Rafe (36 page)

“Hell, we ain't goin' to dem fields agin,” one of the field slaves muttered.

“Yeah. Ah spent five yeah's workin' dat co'n an' Ah ain't 'bout to ben' mah back to it agin. Not while Ah is free,” another agreed.

Other voices chimed in their accord. Rafe held up his hand to quiet them. “Listen to me,” he shouted. “What you be gatherin' from the fields will be for
your
bellies. No one else's. No man is a slave when he workin' for himself. If you want to eat, you gonna have to pick crops.”

“Dere is troof in dat,” one of the blacks interjected. “Ah'll go. Ah done sweat ober dem crops. Ah got a right ta eat 'em.”

Others nodded in agreement and started toward the fields. “Pick what we can take with us,” Rafe called to them. “Corn. Beans. Don't take nothin' so ripe it'll rot before tomorrow. We gotta make each pound count. An' hurry back.” For a moment the crowd milled around, then moved out, split into two groups, half behind a field slave named Eban, the other half following Cat.

Crissa hurried to Rafe's side. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment. “I just figured you'd be with me,” Rafe said. “But you gotta choose for yourself. You can stay if you want.”

Crissa looked puzzled, uncertain of herself, of what she wanted to, what she should do. She thought of earlier that morning, the two of them together, blushed and turned away. Rafe would have called to her, but instinct warned him against it. Her decision would have to be her own, freely made.…

“Damn!”

Rafe crawled out from under a light Wagon on which he'd been working, one he wanted to take to Mexico with them. A half-hour had passed and the field hands would soon be back with their loads. Jomo stood atop one of the other wagons, staring in the direction of the fields. “What is it?” Rafe asked.

“Ha'f dem niggers never went to de fields. Dey follow-in' Cat down de road to town, an' damn near dere. Dat som'bitch done talked of burnin' de place, an' now it look lahk he goana try it. Ah neber figgered him fo' seein' it through. We best ride down an' get 'em back.”

Rafe jumped to Jomo's side in time to see the tiny figures in the distance disappear over the hill into Clayton-ville. “Let him go,” he sighed. “Only way to stop him is to kill him, an' I swore I'd not raise a hand against another black man again. There's an anger in those slaves. That town brought it on themselves.”

“Ain't time fo' no such foolishness as dat,” Old Chulem scowled. “Dem sojers from de fo't goana be showin' dere colors an' we bes' be off afore dey come.”

Rafe shook his head in disagreement. “Even if Mistah Ezra rode straight to the fort there ain't but twenty mounted horsemen there. Ever'body knows that. The rest is foot soldiers. They won't be bringin' jus' twenty men against us, an' it'll take a good while for them to round up enough horses for the others or to walk the distance. We got time.”

“But you don't.” It was Crissa, her face pale and drawn with worry. “I couldn't remember until just now. What Ezra said.… The fight today was to be in honor of a man named Pritchard from the governor's office in New Orleans. He was to spend last night at Fort Jessup. He was travelling with a heavily armed escort. They'll have horses enough, for they're all mounted.”

Mounted! If that were the case then they could well arrive during the morning. At any time, realistically thinking. If Ezra rode through the night he would have arrived at the fort around one or two in the morning. If the soldiers left at three or four.… Damn! Rafe managed to suppress the panic welling inside him. They had to get away from the plantation, get across the river as fast as they could.

“Jomo. Take the wagon to the fields, load what there is and get everyone back here as fast as you can. Head them toward the river. Trinidad, Dingo. Take the pitbucks to the river. Take anyone else you can find with you. Take axes and rope an' set to tyin' together some rafts. We got no time to try to get to the landin' an' that little ferry boat I doubt will still be there. An' be ready to fight. When you see us comin', soldiers may be right on our tails.”

Trinidad and Dingo left and started rounding up men and tools. Rafe swung into the saddle of a nearby gelding, one of the two mounts not hitched to a wagon. “Crissa,” he called down, “take the mare an' ride to the river an' wait for me. Help if you can but stay out a' the way if you can't. Find a place where you'll be safe until I get back.”

Crissa nodded and mounted the remaining grey. She noticed Bess watching her. The young black girl had not left Trinidad throughout the night and now she was alone, obviously lost without her man at her side. Crissa guided the horse close to her, held out her hand. Bess looked questioningly at Rafe, who nodded. The black girl smiled, took Crissa's hand and leaped up behind her. The two women galloped off, Trinidad, Dingo and the other pitbucks and the small crew they'd rounded up not far behind them.

Rafe watched them go, turned back to Jomo and nodded toward Claytonville. “If them soldiers catch Cat an' the fools with him in that town they'll be trapped with no way to run. I'm gonna get 'em out a' there if I have to gut me that damn nigger to do it.”

Jomo grinned despite the urgency of the moment. “You done tol' me you swore.…”

“To hell with what I swore,” Rafe said vehemently. “I can't let one fool drag the others down with him.”

And then they heard the shots.

The citizens of Claytonville had watched in horror as the flames and gunshots wracked Freedom Plantation. Many had made their way to the top of the hill outside town, from which the fire was plainly visible. Some had ridden down the road to help but then rode back again, bearing frightening tales of carnage. In the end no one made an attempt to offer any assistance to the beleaguered plantation. Why should they? An insurrection was a dangerous thing. Someone could get hurt, killed even. Ezra Clayton could handle his own niggers. Few of the townspeople liked living under Clayton and none wanted to die for him. When they saw the owner pound through town they knew he was on the way to the fort. The army would arrive in the morning and take care of the slaves.

But night wore on and in the early pre-dawn hours their
laissez-faire
attitude gave way to one of concern. No soldiers had come. What if the trouble should spread? They were only three miles from the main house and it wouldn't take long for a bunch of aroused slaves to make the march and attack the town.

Men armed themselves and left their homes in the outlying district to help barricade the main street. Two wag-onloads of women and children were sent east toward Jessup. Riders came and went, bringing news and bits of information, half-false, half-true. By daylight a ragged line of townsmen and a smattering of hunters and trappers eager for a fight lined the makeshift barricade across the street. They waited nervously, sleepless and tired, afraid for their women and children.

It was down this road the slaves marched. Nearly seventy-five men and women armed with guns, hoes, pitchforks and machetes. Cat had worked his followers up to fighting frenzy, calling to mind the cruelty and injustices perpetrated against them by their white masters. By the time they reached the hill above the town the burning hatred for their oppressors had been fanned into a white-hot flame. At the top of the hill they stopped to look down on the town, then started again, an inexorable black tide walking quietly, grimly, faces set in deadly purpose and following Cat into the very maws of rifles and muskets brought against them.

The quiet morning exploded in gunshot, flaming powder and smoking rifle barrels. Those of the blacks who had firearms returned the fire, though with no training the shooting did little more than lay a haze of black powder smoke in front of them, ruining the aim of those behind the barricade. When they swarmed over the wall of wagons and boards by sheer weight of numbers the trappers decided to abandon the fight and left as quickly as they had ridden to join. The townspeople ran to their stores and homes, hoping to protect what valuables they could.

Black Bedetta stood on the balcony of her brothel at the far edge of town. She watched and laughed, her corpulent frame quivering with each guffaw. Two of her girls—well-trained and with the scars to prove it—squatted to either side of her. Their hands toyed beneath the madam's dressing gown, titillating their mistress, bringing a shudder of ecstasy to accompany each echoing gunshot. Sweat beaded her brow and she laughed boisterously, then caught her breath and moaned. This was good. Her girls knew their job. Someone had fired a building. Another followed, going up in a billow of smoke. Shouts and frantic screams filled the air. A man, his head bloody, staggered past the brothel just beneath her. Reverend Leahy. A pity he had never come to call. He would have. His kind always did. She peered away to the southeast. From her vantage point she could see, far away but coming at a steady trot, a detachment of men on horseback. Soldiers. How exciting. There would be a real fight, and after the fight, business enough to last her a week. She patted the girls. How lovely they were, how dexterous their fingers. Black Bedetta was having a good time.

Joe Terson's precious window was broken by Joe Terson himself when he went flying through it. A shard of the glass painstakingly protected all the way from New Orleans tore a bloody furrow across his chest as a burly field slave tossed him through the etched “T”. When the slave turned the woman had disappeared, escaping through the back door and leaving the dry goods and foodstuffs to the rapacious attackers. She circled around to the street and desperately attempted to drag Joe from the board porch. His face was cut and blood was in his eyes. The gash on his chest was deep and needed attention. “I tried, Abby,” he moaned. “That goddamn Elmer run off. But I tried.”

“I know you did, husband,” Abigail said, frantically trying to lift him to his feet. She wanted to remind him she had warned him about Ezra Clayton and the trouble he would bring, but the sight of the bloody, bowed man at her feet caused her to suppress the words, replace them, possibly for the first time in years, with protestations of endearment and encouragement. “Oh, Joe, please! You got to get up,” she wept. “Joe? Please, Joe?” She tugged at his arm without effect. He was unconscious.

A rough hand pushed her aside. “Here's two more dat got dere debt ta pay.” Cat faced them, a stiletto in each hand.

“Leave him alone,” Abigail screamed, throwing herself at the lithe black man who threatened her and her husband. A knife point cut her deftly on the check and she screamed and fell back. Cat stared at her, his eyes crazed with bloodlust nurtured by years of hate. Joe Terson had laughed at him, even bet against him. “Goana gut dat ol' man an' leave him ta die, den cut yo' titties off, woman, less'n yo' runs real fas'. Yo' bettah run whiles yo' kin, o' stay an' watch. I'm goana stick 'im lahk a hog.”

Abigail fell to her knees, tried to cover Joe's unconscious form.

“Leave them alone!”

Cat turned as Rafe leaped from his mount. “You blood-crazy as Mistah Ezra. Look what you doin'. More killin' an' bein' killed jus' like in the pit. No diff'rent from the white folks who watched. There ain't no call for this. You a fool, Cat. Long as you got that hate, you still ain't free.”

Cat didn't say a word. He lunged at Abigail, his knives slicing down. Abigail screamed. Cat continued, his momentum carrying him as he fell dead by her side, his spine cracked open, the great nerves severed. Rafe had been quicker. Always had been. He sheathed the bloodied cutlass.

Abigail stared as if frozen to the spot. Desperately her mouth tried to move but no words came out. The black man lifted her husband's inert form as if it weighed no more than a doll and draped it over the horse he had been riding. “Take him away from here,” he said to the trembling white woman, handing her the reins. “Get him away and patch him up.”

Abigail nodded dumbly and lead the animal past Rafe, toward the forest bordering the town. She stopped momentarily to look back at the scarred giant who had saved their lives. He had killed one of his own kind to save her and her husband. Why? Why had he done it? The giant black was staring at the town and its pillagers, newly freed from bondage. How sad he looked, she thought. Which just proved there was no accounting for niggers. Abigail Terson frowned tightly and walked the horse to the safety of the trees.

18

Rafe realized the futility of any attempt to lead the rioting slaves from the town. The field slaves, after having endured Ezra Clayton's mistreatment for so many years, were in a frenzy of righteous destruction. The hour had come for them to demand retribution and exact payment and not one man, not even Rafe, had the power to stop them. Several buildings were aflame and the roadway was littered with piles of plunder. The slaves were milling in the street now, squabbling over the booty, arguing over which building to fire next. Rafe had to try. He jumped atop a wagon and called for them to listen, to follow him back up the road.

Bedetta had been the first to see the soldiers; Rafe was the second. The horsemen galloped into town, sabers drawn and gleaming in the sun. At the rear of the column, coatless and pistol in each hand, Ezra Clayton guided his mount recklessly, spurred on by demonic rage against the slaves who had revolted against him. Rafe leaped for cover behind the wagon, momentarily cursing his previous generosity in giving away the horse. No point in brooding. Escape was all.

The field slaves were caught in midroad and the soldiers rode them down. A few of the blacks had kept their firearms close at hand but of these only one or two had remembered to reload and their isolated shots offered no more than token resistance, ignored by the soldiers. Only the amount of goods littering the road served to retard the horses as they thundered toward the surprised blacks.