, head high and steady, strode with an easy animal gait. Jomo walked alone, swinging his arms, savoring the welcome tension as it built to where he knew it would sustain him. Brutus and Tater, side by side, walked behind Jomo, Brutus cockily, Tater stiffly, wiping his hands from time to time on his loincloth and wanting desperately to take a pee. Behind them all strode Milo and Decater, muskets cocked.

The path was worn deep by many such processions, worn like a wagon rut where it rounded a brief hillock covered with peach trees. Rafe walked toward the trees as for the first time. Never before had he chosen to watch another man fight, for he feared seeing too much. He cared not for long-range analysis and planning. Such knowledge led to complacency and one's own death. Better was the instant appraisal, the decision based on instinct and training, the action growing out of the moment at hand. Over forty times he had passed this way, and for the first time he felt fear and a nameless dread stalking him from behind. The fear surprised him and he questioned its presence, for he was in no danger. And then he understood. When he walked to fight, the sure awareness of his own ability accompanied and comforted him. Death was always ahead, true, but he would have a word in its manner and so did not fear. Rather, his senses were heightened, sharpened in appreciation. The air. The trees. The song of birds. And especially the sweet summer smell of peaches.

Odd, fear washing over him now. Always before fear walked with him back from the pit. At those times he never noticed his surroundings, only the heat, the dust and his own conflicting turmoil. With death behind him, the miracle of his own life filled him with awe and left him quaking.

The peaches reminded him, jarred him back to reality. They would see the crowd when they rounded the hillock. He glanced back. Jomo was Jomo, tension-sprung for the fight ahead. Like a good fighter, Rafe thought, his mind was empty of anticipation and apprehension. Brutus was too cocksure, too eager. He could be dangerous if Jomo mistakenly decided to depend on him too fully. Tater was in bad shape. His eyes already wide, he stumbled, caught himself, wiped the sweat from his face. If only he stayed close to Jomo, caught his strength.…

They could see the crowd now, clustered around the top of the small hill, an empty ring of people around an empty hole in the ground. A hole in the ground.… Where every man ended up sooner or later.

Crissa clenched and unclenched her fists, uncomfortably aware of the buzz of humanity around her, the smell of too many bodies too long in the sun. A feeling of nausea crept into the pit of her stomach and refused to be dislodged. To her right, Micara half dozed in the heat, woke from time to time to look about and smile vacantly at some half-seen, half-remembered face. Ezra sat in a large wicker chair to her left. She could feel his presence boxing her in. Her spine ached with tension and she wished Steve were there to act as a buffer between her and Ezra, but he was inexplicably missing.

Suddenly a hush fell over the crowd. She couldn't see over their heads, only knew something must be happening. Across from her a cleared space of some two or three yards was roped off. She looked there, not knowing what to expect.

Butkis, heavily armed, appeared first, followed by a giant Negro walking arrogantly, a slave aloof from his masters. He was familiar, she thought, but couldn't place him. And then three more, followed by two guards with guns. Her chest tightened. Why slaves? Perhaps she had been wrong about the animal baiting. A friend had taken her to see a fisticuff exhibition back in Boston. She had thought it senseless but at least no one was seriously hurt. Was this to be more of the same? She had suspected, expected, something more cruel from Ezra. She looked sideways at him, caught a glimpse of his smug, knowing smile and quickly turned forward again. Micara squeezed her arm and Crissa responded to the pressure, patting her mother's hand. Micara was staring across the pit. Crissa followed her gaze to the giant Negro and she studied him again. He faced her now, stood at the edge of the open hole and looked across, first at Ezra, then at her. Suddenly her breath caught in her throat. She recognized him! Rafe, the boy who'd come to Freedom with Ezra. A gentle, quiet boy, well-spoken, well-educated, for a slave. Why, he was even able to read. She had talked with him a time or two until he became withdrawn and took pains to avoid her. She looked away, ashamed of her presence. Micara did not look away. She studied every bold line of his naked torso and thick, strong legs.

Butkis nudged him and Rafe absentmindedly stepped aside, entranced by the beauty of the girl who had changed and become a woman. He had not changed, he thought bitterly. A slave when first he saw her, he was yet a slave. Just another one of Ezra Clayton's niggers. Worse. A pitbuck. A killer of men. He had no right to feel the ache stirring his soul and coursing through his body.

The end of a rope flicked his arm and he jerked his head as Butkis shoved a coil in his direction. “Hold one end a' this an' lower them niggers into the pit,” he said brusquely. “Seein' as you're here, you might as well be of use.”

Rafe grabbed the rope, held one end and threw the coil into the pit. The crowd around him started buzzing again, trying to figure out what the contest would be. Butkis slapped Brutus on the shoulder and the older man confidently grabbed the rope and, while Rafe braced himself, slid down hand over hand to the clay floor. Tater was next. He moved in front of Rafe and wiped his palms on the loincloth once again. His eyes were bugged and his breath shallow. “Easy, boy,” Rafe murmured. “Keep close to Jomo.” There was time for no more. Tater nodded stiffly to Rafe and dropped over the lip, lost his grip and slid to the clay floor, much to the amusement of the crowd. Tater scrambled to his feet and grimaced as the pain from the rope burned into his consciousness.

“Dumb ass,” Butkis shouted down. The crowd laughed uproariously.

Jomo scorned the rope. He held out his hand to Butkis, who handed him the axe. The pitbuck stood at the edge of the pit, tossed the axe in and leaped in after it. He hit the clay lightly, and to a roar of appreciation from the crowd, rolled lightly and came up in dead center of the pit, weapon in hand and held high overhead. Brutus and Tater grinned weakly and looked inquisitively at each other, then up to Butkis when he yelled at them and tossed down the two machetes. Both men retrieved their weapons and went to stand by Jomo. The crowd roared its approval, signalling its readiness for action. Three against something. It was going to be a hell of a fight.

Crissa went pale at the sight of the weapons. The men were meant to kill, perhaps each other. She searched the crowd for Steve, who was still nowhere to be seen, then for anyone who might stop what she suddenly feared would follow. Half rising, she felt a hand on her left wrist, the fingers clamping viselike. Speechless with horror, she sank back weakly in her seat, staring at the little beads of sweat popping up around each hair on the clawed hand restraining her. Ezra's hand.

“Who we fightin'?” Brutus muttered, watching Jomo and then Tater for any threatening move.

One of the onlookers, a trapper, shouted, “What in hell we bettin' on, Ezra? Three niggers ain't nuffin' special. Hell, I ken see niggers fight one t'other in Nachitoches any ol' time. Don't need to travel no forty mile, even if'n yore rum is a sight betta' than most.” The trapper sent a dark brown stream of tobacco juice down into the pit while his rum-drunk cohorts echoed his remarks.

Other members of the crowd took up the question, threw it back and forth.

“What the hell, Ezra?”

“C'mon, Mistah Clayton, what they gonna
do
?”

“Five dollahs says it's Injuns, right Mistah Clayton?”

Ezra merely smiled enigmatically, then raised a hand to quiet the commotion. All eyes watched as he waved a languid finger to Martinson who leaned over and listened as the master of Freedom spoke in his ear, then turned and made his way through the crowd.

The grumbling grew as men full of rum and standing in the noonday heat grew restless. Suddenly a new sound was heard and quickly overrode the murmuring crowd. Because he was waiting, expecting something, Rafe heard it first. The snarling of a beast—of several beasts. Jomo, Tater and Brutus could hear nothing yet, nor would they until nearly too late, for by now the hushed word had run around the packed spectators and set them to buzzing again, started them excitedly exchanging bets made up on the moment.

Rafe shielded his eyes, squinting them to see. A line of field hands wound their way through the roped-off section and made their way to the edge of the pit. The slaves bore five wooden cages, carrying them on poles run through the bars. Rafe caught only a flashing glimpse of reddish-brown fur. It was enough. Wolves. His blood ran to ice.

The cages were brought to the lip of the pit, set side by side, the front doors hanging a few inches out into space. Ropes were hooked to the latch pins and passed back to Milo who would, unseen, yank them simultaneously and loose the animals inside.

Below, Jomo backed away from the center, shouting for Tater and Brutus to join him at the wall. Brutus, closer to the cages than Tater, scampered to obey, cuffing Tater as he passed him. Tater, frozen, didn't bat an eye when struck. Terrorized, he stared up at the cages as the machete fell from his hand and a thin line of drool started to run down his chin.

“Pick up yo' knife!” Jomo called to him. “Pick it up an' git ober here wid us, Tater. Them's wolves. We gotta fight 'em togedder o' we ain't never leavin' dis place alive.” Tater's back was to him and he couldn't see the blank look on the youth's face. Nor did he try. Jomo kept his eyes glued to the cages, watching the pins for the slightest hint of motion.

“Ah ken fight men. Ah ain't afeared o' no man,” Brutus repeated over and over again.

“Them ain't men. We goana hab ta' watch out fo' each oder. Careful o' yo' blade. Slash 'em, 'cause it liable ta' git caught if'n yo' stabs,” Jomo instructed quickly. “Kill one an' git free afore de nex' one come asnappin' at yo'. Tater!”

Tater didn't move. “Tater!” Jomo didn't dare go to him lest he be trapped in the middle of the ring with five wolves falling around him.

“What de hell matta' wid dat no good Tater?” Brutus asked.

“Froze up. Wild beast do it ta' some folk. Git so's dey cain't move.” He worked his shoulders, loosening the tense muscles, readying them for the work that would follow.

Fang!
Old Chulem liad said fang. Rafe searched the faces of those around the ring. Only in Crissa's did he find pity, and that rapidly becoming masked by shock.

“Gonna see sumpin' now,” Butkis said from his side. “Ya' can thank yo' heathen gods yo' ain't down there, nigger.” Butkis laughed deeply.

“Ain't right,” Rafe answered, barely able to keep his voice under control. “Tain't right a'tall. Brutus and Tater, shit, that's like sendin' Jomo down there alone. Against wolves.”

“Mistah Clayton jes' wanna see what his stock is done made up of. There they go. This is gonna be sumpin'!”

Ezra raised his hand, held it a moment, then waved. Behind the cages and out of sight of those below, Milo jerked the ropes and pulled the pegs from the latches. The spring-loaded doors popped open, traps slid back and the wolves leaped and tumbled to the pit floor, sending the crowd into a screaming frenzy. Lean, hungry and thoroughly vicious after two weeks of mistreatment and near starvation, the five wolves, four bitches and a hoary old male, landed in a tangled, snarling heap.

The animals, each over eighty pounds of lithe, primitive canine fury, snapped and growled at each other a moment until their pack instinct took over. They began to circle their prey and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. It was a moment before anyone recognized the keening wail.

Tater was crying. And then he urinated, the warm fluid soiling his loincloth and running down his leg to puddle on the hard clay floor. Someone above called attention to the frightened boy and soon everyone was laughing.

“Hey, pickaninny, that yore weapon? Gonna pee on them wolves?”

“Might work at that. Stinks from here!”

Three of the wolves skulked toward Jomo and Brutus. The other two focused on Tater. “Pick up yo' blade, dammit, boy!” Rafe shouted. “Pick up yo' knife.” He shut up as he felt the muzzle of the musket prod him from the rear.

“Keep yo' mouth shut, nigger,” Milo said.

The scream started deep in Tater's chest. It welled up in his throat and spilled forth in a long, drawn-out wail of abject terror, set to the laughter of the spectators. Jomo stepped toward the boy but was forced back as one of the three wolves darted toward him and Brutus. Tater had separated himself and he was on his own. Jomo concentrated on his own problems.

The boy, against all logic, suddenly became aware of the wetness. He tore away the waste-soaked loincloth and stared down at the erection fear had given him.

“Look at the pecker on that young 'un, will ya'?” someone shouted.

“That's the spirit. They she-wolves anyway. You got 'em on the run!”

One of the prostitutes from town leaned over the edge and catcalled, “How come yo' never showed me that youngster 'til now? Woooo-eeee!”

“You done it now. Broke man mule's heart!”