Rafe (19 page)

“Stop it!”

Butkis halted his swing, turning to stare in the direction of the voice. Rafe looked over his shoulder, as surprised as anyone.

“There is no call for this,” Crissa said. “He risked his life to save a friend. He shouldn't be punished.” She realized with a sinking heart how weak, how ineffectual her entreaty must sound when she heard a muffled laugh behind her, followed by a barely concealed snicker.

Ezra's eyes probed the small circle of men, silenced them. He turned his back on Crissa and spoke without looking at her. “We are all impressed with your gracious plea, Miss Fitzman. Mercy even when misplaced is ever befitting a young lady. Rafe knew the law when he interfered. He knew the punishment. Thus he is not tied, but stands here of his own volition. He expects ten lashes—a moderate price and one he knew only too well.

“Many of our friends here have been put out. They placed bets which had to be cancelled. Money was surely lost. It is only befitting the nigger responsible be punished. I could have him shot for what he did to Butkis. However, I can afford to be lenient. If you wish to stay, you are free to do so. If not, I suggest you leave immediately. Proceed, Mr. Butkis.”

Before Crissa could protest further, the whip rose and cracked down across the giant slave's back. The massive muscles bunched involuntarily in response but the man did not flinch. Crissa stared mesmerized as the cat fell away, revealing already red and swelling welts. The overseer's arm went back slowly, the forearm bulging. A moment of time stood still and Crissa could see only the fist clenched around the handle of the whip, the white knuckles standing out in the firelight.

Butkis swung again, putting his whole body into the cat. When it struck the Negro groaned in spite of himself, swayed forward slightly then straightened again. Crissa felt her back turn to fire and her stomach churn. She heard herself starting to cry, tasted the sweet, acid slipperiness in her throat. No one watched her, paid her the slightest attention. Nearly gagging, she fled through the ring of entranced, tight-lipped farmers, trappers, and townsmen and ran through the trees and up the path to the house. The steady, inexorable sound of the cat followed her, pushing her forward until she was safely inside, leaning against the kitchen door, panting for breath and holding her stomach lest she retch.

The slave girl Julie came out of the pantry. There were crumbs around the girl's mouth and she carried a partially eaten piece of cake. She stopped, stared at Crissa a moment, then curtsied briefly. “Miz Clayton gone ta bed, ma'am. She to'd me ta tell ya'.”

Crissa steadied herself, took a deep breath. “Thank you, Julie.” The black girl seemed anxious for her to leave. Crissa obliged, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the door. The slave girl had set the cake down on the table and was proceeding to stuff bits and pieces of it in her mouth.

Much of the house was dark but the hall was dimly illuminated by a light from Ezra's library. She halted momentarily, feeling utterly weary. If Steve was in the library she didn't want to see him, didn't feel up to another scene with him. Ezra's corruption had touched even the young man she once … loved? It was hard to tell. What did a sixteen-year-old girl know of love? She went quietly up the stairway into the dark.

A few minutes later and she lay in bed trying to relax, trying to loosen the bunched muscles so she could sleep. By now they had surely finished with Rafe. She tried to remember the sensitive, intelligent young man she had known, comparing him to the muscled, grim-visaged giant in the circle of burning torches. The contrast bordered on the unbelievable—a killer, Steve had said, a man trained to one purpose—death. She had heard those killing screams, seen the flashing blades at work. More than forty men, Steve had said. Incomprehensible.… But the pit was there, blood-soaked, gaping. The pit.… Rafe.… She huddled alone in the dark room, surrounded by the memories of the dreadful day. Poor Rafe.… Poor Freedom.… She dreamed of blood.

Ezra watched Rafe disappear into the shadowy darkness of the compound, walking under his own power. And after standing up to the cat. But then somehow Ezra knew he would. Rafe would unflinchingly withstand his punishment and walk away from the whipping just to spite them all. No. Not them all. Just Ezra, the man who had never owned him, never would own him. When the gate slammed to, he waved Butkis away, sent the shay on empty. He would walk.

The night was clear. A slight breeze from the east cooled the air and kept the mosquitoes back at the river where they belonged. The ghostlike figure pondered the future. There weren't too many fights left for Rafe. Only seven? No more. Ezra knew in his soul the black man would come back across the river if he ever got free. Come back and kill the white man he must hate. There would be little to stop him, for freedom was the only weapon he lacked. With freedom, he would be more powerful than ever. The sound of an alligator booming in the distant swamp gave him pause. They too had been hunted and killed, forced to live in the deeps of the swamps. He saw he was wrong. Rafe would not come back for revenge any more than would alligators seek revenge. He would simply ignore Ezra, for when all was said and done, Rafe did not fear the white man. Did not fear him at all.

A cold anger seeped over Ezra, an anger swollen with hate for the black man. Rafe was too big, too strong, too confident of his own physical ability. The display that afternoon was indicative of how Rafe thought. He entered the pit not through fear but in exhilaration. Very well, then. He must be taught fear, the white man thought coldly. Every fight from now on would be calculated to break him down bit by bit. He would win three or four more times, but each would take something more out of him, each take him one step closer to destruction. Stripped of impunity, forced to stand in naked isolation in the face of ever more fearful odds, the reality of his own vulnerability would begin to erode his prowess. Then it would be time to arrange a situation, a fight Rafe could not possibly win. And he would know fear, and die.

“You got a moment, Mistah Clayton?” Ezra scrutinized the man who materialized out of the shadows. Duggins, the dirt farmer who aspired to greater things. A troublemaker bent on posing difficulties for the lord of Freedom.

“Walk with me back to the house, Claude. We can talk.”

Duggins glanced back into the shadows and was instantly joined by three others, one of whom held a torch, who fell in stride behind him. “Well,” Duggins started, “ol' Charley Statton here has been … uh … complainin' to our little association. It seems you've laid claim to his bottom land jus' south of where your boundary used ta be.”

“That's because it's my land, Claude.”

“He don't think so. Charley's been workin' that land for nigh on six years. The Fitzman line is back a quarter-mile from where you moved it.”

Ezra's face clouded menacingly at the mention of Fitzman's name. It had been coming up far too frequently recently. He stopped. Duggins took a step past him before stopping, then turned back. The three farmers who had been following collided with each other, caught off guard by Ezra's abrupt halt. “The land in question is Freedom property,” Ezra said coldly. “Fitzman was a fool. The original survey established the acreage as his but he allowed some ninny of a dirt farmer tillage. So Statton moved in and decided the land was his. Well, not according to the documents in Nachitoches and in the state land office. Statton is squatting on Freedom land and he'd best remove himself. I'll not discuss it farther.”

“T'ain't right, Mistah Clayton,” Statton said from behind him.

Ezra ignored him. “You tell him again for me, Duggins. Off he goes. The only thing I'll talk to you about is Beaumarchant. I made you an offer awhile back. You interested or not?”

“I cain't sell no white man, Mistah Clayton. Not even a fella the way Beau is, all mussed up. Beau saved my hide durin' the battle down at New Orleans. I ain't puttin' him in with niggers.”

“If he's so mussed up, as you put it, he won't know the difference.”

“I would. Wouldn't be right.”

“Well then, how about you keeping him and me fightin' him for you?”

“No.”

“I'd start him out on one of my young ones if you're afraid he couldn't fight one of the good ones.”

“I ain't doin' it, Mistah Clayton. I owe him. He's my friend.”

“And too good for killin' niggers,” Ezra said scornfully. “Well, if he isn't strong enough to kill a nigger, I guess I don't want him anyways.”

“I didn't say that.”

Ezra stopped. “What did you say then, Duggins?”

“I said I wouldn't sell him,” he answered, his voice tinged with ugliness.

Ezra turned back, a little smile on his face. He looked from one man to the other, focused on Duggins. The smile disappeared. “Tell Statton I want him off. Now. I'll have my men down there to see he's gone, come next Monday. Now get out of here.”

Duggins stood stock still, stopped his companions with a gesture. His shoulders hunched dangerously, eyes glittered with a meanness Ezra hadn't seen before. “You may be a pretty big man in these parts, Clayton, but you got no call to talk that way. This is your place, so we'll go, but I want you to know somethin' first. You ain't that big. You send your men down there Monday next an' the rest of us'll be there waitin'.”

No man spoke to him so menacingly. Ezra bristled. “There aren't enough of you, Duggins. Don't be a fool.”

“I ain't. Charley's my friend. So are the others.”

“I won't give up on this, Duggins. You know that.”

They stared at each other in the flickering light. Duggins turned first. “We'll see your men Monday, Clayton. You tell 'em to be ready for bear.”

The man with the torch stopped Duggins, whispered rapidly in his ear. Ezra strained to listen, could hear no more than isolated, meaningless syllables. Duggins took the torch, walked back to Ezra. “Charley's got an idea, Clayton. You wanna hear it?”

Ezra didn't move, didn't speak.

“He says, why don't we save a lot of trouble? If it comes to shootin' we're gonna have the troops from Jessup down here before you can say jack spit. That ain't gonna do nobody no good. We got a man, you got a man. 'Stead of all of us fightin'—an' even if you don't come along we'll find you—why not jus' them two. Beaumarchant 'gainst Rafe.”

“No.”

“Rafe wins, you got Charley's land an' mine, too. Beau wins, Charley gets his land back free an' clear an' you pass title to ever' thing south of Littlejohn Creek to me.”

“No bet. I have the land Charley's on already, and I'll have yours soon enough.”

“That's somethin' you ain't sure of. This way's quick an' easy. Your place'll be a quarter bigger, jus' from one fight.”

“I'm not interested,” Ezra barked, turning.

“You afraid, Mistah Clayton?” The words were spoken softly but cut into Ezra's back the way the cat had into Rafe's. He stopped, anger rising in him.

“Ezra Clayton don't have a nigger what can whup a man with half his head shot away? A man what can't even talk?”

Ezra's fists clenched, unclenched. “Won't work, Duggins.…”

“You're man enough to steal from a woman an' a girl, but not bet with a man? 'Pears to me you ain't much, Clayton, lessen you're a thief.”

He turned, face white, anger half choking him. “You're on,” he said hoarsely. “Four weeks from today, when Rafe's back is healed. When he wins, you get ready to get the hell out of Louisiana fast, or you won't have more than three hours to live.”

Duggins grinned. “Ain't no way your nigger can win. I jus' got me a plantation as big as yours, Clayton.” The farmer nodded a brief farewell and left, leaving Ezra standing alone in the dark. And only when they were far enough away did the three farmers gather around Duggins and discuss the terms of the wager.

The anger subsided and Ezra was left more than a little worried. Duggins had suckered him into a bet and now he had to calm down and think it out. Rafe against the Cajun. If Rafe won, the land would become part of Freedom. He'd be rid of Duggins for good and Rafe would be torn up bad enough to start putting the fear in him. He'd still be good for three or four more fights, still be good enough to win enough to remain worthwhile, yet softened up considerably and easier prey for the last two fights. There was much to gain.

But there was much to lose, too. If Beaumarchant should win, and he well could, for he was a monster, Ezra's problem with Rafe would be dealt with, to be sure, but not the way he wanted. The fight could be very, very expensive, for Duggins would win far more than Ezra was prepared to pay. There had to be some way out, some way to ensure Duggins would never take even one square foot of Freedom land, bet or no. Ezra regretted his loss of temper. That Duggins should force him to make a mistake was unforgivable. He would pay dearly, one way or other. There were ways, and there were four weeks in which to find the ways. Ezra Clayton smiled faintly to himself, started back to the house. A confident man always won. He would win.

The mansion was dark. The guests were all gone and Freedom was quiet, sunk in sleep and exhaustion. Ezra wearily climbed the steps to the gallery and stood watching the night. A good weekend, all told. Exciting. And Julie would be waiting. She would be good to ride tonight, especially after the day's events. A pity about Crissa. Now there was a pleasant bit worth the effort. Though time was out of joint for the nonce, there would come the day when Crissa Elizabeth Fitzman would bare her body willingly. She'd give in, all right. The episode at the pit would have gone a long way toward breaking her down. A few more and she'd be ripe. He'd seen them before. Virtuous, untouchable, until the blood lust hit them and they pleaded for it, pleaded to be mounted and ridden like the animals they were. The little fool … to plead in that bush nigger's behalf. Now there was a tale to be tattled about. He owed her for that, too.…