Rafe (23 page)

Rafe scooped the last bit of rice from his bowl, gulped it quickly, then dipped the bowl into the tank and filled it to the brim with water. Sipping slowly, he savored the sweet cold water. His back felt stiff but did not pain him. Tomorrow he would clean off the poultice and get to work in earnest. The food had helped.

The sun was low in the west. Soon it would be dark. Rafe enjoyed evening. Another day closer to freedom. Cat continued to bait him, trying to worry him like a hound worried a bear. “Yassuh. Now dere one man I skeered of, an' dat de troof. Why, he so ugly Duggins gotta keep him away from de sugah cane, 'cause cane don't get sweet, it see him fuhst. Ooo-weee!”

“Cat, a fist don't never care whether a man's purty o' ugly. A fist jus' carin' about one thing. Bustin' flesh an' breakin' bones.”

Cat cupped some of the water and splashed it on his face and neck. “Dat's anodder thing. Ah knows dis Beaumarchant. He ain't only ugly, he big. You knows Ah used to be Duggins' nigger afore he sold me ta Mistuh Clayton. I seen dat white man. Seed 'im poundin' iron. Seed 'im liftin' bales o' cotton lahk dey was no more'n a little baby. Seed 'im prowlin' de fields an' watchin' fo' some po' nigger who done fall asleep. He catch one ol'nigger one day when he feelin' ornery an' pop dat nigger's haid lahk it no more den a blue jay egg.

“Dat white man all mussed up in de haid an' he doan know right from wrong, jes' what Duggins tell him. Dat's one strong white man. Strong an' big. Stronger den yo' is, Rafe. An' bigger too.”

“Yo' fo'gittin' dat pitchfo'k, nigger,” Trinidad chimed in. “Boss ain't on'y strong, he move fas' when he gots to. Real fas'. He quick. Quick as yo' is, Cat.” Trinidad nudged Dingo and the others joined in with their laughter.

“Yeah, Cat,” Dingo added. “Why doan yo' go fin' dat pitchfo'k so's we can see how fas' Boss is again.”

“Hesh up now, Dingo,” Trinidad interjected. “Po' ol' Cat cain't fin' dat pitchfo'k 'cause it all busted up. All busted into pieces lahk dat Beaumarchant goana be when Rafe get finish wid 'im.”

Cat scowled at his companions. He rose stiffly, his voice taking on a defensive tone. “All Ah sayin' is dat Ah done seen dat Beaumarchant. Dat's all. An' quick doan mean nuffin' when yo' dat big. Yo' hits dat white man all de live long day an' when it acomin' night time de moon a'laffin', 'cause dat man still be standin'. He all mussed up in de haid an' doan prob'ly know when to fall. Dat's all Ah'm sayin'.”

“Nigger, wha' fo' yo' chatterin' 'bout now?” Jomo asked as he approached the gathering of fighters around the spring.

“Nuffin',” Cat grumbled, brushing past him angrily on his way to the long house.

“When yo' goana up an' bus' dat boy's neck, N'gata?”

Rafe grinned as Jomo sat beside him. “When we in the pit, where it count for something. Cat got an itch in his craw, Jomo. Come the time, that itch is gonna do it for me. He gonna be so crazy mad to hurt me he won't think straight. When a man let temper guide him when he fightin', he ain't gonna be livin' long. Yessir, that boy Cat gonna be his own death.”

The low weary sound of a spiritual carried through the wall of the compound. The field slaves were only now being herded in. “Dem po' niggers spent dem a long hard day fo' not startin' 'til pas' noon,” muttered Jomo. “Look lahk Mistuh Clayton done decided ta make up fo' de day an' a half he done missed. Dem guards is layin' on de whip.”

“Dey better not a had touched mah Bess. Dey bes' keep dat black snake off'n her back o' somebody git his belly cut open.”

“Fool talk, Trinidad. Yo' talkin' fool talk. Dere's nuffin yo' can do but git a musket ball through dat head a' yores.”

The spiritual broke up, drifted away into the dusky twilight. The field hands were at their shanties. Rafe rose and left, walking alone to his shack. The sudden crack of a whip and accompanying howl broke the silence. Rafe winced, reliving the cat, the night of the fight. What had Crissa tried to prove by her intervention? A day and a half of merriment and rest. Did she think she could buy innocence so cheaply? Did she expect a day and half to erase uncounted years of drudgery? Life would be far, harsher now Ezra was back. All she had done was give her field niggers a moment of hope, the more cruel because such hope was destined from the very first to be fruitless. Nothing had changed. They were still slaves. He drove the thought of her from his mind, replacing it with another more pressing.

He had let emotion rule, had rushed to Jomo's aid. To care about another human being, to call him friend, was a weakness he had not expected to find in himself. And in the pit, weakness meant death. In the pit only the strong survived. He glanced across the compound to Old Chulem's hut. The conjure man was in there staring at him. Rafe knew it. He could feel the old man's eyes through the board and animal-hide walls. Old eyes that had seen much. Too much, perhaps. Had they seen his weakness, read of his death? Had they seen what Ezra Clayton planned for him? The coming fight would be different, this he knew, for never before had he been told who he would fight before he stood at the bottom of the pit. Ezra Clayton must have something special in mind. Rafe shrugged the worry off and went into his shack to sleep. He was alive, his belly was full, and worry was for lesser men.

Ezra ate alone. The table was set for both Crissa and Micara but their places remained empty. The women had returned while Ezra was away with Butkis in the woods. He had expected them to show for the evening meal but Micara had sent word she was fatigued from her visit with Madame Bernard. Of Crissa he had heard nothing and was about to send Julie to inquire about her when she entered. She wore a gown of lavender silk that rustled deliciously as he seated her. “That is a gown I have not seen before.”

“Madame Bernard gave it to me. It belonged to her daughter. She died only a year older than I.”

“Yes. Too bad you missed the funeral. Marie Bernard never could adapt to plantation life,” Ezra said meaningfully, trying to bait her but getting no discernible reaction.

A young Negro man with a haughty, effeminate face entered. He was wearing butler's garb. “I'm afraid I dined without waiting for you,” Ezra continued, taking a cup of tea from the servant.

“That's all right. I really wasn't hungry. Just some tea will do, please.” The butler nodded and returned to the kitchen. Crissa had undertaken the trip to Bernard's for her mother's sake'and was tired, but something within her demanded she face Ezra this evening. She knew the polite parrying would soon give way to cut and thrust, knew of his anger on learning the slaves had been given time off, and heard the field hands coming in late, singing their dark lament.

“It's good for Micara to get away,” Ezra mused. “I have little time for the amenities of plantation life. Micara misses her amenities.”

“Mother is a social creature, which is why she allowed you to stay when you stumbled out of the bayou five years ago.” Ezra's face darkened, but before he could return the barb the Negro servant entered and placed cup, saucer and teapot in front of Crissa. “I'll let it steep a bit and pour it myself, thank you.” The youth nodded, glanced at Ezra, and when there were no further orders, retreated once again to the kitchen. Crissa, her brows suddenly furrowed, watched him leave. Ezra noticed her puzzlement and smiled secretly. “Where is Tyree?” Crissa asked.

Ezra poured himself a glass of burgundy, holding it to the candlelight, studying the wine's rich color. “Who?”

“Tyree.”

“The name escapes me.” The wine cast a red glow on his face.

“Tyree was my father's valet. A trusted house servant for many years. I found him working in the fields like a common field hand. He is old and in ill health. I brought him back to the house and returned him to his former duties.”

“Oh, yes. Now I remember. That cream-colored nigger I found in the hall this morning. I almost shot him.”

Crissa paled. “You didn't.…”

Ezra finished his burgundy and refilled the glass. “No. I stripped him and sent him back to the fields.”

“You what?”

“You heard me. If you'd wanted to contest the decision you should have been here instead of out and running around the countryside. A scrawny old nigger not worth the food he eats. I'll not have his kind in my house.”

“He was a trusted servant.”

“Not my servant.”

Crissa could feel the anger rising in her like fearful, choking-bile. Ezra remained placid, unconcernedly sipping his wine. He had recovered all emotional control since the morning's outburst. Now beyond her defenses, it was time for him to pursue the matter.

“It is my wish that.…” Crissa began.

“To the devil with your wishes,” Ezra interrupted coldly. “Should I ever again return and find you have interfered with the running of this plantation I shall send you away with nothing more than the clothes on your back.”

“What? You can't.…”

“I can and I will. I am master here. This is my land and I shall do as I please. Dammit, woman, do you still not understand?”

“I understand only one thing. You have defiled my father's name and that of this plantation. You are a cruel monster who delights in watching helpless creatures die.”

“Helpless? That's good. I like that, Crissa. You're very perceptive.” He rose from his chair, his voice like steel, hard and unrelenting. “You crawl down into my pit and face one of my pitbucks and see for yourself just how helpless they are.”

“The practice is inhuman.”

“What's this? Is your mother inhuman? Is Captain Bennett inhuman? Are all the townspeople, farmers, trappers and the like inhuman? They enjoy the gaming. Do I force the niggers into the pit? No. Do I force them to kill? No. They fight because they are savages. They would do so in the fields, in the shanties, in the forests. It is for their betters, for cultured man, to appreciate the sport in their fighting, and it was for me to discover how to fight them successfully. Not just two ignorant cotton field niggers slashing at each other with knives for the pleasure of an uneducated few. No. I train my niggers. Train them to fight, train them to kill, train them to live, train them to win. Whether or not the idea pleases you, blood and gold have made Freedom the success you see. Blood and gold and my governing hand. I have told you I am a realist. Were I not, you would have returned from the east to find poverty and squalor, if anything. Your father,” he spat, “bah! This plantation is mine, Crissa Elizabeth Fitzman, and don't you forget it. John Fitzman is dead. Everything here is mine!” He leaned on the table at her side, his gaze centered on her bosom, then rose to meet her eyes. “Everything,” he said slowly, emphasizing each syllable. “Every thing.”

Crissa caught his meaning only too well, shuddered inwardly as he finished his sentence. The revulsion of the suggestion drove her from the table in a panic. She fled up the stairs to her room, recoiling from the very walls as if they too bore the reddish-brown color staining the floor of the pit. And in a way, they did.

Ezra left the dining room feeling much better. There would be more to say later but he could wait. She had tested him and learned how he would react and respond—with brutal strength. Women were really too, too easy. She would walk a little more carefully in the future.

The lamp was already lit in the library. Tonight was the meeting with Patrick. His men were already moving, but there were still many details needing his attention.…

Decater ran his hands lightly over the white coat, the likes of which he'd never worn. He had always dreamed of owning fine things yet took little pleasure in the richly tailored broadcloth. The night was too hot, for one thing. Hot in more ways than one. The whole business stank. Damn that Beulah. Carryin' on an' caterwaulin' when ever'body knew nigger gash readied young. He had to kill her, even if he wasn't tryin' to. She'd left him no choice. Little bitch screamin' loud enough to wake the dead. She hadn't no right. And Butkis, the bastard, followin' him an' watchin', stickin' his nose in other people's business, then holdin' back what he knew until this afternoon when Mistah Clayton called him to the house.

Sittin' across the desk from Ezra Clayton and listenin' to what he said scared the goose piss out of him. “No, sir,” Decater said nervously. “No, sir. Anything but that. Ah cain't kill no white man. That's a hangin' crime.”

Clayton led him to the window. Butkis was below with a buckboard drawn up close to the side of the house. Climbing in back, the overseer lifted a canvas tarpaulin and Beulah was lyin' there, starin' at him, her wide, dead eyes boring straight into him. If the field hands ever found out who, if word ever spread, he could never turn his back in the fields, never know when an accidental shovel or hoe or machete would slip from someone's grip. He wouldn't be able to stay with Clayton and he wouldn't be able to leave, for word would follow him wherever he went where there were niggers. He was trapped, hard-caught and no way out. There was nothing to do but what he was told.

He brushed the grit from his sleeve—from Clayton's sleeve—and stepped out from the clustered pecan trees. The Indian mound loomed ahead, a sleeping giant dimly lit by a quarter moon. The man would be there—somewhere.

Patrick could have had help. Long offered, right enough, but was told he should stay clear lest word of his presence get around. Folks knew about Long's filibustering and the military had been ordered to stop him. Anyway, Patrick Fitzman had his own plans. Lying silently in a slight depression atop the mound, he had an unobstructed view and a clear field of fire. Three hours he'd been there and not heard a sound, not seen a living thing other than birds and squirrels. He'd see if Ezra had not come alone.