Rafe (33 page)

“Or daid,” Cat countered.

“You already dead,” Rafe answered harshly. “We butcher each other so Ezra Clayton can win gold an' have his sport. But it's our flesh gets carved, our blood stains the clay. Ain't no way to live. Hell, all a' us, we already dead, jus' walkin' around still. Ain't a man here who doin' any more. You all got only one choice. Walk out an' maybe live, or stay here an' for sure die.” He paused meaningfully. “I'm walkin' out. I'm crossin' the Sabine. I'm gonna take what I can an' find me a new life.”

“What we gotta do, Boss?”

“Take us wid yo'.”

“Across de ribber? Yo' gonna lead us lahk Moses?”

“Dat guard above de gate got a scatter gun. How we gets pas' him an' out, we doan get blowed away?” The voices came in hurried whispers from the deep shadows.

A figure shuffled wearily through the gathered pitbucks who grew quiet with his passing. Rafe watched closely as the conjure man approached. Old Chulem looked from one corpse to the other, centering finally on Butkis. He stepped closer to the overseer's grisly hulk, leaned over and spat in the dead man's face, then turned back to Rafe, his eyes twinkling. He withdrew a hollow reed from the folded hides about his shoulders. In his hand he held a feathered dart for the blowing tube. A broad grin revealed his toothless gums. “Fo' dat guard above de gate.”

Rafe returned the old man's grin. Quickly they stacked the three corpses together against the wall. Chulem, feeble and wizened, began a slow and apparently harmless crossing toward the gate. The guard would let him close and not feel threatened, even open the gate and let him out to go to the field hands' shanties if he wanted.

Rafe ripped the keys from around Butkis's waist. One was to the pitbucks' weapon bin just outside the gate. He did not know what the others opened but there would be time enough later to find out. Leaving the pitbucks to await his signal, he dulled the sheen on Butkis's blade with dirt, tucked a pistol into the waist of his pants and warily stalked off in the shadow of the walls, his speed and course designed to take him to the gate seconds before Old Chulem arrived. Butkis should have returned to the gate by this time and seen to the lighting of the torches, and since he hadn't, the guard on the platform would be getting suspicious. Rafe and Chulem would have to take him completely by surprise, kill him before he had a chance to ring the heavy brass warning bell above the gate and alert the whole plantation to trouble.

Jomo distributed the remaining weapons, keeping a pistol for himself. The wooden pistol grip felt uncomfortable in his hand and he longed for his axe. He peered around the corner of the cook shack. Chulem was nearly to the gate. Jomo searched the shadows beneath the wall and near the gate, thought he saw a flitting shape, a brief glimmer of steel.

“Dat nigger done goana get us all killed,” Cat growled.

Jomo glanced over his shoulder, glared at the thin, restless pitbuck. “Cat, yo' jes' about said all yo' goana say, yo' heah me? Ah doan wan' no mo' shit from yo' mouf, yo' heah?” Cat saw the pistol aimed at his belly, read the intent in Jomo's eyes and shut up, withdrew even farther into the shadows.

Suddenly the bell was ringing. They all jumped, startled by the loud clangor of alarm. They'd been discovered! Jomo cursed aloud and peered around the wall. Chulem stood at the open gateway. What had gone wrong? Where was Rafe? When he heard the guard yell, “Fire! Fire at the house! Fire!” he relaxed. The guards were alerted, but not to the pitbucks nor the compound. A huge grin spread over his face. With the house on fire and the guards' attention diverted, they'd stand a good chance of getting across the Sabine for sure.

Rafe waved Chulem on and ran the remaining few feet to the gate. Chulem stepped through and raised the blowing tube. The guard looked down, saw the old man and still pulling the cord to the bell shouted down for him to get back inside. Rafe rounded the wall in time to see the guard clap his hands to his face, scream and pitch headfirst off the platform where he crumpled onto the tightly packed clay with a sickening crunch.

“Good thing he weren't much fu'ther up. Ah ain't gots much wind no mo',” Chulem cackled.

“You got enough, old man,” Rafe replied. He fumbled with the padlock on the pitbucks' weapons bin while Chulem whistled for the other pitbucks and began to strip the guard of his weaponry. Two figures charged out of the dark. Rafe flung the lid open, spun aside as a musket ball splintered the wood where he'd been standing. A second later they were on him. Rafe parried a sword thrust with the cutlass and twisted to face his attackers as the guard with the empty rifle drew his own cutlass and fell to with his companion. Hard-pressed and with no room to maneuver, Rafe defended himself as best he could. A blade drew blood from his arm, another brushed his leg, nicking it. He dodged a third swipe at his head, ducked under and drove his cutlass up to the hilt in the guard's abdomen. He dragged the blade free, at the same time spinning the dying man into the path of his comrade's downward slash. The sword clove skull and brain and stuck. His hands sweating and his weapon caught in the bone, the second guard lost his grip and was left weaponless and at Rafe's mercy. The guard stared wide-eyed at the black man towering over him until he heard a slight puffing sound from behind him and felt a sting in the back of his neck. He reached vainly for the barb lodged there and tried desperately to pull it from him, then crumpled to his knees, not at all understanding how the rapid poison coursed through his system. His eyes glazed and he pitched forward, dead.

Jomo and the other pitbucks poured through the gate and into the weapons shed. They stripped the guards of weapons and emptied the bin of knives, machetes and axes, then milled about in confusion, none sure of what the next step should be. Rafe reloaded the fired weapon, sent Dingo up to the platform to retrieve the blunderbuss still leaning against the wall and made sure those with rifles and pistols knew how to use them. Jomo swung his axe in the night air, grinned at the comfortable heft, the sweet music of steel humming through open air.

Through the trees they could see the guards' barracks aglow with the glare of several lanterns. Beyond, on the crest of the hill, the plantation house stood, slender tendrils of flame beginning to lap from windows, climb to the roof and dance in the night sky. “Jomo,” Rafe ordered, “take Trinidad and four more to free the field hands. Arm them with what you can find and bring them up to the house. There won't be many guards. The rest of you follow me to the barracks.” The words barely out, he broke into a run up the path. Jomo rounded up four of the closest pitbucks and, already behind Trinidad who had sped on his way to find Bess, headed for the shanties.

Rafe bounded along the path, his huge strides pulling him ahead of the others. The guards had to be taken care of first, and quickly. Crissa and Micara were in the house, possibly trapped by the flames. Ezra, too, would be there. Tonight would be his night to die. But first the guards.

A figure loomed out of the darkness ahead of him. The man could only be a guard from the barracks but it was too dark for Rafe to recognize him or be recognized. The two figures approached each other on the run. Nearer … nearer … Rafe tugged at the pistol. The flint caught in the rope belting his waist. They were almost upon one another when Rafe recognized Boo, armed with a rifle.

Boo never expected to find a slave running up the path toward him and his momentary confusion saved Rafe's life. “Hey, who fired? Where's Butkis.… What?” He recognized the giant form, the dark skin visible now as he slowed and jerked his rifle up even as Rafe swung the cutlass with all his might, gripping the hilt with both hands'. The blade was of the best steel, heavy and honed razor-sharp and Rafe fell to his knees from the momentum of the slash. Boo's head flew from his shoulders and bounced into the brush and weeds where it rolled upright, the mouth still open in an unvoiced wail of death. Empty eyes watched the body they'd just left as it continued running awkwardly into the bordering vines where it tripped, tumbled and thrashed grotesquely as the dying muscles continued trying to obey the last commands received. Dingo and the others appeared out of the darkness. Inured to death, they stripped the still twitching corpse of rifle, pistols and knife before following Rafe up a grassy knoll and into the clearing surrounding the barracks.

“Damn that Butkis anyway,” muttered Decater.

“You sayin' somethin'?” one of the guards he was relieving asked.

“Naw, nuthin' any business a yores.”

The guard to his left chuckled softly. Decater glanced sharply in his direction. He was a laugher, this new one, who never had anything to say. Decater didn't like him. Decater didn't like having to stand night guard duty alone at the field hands' shanties, either. He had seen Butkis coming from them earlier in the day. The overseer had grinned hugely at him, amused by some unspoken joke. Only one thing fit—the bastard overseer must have let slip a choice word or two hinting of the identity of Beulah's killer. Decater was nervous, all right, more so because he'd be alone until midnight. The double line of dark shacks, unpainted wood blending into shadows, spooked him. Even with Arvid and the laugher still around he didn't feel safe. The night was too quiet, too full of silent, threatening shadows.

And then the stillness broke. The pealing brass bell rang its monotonous clanging report into the night. Decater shot a startled glance toward the house and caught a glimpse of flames burgeoning from the plantation house. Fire! And a bad one, too, if he could see it clearly from the shanties. They'd need all the help they could get Need it fast. “Fire! Fire at the big house!” he yelled at the top of his lungs to wake the blacks. “C'mon,” he added roughly to Arvid and the laugher, shoving them toward the shacks. “Get yore asses on the move. Roust them niggers out! We gotta get 'em over to help with that fire. Move, damn it, move!”

Already the doors to the shanties were opening and field hands were pouring out into the barren yard. The three guards ran down between the line of shanties, pounding and slamming their musket stocks against walls and doors, raising a ruckus in an effort to hurry the slaves out. But there weren't enough. Where were they all? Decater lined up those in the yard, told them to wait and sent Arvid and the laugher to roust out the slaggards.

As the two disappeared into the night, Decater was left alone with the slaves in the yard. Were they staring at him funnylike? That som'bitch Butkis had told them for sure. The overseer and Clayton must have figured to get rid of him the easy way. Damn them to hell! The laugher appeared with a handful of youngsters and Decater relaxed, happy not to be alone. Arvid was still gone. What the hell was he doing, taking so long? They had a fire to fight, would be expected and missed. “Hurry up, Arvid!” Decater called. “Git yore ass on back. The hell with 'em. We ain't got time, got to git to the house an' help fight that fire.”

The slaves were watching him. Only him. Clayton had sold him out, right enough, and all those black, staring, accusing eyes were proof enough. He cocked his musket, reassured by the feel of the weapon in his hands. Hell, he was all right. In spite of the fear, he grinned to prove there was nothing wrong. They'd need more than a few field niggers to handle him. Butkis and Clayton would find that out and the lesson would cost them a slave or two. And a guard who knew more than he was supposed to know, for he was determined to get out and away. The hell with them all. He patted the hefty wooden stock, nervously loosed his pistols. The slaves stirred restlessly, glancing to the house on the hill where they could hear the commotion of men rising to meet the emergency.

“Arvid …!” the laugher called. Decater listened intently. Too long. He'd been gone too long. When there was no answer he motioned the laugher to watch the niggers in the yard, then walked in the direction Arvid had taken. He rounded a corner and entered the deep shadows, moving more slowly during the brief moments his eyes would need to adjust to the darkness under the trees.

Silence. “Arvid?” he called softly. Nothing. He stepped forward and tripped on something not quite solid. His left hand shot out to steady himself and he reached down to feel a still warm corpse, the shirt sticky with blood. Decater jumped back from the dead man. “God damn!” he cursed, a horrid icy sensation freezing his blood. Suddenly the musket in his hands wasn't enough, not nearly enough. He turned and ran for the clearing, back into the moonlight, back toward the laugher and the waiting slaves.

The laugher watched Decater's panic-stricken flight out of the darkness, realized something had gone wrong and, suddenly frightened himself, stepped back from the slaves as a tongue of flame and the roar of a musket exploded from a darkened window. The laugher screamed and spun around, holding his arm. The slaves, as startled by the shot as the guards, broke and ran in all directions. A shadow near the corner of a building moved. Decater fired his musket and was rewarded with a yelp of pain. Tossing the musket aside he ran to the wounded guard and grabbed the musket he had dropped. More fire flashed from other doorways and a musket ball tore Decater's cheek. Another ripped the cap from his head as he dove behind the fallen laugher.

“Help me,” the laugher moaned weakly, cradling his shattered arm. Decater roughly shoved him over, tore the brace of pistols from his belt and scurried for the safety of the wash shack, the only structure standing apart from the double line of shanties. A form leaped to bar his way. Decater fired the musket point blank and a slave was blown back into the darkness. Another figure, leveling a pistol, charged from the corner of the wash shack. Decater hurled the now useless musket into the startled assailant who stumbled back and fired directly into the sky. Decater shot him in the stomach, tossed the pistol aside and drew another. For a second all was quiet. Decater backed to the safety of the wall. The laugher screamed for him, screamed for him to come back.