Rafe (32 page)

The room darkened as evening folded around the house. Tomorrow morning she would go out and find Pa-Paw Ephraim if it took all day. Find and somehow convince him to accompany her to New Orleans. At least one part of the Freedom she had known and loved might be saved. An old man.

The sky burned crimson and gold, bidding colorful farewell to a sun passing beyond the lip of the world. Rafe peered through the compound walls and watched the colors fade as evening overcame twilight and a chorus of cicadas in the trees signalled the end of another day. A torch flared, illuminating the front of the cook shack. A heavy-gutted Negro emerged from the wooden hut clanging an iron ladle against a strip of metal. Behind him a youngster struggled with a heavy iron pot of beans, rice and pot likker. Supper was late and the pitbucks, almost too tired to eat, shuffled wearily across the compound.

The guards had kept them cleaning swampland from can-see-to-can't and there was not a man among them who wasn't bone-tired. All had worked except Rafe who was forced to stay behind, ostensibly because he was still healing. The idea had been Butkis's, a plan to work up the other slaves' animosity toward the giant. Jomo, his plate already full, stepped forward and handed Rafe a plate and spoon. Most of the other pitbucks glared at the two from under brooding brows. Others looked away, either in disgust or fear, as Jomo left to squat down near the shack to eat and Rafe took a place near the end of the line. The men, resenting deeply the wrath he had brought down on their heads, ceased talking, shifted uncomfortably, none wanting to be near him. One pitbuck refused to stand behind him. “Ah a man,” he grumbled. “Ah doan needs ta stan' behin' de lahks a' him.”

Cat was at the head of the line. When he heard the angry answering buzz behind him he turned, saw what was happening and pulled his tin away from the cook's outstretched hand.

“What de hell?” the cook muttered. “Yo' wants food o' doan yo'?”

“Sheeit,” Cat spat. “Dat mus' be food fo' de dawgs. Dey is a dawg in dis line awaitin' fo' his food. Ah doan eat de same vittles as no dawg.” He stepped out of line, staring back at Rafe. The young pitbucks ahead of the towering black man looked at each other and at Cat, then followed their leader's example and walked away from the cook shack to cluster around Cat or stand out of the way.

Rafe feigned unconcern. The cook, his mouth open in surprise, stood on the edge of the porch, the ladle in his hand full of the steaming gruel. All in all, fourteen pitbucks had stepped aside. Rafe glanced at them, then slowly walked the distance to the cook and held up his plate. The cook stared at the empty plate as if he'd never seen one before, as if suddenly the harmless utensil bore a threat. Then the weight of the ladle bore his arm down and he dumped the food into Rafe's plate, filling it to the brim. Rafe glanced at Cat a moment, his eyes betraying his inner thoughts not a whit. Cat insolently held his ground. Everyone, the guard at the gate, the pitbucks, everyone knew Rafe was far below his normally fine-honed peak of condition. His weeks of confinement could only have served to rob him of much of his prowess, and his weakness was obvious in the way he had meekly submitted to a whole week of indignities from the guards and now this latest blatant insult from one of his own kind. Cat was confident and bold because he knew he could get away with more than usual. Yes, sir, he thought, Beaumarchant was the best thing to happen in a long while. The boss was just another nigger, and a gutless one at that. Rafe turned away and squatted in the shadow at the side of the shack, in the open space between it and the side of the long house.

“Now dat de dawg's been fed, Ah reckin' us mans kin eat,” Cat laughed. The others joined him in line, their raucous jibes and laughter filling the night air.

Dingo and Trinidad, the two inseparable friends, squatted beside Jomo. “What Ah tell yo'?” Dingo asked in a low voice. “Yellah tru' an' tru'. Hell, if'n Cat done try dat wid any o' us, he fin' hisse'f countin' his teef as he pickin' 'em up off'n de groun'.”

Trinidad shook his head from side to side. “Yo' wrong. Ah slip on ober ta see Ol' Chulem. He doan figger Rafe fo' bein' afeared. Sumpin' else wrong. He say he cain't tell fo' shore what, but it abuildin' an' acomin' ta a reckinin'. Rafe got a poison in him, jes' abuildin' up, an' when it bus' opin, yo' bettah watch where yo' be standin'.”

Jomo said nothing as the two left to get in line. There was nothing to be said. Time now to wait. He had a gut feeling. Something, an instinct perhaps. Whatever, he was prepared. N'gata Rafe would have a friend when a friend was needed.

The gate to the compound swung open. Butkis, Milo and one of the duty guards entered. “Where is he?” Butkis growled.

“Over by the cook shack,” the duty guard offered. “I been keepin' an eye on him, like you said, Mistah Butkis.”

“That black son-of-a-bitch is gonna fight tomorrow or I'll know the reason why. He's about to break, startin' about two minutes from now.”

“I'm keepin' my pistol handy,” Milo said apprehensively.

“No need,” Butkis sneered. “Put it in yore belt an' show him how much we ain't scared of him. That black buck got cut down to size. Bit down, I should say,” he chuckled, pleased with his own joke. “He ain't half a' what he used to be. He'll be in the pit tomorrow, fightin' scared. By the time I'm finished there won't never be another nigger that won't fight when I tell him.”

Rafe sensed their approach. The other pitbucks grew silent and shifted positions to better see what would happen. Rafe tensed for what was sure to come—more of the treatment he had put up with for the past week. He had endured in the hope they'd give up and send him to the fields. They hadn't and he was tired now, trapped and weary, harried and confused. They were pushing him into a corner, a corner with only two exits, one of which he would have to take, neither of which he liked, both of which he feared. Now it was only a question of time. How much longer before he'd break and go down in the pit again to fight for the man he hated? How much longer before he'd turn at bay, bring ruin on himself and those around him?

Butkis stood over him. The overseer sucked in his barrel-gut, flexed his broad muscular shoulders and planted his feet wide apart. He spoke gutturally, the words nasty and digging deep. “Nigger, how long you figger you gonna make these here other bucks do yore work for you?”

The pitbucks edged in closer, apprehensive and curious at the same time. Jomo stood in the shadows and moved silently to a position nearer Rafe, signalled for Trinidad and Dingo to follow him. Rafe spooned a mouthful of food from his still full plate, chewed slowly and swallowed.

“Nigger, I'm talkin' to you. We been lettin' you play the high an' mighty amongst these bucks long enough. Jus' cause you turned yella', jus' cause you ain't got the guts no more, don't matter. Mistah Clayton wants you to fight an' I told him you would. No big buck nigger is gonna make me out a liar. Tomorrow you are fightin', an' if I got to come here an' drag you so much the better.”

Rafe spooned another mouthful of the greasy rice and said nothing. He heard the rasp of steel against leather, caught a gleam of the cutlass blade out of the corner of his eye. A second later the point pressed into his neck, the pressure slowly increasing until a trickle of blood began to well around the metal and trace a crooked line as it ran down his chest. Rafe held steady, refusing to move in the slightest rather than risk a real wound.

“Yore food looks a mite dry, nigger boy. Reckin' I oughta moisten it up for you.” The overseer's thick, stubby fingers unbuttoned his fly and freed his manhood, guided a stream of foul-smelling urine into Rafe's tin plate. The urine spattered in the rice and beans, mingled with the grease. The sound was deafening in the silence of the compound. Rafe lowered his head to keep his face from being splattered. Butkis was laughing, a deep, rocking, malevolent laugh. Milo and the other guard, afraid not to join, were caught up in the overseer's mirth and guffawed loudly. Butkis sighed, chuckled in relief and shook off the last drops. “I want to see you clean that plate now, pickaninny.”

“He ain't got no meat fo' his beans, Mistah Butkis,” Milo exclaimed with mock sympathy.

“That's so, Milo. Stand up, nigger. You scared yella', let's see if you so scared you done give us a little meat ta fill out that gruel. If you have, we gonna put it in there an' then stand here 'til you eat everything in yore plate. Got to get yore strength back, so I want you to sop up every bit. Every drop, too.” He broke into a fit of renewed laughter.

The point of the cutlass dropped away as Rafe stood, tin plate in hand, head bowed. Butkis slid the blade down along the inside of Rafe's muscular thigh, slicing the fabric of his breeches. Rafe's eyes were shut. He could hear the crackle of the flaming torch, the cicadas, the whispering wings of the hunting night owl, the subdued tones of frantic, scrambling prey, the laughter of the guards. Eyes shut, he could still see their faces. The scene shifted to Beaumarchant in the firelight. The wolves. The Indians and before them slaves from miles away, black and frightened and dying beneath his machete, over and over again. Still earlier, the red-bearded one, the first man to die by his hand. And then fire again, Lord Lucas Clayton's charred corpse, clutching twin-burned remnants of flesh and bone … still further the flesh-peeling chains … further still, squatting, lying in the hold of the ship, a boy torn from his homeland, fettered, beaten and afraid … the death of his father as he hurled himself between the muskets and his child, too frightened to run. Someone had laughed even then … my father.… my father…

The moan began deep within him. A moaning, keening wail of anguish that exploded in a blind and raging fury. His knotted left hand battered the cutlass away as his right hurled the plate full of beans and rice and mine in Butkis's face. The overseer, blinded and choking, flailed wildly with his hands. Rafe's fist slammed him back. Left fist and right, bone hard and awesome black, the swinging clubs crushed Butkis's chest, knocking him back against the wall of the longhouse, the wind smashed from his lungs, his mouth futilely gaping open for air. Rafe's fists splintered ribs, crumpled breast bone and drove hard white splinters through viscera. Blood bubbled from the overseer's nose, poured from his mouth. The powerful fists struck again and again, giving the lie to Rafe's supposed weakness and failing strength. Blows too numerous, falling too rapidly to count. And then he stopped. Butkis, his heart a burst ruin, bits of lung crushed against his spine and driven up into his throat, slowly slid down the wall, his legs buckling grotesquely as he fell. It had all happened so quickly no one moved. Milo and the duty guard stared on, horror-stricken, unbelieving. Butkis was dead.

The pitbucks were stunned. Milo suddenly burst into action. He drew and cocked his pistol and raised his arm to aim at Rafe. A flash of unexpected steel whirred in the torchlight and the pistol fell uselessly to the earth, Milo's hand still clutching the grip. Milo stared in horrified fascination at the spouting crimson stump where hand and pistol should have been, unable to understand what had happened even as Jomo turned, swept the cutlass back and slashed him across the throat to stifle his scream. The other guard turned to run clear of the buildings and into the compound but Trinidad took three quick steps, tripped him and sent him slamming to the ground where Dingo grabbed his knife and sunk the blade in the writhing body, making sure to keep one hand over the youthful guard's mouth. The blade ripped into him five times before he died.

Milo continued to thrash a moment more. The pitbucks ignored him, except to dodge the blood spurting from his slashed throat. His vision dimming, Milo could barely discern the black faces surrounding him. And for just a moment, he thought he saw Patrick Fitzman sprawled on the earth beside him, frantically writhing, futilely clutching his torn throat, trying to tell him something. Milo listened, waited for the awesome truth. Too late. The last of his blood puddled on the hard clay and he died without having heard one word.

It was all over.

Jomo handed the cutlass to Rafe. The smaller man grinned. He, Trinidad and Dingo had acted in a matter of seconds. “What now, Boss?”

Rafe looked at the faces ringing him, the contempt of the last week replaced by total awe. They looked at him, each silently asking the question only Jomo had voiced. He gripped the cutlass for the second time, recalled the easy balance. Now it was his weapon. Light from the torch in front of the cook shack bounced from the bright steel and colored his scarred face with a grim red and yellow mask of diabolical intent, matched only by the hatred smouldering in the depths of his eyes.

When he spoke his voice was soft and clear, no longer trembling with rage but confident, menacing and fiercely determined. The time for fear and indecision was over. “We take our freedom,” he said calmly.

16

Rafe studied each face. Eye-to-eye he considered the pitbucks separately, carefully, looking for signs of indecision or fear. When he came to Cat he lingered a moment longer until the thin, hot-blooded youth shrank back before the fierce stare. The killing of Butkis and the others left Cat totally unprepared. He had feared the overseer but feared the man who killed him even more. He had thought Rafe beaten, and called him a dog. Now the giant had risen and lesser men must tremble. “We're all together now. Say so if we ain't.” Rafe spoke softly the words directed to all, but specifically to Cat.

Cat shook his head, “no,” quickly changed it to “yes.” “Ain't a nigger among us won't be held ta 'count fer killin' dese men. Ah din't ask fer no sech trouble,” he muttered in a voice betraying his nervousness

“Ask or no, you got it, an' no choice offered,” Rafe said matter-of-factly. “Tonight we takin' our freedom. Cat here's talkin' like a whupped dog, but I'm sayin' that come mornin' we'll be free.”