Rafe (34 page)

Suddenly the screams ceased and a heavy, ominous silence broken only by distant shouts lay over the shanty town. Decater shuddered, cowered in the dark shadow of the overhung roof. What was going on? Who was shooting at him? Where did they get guns? He glanced around the corner. Flames were leaping high from the roof of the main house. No one would come to help him for they'd all be there, trying to put out the fire. He was on his own. A bunch of dumb niggers, that's all they were. He jerked his head at a new sound—gunfire, and from the barracks! Jesus God, that's how they got guns! The damned niggers … a revolt! He'd have to escape now for sure. The hell with the house. The hell with Clayton. Decater had himself to worry about. He'd have to escape. But where? The safety of the trees? But how safe were they?

Forms moved toward him out of the night. He shouted for them to stand back. Damn that Butkis, he thought. He told, he must have told. He fired at a shadow. Nothing. Another shadow moved, flung itself toward him. He fired again. Only two more shots left, unless he could reload before.… Something hard slammed against him from the side. He tugged one of the laugher's pistols from his belt but it was knocked away immediately. Frantic, he groped for his knife. Fists slammed into his mouth, sent him staggering back into the wall. He slashed with the knife and felt a hand on his wrist, the knife plucked easily from his grasp. They had him. They had him! He shrieked for mercy, to be let loose. “I didn't mean her no harm,” he screamed. “I was nice to her, give her peppermint,” he sobbed hysterically.

The hands quit hitting him, kept him pinned to the ground. “What yo' sayin', white man?”

“I didn't mean to kill her. I swear. She was a good girl. We was just funnin' until she went ta screamin' an' yellin'. I just tried to hush her up an' she hit her head. It was an accident, no matter what Butkis tole you. He was there. He seed it. He's guilty, too.” And then he stopped, realizing what his fear and panic had caused him to blurt out.

A woman's voice, deep and resonant, came out of the darkness. “Mistuh Butkis tole us nuffin but dat mah Beulah be foun' daid. Now yo' tellin' us who done it. She was mah chile.” There was silence for a moment until the voice went on, deep and wounded before the tears started. “A fool girl to go off wid de lahks a' yo', but mah little chile all de same.…”

“I seen Butkis,” Decater started. “He come.…”

“Mistuh Butkis done come to check on us ever' day. Dis day was no diffrent from none oder.”

“But he ain't never checkin' agin'.” Decater shrank from the new voice. Jomo! Here? A torch flared. Decater tried to shield his eyes but couldn't move his arms. Jomo stood over him, his axe gleaming.

A fat, ungainly woman swam into focus. “Mah chile,” the woman said, her voice husky but strong, overpowering Decater's cries for mercy. “He kill mah Beulah. Said it hisse'f. Oh, Lawd … an eye fo' a' eye, a life fo' a life.…”

Fingers, work-hard, calloused and blunt, tore at him. The other slave women joined in while the men held back and watched. Jomo tried to hurry them toward the main house but the women were not to be denied. And worse for Decater, they were not to be rushed. Decater screamed until his voice was a hoarse, ragged shriek. Blood dripped from a torn ear. He felt his pants torn from him and an awesome pain rip through his groin. Something tore at his right eye. The women were making sure he died slowly. They had their ways.…

Ezra ran back in from the rear gallery. Flames were lapping at the walls on every side of the house. The lower storerooms had been set ablaze first, the kegs of coal oil spilled and fired. Only the heavy plank flooring was retarding the flames' eager progress, and that not for long and only inside the house. Where were the guards? Where was Butkis? What the hell was happening and why the shots?

Too late, damn it to hell. Too late even if they arrived on the moment, buckets in hand and full of water. How could a fire have started? Who? Julie and the other servants were beating at the flames with rugs, hoping to smother the spreading blaze. They did little more than delay the inevitable. Ezra rushed to the landing and hurried up the stairs to find Crissa in the hall, pounding on the door to her mother's bedroom.

Suddenly suspecting the worst, he shoved Crissa out of the way and drew his pistol to shoot the knob and lock away. The door slammed open and he leaped inside, Crissa right behind him. Micara stood poised by the window, coal oil lamp in hand. She smiled at both of them and, laughing maniacally, flung the lamp against the lace curtains. “You can have your house, Ezra,” Micara laughed. “It's all yours now. All yours!”

Ezra screamed in rage and hurled himself upon her, knocking her down and pummelling her with the pistol butt. Crissa tore at him helplessly then lunged toward the bedroom fireplace. She grabbed the hearth shovel and slammed the flat side against Ezra's head, knocking him off her mother. He crawled away from Micara, staggered to his feet and, his head bloody, stumbled from the room, cursing them both. Crissa dragged her mother from the flame-swept curtains and sat her on the edge of the bed. Micara's face was a mass of cruel welts and bruises. One hand fluttered weakly, gripped the coverlet beneath her. She stared confusedly at the bed while Crissa soaked a cloth in the water basin at the side of the bed and started to wrap her mother's face in order to take her through the fire. A figure loomed over her and she turned, hands lifted to protect herself. It was Ephraim. He was breathing hard, his eyes wide with fear.

“Oh, Pa-Paw. Help me.…” Crissa managed, choking back the tears.

“Miss Crissa, Ah tried ta come tell yo'. At fuhst Ah was afeared an' hid lessen yo' pry it from me an' wind up lahk po' Mistuh Patrick, but den Ah couldn't let it hide no longuh. Yo' had ta be to'd. Ah tried, but de guard almos' ketch me an' Ah had ta run fo' mah trees.”

Crissa ignored him in her concern for her mother. “Pa-Paw, help me carry her out. We have to get her outside.” The room was filling with smoke and Crissa tugged at Micara, trying to pull her from the bed.

Micara held on to the post with one hand, stared at the bedcover held in her other. When she spoke her voice was soft and distant, dreamlike, tender, and without rancor for the first time in years. “John bought this beautiful spread for me. Dear John. We spent our wedding night beneath these flowers.”

“Mother, please. Not now, please. We have to hurry.”

Micara pulled her hand away. Lost in memory, she smiled at Crissa. “Your father used to snore so. I tried everything I could think of to make him stop. And then he was gone.…” She faltered, near tears. “I would give anything to hear that man snore again … to feel him warm and sleepy at my side.…”

Crissa stood and pulled at her. Ephraim, coughing violently, stooped to help. Micara didn't want to come, held tight to the post. None of them heard Ezra reenter the room. He held a leather packet of papers and a second pistol. His eyes searched for Crissa through the smoke.

And found her. “You little bitch!” he yelled. Crissa whirled to face him. “You did this. It all began with you. I'll end it with you, too!” Crissa returned his stare, her face flushed from the heat but eyes defiant. As smoke from the curtains billowed between them, Ezra raised the pistol, fired and ran from the room. Crissa didn't realize Ephraim had stepped in the path of the ball until the impact flung him backward into the wall, his life's fluid leaving a trail on the floor.

Crissa let Micara go. Weeping openly she crawled to the old man's side and cradled his head in her arms. “Pa-Paw.… Pa-Paw…” Ephraim opened his eyes. Pink foam flecked his lips and Crissa wiped it away. “Pa-Paw. Please.… Oh, God … please.…”

“Miss Crissa, yo' de pretties' …” He coughed, tried to smile around the pain. “Jes' lahk dat ol' cottonmouf. Jes' lahk.…” He was dead.

The whole downstairs was a raging inferno, into which Ezra descended, fighting his way to the library. He kicked open the door to see flames greedily consuming the book-lined walls. The gold was in his desk. Ezra braved the choking smoke and searing heat, tore open the bottom drawer and withdrew two heavy sacks. He turned in time to see Martinson, his massive, obese torso stripped and bleeding from a dozen cuts and torn open blisters, stagger through the door.

“Mistah Clayton. I called but couldn't find you.”

“Where the hell are Butkis and the others?” Ezra stormed, unable to hear the smattering of gunshots and musket fire being returned close at hand.

“They came at us, caught us by surprise. We had no warnin', headin' up to fight the fire.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“The pitbucks. They come at us out of the night. We turned guns on 'em but they were among us before we known it. An' Rafe was leadin' 'em.”

“Rafe!”

“Yessir. I seen him myself. He's like a devil. I shot him. I think I hit him but he kept on comin'. They'll be here next. There's only five of us left.”

Clayton considered briefly. Flight was the only reasonable course of action. He decided quickly. “Help me. We'll get out the front and cut our way to the stable.”

Martinson nodded. Ezra slung the bags of gold, joined as they were by a length of rope, over Martinson's flabby shoulders where they hung heavily, the rope biting deeply into the soft flesh. Like a dutiful beast of burden, Martinson followed Ezra out the front door.

Sporadic firing sounded at the rear of the manor but Ezra had guessed correctly and as the slaves attacked the back of the house, he and Martinson made their way unobserved around the south side to the carriage house and stable. Ezra held his rapier ready as they entered, ready for an attack from the inside.

The stable was quiet, the air cool after the inferno of the house. “Saddle the black gelding for me. I'll watch the door,” Ezra commanded. Martinson handed him the pistol and got to work. By the time he finished he was sweating even more profusely and his breath came in ragged gasps. He turned to another stall to saddle a rangy bay. “That's good enough,” Ezra said from behind him.

“But I got to saddle up the bay for me,” Martinson protested. He turned back to the stall and never saw Ezra raise the pistol behind him and fire from only inches away. The blast slammed the guard's head forward and blew out his face, splattering the stall with bits of red and gray.

Ezra threw the gold over the gelding's back and swung into the saddle. Frightened as he was, it took little urging for the animal to break into a gallop as he cleared the open doorway. Dingo leaped from the shadows at the fleeing horse. His hands clutched at Ezra's clothing and the pitbuck half managed to clamber into the saddle before Ezra slammed the hilt of his rapier down on the pitbuck's skull. Dingo slid from the horse and his hands clutched around the first thing they found, the rope across the animal's back. Falling, he dragged the gold with him. Ezra hauled on the reins and started to dismount but a shot sounded nearby and figures rushed him out of the dark, almost hemming him in. He cursed aloud, dug his heels into the gelding and galloped past the hands reaching to tear him from the saddle. Seconds later he was free of the front lawn and had disappeared into the night.

The back door burst asunder as Rafe charged through. He shouted Crissa's name, knowing full well his voice was a feeble whisper compared to the roar of the flames. A beam crashed in front of him as he neared the stairway. He leaped over it and ran up to the top floor, for he had caught a glimpse of a body lying near the top of the stairs. Crissa was draped on the steps where she had collapsed while attempting to drag Micara to safety. Micara's eyes were open wide and glazed by death.

Rafe lifted the girl from her mother's prostrate form, held her gently and began picking his way back down the stairs. A shower of sparks from a crashing segment of ceiling billowed around them but Rafe battered his way through, burning his arms and back, carrying Crissa in his arms to protect her from falling debris. Above him the rest of the ceiling was sagging, the beams clearly visible. A wall to his left collapsed. The front door was open wide and the wind from it stirred the corridor into a tunnel of flames lying between Rafe and safety. Without thinking he broke into a run, blindly trusting to luck the floor underneath them had not yet given way. Behind him the ceiling beams came down with an immense world-shattering groan. Rafe felt his pounding legs, sensed the fiery collapsing brimstone death around and above him.

And then a rush of cooling air and the steps down from the gallery to the ground. He was through. The beams exploded at his heels and burst into flaming shards as the house of Freedom collapsed on itself.

17

Like gaunt blackened bones the remnants of the house thrust bleakly into the pre-dawn darkness. Tenuous wisps of smoke swirled and drifted lazily, rose to join the mist seeping from the dense foliage. Birds neither chattered nor scolded among the nearby trees. No inquisitive animal came to poke or paw the ruins in search of food. Even the insects were strangely hushed. The world waited for the morning, waited and wondered what would happen next.

Crissa had dreamt of flames and dead wide eyes, of gaping wounds and billowing smoke. She watched her mother's face distort in maniacal laughter, saw her hurl the lantern over and over again. She had felt the flesh blister along her arms as she fought to drag the dying woman to safety, and though at the last she knew Micara was dead, kept struggling because she could think of nothing else to do, struggling down a miles-long corridor filled with choking smoke, her feet dragging, dragging ever so slowly. Pa-Paw kept jumping in front of her and getting shot again and again until his head was a bloody mutilated pulp. She bolted awake, calling for the old man who had saved her life and found instead Rafe's strong protective arm about her. Rafe, who had braved the flames and carried her to safety at last. She drifted back to sleep, deep and past dreaming.