Rafe (16 page)

“Shhh. I promise.” She laughed woodenly, rose and ushered Crissa from the room, shushing her again when her daughter attempted to protest.

Outside in the hall, Crissa once more was confronted by Abigail Terson. “Won't listen to you, either, will she? And you her daughter. Them decorations downstairs? All my doin'. Tweren't no one but the niggers to help, and them surly. And Ezra Clayton? Humph. Not one word of thanks from the likes of him!”

Crissa took the older woman's arm and steered her toward the stairs. “Mr. Clayton has been terribly preoccupied with personal problems,” she confided. “I have, too. I'm afraid it was terribly gauche of us not to thank you, for I do.”

“What?” The older woman stopped, a little perplexed.

Crissa smiled. “Thank you, of course. There wouldn't even be a party had it not been for your help.”

“Oh … well.…”

“No, I mean it. And you know it. You've been simply marvelous and certainly more than generous. I wanted to invite you over next week so we could spend some time and thank you properly, but hadn't had the opportunity. I hope you'll forgive me?”

Abigail patted her dress, swelled with pride. “Well, of course.…” She stopped, at a loss. “I'd best be joinin' Joseph downstairs. No tellin' how much trouble that man'll get himself into before the night's done.” Abigail Terson shook her head in despair and, her ego boosted by Crissa's flattery, marched regally down the stairs.

Crissa fled to her room and closed the door behind her, choking the tears back. The room was dark and she stood unmoving until her eyes adjusted to the gloom, then moved to the bed and flung herself full length on the sheets. The week had passed in a welter of confusion for her. First the change in Steve, the glimpse of the mysterious compound with the dangerous-looking slaves, then the confrontation with Ezra which had left her shaken to the core. Next the wagon with her trunks arrived and she busied herself with settling in for her stay. Hours had been spent alone in her room considering her position
vis à vis
Ezra and the plantation and writing letters to friends in Boston and the bank in New Orleans.

And Micara? Her mother? Or more accurately put, what was left of her. A shell of a woman. Micara became her prime concern; to help her repair the ravages of too much sherry, recover her spirit and strength, and then together, force a reckoning with Ezra Clayton, together assert themselves and regain control of the affairs of Freedom. Of Fitzman's Freedom. She still wasn't at all sure of how she should go about such a task. Ezra had spent part of the week away, the rest at home but sequestered. The few times they met he was as charming as possible, obviously taking pains to assure her he could be pleasant so long as she accepted his role as master of the plantation. The party was an even stronger promise of his assurance. Crissa wasn't about to let herself be bought for such a small price.

A knock sounded on the door, followed by Steve's voice calling her name, breaking her reverie and bringing her back to the present. She sighed, rose from the bed, gathered the voluminous skirts of her gown and joined Steve in the hall. The young captain was resplendent in his uniform. He bowed as Crissa appeared. “I had to get special permission to attend this party,” he said in a low and supposedly seductive tone, “and I'd hate to waste what little time I have wandering around without you.”

Before Crissa could reply another voice interrupted. “Captain Bennett, sir. A gentleman does not come calling for his lady by knocking on her bedroom door. Such conduct is hardly proper,” Micara said from the hall outside her room.

Crissa brightened. “Oh, Mother, Steve used to follow me to my room all the time when we were children.”

“My dear,” Micara laughed a little giddily, joining them at the head of the stairs, “the world has come to a pretty pass indeed if I have to point out you are no longer children.” She held out her hand to take Steve's arm. The officer blushed and bowed, took her arm in his. “Will you dance with an old lady, Captain?” she asked coyly.

“I dance with none but young ladies, madam. I'll be glad to dance with you,” Steve answered gallantly, starting down the stars.

Crissa followed, trying to smooth the worry from her eyes, as they descended into the din of the party below.

The compound was empty and still. Somewhere a whippoorwill cried a last mournful note before hiding for the day. A mockingbird woke and sang a greeting to the morning that was young enough yet not to have seen the sun. Rafe had listened to the clamor from the plantation house and grounds for a good part of the night. Foremost in his mind was an attempt to revive the image of Crissa Fitzman. He hadn't seen her when she had captured the attention of the compound earlier in the week, but word had reached him, for the pitbucks had talked of nothing but the blond girl all the next day. He had finally fallen asleep to the thin wail of the violins and accordion, then dreamed of the slim-hipped, youthful girl of so long ago. In his dream he could picture her well enough—the reddish-gold hair, the pug nose and bright green eyes she said were inherited from her father, small pert breasts under the light cotton dress and strong little-girl legs. And in his dream he stood in front of himself and said, “Ain't right you think on the likes of her, nigger. White man see that pole stickin' up, he cut yo' balls off at yo' neck.” Rafe stirred, rose from the shuck mattress and made his way to the door, dream and admonition vivid in his mind. In spite of the warning he couldn't drive her out.

The mockingbird cried again, answered this time by the myriad sounds or distant waking swamp and forest. Across the compound a figure stirred near the spring and a squat, simian shape that could only be Jomo rose and stretched. Curse Old Chulem, Rafe thought. He was an old bone-rattler better off buried. No sooner said, Rafe quickly denied the silent words lest the conjure man read the curse and hold it against him.

Jomo, left the spring and crossed the compound toward the longhouse. Suddenly he changed course and headed for Rafe. The giant black noticed a gleam of metal in Jomo's left hand. The smaller man stopped and stood before Rafe, stared at him a moment then held his hand up to hold the double-edged axe blade even with Rafe's face. “No sleepin', Boss?”

“You can see that.”

“How come? Yo' ain't gonna be fightin' today. Maybe yo' worry Jomo might be dyin'.”

“Not worried o' that, Jomo. What Mistah Clayton got planned fo' you make less work fo' me when my freedom fight come.”

Jomo's eyes narrowed to slits and he said very quietly, “Number one pit nigger gets to come watch when he not fightin', if'n he want to. Yo' come an' watch Jomo. Yo' see dere not a man ken beat me. Not one man, not two, prob'ly not tree o' fo' dat Ah cain't go up ‘gains' wid dis axe an' whup 'em. Yo' watch dis day, nigger. Ah be eatin' pohk tonight.”

Rafe stood unmoving as Jomo left. Old Chulem's words echoed in the corner of his mind. “Ah sees fang an' jaw,” he had said. “Fang an' jaw. An' mo'.…” Rafe shook the worry from his mind and walked slowly to the tank. It would be a hot day for killing.

Those who went to their homes for what was left of the night returned to Freedom right after Reverend Leahy's service, held early to accommodate the goings-on. Claude Duggins and the other small landowners from downriver and the dozen or so trappers from across the Sabine slept under and in wagons and on the lower gallery. Soldiers with a free weekend from Fort Jessup spent the night in Claytonville in the Coonskin Tavern and Black Bedetta's, then set out early for Freedom and a day of entertainment and gambling.
Monsieur
Bernard and his family were put up in the big house overnight, for rivals though he and Ezra Clayton were, gentry was gentry and had to be treated as such.

Revelers from the night before who had stayed on the grounds wearily shoved themselves away from food-laden breakfast tables and began to wind their way across the lawn toward the compound and the pit beyond where they planned to stake out prime space for viewing whatever Ezra Clayton had prepared for them. There was much speculation, and betting on the nature of the contest got under way early. Ezra Clayton liked a well-kept secret.

The atmosphere inside the house was cold and tense. “I'm not going,” Crissa averred. “I think that sort of thing is horrid. I'll have nothing to do with your animal fights. I'll have nothing to do with them,” she said, turning to leave.

Ezra stepped in front of her, blocking her attempt to reach the library door. “The contest is the high point of the festivities, Crissa. The climax of a party in your honor. You are expected; your absence would be noted. Surely you wouldn't spite my welcome?”

“A bitter welcome marked by the baiting of dumb animals? Yes. I would spite it.”

The door opened and Micara entered. “Oh there you are, darling. Come. We mustn't be late. I'm sure Ezra has arranged a magnificent excitement in your honor.”

“Mother, you've been up nearly all night. Don't you think you'd better rest some?”

“Nonsense. I'm having a lovely time. We haven't seen a ball like this in years. I shan't be put away to bed and miss all the excitement.” She stumbled, spilling some of the sherry. “Oh dear,” she laughed, wiping her hand on her skirt, “I'm afraid I'm a trifle light-headed from the gaiety of it all.” A tiny panic-stricken look clouded her face. “Please escort me, dear? I don't want to go alone.…”

Ezra leaned in close to his stepdaughter, stirred by the light lilac fragrance and the smooth flow of flesh from neck to shoulder to breast, barely restrained by the daringly cut bodice. “Micara dearly loves my little excitements. If she wants to go and wants you to accompany her, I think it would be less than daughterly of you to refuse. After all, she is your mother.” He smiled wolfishly at her, allowed his eyes to rake her from leg to head then looked directly into her eyes. “Besides, how do you know what will happen? You might be surprised.” His eyes dropped obviously to her breasts. “Many times those experiences we most seek to escape turn out to be the most pleasant.”

Micara seemed not to observe her husband's brash suggestion and took her daughter's hand. “Do come along, Crissa. Everyone expects you, and I'm sure Steve is frantic over your absence. It's a pity he isn't around more often.”

Crissa allowed herself to be led out to the empty lawn where the shay waited. Disgusted with herself for allowing them to coerce her into accompanying them, Crissa Elizabeth Fitzman climbed reluctantly into the shay and held her mother's hand.

Rafe stood inside the main gate where he could hear the crowd gathering around the pit. The hum of voices rose and fell, punctuated by an occasional shout or cry of greeting. The crowd was obviously large. Ezra Clayton was throwing one of his special matches and Rafe feared for his companions. Rumors and speculation had flown about the pitbuck compound since Butkis had announced the coming match. And while none could tell what the three would face, Rafe knew in his bones they would be pitted against a particularly dangerous foe. He tensed slightly as he heard footsteps behind him, then forced himself to ease the worry from his face when he saw Tater at his side.

“B … B … Boss?”

Rafe turned to look at the youth, casting a practiced glance at the machete Tater held with a death grip. “You practice with that machete, boy?”

“Yassuh. Me an' Brutus both. But Brutus gots a mean streak. Won't hab nuffin' ta' do wid me. Who yo' figger we goana fight?”

“No tellin', boy. Who or what. Jes' keep near Jomo. Listen close to what he say an' watch close to what he do. Take care don't nuthin' o' nobody get to his back an' he do what he can best he can. Maybe you live to get your woman an' wagon.”

“Yassuh. Ah'll sho' keep mah eyes open. Ah always be quick. Used ta' steal 'taters from de field when Ah was jes' a pickaninny. Don't nobody catch me. Dat's how Ah come ta' be called Tater. Ain't nobody goana mark dis boy, no suh.”

“Don't you be too proud, boy. I gots marks on me. Jes' you do like I say. You watch Jomo. He ben 'round a long time.” He sensed the youth stiffen as the small door in the gate opened and Butkis, accompanied by Milo and Decater, walked a few paces into the compound and halted.

Butkis stared at Rafe. “What you doin' up here, nigger?”

Rafe stared back, kept an eye on the overseer's cutlass arm. “Mistah Clayton say the number one pitbuck get to watch when he got a mind to. Today I wants to watch.”

“Can't git enough, ken you?” Butkis snarled. “Can't git yore fill o' blood an' cuttin'. You come along then, but mind you, I'll be keepin' my eye out. You try anything an' I'll spit you with this.” He patted the cutlass meaningfully. “Where the rest of them niggers?”

Rafe looked back toward the longhouse just as Brutus sauntered from the door and swaggered across the compound, slapping the flat of the razor-sharp machete blade against his thigh. Jomo followed hard on his heels, his squat, powerful torso moving with fluid but heavy, sure steps. The two stopped a half-dozen paces in front of the guards and waited. Rafe nudged Tater and sent him scooting to take his place at Jomo's side. Behind them the longhouse emptied of pitbucks. Twenty-one black and shining bodies arranged themselves on the hard-baked clay, expressionless faces masking whatever emotion each might feel as he watched his comrades prepare to leave, perhaps never to return.

Rafe's eyes locked with Jomo's. Though neither could read the other's thoughts with any precision, each recognized the lean and savage anger, the all-consuming hate of world and time and place. Rafe wondered if perhaps Jomo, too, had sat with Old Chulem, had listened to the conjure man's warning and acknowledged the aura of atavistic fear in the old man's words. Perhaps Jomo, too, tasted the premonition of death beyond the usual. Rafe wanted to apologize, somehow, tell Jomo they were fools to no longer be N'gata, fools not to be brothers and stand together to fight the hate as one, at least until that final terrible fight brought them together as foes. But the light in Jomo's eyes forbade such words, and Rafe was always one of silence.