Rafe (37 page)

Captain Steven Bennett rode with grim resolve. For the white South the spectre of a slave uprising was too much to bear. Insurrection was totally insupportable and could never be allowed. Tried before and always ruthlessly put down, those involved in revolution were invariably slaughtered, for if one group was successful another would try: the very social fabric would be torn asunder, ripped to shreds.

If the niggers were real people it might be different. But they weren't. Childlike at best, they were without honor, lacked the ability to reason and couldn't be depended upon any farther than the nearest white man could watch. When it came right down to it they were animals, no more and no less. Domesticated they were useful, even desirable. Wild or unruly they must be eliminated before they infected the whole herd.

These had pillaged and burned, stolen and destroyed. Ezra Clayton's plantation was in ruins, the town on fire. They had very probably killed Crissa. Or worse! Unspeakable fantasies of rape and torture raged through Steve's head and the young captain put the spurs to his horse and charged them, a scream welling in his throat. He brought his saber down in a vicious arc powered by hatred, fear and horrifying images of Crissa's fate at the hands of the black devils. He stood in the stirrups and wheeled the great bay, slashed to either side, felt with grim satisfaction as the blade tore into black flesh, shattered black bone and spilled black blood. Angry enough for wholesale slaughter, he was a vindictive butcher, a wrathful white god ridding the world of vile black vermin.

Soldiers broke away from the center of the main street to ride down fleeing individuals. Ezra held back, glancing anxiously up the high road, cursing the delay in town. What had happened at Freedom since he'd ridden off in the night? Were his crops and stock left? Even now Rafe and the cursed pit niggers might be escaping. They'd head for Mexico, of course. The thought galled him, drove him to distraction. They musn't get away! They could not be allowed to succeed, had to be punished, had to pay with blood for the destruction of his house and land.

It was fortunate Pritchard brought such a large detachment of mounted soldiers to Fort Jessup. Fortunate indeed. The niggers didn't know what real trouble they were in. They'd had their party, burned their buildings and tasted a day of freedom, but Ezra Clayton would have the last laugh, a long, hard laugh over their broken and bloody corpses, over their bent and beaten backs. He'd work them like the beasts they were, work them until they fell and then leave them lie, each and every one of them food for the buzzards. As for the son-of-a-bitch Rafe, he hoped they took him alive. He'd see him nailed to a tree and then watch him rot. The very thought of revenge was sweet.

A breeze stirred the embers, fanned the flames of nearby buildings. Smoke billowed to enfold soldiers and rebellious slaves in shifting curtains of somber gray. Rafe judged the distance to the plantation house and knew his chances of getting back alive were nonexistent unless he had a horse. There were horses aplenty, the only problem being the armed soldiers riding them. He had no choice. Hefting his cutlass he raced around the back of Terson's store, dodged a gust of twinkling fiery embers and bolted across the alley between the burning shell of the barber and surgeon's shop and the battered but unfired tavern. A black woman ran screaming out of the smoke, chased by a young dragoon, saber raised for a killing swipe. He didn't see Rafe, only felt the cruel bite of steel as he charged his horse past a dark shadow coming from the side of the building. The violent tug across his middle almost knocked him from his seat. To regain his balance he reined up, pushing himself forward in the saddle. Had he hit a branch? a rope strung between the buildings? He looked down, his eyes widening with disbelief. Something pink and white was spilling from his belly, oozing down the saddle and hanging in great loops from the pommel. And then wetness and pain. Blood welled from the gaping line across his belly. His hands lost their grip on the saber as he sought to catch the slippery loops, sought to staunch the blood. Stunned, he turned to look back at what he had ridden into. The effort toppled him from the saddle and he screamed … once. The horse walked a few steps, nervous with the smell of blood and the weight of the trooper dragging on the stirrup. A huge black man caught the bridle, freed the booted foot and sliced the dripping viscera from the saddle while the youth stared at him, pain clouding his vision in his dying moments.

Rafe swung into the saddle, noticing with pleasure the two horse pistols to either side of the pommel. He looked about but the woman had disappeared among the trees. There was no time for her now. He had to get out without being seen, get back to warn the others, get them moving across the river where they could make a stand and an escape. He prodded the horse with his heels and the animal broke into an easy trot, then a canter. Behind him the youth no longer felt the heat from the nearby flames. On the contrary, his face felt oddly cool. Then he felt nothing at all.

Ezra rode through the town, impatient to be done with the work at hand and move on to the plantation. Behind him Captain Bennett inspected and reorganized the dragoons and found only one man for whom he couldn't account. The road was littered with the corpses of the slaves. Some had been lucky and gotten away but they would be rounded up easily later. Under the circumstances any further pursuit was fruitless. Time now to get to the plantation and finish off the rest of them. Ezra walked his horse down the street, scanning every body for signs of recognition. He halted at Cat's corpse. The back of the pitbuck's neck was sliced open and he lay face down, bony arms and legs splayed out in a grim paraphrase of life. He'd had great plans for Cat, damn it. Could have won a lot of gold on him. A horse bolted from the trees at the far edge of town and headed up the hill toward the plantation. Ezra glanced up and recognized the rider.

“Rafe!” he screamed, and fired his pistol.

Rafe instinctively ducked as he heard his name called and the shot fired. He turned and fired one of the horse pistols. Not waiting to see whether he hit anything he spurred the roan gelding up the hill. The animal was tired after the journey from Fort Jessup and Rafe wished he still had the fresher horse he'd ridden to town. As it was he had no advantage other than a slight head start and the fact the horses chasing him would be tired too. He'd have to manufacture an advantage. One man in the midst of many, if he acted unpredictably and with great daring, if he restricted their field of fire, just might outwit them all.

Ezra screamed in fury as he saw Rafe's pistol spout smoke and flame. The shot came nowhere near, but the very idea of a nigger shooting at him sent a wave of mad rage pouring through his system. He screamed Rafe's name again and spurred his horse into pursuit.

The response was instantaneous. Lead filled the air around Rafe as the soldiers sought to knock him from horseback. Steve recognized the giant black man and knew if any harm had come to Crissa, Rafe was most likely the perpetrator. Infuriated, he led the chase, his bicorn whipped from his head by the wind and his flaming red hair wildly dishevelled as he urged his horse up the hill.

Rafe disappeared over the crest, shifted his weight as the roan started down the long, sweeping hill to the flat stretch leading to the plantation. He risked a glance behind him and recognized Steve Bennett slowly closing the gap, the rest of the soldiers bunched up and not very far behind. The black man grinned and settled in for a fast ride, his back safe for the moment. They wouldn't be able to shoot at him without endangering their own captain.

The roan was a strong animal and bore his weight well, but twenty miles of hard riding, the fight in town and then the race up the hill and across the flats were taking their toll and the beast was rapidly weakening. The fields swept by him on both sides and he could see the magnolias and the front lawn. The wagons were gone. Rafe grunted to himself, pleased. Jomo and the others must have moved them out for the river. With luck they'd be there already, even starting to cross.

A lone, soot-blackened chimney pointed awkwardly to the left of the magnolias, concealing the charred shambles below. Time. He needed more time. If he took a straight route the soldiers would follow him directly down the river path to Clayton's landing. Rafe had no doubts about what would happen then. There had been no time for counting but it looked like at least forty or fifty soldiers, all heavily armed. Primed for battle by one bloodbath they would want more, would fight ferociously to put down the rebellion. The slaves could never sustain such an attack. Without a delay, without more time to get across the river, they would be massacred. He had but one chance, and a risky one at that “Remember,” his father had told him, “confusion is the most powerful weapon a single man has in the face of many.”

He reined the roan off the road just before he reached the carriage lane to the burned house, jumped the ditch and guided the animal into the pecan grove. No more than twenty yards behind him, Steve chanced a shot which blew out a fist-sized chunk of bark from a tree as Rafe disappeared past the trunk. Steve jumped the ditch at a run and plunged into the grove at a gallop, Ezra and the dragoons following hard behind him into the dense stand of trees.

Inside the grove the quiet was shattered by the drum of hoofbeats and the shouts and curses of the soldiers. Rafe guided his horse between the trunks, back and forth, keeping to an irregular path and avoiding catastrophe by a hair's breadth. Many of the soldiers were not so lucky, and bunched as they were, found themselves slamming into each other and the trees themselves. Two or three were swept out of their saddles by low-hanging branches until Steve managed to spread them out, shouting at them to sweep the grove behind him and avoid firing lest they unwittingly shoot one another.

The grove darkened the farther in they ventured. Steve, still ahead of the others, managed to keep pace for he knew the grove well. The two men dodged one another among the pecans like children, but playing a deadlier game than tag. Suddenly Rafe swerved to the right and vanished into the dappled shadows. Steve followed, then abruptly reined in. His steed reared back and whinnied, protesting the halt. Rafe was nowhere to be seen.

Captain Steven Bennett sat and waited, listening for Rafe to make a sound and give himself away. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes. Cursing the weight of his cloth coatee required by regulations, he tugged at the brass buttons and opened the garment to get some fresh air. Damn the regulations! A man couldn't fight bundled up so. He started to take off the coat. Quietly, careful not to make the slightest noise, he shrugged the shoulders down over his arms and at that moment Rafe broke from the brush to his right. Steve's face went taut as he struggled to free his hands and looked helplessly at his saddle pistols. Rafe brandished a pistol of his own. He charged his mount into the officer's, swinging the heavy-barrelled weapon to deliver a glancing blow to the captain's head as horse and man went down. Rafe's roan stumbled, recovered his stride and struck off toward the road and the plantation house.

Steve kicked himself clear of the thrashing mount, rolled over and got to his feet in time to see Rafe vanish once again among the trees. Cursing and yelling orders to his unseen command, he caught his horse's bridle and rugged the tired beast to his feet, tried to remount, losing precious moments when the horse shied from him. His face streaming blood and his senses rattled by the lump he'd received on the side of his head, he finally managed to regain his seat and head his horse after Rafe.

Rafe swerved the roan to miss a large hole, jumped a fallen log, and deftly guided the tired animal to the right and left, charging among the circling dragoons who had never expected a slave to display either horsemanship or bravery. A soldier swerved to avoid the massive black horseman and crashed into a tree. Rafe fired the second horse pistol. Surrounded as he was by enemies he could hardly miss and was rewarded with a howl of pain from a soldier behind him. He replaced the pistol in its saddle holster and grabbed the McKim's from his waist. One shot left. He bore down on two other dragoons who, confused and not wanting to fire into their comrades, turned and collided with a third as they attempted to cut him off. The roan galloped past the plunging, milling trio, heading for the road and running room.

A horse loomed in front of him. He loosed his final shot. The heavy caliber slug shattered the rider's knee and sent him skidding from his mount. The shot triggered a dozen more from the dragoons, still leaderless and flustered, angry at being played for such fools by one black man. Regardless of the proximity of their comrades they were not going to be fired at without firing back. Bullets tore the air, shredded leaves, ripped gaping chunks out of trees. Rafe dodged between the young soldiers who fired almost point-blank at the rushing figure, missed and shot into each other, one falling mortally wounded.

Rafe bolstered his pistol and concentrated on keeping his horse swerving among the trees. Pandemonium reigned all around him as he ducked and bobbed under the branches. The sergeant had a dear shot at the ex-slave for a brief moment, but before he could fire a lead ball from a nervous private's pistol shattered his arm. The sergeant cursed mightily and the young soldier discreetly disappeared among the trees, hoping the wounded man hadn't seen who had fired the shot.

Steve rode through the grove, shouting for the men to assemble and cease fire. He was all too aware of Rafe's ruse now and knew they must regroup quickly and follow him before he could get to the other slaves. Other more seasoned men took up the call and soon the firing stopped. Steve slowed his horse to a canter. The men around him did likewise and massed together for orders. Finally, in some semblance of a formation, Steve led them back to the road.

The roan, lathered and heaving, barely made it across the ditch. Something sliced the flesh of Rafe's arm and thwacked into a tree. A pistol ball.… He turned and caught a glimpse of Ezra dashing back among the pecans. Old Ezra was too smart to follow the soldiers deep into the grove and had waited behind. “Here he is! Here he is!” he shouted frantically, summoning Steve and the troop.