Rafe (31 page)

Butkis and two guards were escorting a heavily manacled Rafe away from the house as the carriage pulled up. Micara went pale at the sight, ordered Crissa to stop near the men. “Wait,” she called to Butkis. “Where are you taking him?”

Butkis waved the men on and approached the carriage. “The nigger's bein' sent back to the stockade, Miz Clayton.”

“But he isn't well yet,” Crissa interjected.

“Well, now, Missy, he looks fine an' dandy to me. Fit as a fiddle.”

“I order you to bring that man back immediately,” Micara commanded.

Butkis grinned and spat into the dust. “Can't do so, Miz Clayton. Mistah Clayton's orders. Get the nigger ready to fight afore Sunday, is what he said.” The overseer nodded curtly and walked away, paying them no more attention.

“He can't do this … he can't do this.” Micara stumbled from the carriage and hurried into the house, half running, half falling up the stairs to the lower gallery. Crissa jumped from the carriage and handed the reins to one of the servants. By the time she entered the house Micara had already fled to her room. Ezra was in the library and Crissa went in to confront him. She stopped and stared at the ravaged painting of her father. “You … heathen,” she swore. “You despicable, unconscionable swine.”

Ezra unconcernedly sipped his brandy. “There is a boat out of Natchitoches for New Orleans. It leaves a week from tomorrow. You and your mother will go to see your good friend nigger Rafe fight Sunday, drive to Natchitoches Monday and be on the boat Tuesday.”

Crissa stared uncomprehendingly at him. Ezra returned to his paperwork, dismissing her completely. He paid no attention when she left.

15

“Dat Beaumarchant put a yellah streak in him, dat's what Ah say.”

“Shut up, Cat, a'fo' yo' mouf done talk itse'f into a fist.”

“Yo' ain't got no call ta say dat ta me. Ain't got no call, Jomo. Ah ain't de one put all dis grief on us, dat got dem guards workin' us in de swamp an' runnin' de balls an' climbin' dat tall slick pole. Dat Rafe done it, him tell-in' Butkis he ain't goana fight t'morrah. De whole week bin worse an' gettin' worser. Dem niggers in de field doan sweat hab as much as we done dis week. An' all account a' Rafe turnin' yellah.”

Many of the other pitbucks nodded or muttered agreement. Jomo flared, defending Rafe. “Rafe got his reason. A man git dat hurt, he need time a'fo' tryin' ta git hurt agin. Dat's all.”

“An' mean whiles we gots ta keep bustin' ouah asses.”

“Tain't fair,” agreed Dingo. “Cat's right, Jomo.”

“He jump in an' fight dem wolves, standin' side by side wif me. If it weren't fo' him, Ah be in some dawg's gut by now. Rafe stood by me an' now Ah's goana stan' by him.”

“Dat was near two month ago. Pas' is pas'. Yo' ain't thinkin' right, Jomo,” Cat retorted. “Ever'body else feel diff'rent.”

“Yo' ain't speakin' fo' me,” muttered Trinidad.

“Hell, Trinidad, you knows Ah'm speakin' de troof,” Cat argued.

“Ah knows yo' speakin' an' nuffin' moah. Yo' always waggin' dat tongue moah den anybody else aroun' here. An' anybody who lissen to yo' got fools fo' ears.”

Most of the gathering chuckled at Trinidad's remark, but Cat lunged at the pitbuck who had insulted him. Trinidad doubled his fists to meet the attack but Jomo quickly stepped between the two of them, violently shoving Cat away. “None a' dat. Mistuh Clayton gib y'all de fightin' yo' wants. No use goin' at it when it doan count fo' nuffin'.”

Cat glared at both a moment more, then turned back to the younger pitbucks, to whom he was a leader of sorts. Jomo, Trinidad and Dingo walked together toward the shack that had once been Rafe's but was now assigned to Jomo.

“If he ain't skeered, den yo' tell me what got into him,” Dingo demanded. All three made a point of not looking in Rafe's direction. The black giant was squatting in the shade of the cook shack. Near dusk, the sun had yet to dip below the horizon and heat waves still shimmered between them.

“Doan know,” Jomo answered. “Touch a' fever still in his blood. Dat Beaumarchant could a' swatted him aside of de haid an' hurt him fo' sho.”

“May be, may not be. But dere jes' ain't no sense in gittin' Mistuh Butkis mad. All Rafe do is run an' exercise an' squat in de shade an' eat an' run some mo'. Doan speak to no one,” Trinidad observed.

“Dat ain't all,” Jomo added. “De way he jes' take what dey do to him. Took away his shack an' give it to me, dough I doan sleep in it none. An' dem guards trip 'im an' cuff 'im 'bout. He jes' get up an' keep on runnin', keep on workin'. Dey wake 'im up las' night an' make 'im run some mo' 'til he near drop. A man gotta be mussed up in de haid ta put up wid dat. An' he only gots ta fight six mo' time an' he be free. Cain't no one beat Rafe, 'cept maybe me. Him fightin' dis far an' jes' givin' up, Ah doan unnerstan'. Ah tells yo', dat Beaumarohant done hit him in de haid.”

Rafe watched them from the shade of the cook shack wall. He knew what they were talking about. The subject, betrayed by too many sideways glances, was obvious. Only one person on their minds. Only one result of their thinking—Rafe was afraid, had turned yellow. He looked at the stub of his little finger. Perhaps he was yellow. But only a little. Fear wasn't the reason for the way he was acting and he knew it. Crissa … no. Not her, either. She was gentle, but did not understand. Perhaps he was wrong, though. Perhaps she did understand, if only a little. There was another, a deeper reason which he could not fully explain. He felt his father would have understood. He would have known and been able to tell him, put his feelings into words, make a story to fit the action. But his father was dead, killed by the same slavers who had captured him, torn him from his home, his land and family. Yes, his father would have understood.

The urge to run again tugged at him. Each circumvention of the compound was a different jungle trail in his mind's eye, one of a hundred remembered paths from a lost world he would never see again outside his dreams. He rose and set out to run the river path where he had killed his first antelope, a young and not too cautious buck. There the hollowed trunk of a fallen tree, home of the fierce bees whose gathered honey he had robbed more than once. Then into the trail in earnest, ducking underneath wide, sweeping fronds, bursting through a cluster of vines, his eyes searching the low-hanging branches for the friendly tree snake, searching the path for spoor, for traps, for the poisonous fangs of the quick death-dealing mamba, hidden in the bush. Monkeys chattered overhead. A bird of brilliant plumage swept low to scold. Down into the winding, tortuous river bed, dry but for a few stagnant pools and soon to burgeon with flood water come the rainy season. Up to cut across the tracks of a lion and her cubs, heading for the grassy plains. And so it went, oblivious to the following eyes of the pitbucks and the jeering shouts of the guard on the gate. Every step took him farther away beyond the cruel reach of his captors. For a moment he was home.

Micara fumbled with the decanter, her fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. The bottle tipped and the sherry spilled onto the coverlet, staining it violet. Cursing, she set the bottle upright, holding it with one hand while reaching blindly for the glass with the other. Her eyes blurred. When they cleared, the glass was filled and the decanter was back on the night stand. A careful inspection showed no more spilled. Hands trembling, she choked back a sob by swilling half the contents of the glass.

He was gone. Back to fight and die in the pit. Never again would she feel his raw strength inside her. “My stallion … my black stallion.” Somehow the glass was empty again, drained. Numbed fingers let it slip away, drop and break on the floor. The slim green bottle was behind the pillow … behind the pillow. Laudanum would ease the choking pain, drown the agony in misty confusion. The bottle lifted, tipped of its own volition and the bitter almond-flavored fluid spilled down her chin and onto the lace-trimmed sleeping gown. She persisted, somehow managed to force down enough of the gagging liquid. Soon she would.…

Damn him damn him damn him.
Ezra had taken everything. Her person, house, land and gold. Corrupting and abusing all he touched, now he would drive her out. Rafe … his massive form. Rafe had taken her, too. Driven himself into her, ravaged her, driven her to the heights of ecstasy. How jealous they would all be, how appalled. Micara Fitzman Clayton and her Nubian lover. Fitzman. Oh, John, you went and died. Fish have eaten out your pretty eyes, just like in the portrait. Nothing but a great hole. You had such handsome features. Such beautiful eyes. Went and died … my stallion … you were my beautiful stallion … black.…

The alcohol and opiate exploded in her system, ruptured veins, burst and seared burning images in her brain. Her eyes grew wide and a quiet smile, an ugly smile, a resigned, tortured, resolute smile grew on her face as she staggered to her feet, reached for the lamp and lurched across the room to the door, oblivious to the shards of glass which cut her feet.

Ezra was pleased with himself. Sending Micara and Crissa away was something he should have seen to a long time ago. It would cost him a pretty penny to put them up in a house and send them an allowance, but appearances had to be maintained. All in all their expenses would be money well-spent, as long as he didn't have to pay forever. New Orleans was a perfect place. He would spend to buy time until he could arrange for their permanent disgrace and removal.

Meanwhile, life went on and he was determined to pay as little mind to them as possible. Sunday would bring a festive event. Ambrose Pritchard, from the governor's office, was on a tour of western Louisiana and had stopped in Natchitoches to visit the thriving jumping-off point between the United States and Mexico before turning north to Shreveport. He was in Fort Jessup this evening and tomorrow would lunch at Freedom where he would be given a special entertainment such as only Ezra Clayton could conceive or execute. Three fights were slated, the third of which would feature Rafe against two young bucks to be brought in from Natchitoches. Butkis wasn't making much progress with Rafe at the moment, to be sure, but that worried him only a little. Butkis was positive Rafe would break and Butkis had never let him down. The big black would be in the pit and he would fight. He would win, too, of course, but in his weakened condition would be hurt again.

Pritohard's visit was important. As a representative of the governor he carried a great deal of influence. It wouldn't hurt to have a man of his stature carrying fond remembrances of Freedom back to the capitol. Of course, there was always the danger Ezra's less than illustrious past might be recalled, but the chance was small given the ferment of activity in New Orleans during the last few years and the shifting of most of the Army people involved. In any case, Pritchard travelled in better company than Patrick Fitzman had. Ezra hoped to be appointed to a governmental position in the west. Perhaps a judgeship. If a man became powerful enough, even petty rumors couldn't touch him. As a judge he would have ways of ensuring silence.

The lord of Freedom sat back in his chair, lifted a snifter of brandy in salute to the disfigured portrait of the man he had finally vanquished, sipped his drink with closed eyes and envisioned a manor in New Orleans, a host of fine carriages, servants and women to gratify his needs. And men for a new fighting pit designed to make him the talk of the coast. And power. Yes, power, for what ambitious dream does not include power?

He did not see Micara stumble past the door.

Crissa stared at the trunk in the center of the room. Almost everything she owned was carefully packed in the well-travelled wood and leather box. The rest of her belongings were crammed into travelling bags arranged near the door and waiting to be loaded on the wagon to follow them to Natchitoches. She had resigned herself to departure.

At first she couldn't believe Ezra would go to such lengths to be rid of them, nor that he could so easily turn them out from their own home. Only Freedom wasn't theirs, she forced herself to remember for the thousandth time. She thought of Pa-Paw Ephraim. Why had he hidden from her? What was to become of her old friend when there was no one left to protect him? The answer was painfully obvious—Butkis and the others would hunt him down and kill him. No. Send him to the fields again, free or no. Or worse, the pit for more of Ezra's sickly sport. She almost wept, picturing the old man cowering at the bottom of the grisly hole, waiting for whatever horrible death Ezra could devise. She forced the image from her mind and thought of trying the door to Micara's room once again. A useless venture. Micara wasn't seeing anyone and that was that.

How sad this room looked. Sad and empty, soon to be let to revellers, no doubt. How she had loved the four walls. How many hours had she spent looking out the window, watching the red sun rise blazing in the east? For how long would she remember before the memories blurred and faded?

The day after Ezra returned, sent Rafe back to the compound and issued his edict of expulsion, she had sneaked down and ventured timidly into that other tiny, empty and lifeless room on the lower level. There she had cared for him, bathed and fed him. She fought for his life and won. How small a victory his life seemed now, but a victory nevertheless. While straightening the bed and fluffing the pillow she found the book.
Robinson Crusoe.
She could tell he'd been reading, discovered the page where the dream had been interrupted. The very thought excited her. A slave reading.…

Slavery was wrong. She knew it in her heart and soul. The coffle of manacled humans in New Orleans; the old man in the hotel lobby; the field hands, their spirits broken, their lives shattered; the pitbucks, men turned into little more than ravaging beasts. Ironically, she had never totally understood how degrading bondage was until Ezra forced his will upon her. She had journeyed unescorted from the north, a nearly unthinkable adventure for a young woman her age. She had arrived so cocky and self-assured, and in the face of Ezra's treachery had still remained confident of her abilities to deal with the situation, restore her and her mother's inheritance, and expose Ezra for the evil man he was. Now she faced the bitter truth. Everyone knew exactly what Ezra was. They simply did not care. Either they were just as corrupt or looked away lest they become involved and find themselves called upon to take action. Perhaps a few cared but they were as powerless as she. The proof lay in the trunk and baggage which lay scattered on the floor around her.