Drum (32 page)

"Fine, Mister You! Fine! And will you step over my threshold? And your servant. Mister You?"

Drum followed Dominique inside and saw that the interior was neat and clean as a ship's cabin. The floors of the small front room were holystoned as white as any ship's deck, and a row of identical chairs stood at attention around the walls. The long, straight hallway beyond had a number of doors leading off it on either side and here, presumably, were the "genteel accommodations for English seamen only."

"Jemmy," Dominique said, still nursing an aching hand

rescued from the grip of the big man, "they tell me you used to be the fightingest man in all England."

"Champion, Mister You, champion I Champion of England, sirl" The scarred lips twisted into a smile. "Yes, sir! This hand was shook by the Prince Regent, hisself. Lost me championship (nobody can keep a championship forever, now, can they?)—^lost me championship to the Game Chicken, what everybody calls 'im, though his real name was Pierce, Hen Pierce. You knows about 'im, sir. Never lost a fight. If I had to lose me championship, the Chicken was the man to lose it to. Yes, sirl"

"Then you retired from the prize ring?"

"Yes, sir. Mister You. Went to sea, and wound up here in New Orleans. Purtiest place I'd ever seen. Decided to drop anchor and settle down. Bought this house and went into business. Every decent English seaman what comes to New Orleans and wants a clean bed in an honest house comes here. Known from Bristol to Calcutta, I am, from Singapore to Rio. Now, what can I do for you? Honored I am to have you here."

"Can you teach a man to fight?"

"Well, now, Mister You." Jenmiy appraised Dominique's figure. "I reckon I can. But, Mister You, ain't you a bit on the elderly side to be a-thinkin' of taking up the art of pugilism?"^

Dominique roared. 'Too damned old. Jemmy. But I've had fights aplenty in my day—^fists, cutlasses, grappling hooks, even horseshoes. Do you know that a horseshoe in a man's fist is a gallant weapon? No, Jemmy, it's not me." His thimib indicated Drum. "It's this young varmint here. Name's Drum and thinks he's a fighter. Good too, but imschooled. With a little scientific knowledge like you can give him, he'd be as good as any boxer you have in England."

Jemmy transferred his gaze from Dominique to Drum who had been standing in the background.

"Nigger, eh?"

"No, not a nigger—only a half-nigger—colored. Part human. But if you object to training a colored boy . . . ?"

"Object? Me obect? Look, Mister You! Tom Molyneux was me idol. Grandest fighter he was that ever lived. He was black, black as the ace of spades." He put his hand out to Drum. "Glad to make your acquaintance, lad. Shake. Your color ain't a-goin' to rub off."

Drum extended his hand slowly after embarrassedly wiping

it on his breeches. He was confvised. White men did not shake hands with Negroes. It just wasn't done. As long as he had known Dominique You, he couldn't imagine shaking hands with him.

"So you want to fight?" Jenmiy said. "What did Mister You say your name was?"

"Drum, m'sieur."

"Well, Drum, never mind the Monsewer. Call me Jemmy or Jem."

"Yes, m'sieur." Drum grinned and shook his head in apology for his error. "Yes, Jemmy, sir."

Dominique lowered one eyelid and Jemmy understood that it was inherently impossible for a Negro to address a white man as an equal.

"And you want to learn how to fight. Drum?"

"Yes, Jemmy, sir."

"Looks like you got a fightin' build. Take your shirt off."

"And shuck your nether togs, too," Dominique added. "Wait till you see how this buck's hung, Jemmy."

"Colossal, Mister You, colossal." Jemmy squinted his one eye. "But damned dangerous for a fighter. Danmed dangerous. Of course, in England we protects a man's privates with a heavy leather strap, like what jockeys use in ridin' horseback. Protects a man, it does."

Dominique shook his head. "Wouldn't do in New Orleans, Jemmy. Nigger bucks fight naked, stark naked. White men like to see 'em stripped to their skin. Grabbin' each other's balls is part of the sport. When one buck can get ahold of the other's knockers and squeeze 'em, you'll hear hollerin' such as you never heard. Finishes him off quick. No man can fight with his knockers squeezed. So far, Drum's been lucky."

Jemmy shook his head and clucked dolefully. "Broughton wouldn't never've approved. Never. No more hittin' below the belt, ever since Broughton. Fight like gentlemen, says Broughton's rules. No gougin' eyes, no bitin', no wrestlin'. Scientific pugilism, that's all what's allowed these times. But let me tell you this, Mister You. I can leam this boy to do two things—^fight his opponent and defend hisself so that, naked or clothed, them glorious parts of his will never be in no danger." He came over to Drum. "May I?" he asked.

Drum looked puzzled, but Jemmy accepted his silence as consent. With a practiced hand he went over Drum's body,

expertly gauged his musculature—^its good points and bad. When he had finished, he stood back.

"From the waist up, the fellow's fine. Good chest, goodi back, fine arms—though wanting some in biceps development.! Strong back, fairly good hands, though a little small. Good! thick skin that won't never break too easy. But from the waist down, he's too puny. Legs not developed and toe spindly. "Legs"—Jemmy looked at Dominique as though seeking confirmation—"are as important as arms. Arms are offensive, legs defensive, and defense is as important as of-* fense in pugilism. Got to build 'em up."

"How are you going to do that, sir?" Drum surveyed his legs. They had always seemed satisfactory to him.

"Three ways—nmnin', skippin' and liftin'. Two monthi ought to do it. Now, lad, slip on your breeches and comt out in the garden behind the house."

Drum followed the two white men out into a small wallec area whose one struggling live-oak sapling and a small pla of scraggly flowers were its only claim to horticultural dis tinction. Big Jemmy indicated a plank bench along one wal for Dominique You, while he and Drum faced each otha in the center of the clean-swept flagging.

"Now, fight!" Jemmy said.

And Dnmi fought. But he did not fight Jemmy—^he fougb only the thin air. When he drove a punch to Jemmy's head it missed by an inch. When he grabbed for Jemmy's hulkii body, he couldn't touch it. Jemmy was able to stand in oi place and by merely swaying slightly keep out of reach of opponent. Drum tmned, lowered his head like a bull, charged, but he met only a cushion of air. He swung mai sive rights and lefts to Jemmy's body. But Jemmy, big target as he was, just seemed to float away. At the end o ten minutes Dnmi was dripping sweat, panting and feelin his knees like water under him. Jenmiy, however, was a cool, calm and collected as before. There wasn't even a beai of sweat on his forehead. As Drum woimd himself up fc another blow. Jemmy casually swung first his right, the jabbed with his left and Drum sprawled on the ground, ui able to get up.

"He'll be all right in a minute," Jemmy assured DominiqU as he splashed a bucket of water over Drum. When Drui oi>ened his eyes, Jemmy gave him a hand up and supporte him as he walked over to the bench on legs that buckle under him.

As a matter of truth, Drum had expended more of his skill in avoiding hitting Jemmy than in his effort to hit him. It was -a major crime for a Negro to strike a white man and Drum knew it. He had been commanded to fight with Jemmy and he had pretended to obey that conmiand, but with every blow he had deliberately missed his target. Which is not to say that Jemmy's avoidance of Drum's blows was not skillful; the skill was simply unnecessary and wasted. Nevertheless, the instruction was not lost on Drum. He saw its value. But it seemed to him that Jemmy's scientific boxing would not always be effective in the rough-and-tumble combat he was used to.

"Now you see what I mean about fightin', lad," Jemmy was saying. "You think you're a fighter, but you don't know one damned thing about the noble art of fisticuffs. Flailin' your arms around like a windmill ain't a-goin' to do you no good. Just tires you out. I could've stood there for an hour and let you punch circles around me till you dropped to the ground exhausted. Hope I didn't hurt you, but your lesson for today was just to show you how easy it is to knock a mangold."

"I didn't know what hit me," Drum confessed.

"Tomorrow morn, ten o' the clock," Jemmy said. 'Two hours in the morning. Afternoon you box with your own shadow. Then you run for five miles, out in the country. And here"—he reached for a short length of rope under the bench. "Take this with you and learn how to skip the rope. Like this." Big Jenmiy took one end in each hand and threw it over his head, skipping it as it touched the ground. He went so fast that Drum was unable even to see the rope.

"This boy got a wife?" Jemmy asked Dominique as he stopped his skipping.

"Nigger slaves don't have wives." Dominique shook his head. "He's got a wench he sleeps with—a hot little bitch she is, too."

"Well, then, keep him away from her. Once a week if he has to^ but that's all. Can't build him up daytimes if a wench drains it out of him nights." He looked at Drum and asked, "Still want to make a fighter?"

Drum shook his head. "Not if I have to give up Calinda, sir."

"Don't matter if you want to or not. If you're going to make a fighter, you got to get along without women. Others

have. I had to when I was a-fightin'. Kind of hard, getting used to living without it after you've been having it regular, but I'll see to it that you're so damned tired when you get back home you'll not even be interested. You Dominique's boy?"

"No, sir. I belong to Madame Alix."

"Jemmy raised his brows. "The bawdy house on Dumaine Street?"

Drum nodded.

Jemmy's breath whistled through his teeth and he let out a roar. "Here I'm going to make a fighter out of a man, try to keep him away from the female sex, and the lucky bastard lives in the finest whorehouse in the city. Hell and damnation, boy, what do you want to be a fighter for?"

"Reckon I don't know, sir." Drum grinned sheepishly. "Maybe because Madame craves me to be one."

"Shut up. Drum!" Dominique got up from the bench. "Don't matter one way or the other what you want. Madame says you're going to fight and you fight. Jemmy says you're going to sleep alone and you'll sleep alone. I say if you're going to fight, you're going to learn how. Come on, Dirum." He went inside the house and down the long straight hall, Drum and Jeinuny following. As he opened the front door, he turned to Jemmy. ,

"Ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he said. "Ill be herej with him but tomorrow Drum won't ride with the coachman —^he'U run alongside."

When they retiimed and Dominique delivered Jemmy's i fiat, all hell broke loose in the Academy of Music. Alix laughed at the idea while she condemed Jemmy to etemall damnation. A big strong buck like Drum! As if he couldn't; acconmiodate ten women one night and fight the next! She) would be losing a good profit on him and that she wouldn'i consider. Not for a second! He was just getting so he couli participate in her tableaux with some degree of profession skill and gaining a reputation for a good performance. The^ very idea. He'd fight and he'd also. ...

Dominique held up a restraining hand.

"And how much do you make out of your little dramatic sketches?" Dominique asked.

"For Drum and one girl, twenty-five dollars. With two, fifty dollars and for a real melee, with four girls fighting to: rip the clothes off Drum, one hundred dollars, plus ten dol lars for new shirts and pants for Drum."

'I

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"One hundred dollars—say one hundred and ten because mstead of buying new clotJies, you mend the old ones.'* Dominique wagged his head at her. "One himdred and ten paltry dollars and on Drum's first fight, you took in more than two thousand, yes?"

Alix grudgingly agreed.

"Which leads me to believe that you're a hell of a business woman, cherie. You can't see beyond the end of your nose. Any mulatto stud that you can pick up at Maspero's for five hundred dollars can put on as good a show as Drum."

"Not many as good as Drum." Alix shook her head.

"Hell! I'll find you one that's better equipped. Maspero's deahng in fancies now and he'll be on the lookout for you. He'll get you a real freak. But we're going to make a fighting bull out of Drum, not an exhibition stallion. I'm willing to pay for his learning because I'll win far more back on him than I'll pay out. Your job is to keep him out of your beds and keep that wild cat, Calinda, away from him. Lock him up if you have to or lock her up. Let him at her once a week—on Saturday nights—and he can rest on Sundays. Ill do my part, you do yours and we'll both make money on Drum—more in one night than you'd make on youjf stable of fillies in a week. Agreed?"

Dominique's words had wisdom and Alix consented. Drum would have six nights of continence imposed upon him. Bien! Lock him up in his room and lock Calinda up in another. That was a simple solution.

But Alix figured without Calinda. When the last male guest of the Academy of Music had departed, and Drum had shed his white bartender's coat and was about to climb the narrow stairs to his room with Calinda, Rachel broke the news to her. She refused to believe it, but Drum confirmed Rachel's statement—^he had been hoping that the regime would not start until the next night, however—and now Calinda faced the awful truth that she would not have Drum until Saturday. Until Saturday! Today was only Wednesdayl Tonight, Thursday night and Friday night without Drum!

Damne!

Calinda exploded!

But Drum dragged her off, although his heart was not in his work. He locked her in a little room off the kitchen and allowed Rachel to follow him up the stairs and bolt his door on the outside. For some ten minutes, the house was quiet

and then Calinda started shrieking, calling Alix all the foul epithets she had learned in her brief stay at the Academy of Music. Rachel tried in vain to calm her through the bolted door but to no avail. She hammered on the door with her fists, then grabbed the one chair in the room, broke it apart, and used one of the legs to pry the door open. Brandishing the chair leg, she burst out into the covutyard and headed straight for the stairs that led to Alix' room. Had she succeeded in reaching it, she would undoubtedly have pounded Alix to a pulp. Her rage was homicidal. Alix had taken Drum away from her and nothing else mattered. Rachel, followed by the female slaves of the house, tried to stop her but she turned and clobbered Rachel over the head, knocking her unconscious, and would have done the same with the others if they had not fled, cowering under the stairs that led to the gargonniire.