Rafe (2 page)

The sound of a shot and a distant yell to his rear drew his attention. He turned to see Bernard and his group coming over Tree Hill. Another ten minutes and they'd be at the pit and the day could get underway. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. He hoped no one had told Rafe. Part of the bet depended on him not knowing who and what he would face. The frown melted away, replaced by the bland expression that revealed and told nothing. He supposed it didn't matter as long as Bernard didn't find out. And Rafe would win in any case. Rafe always won.

His forty-second win. Only eight more and he could claim the promise of freedom Ezra had made. Fifty wins in the pit and a man was emancipated, given a woman, a wagon, two mules, and a boat ride across the Sabine on the stipulation he never again show his face around Freedom Plantation. The thought galled Ezra. He'd never had to make good on the promise, to be sure, and it had seemed a good idea at the time, a cheap inducement to sure death. Ezra decided to be more careful with his promises in the future. Still, he'd gladly pocket the hundred gold eagles and savor the look on François Bernard's face as his one local rival fumed and rode away, once again, in a fine display of Gallic frustration. It would make a very fine profit for the first fight of the year. And as for the promise of freedom for Rafe—he tucked the unpleasantness away in the back of his head. There was time yet to worry. Eight fights, to be exact. He'd decide later.

“Butkis!”

“Yessir, Mr. Clayton.”

Ezra examined the man's face as he hurried up. Over fifty, squat and chunky, his red face greasy in the humid air and lined with tiny blue veins, the overseer knew his position was based on his brutality and the utter, dogged loyalty with which he regarded his employer and benefactor.

“Put two more guards on the rim. I'd hate to have any trouble with
Monsieur
Bernard's men. The Creek nature is always unpredictable.”

“Yessir, Mr. Clayton. They'll be here in about five minutes.”

“And lower a dram to Rafe before they get here.”

“Already done, sir. He's lookin' fit.”

“All right, Butkis. The guards.”

“Yessir!” Butkis saluted and hurried off to the small circle of men squatting around a fire, surreptitiously passing a jug of rum from one to the other. Their muskets lay on the ground beside them. They were a motley, sullen lot with little to be said in their favor save the color of their skin. They were white and could be trusted with firearms.

“Decater … Milo … get your scrawny asses over to the rim. Them Creeks is apt to cause trouble.” The jug disappeared rapidly and he pretended not to notice, passing his attention instead to the muskets. “And get them damned things off'n the ground and primed.”

Decater and Milo jumped from the fire, grabbed their muskets and scurried for the rim. The three remaining guards hunkered down, hoping to go unnoticed. One of them turned a young possum skewered on a spit. Fat dripping from the carcass sizzled and crackled as it hit the coals and sent up jagged tongues of flame.

“Where'd you get that?”

“Milo there found it in one of his traps this mornin'.”

“It a young 'un?”

“Prettiest little possum you ever seen, Mr. Butkis.”

Butkis stepped closer to the fire and drew his cutlass from its scabbard. He grabbed one of the legs and sliced it cleanly from the body. A cascade of drippings hit the fire which flared and sputtered. The overseer thrust the blade through the meat and, blade in both hands, tore off a chunk of the sizzling flesh with his teeth, ignoring how it burned his lips and tongue. He bit into the meat twice more, stripping the useful portion from the bone before swallowing the first bite. Juices dribbled from between his lips and swollen jowls. The three underlings continued to avert their eyes, ignoring the bone Butkis flipped into the fire. The overseer managed to swallow the mouthful without choking before he laughed, belched mightily and wiped the cutlass across his trousers.

“That's good meat, though I'd sooner cut niggers with this blade,” he announced. “Carve yourselves a morsel and station yourselves near the winch. And keep them muskets cocked.”

The three guards nodded and hurriedly divided the remains of the possum, saving Milo and his sure protestations for later. Each man stuffed his mouth and scrambled off to take up his position and wait nervously for François Bernard. They didn't have to wait long.

Rafe felt the cane liquor warm and loosen his body. Like a huge cat, he relaxed, slack and limp, resting, breathing deeply, evenly, concentrating on the spot, feeling the blood course through him, holding emotion in check as his father had taught him. His muscles tensed of themselves before he consciously recognized the change in sound. A muffled drum of hooves preceded the quickened voices of the whites above him. The horses stopped, and as if on cue the whites followed suit. They had seen his opponent, who was even now being led to the platform. The conditions of the bet were intact. Rafe did not know whom he would fight or what weapons he would face. If truth were told, he preferred to fight that way. A real warrior faced his opponent with a clear mind. His father had taught him that, too, but he did not remember the teaching.

“Well, I'm changin' my bet. My money's on them!” a voice drifted down from the rim.

“Shitfire … me too,” another chimed in.

“Put up or shut up, boys.” The voice was Martinson's, Clayton's money-man. “Mr. Clayton stands firm behind his nigger. Two-to-one says he kills them both.”

Them … them both. Rafe shut his ears to the rest and leaned forward slightly in anticipation. So there were two of them this time. What of it? Hadn't he fought two before? And won? He had fought forty-two contests and lived while others—forty-six others—had died. His mind adapted rapidly to the facts while he shifted his weight, readjusting his stance imperceptibly, ready now for the assault.

The A-frame above and in front of him creaked as it took the weight. Only when he heard the spindle squeak and the chain gnash against the sprockets did he look up.

Two bronze-skinned Creek warriors perched astride the ropes attaching the platform to the chain. Entirely naked—there were no women present for the first outing of the year—their flesh was daubed with raucous designs in red, white and ochre. Their eyes bored into him as the platform descended, jerking and complaining at the weight. Rafe relaxed his hold on the machete and breathed deeply. They would be fast.

The Indians were small men with long dark hair that hung straight down their backs. They leaped to the pit floor before the platform hit bottom, landing lightly, their bare feet skidding ever so barely. Each held a tomahawk and hunting knife. Rafe's face was a mask as the warriors shuffled their feet to coat them properly. They were smart, these two, calm and probably well-prepared. He would have to be careful.

Micara put the finishing touches—the Dresden lamp moved a quarter-inch closer to the gilt-edged portrait, and the doily straightened for the fifth time—to Crissa's room. The task completed to her satisfaction, she lit a scented taper, walked thoughtfully around the room to spread the orange aroma evenly, then pinched out the flame and replaced the taper in its holder. The delicate aroma would last.

She stood with her back to the empty fireplace, trying to imagine her daughter in this room again, how she must look after four long years. The northern climate should have done her good. But to come back to Freedom Plantation and spend a life.…

Her hand fumbled for and missed the crystal goblet behind her on the mantelpiece. She turned, her eyes darting fearfully back and forth, to find it farther to the right than she remembered. She grabbed for it and raised the glass to her lips, then stopped when she caught her own image in the mirror.

Wrinkles assailed her. The marks of time and pain ran across her forehead and out from the corners of her eyes, which all too often flowed with tears. A brief, mocking fire burned in those eyes as she put the glass to her lips and took a ladylike sip. She mustn't take too much, of course. Crissa shouldn't find her mother, the mistress of Freedom Plantation, unsteady and wobbling in the hall. Unbidden, the eyes welled with hot tears. She twisted violently from the accusing mirror and with both hands shaking, raised the cut crystal and drank deeply, greedily, then stumbled to the hall in search of the decanter.

“May I get you something, Ma'am?”

Micara turned, startled at the voice behind her. The young housemaid, Julie, waited, caught in a curtsy, an open and knowing smile on her delicate ebony features. Micara slapped her across the face.

“Lady Clayton to you,” she said, her voice rasping viciously.

Julie ignored the slap as best she could. For a moment her eyes burned darkly, but she nodded, curtsied again and corrected herself as befit her position. “Yes'm, Lady Clayton.”

Slapping the young black girl didn't help. The hurt was still there. Bitterness and burning rage and frustration shook Micara as she stared down at the top of the slave girl's suitably bowed head. Hate her as she did, it wasn't the girl's fault. What fault there was lay with her. She alone had played the fool. Micara turned and fled down the hall and into her bedroom, where she slammed the door behind her and sat, panting, on the canopied bed Ezra had so pointedly avoided for the last two years. The decanter was in front of her on the night table. She stared at it. Could she have forgotten placing it there? Without thinking she reached for the warm red liquid and filled her glass to the brim.

Outside in the hall, Julie rubbed her stinging cheek, then smiled at the thought of the secret that wasn't a secret, the knowledge of which brought Micara Clayton more pain than a dozen slaps. The black girl straightened her dress, pressing the bodice tightly over firm young breasts, enjoying the pleasure of her own hands as they travelled down her stomach and to her thighs. She would remember the slap the next time she lay with Ezra Clayton and stole the power of his loins from the puffy-faced woman she served. She moved down the hall humming a little tune, underscored by the echoing distant shouts drifting through the hazy trees, coming from the direction of the pit.

The braves split up immediately, one moving to the left, the other to the right. They stationed themselves across the pit from each other and stopped to stare at Rafe, to take the black man's measure.
Monsieur
Bernard had taught them well—there was no way Rafe could keep all senses riveted to two spots thirty feet apart. He must see to it, then, that the preliminaries were kept to a minimum and dispensed with hastily. The more time he gave them, the greater their advantage. Hardly thinking, he chose the one to his left and moved toward him lazily, the machete still hanging loosely at his side. The Indian sprang away from him and crossed the pit to stand by his companion. The two conferred briefly in soft, barely heard whispers, giving Rafe the few extra seconds he needed for his appraisal. A few was all he wanted. Like sleek hunting animals they moved again, flowing to either side, stalking the black beast at bay.

Rafe backed to the wall and waited, loose, ready for their next move. “Let the lion attack if he wants to,” his father had said. “You will learn much from this. Then you must threaten but not attack. From these actions you will know all you need to know, and it will be easy for you to kill him.” His father had been right.

The Creeks moved like lightning, pouncing suddenly from both sides. Their tomahawks whistled through the air, one high and one low. But Rafe wasn't there. As their shoulders moved in commitment to the throw, his foot went behind him and pushed him from the wall, sending him rolling over his shoulder to the middle of the pit where he sprang to his feet, knees slightly bent as the braves rushed to retrieve their weapons, a hint of embarrassment clouding their confidence. Their attack had given Rafe the information his father had promised. The one to the right would go high, the one to the left low.
Monsieur's
trick hadn't worked.

He sprang at them before they could fully recover their poise, his machete whirling in front of him, cutting the humid air in humming chunks. The braves separated, spinning away from him gracefully, their knives flashing behind them as they spun. Rafe stopped before he hit the wall and twisted around to his right, in the direction of the faster of the two. Silence hung over the pit, broken only by the soft pat-pat as the Creek to Rafe's left slapped his tomahawk lightly against his painted leg.

Rafe now knew all he needed. Without hesitation he leaped toward the one on his left. As the warrior broke across to the center of the pit where his companion met him, Rafe hit the wall, spun from it and headed for them. The Indians, taken by surprise by the rapidity of his attack, stood their ground instead of splitting up. Rafe's whirling machete accidentally struck flat-edged against one of the tomahawks, knocking the weapon from the Indian's hand and breaking the machete halfway down the length of the blade.

The charge sent him between the two braves, carried him almost to the wall again. A trickle of warmth ran down his leg. One of the knives had ripped a jagged wound open across the side of his right thigh. His back burned where a tomahawk had struck a glancing blow, ripping from him a chunk of skin and flesh. From above him and as if in a dream, he heard the excited clamor of the crowd as bets changed frantically.

Rafe forced the wounds from his mind and stepped away from the wall. Glistening with sweat, the Indians arced out to the sides and cut back, pressing to the attack, coming in for the kill. Rafe backpedaled, forcing them to come at him at a closer angle. The knives flashed low and high as he had thought they would. His leg went over the low knife, striking the brave in the chest and sending the painted warrior reeling away in a drunkenlike, gasping, slippery fall. Rafe's torso, low, went under the second knife, the broken machete aimed at the brave's exposed belly. The blunt end entered the abdomen with an audible pop as skin stretched in and finally burst, ripping to the sides as the broad blade cut its way through the living organs and struck the backbone.