Rafe (13 page)

Crissa leaned forward in her seat. “And what,” she inquired politely, “of the master? Is he required to be an animal too, or is he one of his own choice?”

Ezra smiled. The girl had spunk. Still he could not let up, could not let her go without making sure the lesson was driven home. “I have given Freedom prosperity,” he said, rising and holding out the parchment to her. “Nothing happens without my permission, for I am master. This document—I have another copy, by the way, so you may take it to study at your leisure—says so. As long as I am master, I shall see to it that Freedom continues to grow. And as long as you are my guest.…”

“Your guest?” Crissa snapped, rising to face him. “A guest in my own home? We'll just see about that.” She snatched the paper from his hand and stalked from the library, quickly ascending the stairs. Julie greeted her in the upper hallway but Crissa pushed her aside and entered her bedroom, slammed the door behind her and leaned against the cool paneling while she caught her breath.

Ezra had showed his true colors early. His position was undoubtedly strong, but she would not be bested, made a common visitor in her own home. Certainly what Uncle Patrick had done was unlawful, but for all her bravado she felt lost and alone, not sure what her next step should be. One thing only was certain. She was determined not to leave, not to give up without a fight. There would come a reckoning.

She stripped the dress from her and let it drop to the floor. Her first day home. What a lovely homecoming! She fell naked on the bed, exhaustion clouding her mind. Tomorrow would be her second day. Time enough then to search for the path. As her eyes closed, she remembered she had forgotten to kiss her mother good-night.

7

An hour deep into the morning sun and the compound was already furiously hot. Rafe had lapped the enclosure ten times and was beginning his eleventh. The humid air, thick and saturated, flowed easily in and out of his lungs. His legs pumped at an unvarying pace as he tirelessly rounded the compound, his muscles moving with the natural grace and coordination of a great hunting cat, his feet thudding a steady tempo on the hard-packed clay. Completing his eleventh lap he trotted toward the shaded spring-fed tank at the north end of the stockade and squatted. The water smelled good. Clean and fresh. He cupped the surprisingly cool liquid and drank sparingly, splashing the water onto his face and over his naked torso.

Rafe stood as Jomo kneeled and thrust his head into the tank, straightened and gulped for air, then repeated the dunking. Water arced out as he shook his head, landed in dust-covered beads on the hard floor of the compound. Rafe watched the pitbucks behind him. Some wrestled, others duelled with sticks and poles in place of more deadly weapons. Dingo and Trinidad strutted among the blacks, arrogant and proud. Clayton had sent them to Nachitoches only the day before. Both had fought and each had won handily. Rafe wondered if Ezra would match Trinidad against him. Poor Bess. Her man Trinidad would not last more than a few minutes in the pit with Rafe.

Jomo rose beside him, his head level with Rafe's chest, “How many?” he asked.

“Eleven.”

“Whooo-eee!”

“I'll do twelve this afternoon.”

“Yo' 'bout healed up den. Ah ben watchin'. Yo' runs real good.”

“I got to. Man who can't run good don't got wind for fightin'.”

“Weapon what count,” Jomo disagreed. “Dat an' de man.”

“Maybe. You say so.”

“Axe an' knife. No knife neber done beat no axe,” Jomo growled.

“It's called a machete.”

“Don' care what'cha' calls it. Yo' always tryin' ta talk fancy. Hell, purty words ain't goana sabe yo' hide. Blade don' neber beat no axe. Axe don' bus' on any blade 'ceptin' 'nother axe. Yo' ain' neber goan see dat lan' cross de riber, Rafe.”

Rafe strode away silently. He regretted the change that had come over Jomo. Perhaps he never should have said anything about what he suspected to be Ezra's intentions. Their inevitable contest would not be for a while yet. There would have been time for camaraderie. But too late. Now there was only time for both of them to think about and plan the coming fight. Time to watch each other, ferret out weaknesses, assess strengths and seek advantages. The prize was Mexico, where a man could find his own freedom. Rafe knew nothing could make him hesitate nor hold back the killing slash or thrust. He would not jeopardize his only chance for freedom.

Near the center of the compound two A-frames jutted from the ground. They stood twenty feet apart and were joined at the top by a pole some fifteen feet off the ground. Fifteen twenty-four pound cannonballs were suspended at various heights from the cross bar. Each of the balls was set in motion swinging back and forth at varying rhythms. A man running the balls had to go from one A-frame to the other through the maze of iron pendulums. The task required agility, concentration and coordination. Those who learned to run the maze without being touched by any of the balls, those who survived without broken bones, were an important step closer to being champion fighters indeed.

Milo had several of the newer pitbucks lined up between the legs of the north frame. Two of the guards had set the cannonballs swinging. Milo clapped the young Negro first in line on the shoulder. The youth confidently leaped forward past the first weight and directly into the path of the second. He twisted in time, barely missing it, only to catch the third on his hip. He was knocked sprawling into the dust, his scream of pain muffled by the dirt. Milo shook his head in disgust and signalled the second pitbuck to start. Brutus was an older man recently transferred from the fields. An incessant brawler, he was sent to the pitbuck compound when Ezra decided his quick temper and hardened physique would best serve Freedom's interests fighting in the pit. He covered half the distance, snaking his way through eight of the whistling balls before the ninth clipped him on the shoulder, spun him around and into the path of another weight which slammed into his stomach. He landed ten feet away, doubled up on the hot earth, retching and gasping for breath.

The remaining three pitbucks in line looked at each other nervously, each indicating the others should go first. The sour smell of their fear was evident. Rafe crossed in front of the youth next in line, a congenial-looking boy named Tater. Milo looked questioningly at the black man towering over him and his hand sought the reassuring comfort of the pistol in his belt. Rafe grinned at Milo. “Gonna he'p these young bucks keep their heads where they belongs. Up on top o' their shoulders,” he said.

Milo shrugged. The cannonballs were set in motion again. The black giant flexed his shoulders and breathed deeply, sending a cascade of muscles rippling across and down his back. He stepped out smoothly, cleared three of the pendulums, dropped back, ducked, stepped forward, twisted his body, bobbing and weaving, ever calm, ever alert. He bounded the remaining two yards and landed lightly on his feet near the opposite poles, untouched and breathing no more heavily than if he had been out for a short walk in the cool of evening. Tater and the others were awestruck. Even Milo, who had seen Rafe run the balls before, stood quietly and respectfully for a moment before he drew himself up to his full height and bellowed at Tater. “What the hell you gawkin' at? You seen how it's done. Now git yore black ass movin' an' do it yourself. The rest of you niggers is gonna keep at it 'til you do it right. Mistah Clayton done taken you outa' the fields, give you women every week and two meals a day. You better off than any of them pickaninnies that gotta work the crops an' you ain't about to waste his kindness by gittin' yo'self kilt the fuhst time out. Not whiles I got anything to say about it. No siree.”

“Any trouble, Milo?” Butkis, his face red and sweating from the fierce southern sun, approached from the gate.

“No trouble, Mistah Butkis. Just puttin' the fear into these niggers. They becomin' almighty slow.”

Butkis drew a strip of jerky from his pocket and wadded it into his mouth. He shook his head from side to side, showing his utter disenchantment and displeasure at the newly conscripted fighters. Rafe walked up to stand beside Tater and the others. “You doan train a man by bustin' his laig. You doan keep him alive by smashin' in his head. They ain't ready to run the balls yet, Mistah Butkis. Only been here a week.”

Butkis' eyes narrowed, glittered like a rodent's caught in the glare of a lamp at night. “Jomo!” the overseer barked, stopping all action in the compound. Everyone looked at Butkis, wondering what was going to happen. “Nigger, git yer black ass over here.”

Jomo trotted across the compound. “Yassuh, Mistah Butkis.”

“Special doin's, Jomo. You gonna fight Sunday. You an … Tater here … an' one other…” He cast about, pretending he hadn't already decided, letting his gaze hold on each in turn and holding all in suspense. “Yeah. Brutus. The nigger who likes to be fightin' all the time. He'll be a good'n.”

The evil-tempered slave who had the wind knocked out of him looked up, got painfully to his feet and moved closer so he could hear.

“Ah fights alone,” Jomo muttered.

Butkis's hand lashed out before anyone saw it and slapped Jomo across the face, the slap ringing out in the sudden silence that gripped the compound. Bodies tensed unconsciously. Still the silence held, broken now by the dual clicks of two muskets being cocked. “You do like I tell you, nigger,” Butkis said calmly.

Jomo lowered his head so the overseer would not read the murderous intent in his eyes. “Yassuh,” he mumbled.

“What you say?” Butkis inquired innocently.

Jomo took a deep breath. “Yassuh, Mistah Butkis, suh. Ah hears yo'.”

Butkis smiled expansively. The tension eased. “That's better. Believe me, nigger, you gonna be glad for the company.”

“Mistah Butkis,” Rafe broke in quietly, “Tater an' Brutus ain't ready fo' the pit yet.”

“Yo' worry 'bout yo' own skin, Rafe. Ah kin fight,” Brutus retorted angrily. “Ah cain't fight no goddamn iron ball but Ah ain't seed de man Ah cain't gut.”

Butkis nodded. “See, Rafe. He's ready. Ready as sin. An' Tater here'll learn quicker in the pit than he will walk-in' the balls. You bucks get plenty to eat an' sleep lots for the next three days, 'cause Sunday gonna be special. Brutus, you an' Tater go to the front shack before this day is out an' pick what you gonna fight with. Git used to 'em for the next few days 'cause they'll be keepin' you alive once you get down inside that pit.”

“It ain't right, Mistuh Butkis,” Rafe persisted.

The overseer swallowed the lump of chewed jerky before continuing. “Rafe, you may be the number one nigger amongst these here boys, but you ain't shit to me. Now, you want a taste a' the cat, you jes' sass me one more time. They's fightin' an' that's that. You hear me?” He didn't wait for an answer but stalked off the way he came, taking Milo and the other guards with him. The big gates slammed shut, leaving the silent blacks alone.

The closed gates meant freedom of a sort, and muffled conversations started as the blacks discussed the fight and who the opponents might be. Rafe stood alone and unmoving, seething with anger. Perhaps the price of freedom was too high. It would have given him almost as much satisfaction to break the overseer's neck.

Cat swaggered up to the powerful black man. “He put yo' in yo' place, boss. Down heah wid us plain-ass niggers,” he taunted.

Rafe stared impassively at Cat, made himself relax and keep an eye on the pitchfork the young man held. “I doan feel like playin' no games, Cat. Doan you vex me now,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Cat didn't know any better. “Which end de one to watch fo', nigger Rafe?” He gestured first with the iron tines, then the blunt shaft. “Come on, nigger. Yo' de number one pitbuck. Show us which end de one ta duck.”

Tater and the rest stepped back, giving the two pitbucks plenty of room. The entire compound held its breath.

“C'mon, boss. Pitchfork a' comin'. Which end de one to watch?” Cat feinted rapidly with first one end then the other, each becoming a blur of motion as the pitchfork sliced the air with an eerie hum. Rafe's powerful right arm shot up and down. A loud crack, and Cat leaped back, the iron prongs of the fork singing past his face and clanging against one of the cannonballs. Most of the wooden shaft sliced across the dusty compound floor. A lethal sliver of wood stuck quivering in the ground between Cat's feet.

“What pitchfork?” Rafe asked quietly. Without another word he turned and left the smaller man to the humiliating jibes of the other pitbucks.

Butkis hated horses. He sat astride the big gelding, distastefully guiding the animal down the sloping farmland, leading the way toward Claytonville. The brutal old seadog scowled back at his two companions riding close behind. He was determined they should not see his discomfort. The gelding stumbled, lurched and almost lost his rider. Butkis drove his booted heels into the animal's flanks and jerked cruelly on the reins. “By my mother's salty dugs, I swear I'd sooner ride the tumblin' deck of a broached whaler than straddle this goddamned critter a moment longer,” he swore aloud.

“You say sumpin', Mistuh Butkis?” one of the guards behind him inquired.

“Jes' shut up and ride,” Butkis growled in return.

The guard who had spoken turned to his companion with a what-did-
I
-say? look. His partner shrugged. They rode on.

Claytonville, although growing and prospering due to the trade with Mexico and the numerous visitors to Freedom Plantation, was still a mere crossroads around which clustered an assortment of shops and businesses. To the northeast wound the road to Nachitoches. To the southwest the deeply rutted high road to Burr Ferry passed through rich farmland. North of the crossroads the townsfolk had built their homes. There the ground was higher and the proximity of the houses to the businesses gave an illusion of greater size to the town and enabled the citizens to assume an aura of importance they otherwise would not have.