Rafe (38 page)

Rafe felt the hatred well up in him but there wasn't a moment to spare for revenge, not even for Ezra. He urged the roan up the front lawn, around the ruins, past the barracks, the compound and the pit and down the river path. If only he had gained enough time.… If only the horse had enough left in him to make it. Rafe beat on the exhausted animal's flanks, beat him into a final, killing gallop.…

“What yo' want from us, white girl? Ain't yo' kine done enuff?” Julie demanded angrily. “What yo' doin', hangin' on where yo' ain't wanted?”

Crissa ignored her as she had ignored the suspicious stares of the others around her all the while she had helped load the raft each time it had landed on the east bank. She understood their resentment. What else could she expect of them? If only Julie would cease fanning their discontent and anger.… She lent a helping hand as another heavy sack of vegetables was handed onto the logs, slipping precariously in the mud when the weight shifted unexpectedly. The bag safely aboard and the raft shoved off, she staggered back up the slippery bank, suppressing a growing feeling of panic. There had been more gunfire coming from beyond the house. Rafe? Was he alive or dead? If dead, what would become of her? Unaccepted by one world and having forsaken the other for a black man and a slave, she would be an outcast, reviled by all. Rafe.… Yes, she loved him. She had fought the idea long enough, tried to convince herself the feelings were of pity. But now, especially since the morning, the fact was all too plain. She loved him. A fierce and gentle man, a man to stand by though the color of his skin made her a leper among her own kind. But then, what was her own kind? Surely not those leering patrons of Ezra's inhuman delights. No. Not them. She wandered off into the trees, away from the landing.

Unseen, Julie followed her, crept up behind her. The girl's fingers dug into Crissa's arm and spun her about. “Dat's right. Yo' jes' keep walkin'. Yo' gots no call ta stay,” Julie said. The mulatto held a dagger before her, the blade pointed at Crissa's chest. What puzzled her was Crissa did not seem frightened. “Ah seen yo', turnin' yo' white ass to Rafe. Bringin' him ta dip in yo' bush. Yo' white girls gotta hab yo' black meat, doan yo'? Turn a po' nigger's haid wid yo' honey sweetness. Showin' yo' sof' purty white flesh dat ain't neber done no work. Rafe doan need yo', he need a black woman, he need his own kine.”

Crissa stepped inside the blade and closed her hand firmly over Julie's fist “You must love him very much,” she said softly.

The mulatto was taken totally off guard by Crissa's statement and seeming indifference to the length of steel at her chest. Her eyes began to grow moist, her lip trembled. The knife wavered and dropped to Crissa's feet and Julie wheeled around and ran back toward the river. Crissa would have followed but she heard Jomo shout, “Rafe! Rafe!” and saw the slaves' powerful leader rein in and jump from his lathered mount at the edge of the cypress lined shore.

19

“Yo' bleedin, N'gata.”

Rafe glanced at the gash on his arm. “Ezra Clayton,” he said shortly. Crissa gasped and brought a hand to her lips in a gesture of fear at the mention of her stepfather. “We knew he'd come, Crissa. Maybe it's better this way.”

Rafe's voice was both warm and strong, giving her confidence. If anyone could get them safely across the Sabine, this man—her man—could. The pitbucks were gathering around them now and Crissa stepped through them, realizing there was nothing more to be said for the moment. Not until Ezra had been dealt with. If the lord of Freedom was there, he must have soldiers with him. Soldiers from Fort Jessup, which meant Steve would be riding with them. She shuddered at the lies Ezra must have told him. If she could get to him, talk to him—but what would she say? That the slaves were in the right? To Steve's way of thinking the slaves would have to be in the wrong. No explanation of hers could possibly reverse such a lifelong conviction. Would she tell him she loved Rafe? A slave and a killer? He'd never even admit he'd heard such blasphemy. Steve would never let her go. Crissa searched her mind for a way to stop the fight she knew must take place, fearing not only for the man she loved, but also for the man who was as a brother to her.

“How much more to get across?” Rafe asked.

Jomo gestured toward the river. “Another load. We split up de field hands. Only one mo' load to go an' dey all be ober. We hoped fo' de ferry, but dem guards Mistuh Ezra kep' here skedaddled wid it down de ribber an' we didn't hab no time ta build mo' den one raft. Soon as it take dem ober it come back fo' us.”

“Ah swum dat ribber, Boss,” Trinidad added. “Bess here foun' de pulleys an' rope in de stable an' Ah carried dem acrost ta de uder side ta hook 'em up an' pull de raf'. Sho' feel good ober dere. Feel free.” His arm was around Bess. The diminutive black girl looked proudly at Trinidad.

Rafe studied the two briefly. That they idolized each other was evident. Whatever happened to him and the others he'd have to see they got across and away. He turned his attention to the river. The field hands grouped on the west side were hauling on the rope, pulling the final load of goods toward them. A smaller cluster left on the east shore watched Rafe, trusting him. The pitbucks were in a loose ring circling him. Rafe was one of their own, their leader. The soldiers would soon be coming down the river path and they waited for his directions.

Rafe surveyed his position. They needed more time. The field hands weren't fighters and once on the raft would be sitting ducks until in the trees on the other side of the water. Quickly he counted the pitbucks. They'd started out with twenty-two. Two, wounded in the fighting the night before, lay on pallets by the shore and would cross with the last of the field hands. Cat and one of the new ones were lost in town. That left eighteen, three of whom were new—Rafe didn't even know their names. Fifteen seasoned fighters, then. Fifteen who had survived at least a year as Ezra Clayton's fighting niggers. Fifteen against how many? Forty, perhaps, well-armed and mounted.

He grinned as the plan unfolded in his head. They could do it and still save Bess and Trinidad. He turned to the youth. “Trinidad, you take Bess and get on that raft with the others. They gonna need a leader an' you it.”

“Boss, Ah.…”

“Ain't no time for arguin'. Do like I say.” He turned to look up the river path. “We got to stop them soldiers. This path is too wide—eight or nine horses too wide. Drag them two empty wagons over across the road up there by that cottonwood an' tip 'em over. An' that fallen tree yonder. Bring it too.” Jomo quickly jabbed his finger at eight of the men who broke for the wagons. Four more headed for the tree. “Get guns. All we have an' carry 'em to the wagons. We're gonna stop 'em right there. Dingo, soon's they get the wagon in place take them four men an' sneak out into the trees to the left. Jomo, you do the same to the right. Don't let no one see you. The rest of us will meet 'em head on. We'll empty our muskets an' pistols an' then rush into 'em. Jomo, you an' Dingo hold your fire. Soon as you see us jump the wagons, open up on 'em from the sides, then rush 'em with whatever you fight with. Tell your men if they ain't never fought a man on horseback before, watch out for over their heads.”

Jomo grinned and raised his axe. “It goana be jes' lahk in de pit. One las' time. On'y Ezra Clayton be dere wid us.” He chuckled evilly. “We see how he lahk it.”

Dingo cocked the hammer on his blunderbuss. “Ah bet he doan lahk it a'tall,” he muttered grimly. “Not one little bit a'tall.”

There was time for no more talk. Already they could hear the thunder of hooves and see the first riders coming in the distance. Dingo and Jomo ran off to help finish with the wagons, then took their men and weapons and scurried into the heavy brush by the side of the road just in time to escape being seen by the mounted troop as it came in sight again and stopped at the last curve before the river path led straight to the water's edge. Rafe deployed the pitbucks left to him behind the wagons, reloaded and checked his horse pistols and the McKim. “Wait until I fire,” he said calmly, “then blast away at them. Shoot fast an' thick, then follow me an' hit 'em as hard as you can.”

The silence of waiting for violence hung heavily over them. Suddenly Trinidad was at his side, handed him a musket. “Ain't crossin' no ribber,” he said. “Not unless we all do. Ah'm a pitbuck too. Ah gots as much right ta dis fight as any man. Ah fought more'n two yeahs fo' Mistuh Ezra an' Ah ain't goana miss dis las' fight now dat Ah'm fightin' fo' me.”

Rafe watched the young pitbuck walk back to his position. Such was his right and Rafe could not change his decision, but Bess was armed too and stood beside her mate, her girlish face as determined as Trinidad's. Rafe started toward her to send her to the river. Aware of his intent the girl looked at him defiantly and edged closer to her man. Rafe grinned and remembered the last time another woman had tried to take Trinidad away from her. She had guts enough for any man. She smiled back, stepped to the barricade.

What were the soldiers doing? The path before them blocked, their edge was lost. Rafe scanned the shoreline where the field hands were pulling the empty raft back across the river. Only five minutes more and they and the wounded pitbucks would be aboard and safely on their way. He looked for Crissa. Certainly she wasn't on the Mexican side. He felt a growing uneasiness as he frantically searched the Louisiana shore for some sign of her. Where was she?

A drumming cannonade of hooves called back his attention to the river path. Captain Bennett and his soldiers were advancing. They halted some hundred yards up the path. There was no time to look for Crissa now. Only time to be ready. “Make sure your guns are primed and cocked,” he told the pitbucks on either side of him.

Steve Bennett ordered his men to a halt, cautiously rode a few yards ahead of his command to study the barricaded path. Heavy, choking underbrush to either side prevented men on horseback from going around the tipped-over wagons. The only sure course was to charge, ride through them and come back with sword to cut down the survivors. “Rafe …!” he shouted. “You're outnumbered and your back is to the river. There is no escape. You will be punished for this insurrection that has taken the lives of so many innocent citizens. And I hold you personally responsible for the deaths of Micara and Crissa Fitzman. However, should you surrender I will guarantee lenient treatment for those with you.”

Rafe leaped onto the wagon side, the added height making him look every bit some terrible ebony giant. When he spoke his voice was deep and resonant, carried through the humid air. “Crissa is alive and with us. Her mother died in the flames but we had nothing to do with the burning.”

Crissa alive? Steve looked back sharply at Ezra, who only shrugged. The plantation lord had little liking for this jabbering. He had hoped the dragoons would sweep down onto the slaves and crush them in one fell blow. Talk made him apprehensive, all the more so if Crissa was still alive.

“Show her to us,” Steve shouted back. “Send her out here. Release her and we can talk.”

“She is here of her own choosing,” came the reply.

Steve flushed in anger. “You're lying, nigger. Now.…”

Crissa burst from the foliage near the path and started running up the road toward Steve. She had made her decision, the only one she could make. No matter what the odds, she had to try to explain, somehow force Steve to listen to her while she told him what had really happened. With luck he'd listen to her before Ezra, and in any case her action would buy Rafe and the others time, time to escape the guns massed against them, time for a chance. “Steve! Steve!” she screamed.

Rafe started in surprise. What was she doing? Steve spurred his mount toward her but Ezra, recognizing the threat, kicked his horse past the line of dragoons and cut in front of Steve. His expression was one of a concerned father. “Wait here! As soon as I get her into the brush and out of the way, charge the black bastards.” Without waiting for a reply he whipped his horse and sprang away down the road, leaving the startled captain behind.

Steve called for him to come back. Crissa stopped, shocked at the sight of Ezra riding down on her. He'd outfoxed her and even at a distance she could read all too well the malicious intent on his face. She turned and backed toward the dense foliage to her right.

“Don't shoot until I tell you!” Rafe shouted to his men. “Wait until they charge.” He lay his musket across the side of the wagon, sighting along the barrel, leading Ezra as the plantation owner charged toward Crissa. Rafe fired. The unrifled musket, an inaccurate weapon at such a distance, belched smoke and flame but the shot went wide.

From Steve's viewpoint, it appeared the slave was aiming at Crissa, who stumbled and disappeared in the foliage, possibly hit. Seconds later Ezra plunged into the mass of wild berry vines and scrub cypress and Steve Bennett, eager to wipe out the last of the insurrection, angrily waved his command to the attack.

Rafe was torn between rushing after Crissa or staying with the barricade. The dragoons thundering down the road made his decision for him. Dropping behind the wagon, he rammed powder and ball down the barrel of the musket, poured a trace in the pan, brought the weapon to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. “Get ready!” he shouted, and saw out of the corner of his eye the other pitbucks raise their weapons and wait for him to fire.

The dragoons quickly closed the distance between themselves and the barricade. Rafe was aiming dead center at Steve Bennett. A difficult shot, for there was little of the soldier exposed. He remembered Crissa telling him of the years she had spent with Steve and the childhood romance, ended on her part but never on his. Well, he thought, her friend would live, protected as he was by the horse. Rafe sucked in his breath, lowered the musket slightly and squeezed the trigger. The captain's mount buckled, head down and hind legs kicking high. Steve pushed himself free, rolling over in the mud, hands over his head to protect himself from the flashing hooves of the animals behind him. The dragoons swerved and leapt their mounts aside, trying to avoid trampling their captain.