Rafe (20 page)

A dull glow issued from the library. He entered the book-lined room. The lamp was on his desk and he'd not left it there. Someone had moved it. Suddenly very tense, Ezra crossed to a shelf, removed a large book and took a loaded and primed pistol from a niche in the wall. Warily, he crossed to his desk. A folded and wax sealed note had been addressed to him and placed on top of the desk. “Ezra” was written in elegant penmanship across the front and his face drained as he recognized the handwriting. He tore the seal away, ripped open the envelope and pulled the paper out to read … nothing. A blank page.

“A lovely party, Ezra.”

Ezra spun about, taken completely unaware. A raffishly handsome man stood in the door, a brace of pistols in his hands. Ezra's own gun rested on the desktop, for the moment out of reach. “Why Patrick, what a surprise.”

“And a far from pleasant one, I'll warrant.”

“Come in, come in,” Ezra answered heartily, his mind whirling. “Close the door.”

Patrick Fitzman stepped into the room. “Wouldn't want any sudden visitors like Micara or Crissa? I should imagine not.” Patrick crossed to the desk and confiscated Ezra's pistol before putting his own in his belt.

“I thought you were in Mexico.”

“I was. With James Long. But I came back, as you see. I've located the place I want. The land is there for the taking and holding, but I'll need funds to hire and supply the men who are going with me.”

Ezra poured two snifters of brandy, slid one across the desk to Patrick. He scowled at the mention of money.

“That's right, Ezra. That's why I'm here. The money you paid to fix those property claims and to transfer Crissa's inheritance is long gone. Carving an empire out of the wilderness requires capital from time to time.”

“I have paid you all I intend to.”

Patrick sipped the brandy. “This is very good brandy, Ezra.” He looked around the room appreciatively. “You've done wonders with the place. I used to caution John about staying away so long. I was right. The place fell to ruin. But you, Ezra, have done a splendid job. I congratulate you.” He raised his glass in a silent toast. “Of course, you had so much with which to start. Even so, I trust you will be so kind as to remember it was I who arranged for the transfer of the title, I who bent the law and saw to it you were able to acquire total and complete control.”

“And it was you,” Ezra interrupted, “whom I paid to disappear forever. Paid handsomely, too.”

“Not so handsomely, and not enough.”

“All you will get.”

“No!” Patrick's hand slapped with a resounding bang on the desk. Both men stopped, listening for any telltale sounds indicating they had wakened the household. When none was forthcoming Patrick continued. “I have not come to beg, Ezra. You will give me that which I wish. I can make trouble for you and you know it. I'm certain Major Reynolds, among others, would be most interested in anything I might have to tell him.”

“Don't be absurd. They'd put you away as well.”

“You forget,” Patrick laughed, “I know the law. Justice will be lenient should I choose to play the repentant. The courts would treat you more harshly. Robbing a poor innocent of her inheritance, scheming to confiscate the small farms in the area.…” He paused meaningfully, looked directly into Ezra's eyes. “… And of course, we shouldn't forget, spying for the British.”

Ezra bolted upright in his chair.

“That's right,” Patrick continued. “I spent a great deal of time in New Orleans. Met an interesting chap, a Major William Paxton, who … but that's another story. I doubt you're interested in the details, though Major Reynolds would find them, shall we say, fascinating? I will need three thousand dollars. In gold. A thousand each in quarter, half and full eagles.”

“Impossible.”

“They shoot spies, Ezra.”

The lord of Freedom sagged back in his chair, his face sullenly registering defeat for the second time in as many hours. “I shall have to travel to Nachitoches.”

“I thought perhaps. If you leave tomorrow morning you should be able to conclude your business Tuesday and be back Wednesday. Long and I have friends there. They will know if you get the gold, so please don't try to pull some stupid bluff. When you return, we shall meet again. I'm not anxious to tarry overly long.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Really, Ezra.…”

“Then how shall I find you?”

“Midnight, Wednesday. In the pecan grove, near the rear atop the old Indian burial mound. Wear your white frock coat, bring the gold and come alone.” He rose, thrust Ezra's pistol in his pocket. “And Ezra, please remember. Your white coat will make an excellent target. I have become an expert pistol shot.” He stepped to the door, opened it to check the hall. “Kiss my dear sister-in-law for me,” he muttered sarcastically, and was gone.

10

Milo spewed a stream of tobacco and saliva, wiped his mouth with the back of a broad hand and grimaced at the raw, bruised flesh on his knuckles. Boo stepped out of the barracks. His babyish good looks were spoiled by a puffy lip and a dark welt under his left eye. He avoided Milo and stepped off the porch, looking up at the main house. The tall gangling guard with the bruised fist stared at him. “How's yore eye, Boo?”

“Mah name's Booker. You'd best be callin' me that.”

“I thought we settled that last night. Now the way I figger, I call you anything I want. Of course, if'n you want to go 'round again, I got me another hand I don't mind bruisin'.”

“You boys troublin'?” Butkis gruffly inquired.

Milo stood as the overseer approached. “We just havin' ourselves a chat, me an' Boo.”

Decater stepped onto the porch, followed by Martinson and several of the others. Martinson yawned expansively, raking his pudgy fingers through his hair. “Some party. Yesterday wasn't hardly enough to rest up. Real doin's, I call it.”

“What would you know about real doin's, fatguts?” Milo scoffed. “You ain't never gotten further than the food tables.”

Martinson looked wounded. “I'll have you know.…”

“Sheeit,” Milo continued. “The real partyin' takes place off in the bushes, don't it, Butkis?”

Several of the other guards guffawed knowingly. Butkis sneered and aimed a cuff at Milo who ducked away. Decater perked up. “You better be watchin' what you say about Mistah Butkis, Milo.”

“Hell, you stubby scrawny-necked fart catcher, what d'you know? While you was drinkin' yo'self asleep, Mistah Butkis was gettin' it an' gettin' it good,” Milo told him. “An' I was too. So was Pete, Rooster, Caje and Arvid. Even Boo dipped his wick.”

Butkis sighed aloud, his right hand scratching vigorously at his privates. “That Miz Leahy, she jus' couldn't get enough. Guess the good Reverend ain't up to givin' her all she wants. She worked us 'til we was limp as bank notes. Never seen a woman take to it quite like she did, A'course, the rum helped. Still, she knew her tricks. That was prime stuff. But I give her a good reamin'. An' then some.”

Martinson shook his head in disbelief. “The Reverend's new bride. What's the world comin' to?”

“She got a dark hole like all the rest of 'em, preacher's wife or no. Yessuh, she took to Mistah Butkis' cutlass quicker'n that nigger Rafe.” Boo laughed, thrusting out his hips and grabbing his privates in an age-old gesture.

The rihald laughter ended abruptly. Butkis' face flushed crimson. Boo went pale realizing what he had inadvertently blurted out. The overseer whipped his sword from his belt. The point wavered to and fro, inches from Boo's throat. “Ain't nobody gonna touch mah cutlass again. Nobody. I got careless with that nigger an' you seen what he got. An' that ain't all. If'n that nigger win his freedom, I'm gonna be there waitin' fo' him across the Sabine. An' I'm gonna hack off his right hand 'cause it did the grabbin'. Then I'll take one o' his eyes an poke it out with the point o' this blade.”

Boo shrank back as the blade skimmed barely inches away from his widened eyes. The point slowly dropped to his chest, lowered farther to touch his groin. “An' when that big nigger is howlin' like a pickaninny, I'll be slicin' his balls so's he won't never have him no little ones of his own to grow up an' lay a hand on one a' his betters. You understand me, Boo?”

Boo nodded. Beads of sweat coursed down his face to cover his puffed lips with a film of glistening sweat. Butkis replaced his sword and faced the guards. “We're shorthanded again today, what with them Mistah Clayton done taken to Nachitoches. We only workin' the cotton today, jus' like yestiday, only maybe we split some off this afternoon to hoe some a' the corn. We'll keep 'em all in them two north fields where you roisters can keep a close watch on 'em. Now, jus' 'cause Mistah Clayton been gone a day, no need to ease off. He'll be back tomorrow an' sure enough want to know what ever'body been up to. Let's go.” Butkis gestured toward the field workers' shanties and the guards fell into stride behind him.

“You sure are a stupid one, Boo,” a guard muttered. Another dug scratching fingers into his crotch and angrily exclaimed, “I think Miz Leahy done give me the stick.”

“You pissin' green?” his friend queried.

“Ain't pissin' at all.”

“Who'd you dip after?”

“Boo. He went jus' afore me. Why?”

“Boo …? Sheeit. You got the stick all right.”

“Hey,” a third guard called. “Lookie there.…”

“What?”

“Comin' from the house. Ooo-weee!” His companions followed his gaze.

“Nicest bit a' showblubber this side a' New Orleans,” Milo offered. “I'd take her ahead of the Reverend's wife any day.”

Crissa was walking toward the guards, hurrying to intercept them. Butkis failed to notice her until she was almost beside him. “Mr. Butkis,” she called.

Butkis halted as did the men behind him. The burly overseer was obviously surprised at seeing the young woman so early in the morning. Crissa glanced at the faces staring at her, sensitive to the lascivious intent behind each moistened lip or scrutinizing appraisal. “Mr. Butkis, many of the slaves worked all weekend for the party. They did not have their day off. They will not be going to the field today or tomorrow as a reward for working so long and well.”

Butkis stood back, his hungry eyes exploring the lush figure pressing, straining at the cotton bodice, the tiny feminine waist above the sea of skirt and petticoats. “Is that so, missy?” he asked with a leer.

Crissa boldly returned his stare, countered with an air of haughty, authoritative arrogance. “I am Crissa Elizabeth Fitzman. The land upon which you are standing was my father's and is mine in partnership with my stepfather. For as long as you remain at Freedom you will not forget this. I am Miss Fitzman to you—” she glanced at the others “—to all of you. The slaves will not go to the fields today.”

“Mistah Clayton won't be likin' this, missy … uh, Miss Fitzman. Them niggers, now, the way I see it, they're here to be workin' and workin' they'll be. We'll be on our way now to roust 'em out,” he said, starting away from her.

Crissa planted herself firmly in his path. “You will do nothing of the kind. I have given you an order.”

“I already got my orders,
Miss
Fitzman, an' I don't know nothin' about no partnership. The field hands got to chop that cotton.”

“You have new orders. The slaves had no time off this weekend so will have this day off. And tomorrow as well. Had I thought of it, I would have given them Monday too. Should you choose to disobey me, I shall terminate your position and you may go and look elsewhere for employment.”

“Can't nobody do whatever you said. Can't nobody drive me offa here without Mistah Clayton's say so. He took me on an' only he can let me go.”

“Very well, Mr. Butkis. I shall send a rider to Fort Jessup and we shall see. Major Reynolds is an old family friend. He and my father were very close. I'm sure he'll be dismayed to hear of insurrectionist conduct on your part and be more than happy to supply a small detachment of troops to see to your removal.”

Butkis started at the mention of Major Reynolds, for he knew there was bad blood between him and Ezra Clayton, knew the major might just respond to her call. There was not a man alive he feared, yet troops … he wouldn't want to have to face a detachment of armed soldiers. Of course, the little Fitzman trollop could be bluffing. If so, she played a good hand, one he'd be happy to leave for Clayton to call. Even so, it galled him badly, for he was a man not given lightly to backing down.

He had to admit the little bitch had spunk and more. The way she looked at a man gave him pause. The same look Clayton had, in a way, only more natural, like the coldness and determination was bred into her and lay waiting for the right time to come out so she could ride roughshod over whoever might get in her way. He shrugged and instructed the guards to leave the field hands be, sending only enough men to relieve the night guards and patrol the squalid shanty town and compound. When he was finished and his surprised underlings hurried off to their appointed tasks, he returned his attention to Crissa. “You satisfied?”

“Very much so, Mr. Butkis. Thank you.” She turned to go, then stopped and faced him, a little smile on her face. “Oh, yes. There is one more thing. There was an abundance of food left over from the party. I have instructed the house servants to carry it to the field hands and pit-bucks. You will, of course, do nothing to impede them.”

“But.…”

“That will be all, Mr. Butkis,” she said curtly, dismissing him before he could protest, then swirling away in a billow of skirts. Open-mouthed and utterly at a loss, Butkis continued to gape long after she disappeared around the corner of the house. When the first of the inside slaves appeared with the large trays and headed for the field hands' quarters, Butkis spat and turned disgustedly back toward the barracks. No good would come of any of this, he was sure.