Rafe (29 page)

Rafe was a slave. Ezra Clayton's prize pit nigger. No matter Micara had come to him, the crime would be his should she throw her rutting ways in her husband's face. “What you doin' here?” he asked angrily. “You gonna get me killed. Worse than killed, probably. Go on back to Ezra's bed and wait for him. I don't need the grief you bring.” The words were hard and biting, belying the urge he resisted to stroke her hair. There was something pitiable about her. She seemed a lost child.

“Are you afraid of Ezra? He's gone for the rest of the week.” He tried to ignore the warm pressure of her breasts pressed against his stomach. Micara deftly undid the ribbons binding her nightgown. She shrugged and the slick fabric slid from her shoulders, gathered at her waist. Her heavy breasts fell free, nipples taut, protruding hungrily from dark brown aureoles. She forced her breasts against his chest, drew them back and forth over his muscular, scar-covered physique, teased his neck and shoulders with kisses and teasing bites. “Are you afraid, Rafe?” she whispered huskily.

Her head sank to his belly and continued the arousing foreplay. Rafe's awesome member rose despite his attempts to disassociate himself from her caresses. He leaned over to push her away but she quickly stood and caught his hands, pulled them to her hips and slid the gown to the floor. Deftly she guided one hand to the dark triangle between her legs, and with her other hand swept the sheet to the floor and grasped him lightly, bringing him to a quick, limb-wrenching rigidity. His body shuddered ecstatically, her coos of encouragement and muted endearments; her playful fingers and tongue carrying him headlong to madness. As she leaned over onto him, his hand swept up her back, closed on her hair. He dragged her to him, rolled her over onto her back and covered her with his own demanding form, penetrating her roughly, ravenously. Micara wrapped her legs about him, forcing him deep into her, impaling herself on him, matching the animal rhythm of their mutual desire. Rafe's tongue probed and prodded her eager breasts, driving her further into an orgiastic frenzy. Her hands raked his back as she exploded into the uncontrollable, sobbing heights of sexuality. Her breath came in heaving, broken gasps until it seemed she ceased to expel any air at all, and still he thrust himself into her, faster and faster, harder and harder. Finally, no longer able to cry for him to stop, her eyes grew wide, then rolled up into her head. Her arms and legs dropped limply away from him. She was unconscious.

Rafe stopped, looked down at the now drawn white face, tried to feel hate and couldn't. This woman … beneath him, yet so far above him … deserved … what? He didn't know. He rose on his arms to look at her, down her body to where he disappeared inside her. Slowly, watching and feeling every inch of him move, he unsheathed himself and in so doing brought on his own orgasm. He watched his belly moving in and out with each driving breath, and below, his seed spilling on Micara's abdomen. He watched that as well.

Micara was breathing more easily now and her eyelids began to flutter. He wanted to believe he had succumbed to her out of spite for Eza, but felt only shame for his own weakness. Micara's hand stirred, sought his organ, pressed it to her. “You're my nigger, Rafe,” she murmured sleepily. “You'll have a good life. I'll see you stay here. You won't ever have to go back to the pit. I want it to be like this. It can be good for a long, long time.” She looked down at his manhood, glistening in the aftermath of its eruption. “My stallion.… my stallion…”

Something fell above them, was knocked over on the front gallery. Before the clatter died away feet were pounding on the wooden planking and then down the steps. A guard from far off shouted, “Hey!”

Rafe jumped from atop the woman as if struck by lightning. Micara bolted from the bed, quickly wiped herself and donned her gown and robe even as Rafe, his stomach knotted with panic, blew out the lamp. Outside, a musket fired, rupturing the still evening. Micara feverishly tied the bows and hurried to the door. The house was awake and stirring. Slaves were hurrying about in their rooms, dressing, running toward the front of the house. Micara looked back at Rafe, smiled and hurried out onto the dirt under the front gallery and up the stairs. Rather than try for her room she stopped halfway to the top of the stairs and turned back toward the front yard. “What is it?” she called to the first figure to run by.

The guard doffed his cap. “Saw someone movin' on the gallery, ma'am. Whoever it was run off. We'll track 'im, I 'spect.” He rammed a load down the musket and hurried off. Other guards were running up from the barracks.

Crissa appeared on the gallery and ran to join her mother. “What's happening?”

“Nothing, dear. A trifling disturbance. I'm certain Mr. Butkis and his men will take care of it.” Crissa was staring at her. “What is it, dear?” Micara asked.

“I didn't hear you in the hall, yet you were here ahead of me.”

“Of course,” the older woman answered pleasantly. “That's why you didn't hear me.” She patted Crissa on the cheek and stepped into the dark house, dismissing the house servants and sending them back to their beds before she ascended the steps to her room.

Crissa stared perplexedly after her, finally followed.

The old man watched Crissa from the safety of the grove, wanting to go to her yet knowing the opportunity was lost. The guards would be searching all around him after ensuring the safety of the immediate grounds. Only the moon dropping behind a cloud had saved his life, enabling him to cross to the safety of his beloved pecans without being seen and shot. But the darkness would not last long. Ephraim hobbled off into the depths of the grove, bowed by a burden more terrible than his age.

14

The shay clattered over the rise out of Claytonville, Ezra Clayton anxiously standing in the seat to inspect the fields. His fields.… A guard on the perimeter of the cotton field near the road briefly turned his attention from the toiling slaves to doff his cap in salute as the shay whisked by in a cloud of dust. Ezra ignored him, breathed a sigh of relief. All appeared to be well. Staying in Natchitoches an extra day had been a calculated risk based on faith in Butkis's ability to control the plantation in his absence. He'd left the overseer with definite instructions to carry on as usual should he arrive late, to accept and implement new orders from no one. His faith was well-placed. Butkis was a good man and the slaves were in the fields and working. Good.

Still, he had left with definite misgivings. Micara was up to something. Her new attitude puzzled and worried him. The episode at breakfast the day before he left unnerved him. After two years of sherry and subjection she'd evidently roused and wakened, and whether or not she knew it, her new awareness had stuck in the back of his mind all the weekend, plaguing him unmercifully and wreaking havoc with his concentration. Damn the woman! And her daughter!

There it was. Her daughter. Been working on Micara ever since she'd arrived back from the north where she should have stayed, a pox upon her. She'd brought him nothing but grief, now compounded by this apparently accomplished rehabilitation of her mother. Only two months and she'd turned his life upside down and inside out and now Micara, in an abrupt and unsettling change, had joined her. But that didn't make sense. The change should have been more gradual. There must have been some other factor he hadn't considered, of which he wasn't aware. He put the question behind him. His fields lay green and waving in the slight breeze. Everything was as it should be for the moment and he would handle new problems as they arose. He was in no mood for self-torment after a tiring weekend and even more exhausting long ride.

The lord and master of Freedom turned in the swaying seat and glanced back at the wagon just to the rear of his own carriage. Four pitbucks had ridden to Natchitoches and but for the driver, Dingo rode alone on the return trip. Dingo hadn't let him down. Dingo was a fighter of the first class. He'd faced a local nigger charged with thievery and killed him with style and at some profit to Ezra. Another five fights and he'd be as good as any other in the compound, including Jomo and Cat and perhaps even Rafe.

As an added draw Ezra had brought three of his younger bucks, each with only a fight or two to his credit. People would always gather to watch three Clayton pit-bucks go at each other. So he had anticipated, and neither he nor the crowd was disappointed. The fight was hard and fast and bitter, leaving the crowd screaming in a blood frenzy. The one who survived the melee would have been the cream of his new crop, but the winner received a mortal gash across his stomach at the last moment. His eyes glazed with pain, he took three steps from the chalk circle and crumpled over, his guts in his hands. Ezra lost not only a potentially excellent pitbuck but a good future draw as well, for the boy had a natural flair, and after winning against two would have been popular the next time he was brought to town. The slave owner tried to take comfort from the fact that those who had come to watch were many, each paying handsomely to be there and betting heavily as well. With judicious side wagers, Ezra had made a profit in spite of the loss of the three.

The shay swung up the drive in front of the house and pulled to a halt as the wagon and escort continued to the compound. Ezra waved the driver of his shay away and entered the house, hurriedly doffing his waistcoat in the relief of the dim hallway, cooler by far than the bright afternoon sun. His manservant came forward and bowed nervously. “Rum. And chip some ice in it. There is still ice?”

“No, suh. Ah'm sorry, suh.”

“Damn. Well, there'll be another shipment before the week is out. Scuppernong then. I'll be in the library.” The manservant's eyes grew wide with fright but he said nothing, only nodded and hurried off to do his master's bidding.

Ezra, accustomed to and expecting fear from his darkies, ignored the young Negro. He entered the library, crossed to the huge oak desk and collapsed gratefully into the luxuriously plush chair. The chair, almost a throne of black walnut and leather and made to his specifications in England cost him a pretty penny but Ezra felt he deserved it. He stripped off his shirt and unhooked the heavy belt from around his waist, dropped it with a thump on the desk. For a second he stretched, feeling light after wearing the cumbersome burden for so long. He undid the ties and dumped the contents of the belt on the desk, sat and stared hungrily. A pile of coins like so many glittering, greedy eyes reflected the sun streaming in the window behind him and lent a malevolent, jaundiced gold cast to Ezra's face.

He allowed himself a moment of imagination. All the gold was won gold, all profit. The moment passed quickly, for in truth, he had brought half the coins with him. He sighed, took out the amount originally in the belt and placed it to one side. Subtracting his expenses, he added them to the new pile. After a moment of hesitation he gave in, took out the cost of the three slaves he'd lost, damn them all, and shoved more gold to the other side of the desk. Eight double-gold eagles left by the empty belt. Eight and no more. Still … eight was more profit than anyone else had seen. Not many men in western Louisiana could make a hundred and sixty dollars in gold on a week-end. A profit was a profit. He leaned back in the chair and let the tension drain from him, almost dozing until the boy returned with a decanter and glass on a tray.

“What the hell took you so long?”

“Scuppernong on the lower level, suh, where it stay cool.” He poured some in the glass, his hand shaking so badly he spilled drops on the tray.

Ezra glared at him, a new tenseness, undefinable, creeping into him. “What's the matter with you, boy?”

The young slave jerked upright, almost spilling more wine. His eyes widened and he took an unconscious step backward. “Nuffin', suh. Ain't nuffin' wrong wid me. Ah's jes' fine, suh, Ah.…”

“Why are you shaking then? Come on, what have you done?”

“I ain't done nuffin', suh. Ah swears by de lawd Ah ain't done nuffin',” he gabbled, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead.

Ezra stared at him intently. The slave was frightened—so frightened he was lying, and a Clayton slave had to be damned scared to lie to his master. Perhaps Micara or her bitch daughter had been up to some new tricks after all. The slave shuffled back a few steps, kept turning his head left toward the books on the wall. Ezra followed his furtive, wide-eyed glances, saw nothing amiss.

“Kin Ah go now, suh?” he asked, staring assiduously at the floor. “Ah's got wo'k in de kitchen, an'.…”

Ezra saw it then, to his left and high above the fireplace. John Fitzman's portrait! The portrait he had removed so long ago! For a moment the shock left him senseless, his mind reeling in a nightmare. He couldn't be looking at it, couldn't believe what he saw. John Fitzman come back.…

He bolted upright, the chair slamming into the wall behind him and the terrified slave freezing in fear across the desk from him. Ezra's fingers turned bloodless from pressure as his knuckles dug into the desk top and a violent, animalistic howl of rage erupted from him, crescendoing painfully to a throat-tearing peak. He staggered from behind the desk and advanced on the painting, hands clenched into fists as if to strike that which was hopelessly out of reach.

He stood quaking before the stone mantel, beneath John Fitzman's benevolent gaze. Still staring, he groped about on the hearth until he found the iron poker. He reached up and swung the length of blackened metal but his brief height only allowed him to strike the deep and massive gilt frame bordering the hated portrait. Cursing, he struck over and over again, knocking away chips of wood which flew in all directions each time the poker made contact. Finally he succeeded in causing a great crack in the wood, but the painting itself remained unharmed.

Ezra paused, panting harshly, oaths of hate and frustration bubbling from his lips. He turned on the servant still cowering by the desk and started for him. The young Negro backed away, arms and hands vainly outstretched to protect his head and face from the raised poker his master bore, until he tripped on a chair and fell heavily against the wall of books. Ezra pounced, brought the iron poker down in a wicked slash across the slave's leg. The terrified Negro screamed once and fell the rest of the way to the floor, lay there writhing in agony and grabbing at his leg. “Oh, please, suh, please no moah. Ah din't do nuffin'. Ah din't do nuffin',” he broke off with a moan.