Black Ajax (4 page)

And the onlookers, then? They bay like dogs, exhorting the Ghost to maim, to kill, to gouge the eyes, to break the bones, to castrate. Men rise, eyes wild and faces engorged, aping with their fists the blows of the victor. Women white and black, their features like the masks of snarling leopards, squeal in ecstasy as the helpless flesh is pounded and the blood flows. My Richard waves his hands and rages blaspheming at his man to stand and fight, to smite the Ghost to perdition, and sinks back on the couch, his mouth trembling as with a seizure, groaning and all but weeping, a delightful picture of despair. The tender Mollybird shrieks and covers her face, but when Tom is hurled from the stage for the second time, and lies a bloody ruin before her, she casts herself upon him in a frenzy of grief.

“Stand clear, gel,” says Spicer, and stooping sinks his teeth in the lobe of Tom's ear. He revives, but lies helpless as those nearest revile him, calling him a stinking coward nigger, urging him to resume and be slain, to afford them the sport of his torture, and the beaten hulk pulls himself up, with Richard bawling at him, and the man Spicer
snapping at his ear: “Left 'and! Left 'and! You ain't dead yet, lad! Stand away an' give 'im Long Tom! Go fer 'is
peepers
! Left 'and, d'ye hear?”

Tom hears, for he nods his head, the blood flying from his face, and regains the stage. The Ghost rushes yelling and flailing for the kill, and is brought to a halt as Tom thrusts out his fist at full length. It jars upon that devilish face and gives him pause, then he brushes it aside, beating with his great forearms, and again Tom topples from the stage and lies like one dead.

Mollybird screams and seizes Richard by the hand, begging him to give in. “Please, Mass' Richud, oh, please, doan' let 'im beat 'im no mo'! Please, mass', he dyin'! Oh, mass', take pity on 'im! He cain't no mo'!” I am touched, but Richard spurns her away, and runs raging at Tom, kicking him brutally in the side.

“Git up, yuh black bastard! Git up, damn yo' lousy hide! Fight, yuh carrion! Quit on me, will yuh? Git up theah, or by God Ah'll kill yuh!”

Spicer kneels by Tom's head, and again bites the ear. Again, it revives, but he can only shake his head, horribly slobbered with blood from the gashes on his cheeks.

“ 'E's done, guv'nor,” says Spicer, and Richard stands, his breath wheezing, speechless as he sees the death of his hopes in the battered carcase at his feet. Above on the stage the Black Ghost gibbers and struts in triumph, flinging up his hands, inviting the applause of the crowd who fling money and flowers and bon-bons to the stage. Blenkinsop approaches, lays a paw on Richard's shoulder, and commiserates.

“Reckon yo' boy cain't lay ma ghost, Mol'neaux! He used up, seemin'ly. You give him best, Ah reckon.”

Richard does not hear him. He glares about him, at the gloating faces, at the Black Ghost prancing above, at the smug Blenkinsop who smokes his cigar and toys with his seals, smiling on his cronies. And Richard exceeds my fondest hopes, for in a voice hoarse with fury he stoops above Tom and shouts:

“You git up an' fight! You fight till you daid, ye heah! Or by the holy Ah give you a death'll last a week! Ah'll have you lashed, real slow, till ev'y drop o' black blood's dreened clear out o' yuh! Yuh
heah me, yuh black swine! Git up, I say! Damn yuh! Fight, fight, fight!”

Mollybird swoons and I bid Ganymede place her on the couch beside me. The sensation of her slim shape within my embracing arm is infinitely pleasing, and as I put my flask to her lips I inhale the fragrance of her hair and feel the smooth skin beneath my fingers. I am of all men the least susceptible, but when her lids flutter and those wondrous eyes are revealed, and again I see the fear in their depths, it is too much. My desire conjures in my mind visions of ecstatic possession. I tremble in my turn as I picture her far from this sordid melee, in elysian surroundings to match her fresh loveliness, young, virginal, helpless, and adorable beyond expression. And I am inspired of a sudden, for as Richard raves, I see again what I have just seen upon the stage, my glance rests on the half-broken body of the man Tom, muttering feebly and shaking his torn head, while Spicer sponges his swollen face … and I pluck Richard by the sleeve, commanding him to be quiet.

“You wish to win this combat?” I ask. “You wish to save your fortune and your honour?”

He glares at me uncomprehending, his stupid red face bedewed with sweat,
breathing
like a bullock.

“If you do, you will cease these childish vapourings, and attend to me. I can put victory in your hand.”

He looks from me to the stricken fighter and back again. He shakes his head in bewilderment, and stoops close to me.

“Whut you sayin'? Damn yuh, Lucie, you hoaxin' me? Whut yuh mean, Ah kin win? How, godammit? That black lummox is beat all to hell – look at him, blast yuh, ain't nuthin' goin' git him up again!”

“I assure you, my dull cousin, that if you do as I instruct, he will undoubtedly get up again. I believe he will win, but if he should fail, your situation can be no worse than it is at this moment – ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured … my dear Richard, you might as well be dead.”

“Yo' crazy!” he cries. “Why, yuh lousy French pimp, yo' jes' tormentin' me, out o' spite!” He sobs and tears his hair, and I turn from him in distaste.

“As you please. Farewell, M. Molineaux. Enjoy your degradation. I shall.”

He appears to be demented. He breaks again into insults, I sit aloof, and then at last he snarls at me:

“How, damn ye? Tell me! Whut I do, fo' God's sake! Whut yuh want, yuh dam' snake? Lucie, in the name o' Jesus, man, tell me!”

“You make a trade with me. You present to me, as a gift, this pretty toy for my amusement.” I indicate the girl, who whimpers in most appealing terror. “In return, I show you the secret.”

“She's yo's!” cries he. “Take the slut! Now, tell me – whut I do?”

I indicate his fallen champion. “Promise him his freedom.”

At this there is sensation. They stare, they roar with laughter, Blenkinsop shakes his head and turns away, those out of earshot shout questions, they press forward about us, Richard makes to speak, is dumb, and stands amazed. I watch as the thoughts pass across his crimson face, he beats his temples in hesitation, and then with a curse flings away and kneels by Tom. His words are lost in the uproar. I am content to have Mollybird within my reach. I do not caress her, or draw her to me. I sit at my ease, waiting.

There is commotion about the stage, and Tom is coming to his feet, with the man Spicer giving support, and I hear Richard's voice raised in a different key of desperation.

“Free! Free, Ah tell yuh! Good boy, Tom – why, yuh ain't beat at all! Yuh ma fightin' nigra, sho' 'nuff, an' you be a free man, 'pon ma honour! Yuh heah me, gennelman, ma bounden word! Free, Tom, Ah vow!”

And more of the same, while Tom sways and paws at his bleeding wounds, and I wonder if the enjoyment of my new chattel is to be denied me after all. But I have seen what I have seen, for a brief moment, and Spicer has seen it, too, for he whispers urgently at Tom's ear, clenching his left fist, and Tom shakes his head in sudden resolution, sprinkling those about him with blood. He has had precious moments to renew his strength, and indeed there are those gamesters who cry that he has had too long a respite, and must forfeit the contest. But Blenkinsop laughs and shrugs, and the mob howl that it must be fought
a l'outrance
. The gamesters think of their gains, and the onlookers of Tom's torment to come, and the majority prevail.

Now I whisper in the ear of Mollybird. “Go to him, child. Inspire him with your love. Let him see the true reward for which he fights – your own self, his bride-to-be. If he wins, he is a free man, and what then? He can purchase your own freedom, and together you can live in sweet liberty. For I, myself, will put at his disposal the necessary funds, a tribute to his valour and loyalty! See, he raises his head, feeling returns to his eyes! His master offers him release – rush to him,
ma petite
, show him the greater prize within his reach! Animate him, then, renew his valorous ardour! But quickly, quickly – go!”

Ah, to capture forever the feeling in those glorious eyes! The fear, the amazement, the light of dawning hope, the springing tears of gratitude. She cries: “Oh, mass'!” and seizes my hand, pressing those tender lips upon it. “Oh, bless you, mass'!” My emotion is not to be described as, with a last look of adoration, she leaves me to hasten to her lover's side. Richard is urging him to the stage by main force, Spicer is pouring earnest instruction into his ear, and it is not for a slave-wench to intrude, but she calls to him, he sees her, and as she raises a slender hand I hear her voice shrill above the hubbub: “Free, Tom! Oh, Tom, free! You an' me, Tom! Free!” She is exalted, weeping, heedless of the guffaws and obscene sallies of the onlookers. Tom's vacant brute stare is turned on her, and as I see his bleeding mouth close like a
trap
and his indescribable features set in a mask of fury, I permit myself a moment of congratulation. If freedom is not sufficient inspiration to his dull mind, I have given him a little more. Perhaps the little that will turn the scale.

As he sets a foot on the stage, Spicer restrains him, and only in time, for the Black Ghost rushes at him like a steam train, his huge fists whirling like windmills. Spicer holds him still, and the Ghost, screaming with rage, gives back, beckoning him with taunts and curses, while the mob hurl abuse, deriding his cowardice. Spicer releases his hold with a
sharp
command: “Left, mind – an' break away!” The Ghost leaps to the attack, and out darts the left fist of Tom, full in the ogre's face. Tom retreats, the Ghost lunges, and again the left fist checks his rush – and again, and again, and yet again, and with each blow Tom moves away, while the spectators cry with astonishment at each stroke, the Black Ghost howls in fury and clubs in vain at his
retreating antagonist, and the little Spicer clutches the
edge
of the stage crying: “Circle, circle, keep away! Left 'and, left 'and!”

The onlookers are beside themselves with amazement and anger. This is not what they wish to see. This marches not at all. What, their champion, in full strength, held at bay? The poor victim, with his broken right hand dangling useless at his side, whom they had looked to see mangled and crippled for their delight, fighting at a distance, immune from the frenzied swings of the conqueror? They scream and curse, urging the Ghost to destroy the upstart, and the Ghost, maddened beyond endurance, rushes in wildly – to be met by that rapier fist, now on his temple, now on his eyes, now on his jaw, but ever checking his advance while his blows fall on empty air.

And I note, and marvel at, a phenomenon I have not seen since I left England. Obedient to the commands of Spicer, Tom delivers his blows and at once retires, back or to the side as seems best, in ungainly fashion. But as Spicer continues to cry: “Circle, circle!” his gait changes, as though by some instinct in his primitive brain. His heels lift, he moves on his toes, his shuffle becomes a dance, he finds a rhythm, his body sways from side to side. The Ghost must follow, screaming like a thing bereft of reason, rushing and flailing, only to encounter the relentless impact of that unerring fist.

You may know, or you may not, the potency of the blow that I describe. To the ignorant, it appears feeble enough, a stroke of defence to keep the attacker away. And so it is, but it is more. Not for nothing do the Fancy call it “the pride of British boxing”. Oh, a Mendoza or a Belcher, had such been pitted against Tom that night, would have blocked and countered with ease, but the Black Ghost knows nothing of such arts. He is helpless against it, and learns the lesson that every prize-fighter knows, that the straight left hand, darting home again and again, is a fatal weapon of attack. From the trained man, striking with full power of body and shoulder behind the blow, never losing his balance, it is of stunning effect, sapping the strength of the victim, a stinging snake that robs him not only of vitality of body, but of mind also.

Tom is a mere novice, but against such a mindless animal his clumsy science suffices. Thanks doubtless to the tuition of Spicer, he has found the equivalent of the secret
botte
, that mythical thrust of fence which
no swordsman can parry. But whence the instinct comes that prompts him to move in a rude semblance of what the Ring calls footwork, the shifting dance of the true pugilist, who can tell? For the many, it is learned by patient instruction and practice. To him I believe it is a gift of God.

Twice that night it betrays him. Once, slow to retreat, he is caught by a sweeping blow which fells him, but by good fortune the Ghost stumbles also, and Tom escapes. Again, missing with his left fist, he loses balance and is seized by those terrible hands. Let the Ghost but reach his throat, and all is lost, but in his unreasoning blood-lust the monster claws with his nails, and Tom wrenches free, his cheeks ploughed as though by talons.

And now the pendulum swings. The pounding left fist has done its work. The flesh about the Ghost's right eye is so swollen that it obscures his vision. In vain he twists his head, in vain tries to shield his other eye from that probing torment. Again and again the deadly fist strikes home, and now it is Tom who advances with each blow, and the Ghost who retreats. He cowers and cries out, his arms thrash in aimless fashion, he paws at the bloody mask of his face. But he cannot clear his sight, and there is no second to lance his engorged cheeks. The onlookers exclaim with savage delight – he is blind! Helpless he totters, and the cruel glee of the patrons knows no bounds as they urge Tom to destroy the tortured Cyclops. They bound to their feet, they rave and curse with the aspect of fiends. I see the whore of Blenkinsop, her comely little face distorted to that of a Medusa, her teeth bared and gnashing, her slim fingers rending her fan to shreds. At each blow her body shudders in ecstasy and she screams with laughter. Blenkinsop lounges and lights a fresh cigar, regarding the slaughter of his creature with sullen indifference. Richard is mad with excitement, beating his fists upon his knees as he bellows his triumph. Mollybird crouches beneath the stage, her hands clasped and her eyes closed, a charming study of maidenly devotion.