Rafe (7 page)

But he fooled Ezra. He killed the red-bearded one. And the next one, and the next one. He still lived, clung to life with all the tricks and power he could bring to bear. Short of outright execution, Ezra couldn't trick him into death. And of all the years, there was but one good memory—that of the girl, Crissa Fitzman, laughing, willful, beautiful, with long reddish-blond hair down to her waist and a budding, lithesome figure. They spoke rarely after that first day. Rafe, with a black wisdom warning against too much contact with the white girl, kept to himself. But occasionally her eyes rose to find him staring at her. And he would have to lower his or turn aside lest she read in a single glance the dangerous, unfortunate desire lurking there.

Rafe rose from the cot. His flesh felt feverish. Damn wounds. They were the cause of all this. Why else would he be thinking this way? That year, the girl … too many years ago, too many deaths ago. Still, the memory rose to plague him. He should have let the girl, Julie, stay. She could have sat astride him to sheath and ride the angry reach of his desire until his bitterness was eased. A woman was good for that. Curse Old Chulem. He had won, hadn't he? He deserved a woman. Footsteps sounded outside. The girl returning?

“Who?”

The moon parted a diaphanous cloud and the compound erupted into shimmering, silvery light. Trinidad stood in the doorway. The giant warrior on the pallet cursed inwardly. Only the young lovesick buck whom Rafe occasionally loaned the privacy of his shack. Trinidad lived for the day when his fiftieth fight would buy his freedom and he could take his woman, Bess, and wagon and team and disappear forever across the Sabine.

“Trinidad. It's me, Rafe.”

Rafe rose without a sound, shrugging aside his soul's emotional garments lest they be detected and one day conspire against him. Trinidad jumped back, startled by the giant's sudden appearance in the doorway. Rafe looked at the slim, quick youth and the woman he loved who came to him and him alone faithfully every Saturday and Sunday night and who slept alone the remainder of the week. The girl was dark with thick tribal features split into a grin so warm and inviting one could not help but smile back.

“Thank you, Rafe,” Bess called.

The giant pitbuck didn't answer. The deed, the gesture, the action was his way. He did not wait for gratitude nor vengeance. Trinidad and Bess quickly entered the hut and soon were lost in each other's arms, oblivious to the churning thoughts and torturous reminiscences Rafe had left behind.

The gold was arranged in accurately counted stacks. Ten dollar gold eagles in eight stacks of ten with four left over. Half-eagles in eleven stacks of ten with two left over, and five stacks of quarter-eagles with one left over. Martinson, large and blubbery, his face pale and dank with sweat, let the final stack of quarter-eagles clink to the table, counting each as it fell. Ezra sat behind a large oak desk and entered the cash in his books. Martinson rubbed his forearm across his face, wiping away the droplets of salty moisture. “Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents on the nose, Mr. Clayton. I knew I was right. No, sir. I don't miscount very often.”

“Once is too often, Martinson,” Ezra said without looking up. He blotted the ledger and closed it gently, setting it in the desk drawer.

“Oh, I agree,” the bookkeeper said. “I always count it twice, just like you ordered, Mr. Clayton.”

Ezra lifted the brandy snifter to his nose and sniffed, enjoying the pungency of the thick peach sweetness. A little sip sent mellow fire down his throat. The fat bookkeeper glanced thirstily in Ezra's direction as the lord of Freedom finished the glass and set it down. Ezra reached over to the crystal decanter and poured another snifter for himself, raising his eyes a fraction of an inch as a faint sigh escaped Martinson. With no indication he would do so, Ezra moved the decanter to another snifter and poured, sliding the second glass in Martinson's direction.

Martinson reached quickly for the snifter, hurrying to secure the proffered drink, eager to be able to gloat to Butkis and the others how he'd shared a drink with Mr. Clayton. Ezra watched distastefully as the fat man realized his greed and sank back stiffly with the snifter held between his palms, rolling it back and forth, sniffing at it delicately in feigned nonchalance. The fool will probably express an opinion now, Ezra thought sourly. Very well. He would pretend to be impressed. Butkis needed a bit of a fall. Getting too big for his britches, and it was always easier to let someone else help. Kept them all on their toes.

Martinson opened his mouth, as predicted, and started to speak when the door to the library swept open and banged against the wall behind it. Martinson jumped, startled by the noise, then sat back, pretending he hadn't been surprised. Behind him, Micara stood swaying in the doorway. Ezra's face flushed with anger as his wife made her way unsteadily into the room and collapsed in a nearby chair, her breath coming in heavy gasps from the exertion. Martinson stole a furtive glance at her then jerked his eyes away uncomfortably, turning to stare uncomprehendingly at the rows of books lining the north wall of Ezra's library.

“Get out,” Ezra hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. Martinson looked quickly at him. “Yes, you. Get.”

“Yes, sir,” he croaked, scrambling to his feet, snifter still in hand. He gulped the brandy quickly and set the glass on the table and scurried from the room, stomach heaving and throat burning viciously, raked by the pale liquid fire.

Micara and Ezra stared at each other across the silent room, Ezra's eyes sharp and predatory, Mioara's drugged and bitter but relentless nevertheless. Neither spoke for nearly a quarter of an hour. Ezra patiently sipped his brandy and listened to the great clock, let his rage slow to match the heavy sound, allowed the anger in him to settle before speaking. He was a man who had learned the value of control.

“Micara,” be finally said, his voice smooth and satiny, “if you must continue to overindulge, I have repeatedly requested you do so in private. I'm afraid I shall be forced to lock you in your room if you insist on embarrassing me in front of my employees.”

Micara's features broke into a surly frown. “Private?”

“Yes.”

“Ha! I live my whole life in private. Wha'd you know about private? All you care about is your pit and fighting slaves and gambling and that cheap nigger you take to bed wi' you. Cheap nigger trash instead of your wife. Not …”

Ezra was around the desk and across the room in short, quick strides. His right hand shot across in a swift vicious arc, backhanding her, slapping her once, twice. “Shut up.”

Tears rolled from her eyes, spilled down her red-streaked, smarting cheeks. “Damn you,” she slurred. “Damn you for a …”

Ezra cut her off sharply. “You're in no condition to damn anyone. Get upstairs to your room. If you've sobered up for breakfast you may come down and damn me then.” He took her by the arm and pulled her from the chair to guide her faltering steps to the door. In the hall, pride helped him decide against calling for assistance and he half dragged, half pushed her upstairs.

“I'm alone in an empty house, Ezra … alone in an empty house…” she wept.

“Not for long, Micara, dear. Crissa will be here soon. Only a few days, now. My, won't she be surprised to see how mommy's changed.”

“You bastard,” she slurred, stumbling against the railing. Ezra toyed with the notion of allowing her to tumble down the stairs but rejected the idea. The timing for such an accident had to be perfect. Perhaps after Crissa left.… Now
there
was a thought.

“If it wasn't for me you'd be nothing,” Micara continued as Ezra led her down the hall. “All this is mine.”

The master of Freedom hurried his drunken wife into her bedroom, spun her around to face him. “Listen to me, woman. If it weren't for
me
, this place would be a hollow whisper by now, just so much empty rotten wood crumbled and fallen down on itself with you sitting atop the whole mess and whining. I've built Freedom. I keep it running and growing. I am the power here and don't you forget it. Freedom became mine when you married me.”

“I loved you, Ezra.” Micara tried to look coquettish. This was the first time he had even been in her room for many months. “Ezra …?” She reached for him.

Ezra avoided her touch. “Micara, your forty years have aged you. Made you old. You married me out of weakness and fear.”

“If Patrick had stayed …”

“But he didn't stay, did he? Didn't stay to help a whining sister-in-law whom he couldn't stand any more. You know why? He was weak like you and couldn't handle responsibility. So now he's probably dead, and serves him right. You're alone and you can't manage Freedom alone. You need me to hold things together and you know it. So you can have pretty clothes, imported sherry and servants. You have all those things, Micara. I've kept my part of the bargain. Now why don't you keep yours and leave me be?”

Micara grabbed for him, pressed her lips against his, crushed her full breasts against his chest. “Stay with me tonight, Ezra. Stay with me? I'll be good, I promise. Better than that little yellow nigger. Stay with me … stay?”

Ezra tore her arms from around him and held her wrists pinned to his chest. His hands tightened until his taloned fingers broke the wrinkled skin on her wrists. Micara's eyes widened with terror. “Don't ever,” he whispered, the words tiny lashes, “show up sotted downstairs again. Do you understand?” Micara, face knotted in pain, nodded weakly, her head snapping forward as he pushed her from him, sent her stumbling and falling backward onto her canopied bed. He turned and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him. He was gone.

Micara buried her face in a pillow, muffling the sobs that shook her whole body. Finally the wracking spasms subsided and she recovered enough to reach for the crystal decanter of sherry by the bed. Things would be better when Crissa came, she thought. There would be two of them to Ezra's one. Crissa. Her sweet little Crissa. She reached under another pillow and drew out a slim blue bottle of laudanum. A teaspoon? Two teaspoons? It didn't matter. She put the bottle to her lips, drank, then capped and replaced the bottle. More sips of sherry countered the bitterness of the opiate. She shut her eyes and prayed she might succumb to the narcotic sleep before hearing Julie's inevitable footsteps heading down the hall to Ezra's bedroom. She was in luck this time.

Decater waited until his companions began to snore soundly in a deep sleep, courtesy of too much rum and time spent with the field women. His thin bony frame glided soundlessly across wooden planks loose enough to protest the passage of a heavier man. Once outside he traversed the plantation yard swiftly and surely, darting to the cover of the trees in back of the field hands' shacks by the time the moon cleared its cloud cover. He patted the bump in his pocket, suddenly worried he had forgotten it and would have to sneak back. He hadn't forgotten. He sighed with relief.

Silently he crept on to the rear edge of the stand of loblollys, then paused, still in shadow. No sound disturbed him save the soughing of the wind high in the trees and the inevitable chorus from the bullfrog-lined creek. He mimicked a hoot owl. A giggle sounded off to his left and he followed the sound along the edge of the trees until a slight figure stepped into the moonlight and stopped him.

“Yo' brung it, Mistah Decatuh?”

Decater glanced about uneasily. “Sure, honey. Now come here.”

“Uh-uh. Yo' gots to lemme hab dat candy fu'st.”

“All right. Here. Like I done promised. Peppermint. Bought it maself in Claytonville jus' yestiday.”

“Mmmmm, dat sho look good, Mistah Decatuh.”

“Now come here and lift up an' lemme see.…”

“Yo' promise not ta hurt me? Yo' promise jes ta look?”

“You know I will. I always jus' look. Anyways, Mister Clayton lay down the rules. We cain't touch no black pussy younger'n fourteen, ceptin' we got permission. Now come here.”

“Yo' don' tell an' ah don' tell. Mammy'ud skin mah ass.… Dis peppamint is sho good, Mistah Decatuh. Ah betta eat it all fo' ah gits back, else deys knowin' sompin's up, I comes in wid peppamint.”

“Jus' hesh up, girl. Dammit, hesh up and hold them legs apart and spread it open so's I can see.”

“Ah'm gittin' co'd eben if it is springtime. How long you gonna look, Mistah Decatuh?”

“As long as it takes, dammit. Long as it takes.…”

5

Crissa and Steve's trip to Freedom Plantation was considerably easier than Ezra and Rafe's almost five years earlier. They travelled openly, to begin with, and with funds enough for staterooms on the Red River Diamond, a stern-wheeler which, although not large, was comfortable enough even with a three day layover in Alexandria for repairs to the boiler. Crissa exulted over the trip. The broad Mississippi, which she hadn't seen for years, was full of memories. The muddy water swept by them to the roar of the engines and the constant clacking and creaking of paddle wheel and gear. The levees, over their heads most of the time, concealed the land of her youth, offering only tantalizing and occasional glances of chimneys and roofs.

The two travellers spent hours in quiet conversation, remembering the youthful days. And if the images their talk elicited were warm, the changes in Steve were ominously unsettling. Brought up on the edge of the swamp, he was the son of a self-designated preacher man who poled the swamps as readily as other men walked the high road. Bible wrapped in oil-soaked canvas, his pirogue cut through the murky brown water effortlessly, preceded always by the deep-voiced, off-key booming of gospel hymns. The word of God as proclaimed by MacKinney Bennett echoed around the boles of a million cypress trees and woke the swamp's primordial inhabitants. The old man had but one dream—that his son should become a real preacher. To this end, from the age of ten on, he sent Steven to spend eight of every twelve months at Fitzman's Freedom, there to learn to read and write.