Rafe (30 page)

Ezra stood, face flushed, over the prostrate form. His breath rasping, he barely managed to speak. “Micara. Did … my wife.…”

“Yassuh. Oh, mah laig, oh, Lawd. Yassuh, Miz Clayton say fetch dat from de bottom level an' put it up in heah. She brung in two a' de downstair niggers to he'p her. Only not me, Mastah Clayton, 'cause Ah knowed.… Oh, it broke, it broke!”

“Shut up your damned whining mouth. Where is Mrs. Clayton?”

“She ain't heah, suh. Miz Clayton an' Missy Crissa goan to de town to hab tea wid Miz Leahy. Dey wid de Preachah's woman.”

“Get out of here. I want that down and burned before … no. Wait. Not yet. Get out.”

The manservant hobbled to his feet and stumbled painfully from the library, wincing every time he put his weight on his right leg though relieved the bone wasn't broken after all. Ezra took up the decanter and crystal wine glass. He stood in the center of the room, shirt off, sweat dripping from him as he stared up at the portrait. “I should have burned it when I first took the damned thing down,” he muttered aloud.

John Fitzman only smiled in answer. That cursed, superior smile! “You're dead, God damn your soul to hell, dead!” he screamed. And still no answer, still only the mocking smile. Ezra flung the decanter. The glass exploded on the stone behind the portrait and sent shards and slivers slicing through the canvas, wine spilling across and down the delicate tints and hues, staining them bloody red. A gaping jagged hole rent John Fitzman's handsome features, leaving only one eye to stare enigmatically into space. Ezra gulped the contents of his wine glass and sent it after the decanter. The crystal struck the top of the frame and bounced harmlessly off, shattering on the wood floor.

Micara. The bitch! But how ever could he have expected this from her? There was only one solution. He would be rid of her—her and her daughter—and no questions asked. The advantages of keeping her around and in sight were now outweighed by those of having her as far away as possible. Damn the slut! He prided himself in the absolute control and sure-handed manipulation of those he allowed in his house; yet somehow Micara had recovered the spirit and confidence he had so laboriously eroded. She had changed under his very nose, and he couldn't understand how or why, could no longer predict her actions or reactions. She'd been a willful woman when he first met her. Lonely and inept at running a plantation, but headstrong and spirited in many other ways. What had caused her rejuvenation of spirit? What prompted such an insulting challenge to his command? Capricious defiance? He thought not. Something more. An unknown factor. Something new, deliberate on her part, unnoticed or unheeded on his. Nothing he could think of might have provoked this unwarranted attack on his authority.…

Rafe! Rafe! The thought struck him like a whip, sent him reeling back to lean on his desk, breathless at the very idea. He'd seen her watching the giant pitbuck as he fought, seen her breath quicken with excitement. And he'd heard her door close … when? Late the night before she'd come down to breakfast. But she wouldn't dare.… wouldn't.…

The hallway inside the ground level where Rafe was kept was dim and needed sweeping. He'd call attention to the filth later. He stopped outside the door to Rafe's room, quietly checked the load and cocked the .69 caliber Army pistol. .69 caliber. Such a weapon was large enough even for Rafe, especially at such a short distance. Unbolting the door, he pressed his hand against the rough wood and pushed.

Rafe was awake, dressed and sitting upright in bed. The book he had placed beneath the pillow at his back the moment the bolt slid back. Ezra stepped into the room and Rafe made himself smile. For the first time in four years the two stood face to face with no one between them. The black man kept his eyes from the pistol, stared at the white flesh, flabby and sagging, then dropped his eyes quickly and respectfully lest insult be implied. The appearance of his owner, half-dressed and armed, surprised and alarmed him more than he cared to admit. Such a visit could only bode ill: “Welcome, Mistah Ezra,” he said, his voice deep and melodious, reverberating in the small room.

Ezra glanced from right to left, found nothing to threaten him. He stood but six feet from Rafe, the Army pistol huge in his small hand. Rafe was not fooled into thinking his size or speed made any difference. Ezra would use the weapon if he had to and a lead ball that huge would rip through his belly and splatter his backbone over the entire wall. Gutshot, he would die ignobly, painfully.

“You scared, nigger?”

Rafe stared at the maw of the pistol. “I don't want to die. But I ain't feared of it, neither.”

“I'm gonna see you gelded, boy. Have your balls and pecker in a jar of wood alcohol and put in on the mantelpiece. How do you like that idea? Pretty good?”

Rafe did not show the tight, gut-feeling of fear washing over him. Had Ezra discovered …? And yet, how could he? He'd been in Natchitoches, arrived home only minutes ago, for Rafe had seen him through the window when the shay drove up. Surely he hadn't stopped in Claytonville on the way, for how would he know Micara was there? Still, Micara might have found some way to flaunt her indiscretion to her husband and so sealed Rafe's fate. Or someone, some quiet watcher, might have seen her in the night and, to curry favor, told the master of his wife's infidelity. Ezra seemed uncertain and Rafe took the chance and assumed he didn't really know. “I fought for you, Mistah Clayton. Even hatin' your guts the whole while, I fought for you. An' won. I figured you'd be grateful for the gold I won you.”

Ezra's face paled. “Don't try to fool me, nigger. You played stud to my wife. You rammed that black pecker of yours up into my wife and shot your damn stinking black seed into her belly. No nigger's going to get away with that. Not you, not anyone.”

Images of Julie flashed into Rafe's mind. Ezra could read the lie in a man's eyes so he had to say the truth. He drew himself up to his full height. “I haven't been with or done anything with your woman, Mistah Ezra.” And Micara's not your woman, Ezra Clayton, if everything Micara told me is true, Rafe added silently.

“You're a high and mighty nigger. Always have been. Just because my brother gave you a bit of education you think you're white.”

“I ain't never figgered I'm white,” Rafe answered contemptuously.

“How many times did she sneak down here? Once? Twice? Every night I was gone? I'll bet she couldn't get enough. Bet you liked sticking it in a white woman, didn't you?”

“I ain't ever touched your woman, Mistah Clayton. You can believe me or not, but I know I'm talkin' true. Rafe don't lie, an' you not believin' what I say don't make me a liar.”

Ezra realized he had lost his temper, let Rafe have the edge and possibly made a fool of himself. He watched the pitbuck closely, looking for signs of laughter. None. The nigger had sense and did seem to be telling the truth. He stared long and hard into the black, unwavering eyes in front of him. They stared back innocently, boldly and calmly, without fear. He was determined the nigger would not beat him, determined he wouldn't get away without learning fear. Forcing himself to remain calm, he pulled the chair to the door and sat down, being sure to keep the pistol pointed at the black man. “You've won a great deal of money for me, Rafe. And you shall win more. Perhaps I can find another Beaumarchant. Would you like that?”

When Rafe said nothing, Ezra continued. “Beaumarchant hurt you, didn't he? Hurt you bad. You wept like a little pickaninny.”

“I didn't cry because he hurt me.”

“You cried. Like a pickaninny. I saw you.”

“But don't know why. Beaumarchant is dead,” Rafe added.

“There'll be others.”

The thought exploded full-blown in Rafe's mind, the sudden clarity of his decision surprising him. Rafe knew What he must do, knew where the three weeks of dreaming and sleep thinking had brought him. He knew, and a weight fell from him. Now there would be no more uncertainty, no more questions. He stood straight, facing the man with the gun. The white man. They stared at each other across the silent gulf, made vast by the pigments of their flesh. “I doubt it,” he said calmly.

“I doubt it,” Ezra sneered mockingly. “I doubt it. An educated nigger, too good for.…”

“Lord Lucas was a good man. He deserved respect.”

Ezra bristled at the implied comparison. “Lucas was a fool,” he countered harshly. “Giving an education to a pickaninny was a waste of time and money. Well, I've given you the only kind of education a nigger can use. I made you worth something.”

“Lord Lucas taught me readin' an' how to write. You taught me killin'. I killed for freedom, my freedom, and along the way I won gold for you. No Mistah Ezra, I made
you
worth somethin'. Me an' the rest of the pitbucks desperate enough to butcher an' die for a chance at a wagon, a woman, an' a place across the river. Only I'm thinkin' now that crossin' the river ain't worth it. Not when what's over there is bought with blood. I ain't no animal. I ain't no fightin' dog. I'm a man.”

“You're a nigger. My nigger. That's all you're ever going to be! A nigger with six fights left in him and each one rougher than the one before. You and Jomo for instance. You two bucks are close, but not so close as one won't kill the other. You'll be at each other's throats like animals. Folks will pay a pretty sum to see Clayton's two best pitbuck niggers hack each other to pieces.”

“They won't see nothin', Mistah Ezra. I decided, lyin' here all stove up. Ain't gonna be no more fights for Rafe.”

Ezra stood, his legs apart, a diminutive figure of terrible authority. “You'll do as I tell you.”

“Not if it's fightin' in your pit.” Ezra, his face white and drawn with anger, raised the pistol deliberately, his finger tightening on the trigger. Rafe watched impassively. “An' pointin' that pistol won't work,” he continued. “You shoot me an' none a' them'll ever fight again. What's the point of winnin' fifty fights if Mistah Ezra ain't gonna keep his promise? If the only freedom they gonna get is a bullet through the head there won't be one of them walkin' that path to fight for you ever again. They might as well take their chances on runnin' for the river, if they be gettin' shot anyway. Then where you be, Mistah Ezra? Where you be without your pitbucks? Where you gonna get the blood an' guts you like to watch?”

The gun lowered slowly. Rafe was right, Ezra had to admit. The nigger would have to be punished in the pit. Otherwise he'd be risking insurrection. Not that twenty or so darkies could do much against Butkis and his men, but a revolt would be expensive and hurt his reputation. Throw them in the pit and they'd fight, all right. More. They'd kill themselves off one by one and Rafe would be one of the first to go. In his mind's eye he could see the pitbuck dying slowly, painfully. A tight smile froze on his face. “It hurts me to think a nigger's right, Rafe, but for once I'm glad you are because I almost lost my temper and shot you. I am grateful, even. You stopped me from giving you a fast death. Now you may look forward to dying slowly. In the pit. You will fight again.”

“No.”

“I'll not send you to the fields, if that's what you're thinking. And you've lost your last chance to die fast. You'll go back to the compound to stay with the other bucks. I'll have you out of this house today. I know a dozen ways to make a nigger fighting mad and I expect Mr. Butkis can find a few of his own. By the time I'm done with you you'll beg for the chance to get down in my pit again. Only then it will be too late. You'll fight, but with fear in your throat slowing you down, helping you make mistakes. Little mistakes, big mistakes. You'll make them and I'll be watching from the rim of the pit, watching and waiting for you to cry again as you see death stalk, find and lay his hands on you. You'll cringe and cower like a dog and beg like the animal you are, and only then will I let you die.”

“I saw you ragged, Mistah Ezra. I saw you cold an' hunted. I saw you hungry an' wet an' beaten an' I know you for what you are. You can't ever forget that, Mistah Ezra. You don't know it an' ain't nobody but me gonna tell you, but you're a froth-mouthed dog, even in your fine shirts an' cultured ways. You dug the pit out there on that hill, but what you don't know is you dug another an' bigger pit. A pit you fell in, don't know you're in an' don't know how to get out a'. I ain't killin' for you ever again.”

“We'll see,” Ezra leered. And then he was gone, the door bolted behind him.

Ezra hesitated on the other side, realizing he had not settled the question of Micara. No matter. He'd save her rutting for later, save her infidelity for his confrontation with her. Whether or not she had actually lain with Rafe was of no import. He would accuse her and thus have excuse to be rid of her. Better yet, he'd never mention it to her; rather, send her to New Orleans and there spread the word of how she'd let a nigger have her. Later he would pretend to find out himself. By that time the nigger would be dead. He chuckled to himself. Both of them, by God, right where he wanted them. Micara's reputation would be compromised beyond all hope of repair and the nigger would die slowly and very, very painfully. He headed upstairs. Once inside he sent for Butkis.

Crissa and Micara arrived late, nearly at sunset, Crissa driving the team herself on her own insistence. She and her mother had passed a pleasant day with Rebecca Leahy, and for a few hours she had been able to forget her anxiety over Ezra's reaction to the restoration of her father's portrait. Now, the twin magnolias looming ahead, the hidden dread came into the open, strangely tempered by a sense of exhilaration. Did men, she wondered, feel that way when they went into battle? She stole a furtive glance at her mother. Rehanging the painting was Micara's idea, which surprised and delighted Crissa at the same time. Here was a mother she thought she'd lost, thought she'd never see again. The older woman's motives puzzled her but she feared to probe the newfound strength and confidence too deeply lest she accidentally discover something she didn't want to know, or worse, force Micara back into the fog of sherry and laudanum.