Rafe (25 page)

Duggins and two of his friends stepped to the edge of the far side of the pit. The farmer was grinning at the black man. “I have someone over here wants to meet you, nigger. You gotta god in that heathen place you darkies come from, you better say your prayers to him now.” A figure loomed in the darkness, a figure of breathtaking proportions who stepped into the circle of light And Duggins said quietly, “This is Beaumarchant.”

There was a hushed murmur among the eleven plantation lords. Bets were revised, replaced. Three-to-one the nigger wouldn't last five minutes. Even odds on the nigger. Five-to-three the white would win but wouldn't walk away. Ten-to-one the nigger wouldn't fight at all and be killed by the guards as he tried to break and run.

Beaumarchant was huge. If Rafe was a giant, the Cajun was a behemoth; a misshapen grotesquerie towering half a foot above Rafe, a herculean physique with shoulders and arms corded into knots of muscle, thighs as big around as most men's waists. His face was a ruination, the whole left side from his eye down to his neck a single shining white and red sheet of scar tissue where the flesh had been seared. The left ear was a twisted mass of cartilage and part of his upper lip was gone, burned away to reveal the teeth and lending a skull-like appearance to the whole apparition. His head had been shaved, like Rafe's. Scars stood out, streaking Beaumarchant's chest and arms.

Is this how they felt, those who have faced me, a giant carved of black? Did they feel as I feel now. Rafe wondered. He remembered his father's words. “The lion is bigger and stronger than men, yet men kill lions. Remember that, my son.” The hulk across the pit was surely a lion of a man.

The elite were watching him, waiting for a reaction. Rafe suddenly imagined how Jomo would look beside this gargantuan. The little warrior would seem a small, furious doll. The notion amused him and he laughed aloud. “Your nigger's crazed, Mistah Clayton. He's laughin',” Duggins called angrily.

Ezra ignored Duggins, inwardly fumed at the laughter. The nigger wouldn't be laughing long. “When Mr. Butkis fibres, you jump into the pit,” he ordered calmly. “Mr. Butkis, at your discretion.”

The overseer nodded importantly and raised his pistol. The whispers died and the watchers edged forward. The torchlight sent a dozen flickering shadows dancing in the pit where clay walls glowed and pulsed with a life of their own. In his mind Rafe saw Old Chulem shaking his head and mouthing the ancient rites of a lost people. Chulem had seen his death, he knew. Rafe forced the thought away. Duggins touched his hulking friend on the shoulder, reached up and whispered something to him. Beaumarchant nodded and grinned his death's-head grin, the slash of revealed teeth and jawbone gleaming in the eerie light. Only the right half of his face moved. The brute silently pointed a finger at Rafe, singling him out. They stood their ground across the cavity in the earth, the black warrior' and the monstrous Beaumarchant. Butkis' pistol spouted fire and a resounding clap of thunder.

Rafe, already tense, leaped high, landed on his feet, rolled and came up running, hurtling to meet Beaumarchant as the Cajun dropped sluggishly into the pit. Partially losing his balance and falling forward to the ground, he steadied himself with both hands, unable to avoid Rafe's attack. The black stopped, pivoted and drove his right leg in a powerful, thrusting kick which connected with Beaumarchant's disfigured face and lifted him to his feet. There was a sound like a club slapped against a log and the Cajun's head snapped back and he slammed into the wall. Rafe, his fists welded together in a powerful two-handed grip, followed his initial attack with a viscera-rushing blow to the Cajun's exposed belly. It would have killed a lesser man.

Beaumarchant doubled over, staggering forward into the clay arena. Rafe let him pass, then followed him, raining blow after head-clubbing, double-fisted blow onto the man. The Cajun stumbled, fell to his knees. Rafe drew back, breathing hard. His hands hurt. It was like punching stone, but the brute was down and wouldn't last long.

Rafe aimed his next kick for the kidneys and confidently closed in. Beaumarchant pitched sideways. As he fell, a rock-hard fist swung blindly into the pitbuck's legs, knocking him off his feet. Beaumarchant rolled again, this time onto Rafe, momentarily burying him. His hands grabbed Rafe's struggling wrists, pinned them to the earth. The drooling death's-head grin hung only inches away above Rafe's face, the gaping, torn scar tissue dripping saliva and blood into the pitbuck's eyes.

Rafe squirmed his legs free, locked them around the brute's waist and squeezed, the long-corded muscles of his thighs exerting tremendous pressure. Beaumarchant's eyes grew wide. He freed Rafe's hands and tried to roll away. The black stayed with him as the Cajun struggled to his knees, hammering at the legs that ground at his kidneys. Nearly beserk with pain, Beaumarchant locked his fists together and began smashing Rafe's face, chest and abdomen. The black protected himself with his forearms, and only his own superb physique and the Cajun's growing weakness kept him from being killed. Even so, his torso was a mass of bruises and each slamming blow hurt worse than the one before. He exerted more pressure despite the terrible punishment until he could withstand the Cajun's jarring fists no longer.

Suddenly Beaumarchant was free. Rafe rolled away, jumped to his feet and attacked before his opponent could stand. A fist flattened the Cajun's nose, crushing the cartilage. A new fount of blood poured down Beaumarchant's face into the lipless mouth. Rafe swung again with his right fist. Beaumarchant ducked into it, catching the blow directly on his temple.

Pain shot the length of Rafe's arm and he howled in hurt suprise. Beaumarchant shook his head like a bull, and still on his knees, threw a diving, overhanded punch to Rafe's genitals, knocking the pitbuck off his feet. Rafe, doubled up and gasping for air, pulled himself across the clay floor.

Beaumarchant struggled slowly to his feet and stared dully at the black. The bruise on his temple was beginning to swell and his kidneys hurt from the punishing scissorgrip. The nigger had hurt him and now he was going to pay.

Rafe slowly dragged himself erect. His father had said … He couldn't remember, could only hear Cat. “Stronger den yo' is, Rafe … Stronger den yo' is, Rafe …” Over and over…

The fist, an obscenely huge bony crag of flesh, came out of nowhere and spun him back against the wall. Another grazed the side of his head and slammed into the hard clay as he slumped to one side. Rafe tried to move, couldn't, and watched as the swollen hands closed around his throat and began to squeeze.

There were no screams, no catcalls from above. Only empty time and the hoarse, rattling breath of Beaumarchant. Rafe's arms were lead, dangling to either side as Beaumarchant lifted him into the air and slid him up the wall. Rafe felt the pressure, tensed his neck. The Cajun's fingers dug deep but the neck did not crush beneath his grip. The brute's eyes widened in surprise. Used to the slaughter of old men, of helpless, weary field slaves, here was a nigger almost equal to himself. He scowled and squeezed harder.

Rafe gripped the Cajun's arms. He tucked his legs up and in a fluid motion planted his feet against Beaumarchant's chest, violently straightening them and flinging the brute away. Beaumarchant tripped and fell over on his back, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

For a moment both titans were down. Slowly they struggled to their feet and stood glaring at each other across the narrow space separating them. The pitbuck gingerly rubbed his throat, his flesh lacerated by Beaumarchant's powerful hands as they were torn from his neck.

Rafe began to warily circle his powerful foe, slowly regaining the use of his legs. His right hand hurt, his head throbbed, and pain shot through his groin, but he forced himself to disregard it. Like a hunting cat he circled the Cajun who waited, his pale flesh a garish orange in the firelight. Minutes passed … a circle … another … interminable to those watching from above. Minutes to regain strength, to make the body work again.…

Rafe warily searched for an opening but Beaumarchant surprised him by attacking first. He lunged at the black who stepped aside and clubbed the back of the Cajun's neck as he rushed past. Beaumarchant slammed into the wall, rebounded and backhanded Rafe. The pitbuck, expecting the Cajun to be knocked half-senseless, caught the blow on the chin and fell reeling away. Beaumarchant pressed the attack, and even as Rafe spun from him, grappled two pale, brawny arms around the pitbuck's waist, encircling him from the rear in a crushing bearhug, hoisting him off his feet and squeezing the very breath from him.

Rafe's arms were pinned uselessly to his side, and struggle though he did, the irresistible pressure continued. Rafe's vision narrowed and bright ringlets of fire danced before his eyes, already bulging from their sockets. He smashed his head back into Beaumarchant's face, but the Cajun turned his face to one side and Rafe's head flopped uselessly to the white man's shoulder. The strength draining from him, he tried to raise his head but couldn't.

Above him the circle of white faces stared down. Was Crissa among them? Did she watch, too? He arched his body, kicked up and back, slamming a heel into Beaumarchant's groin. The Cajun grunted and tightened his viselike grip. Rafe repeated the kick. Once. Twice. Three times. The bear hug loosened. A fourth time. The pressure eased. A fifth time. And Beaumarchant thrust him from his arms. Rafe landed like a cat, rolled to his feet and promptly fell over on his buttocks, sitting against the wall of the pit, legs splayed out before him. Thirty feet away, Beaumarchant leaned against the opposite wall for support, his hands clutching his genitals, blood trickling through his fingers and down his inner thigh.

Now was the moment to press the attack. Rafe sat where he was, unmoving, pain lacing his left side in searing spasms. Beaumarchant was crippled, at least for the moment.
Now!
a voice screamed within him. But he could not.

And suddenly Rafe realized he was to die. Chulem had been right. He sat there, too tired to care. Beaumarchant shoved away from the wall and began to lurch toward him, step by staggering step, like some inexorable, invincible monster driven by malevolence and hatred—hatred, cruelty and grim satisfaction—for through his pain-dulled brain, Beaumarchant realized Rafe was beaten.

The pitbuck drew his legs up and attempted to stand, but Beaumarohant fell to his knees in front of him and slammed him back down against the wall with his forearm and held him there. Rafe's right arm ineffectually pummelled the Cajun's back. Beaumarchant grinned. His right hand grasped Rafe's left wrist in an unbreakable grip. He blocked the pitbuck's attempt to kick him in the groin and gradually drew Rafe's left hand toward him. Beaumarchant had remembered what his friend had said. “You can kill him as slow as you like.”

Rafe tried to wrench his hand free but Beaumarchant was too strong. Too strong. “You be free,” Jomo said. Beaumarchant would kill him, would win. Struggle only prolonged death, so he quit struggling and watched with curious aloofness as Beaumarchant's jaw closed around the base of his little finger.

And then pain. More pain than he could ever remember. Those grinding, tearing, grotesque jaws. Blood seeped from between the Cajun's clenched teeth. Rafe's blood.

And then the hand dropped free, spouting crimson gore where the little finger had been. Beaumarchant rocked back and pushed to his feet, his grisly prize jutting from his lips. Rafe lay back against the smooth, cool clay and felt the tears roll down his face while his lifeblood ran before his tear-dimmed vision and blotted in the somber clay.

Beaumarchant plodded to the center of the pit. He took the prize from his mouth and held Rafe's severed finger aloft. Some of the faces nodded up and down. Most smiled. Others laughed. A voice shouted, “That a boy, Beau! Kill that field nigger piece by piece. Bite off his pecker next.”

And Beaumarchant's body shook, his travesty of a mouth widening in silent, obscene laughter. Holding the bleeding length of human flesh and bone so all could see, turning in a circle, staring and grinning at the faces, his back contemptuously turned to the doomed black man. Three of the faces scowled and disappeared. They had lost their money and knew it. The others nodded and laughed. They'd won and now were anxious for the kill. With their money safe, they could enjoy the final moments.

They laughed. Duggins laughed. Beaumarchant laughed. Rafe stared at the faces, stared at the severed finger held high and outlined against the torches' glare. He stared at the silently cluttering monster who held it; stared at his mutilated hand; the blood that was his; the walls of the pit stretching upward forever; back to the faces and the laughing, hulking white man who liked to kill field niggers.

And then rage. The fury grew in his belly and swelled to fill his whole being. He was not a field nigger! He would not die. Not alone. And Rafe, borne on a wave of rage, a terrible force filling his being, charged, blood spattering a trail in his wake. A scream tore his throat as he leaped high, springing onto Beaumarchant's back even as the Cajun started to turn toward the noise.

Rafe's legs wrapped around the giant's waist, wrapped and locked. His black arms enveloped the shaven white skull and began to twist. Beaumarohant staggered to his knees, rose despite Rafe's weight, despite the pain as his head was wrenched left. Rafe twisted, his hands like talons digging into Beaumarchant's sweat-slick skull. Beaumarchant locked his hands on Rafe's wrists. He pulled, his biceps swelling to phenomenal proportions. Rafe did not let go.

Beaumarchant hurled himself forward, bending to slam Rafe with bone jarring force into the wall. Rafe did not let go.

Beaumarchant fell forward and rolled on his back, then with herculean effort regained his footing, stood with back to wall and bashed Rafe against the wall again and again.

Rafe … did … not … let … go.