Rafe (35 page)

She stirred. Night had passed and he still slept at her side, his arm pillowing her. He lay on the ground, a dark, magnificently muscled figure of dormant power and deep-set endurance. What had he said about watching her?
“Just being …”?
Crissa's fingers traced along the back of his hand, up the firm unyielding flesh of his forearm. The shirt had been burned from his back and he was clad only in torn breeches. And what of her? Her garment was in tatters, but at her side, neatly folded, lay breeches, soft moccasins and a linen shirt, all obviously meant for her.

She looked around anxiously. They were in the garden near what was left of the house. Through the hedge of rose bushes she imagined she could see other sleeping forms. They would waken soon, for already the eastern sky was taking on a barely discernible tinge of pewter and gold. Vaguely she remembered Rafe assuming command and directing a series of preparations, of posting men to guard and watch for activity on the road from Claytonville. Indefatigable, he alternately cajoled and bullied the mob into a semblance of order, refusing to let them celebrate their victory with dancing and partying. Instead, he insisted everyone rest in shifts in preparation for the long day to come, the day he would lead them to the river and across into Mexico.

She dimly recalled the sensation of being carried into the garden, of Rafe's strong arms setting her down, his hand stroking her face, soothing her. She clung to the hand and drifted off to sleep. Later she awoke when he lay down near her and hushed her when she started violently and almost screamed with the terror of a dream interrupted. And then she slept again, her back to him, cuddled in the warm cavity made by his body around her. She sighed, wishing for a return to that warmth, that safety. But their secluded garden spot would not be theirs for long. There would be prying eyes.

A section of charred wood crumpled over and fell into the pile of ashes, making no more noise than a sigh. Crissa thought of Micara, of Pa-Paw Ephraim, of the home her father had.… No. No. Better not to think at all than continue on that course. Keeping an eye on the sleeping forms beyond the hedge, she slipped out of the tattered bodice, the ravaged fragments of her dress only barely concealing nature's gifts, the tone and firmness of hip, breast and thigh. The cool morning air tingled her naked flesh, refreshed and invigorated her, and in spite of the horrors of the night before she felt renewed and revitalized. Something evil, some horrid, necrotic malignancy had been expunged by the fire and she was surprised to find herself in an almost buoyant mood. The dewy grass beneath her buttocks was a cool invitation to sing for joy, to romp, frisk and play like some wild animal of the forest. She reached over and took the linen shirt, rising to her knees as she pulled it over her head.

Rafe watched her. Awake for several minutes, he lay quietly, scarcely daring to stir lest he disturb Crissa. He wanted to savor every moment of her body, warm and sleepy against his own. Suddenly she moved, got to her knees and stripped off the torn bodice, ripped the remnants of her skirt from around her waist. He had never seen her naked—never seen any white woman except for Micara naked—and his eyes narrowed with the illicit sight. He caught a glimpse of full breasts, each crowned by taut pink as she rose to pull on the shirt. Her thighs were pale and firm, buttocks rounded and whiter than white. A yellow petal fragment clung to one hip, pressed there by the pressure of her flesh and the moistness of the ground. The coarsely woven shirt reached to just below her waist. Still on her knees, Crissa leaned forward to fumble with the trousers, the shirt riding up her back. Rafe's hand, almost of its own volition, rose and fell lightly to the back of her knee.

Crissa stopped in midreach at the pressure of his hand. It was as if a cable had joined them, giving license to an interchanging flow of energy. The pressure of his hand made her tremble. Such a touch was forbidden, unspeakable, or so the social mores of her time instructed. But was this any more terrible than the slaughter of men for the amusement of their self-proclaimed betters? She doubted it. She had nursed Rafe back to health, bathed his fevered flesh, and he had risked life and limb to find and carry her to safety from the flaming wreckage of the house.

The sky was slowly brightening in the east Towering cumulus clouds hung gray and motionless, frozen in the new light. The stillness. The waiting stillness. Thoughts raced through her mind. I should run, she told herself over and over again, flee the touch of his hand, the fingers travelling the length of inner thigh, up to stroke and caress her womanhood already betraying arousal, moist with its musky, sweet fluids. Then the rustle of cloth and two hands gripped her hips and pulled her onto her side, returning her to the heated cove of his body. She went willingly, shuddering at the touch of naked flesh. Two ebony hands reached in front of her, glided over her flat belly and the honey-colored triangle of hair, provoked and titillated the very bud of her desire. She felt Rafe's swollen manhood throb against the curve of her buttocks and opened her legs, arching her back to receive him. The quivering organ pressed against the half-open lips, parted them and entered. Crissa moaned and her fingers clawed the earth in front of her and the very cavity of her being gorged itself as Rafe slowly slid into her. There had been a dalliance in Boston, but nothing remotely like this. She caught his hands and pulled them up to cup her breasts, increasing her ecstasy, then pressed herself to him, pushing, pushing until his entire length was deep inside her. Crissa felt him move, slide out and back in once … twice. She tried to reciprocate, but found herself frozen as ecstatic spasms ripped through her. Three times, four.… Neither could prolong the moment. Rafe's lusty climax sent Crissa into a series of similar convulsions. When the grinding waves finally stopped, Rafe pulled her close to him and both dozed in languid bliss.

Rafe woke a half-hour later, rested and calm, ready to face the day ahead. They were still together and he didn't want to leave the warmth, the pleasant resting place. Slowly he eased himself back, eased himself out of her and heard her small sigh as, still asleep, her body missed that which it had so deliciously held. Rafe rolled back, pulled on his torn trousers and draped Crissa's torn skirt over her slumbering nakedness. He rose to his feet, made his way past the hedge and stepped quietly off toward the crowd on the front lawn. The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when Jomo hurried over to his giant friend. The smaller man grinned broadly. “Ah got men loadin' de wagons, N'gata. Mistuh Clayton set quite a store fo' de guards. We got enuff pistols an' muskets fo' mos' ever' man.”

“Good. I'll roust out the others. We can't stay here any longer than we have to. Clayton got away an' maybe some others. They'll be sure ta bring help. I don't want ta fight any more than we have to. They,” he indicated the field hands, “don't know enough about fightin'. They'll run the first time someone fires at 'em. We have ta get 'em out an' across the river. Fast.”

Jomo nodded in agreement and ran off to oversee the gathering of provisions. Dingo and Trinidad were already instructing a gathering of field slaves in the use of musket and pistol. Painstakingly they explained each procedure of loading and firing, slowly went over the instructions again and again. Rafe aroused the sleepers in the garden. Julie was among them. She tried to catch his eye but he ignored her, crossing instead to the spot where he had slept with Crissa, only to discover she was gone.

Ezra's gold was still there. He slung the sacks over his shoulder and went back to the front lawn to find a milling, uncoordinated crowd of newly awakened slaves. Hastily he divided them, sending some to help Jomo and others to Dingo and Trinidad. That done he began to look anxiously for Crissa, finally spotting her standing under the half-burned magnolias in front of the ruins, dressed in the clothes he had left for her. He started toward her then hesitated. She was saying goodbye, putting the ghosts of the past behind her. This was a time for her to be alone.

Crissa stared at the empty, charred ruin of what had once been home, all brought to destruction because of one man and his greed. Ezra Clayton's ruthless ambition had exacted a terrible vengeance. Now all was ended. Or was it? Ezra escaped the wrath of his slaves, rode off into the night. To fight again? She couldn't imagine he wouldn't return. Not with the gold gone. There was something Rafe needed to know. Something she should tell him, but her mind was a welter of confused thoughts. The intimacy with Rafe, the loss of so much, Micara, Pa-Paw.…

Rafe studied her a moment longer then wandered away from the scene. Jomo and Trinidad had things under control and he took time for a brief moment alone for himself. He followed the path down behind the blackened ruins, past the barracks with its littered dead, past the compound ringed with cruel, iron-capped spires threatening the sky. The gate stood open and unguarded. He had never seen it so. Turning abruptly, he put his back to the compound and went on down the familiar dusty track of death to the pit. The peach grove was devoid of fruit, all of which had been gathered and either eaten or loaded for the coming journey. The grove was torn and shredded, limbs and branches ripped from the trees and littering the ground. The house burned, the guards dead and now the peach trees destroyed. Rafe could hardly blame anyone for the destruction, for when Ezra Clayton was in command all had reflected the master's power. He shook his head ruefully. How sad that a peach tree, its fruit forbidden to those who cared for it, should be a symbol of servitude.

He hesitated at the hard clay mound before him. It looked strange now, desolate, for no one ringed the pit and waited for him. Slowly he walked up the slight rise and to the edge of the hole in the ground. The hard clay felt cool under his feet, cool and silky smooth, as yet unwarmed by the sun. He stared down into the hole and faces, dim and shadowy, flitted across his consciousness. Would he never forget them? Carry them with him always? Yes. He thought of them often enough. With a sudden shock he realized he had known but few of their names. The red-bearded one. What was his name? The Indians must have been named by someone, must have been known by name to their companions. Beaumarchant, of course, had a name. He ran two-score faces past him, searching them for any sign of recognition. The five pitbucks he had fought were known to him by name. And the others? Only one he could remember. A very short, wild, totally unpredictable man, his face scarred horribly with a thousand mysterious tiny nicks. Thor, they had called him, and rightly so, for he fought with a hammer, a wicked, fourteen-pound maul with a two-foot handle. Thor had died, too, name or no.

Dreams of torches, laughter, far white distant faces, blood, the whining rush of steel.… How odd, the pit wasn't very deep at all, yet from the floor, standing there with machete in hand and waiting to kill or be killed, how towering the walls had appeared. Too bad there wasn't time. He would have liked to fill in the hell-hole, to remove the gaping maw from the earth forever.

“Rafe!”

Dingo's voice broke the somber reverie, startled Rafe with its urgency. He turned to see the pitbuck running toward him, his face nervous and unsure. “Boss, dere's trouble up by de wagons. Dat Cat is causin' grief, an' he tried ta take Miz Crissa.”

Rafe was moving before the sentence was out, hurtling back up the path. The mention of Crissa's name urged him to even greater speed. That damned Cat. If he so much as.…

He rounded the barracks and with a final burst of speed ascended the wooded slope, coming out behind a crowd of slaves, Cat at their head. An angry interchange was going on between Jomo and Cat. Rafe shoved his way through the field slaves who lost no time in making way for the wrathful figure. Most of the pitbucks were behind Jomo. Crissa stood alone, off to one side. She looked very tiny, very vulnerable, a single, frightened white in front of over a hundred angry, sullen black faces.

Cat ceased his shouting as Rafe drew near. Jomo wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a glistening sheen of moisture on his forearm. “N'gata, dis nigger gonna ever be a thorn in mah side,” he said angrily.

“Ah only sayin' what's right,” Cat defended himself. “Dat woman got no business heah. She as bad as de res'. She white an' dey all de same. Ah'm sayin' we do to her lahk her Papa done to us.”

Rafe glanced at Crissa's confused and frightened face then turned back to Cat. “You ain't touchin' no one, Cat. Crissa is goin' to Mexico with us.”

The words fell like a bombshell and a sudden brittle hush fell over the crowd. Julie stepped forward and strode defiantly to Rafe. “She ain't got no right. She's one a' dem.” Julie spat contemptuously. “Dat Miz Crissa jus' as bad as Mistuh Clayton, onlies' thing keepin' her purty white skin in one piece is dat Rafe cain't git enuff a' her bush. Black woman ain't good enuff fo' Boss.…”

Rafe slapped her across the mouth, knocking her down. “Ever'one here knows who shared Mistah Ezra's bed with him. Ever'one here knows who spread her legs for the white man she talkin' so bad about. Ever'body knows she done it glad. But,” he paused meaningfully, “ain't no one sayin' Julie can't go with us. Crissa was Mistah Ezra's enemy jus' like us. She wasn't his girl an' ever'body know it. So you watch your mouth, little girl.”

The crowd shifted silently. He turned back to Cat, took a menacing step toward him. “Now you, Cat, are tryin' me sorely. Best you get back to work an' keep your mouth shut. Crissa is goin' with us an' I ain't gonna talk any more on it.” He stopped, letting the words sink in. The field hands watched silently, eyes neutral.

“Now, we gonna spend some of this mornin' bringin' as much food as we can from the fields. Split up an' go to the field you're used to workin'. Ain't none of us know how much food we gonna find in Mexico, ain't none of us know how long we gonna have to run afore they stop chasin' us. That food's our only chance.”