Drum (34 page)

Betting had been heavy this night and although nobody discounted Drum's ability to fight, several had bet on the Fullah because of his longer reach and LeToscan's claims of his prowess and past successes.

In a breathless silence, the whole gathering stared at the two motionless gladiators who seemed frozen and sculptural as the flambeaux gilded their naked bodies with flickering tongues of light. Dominique You seconding Drum, and Lazare LeToscan his Fullah, pushed their two fighters into the middle of the open space in the center of the court. For a moment neither Drum nor the Fullah moved, and in that moment Drum sized up his adversary. His eyes made a quick survey of the lithe body, appraising its weak and strong points, and he immediately spotted a weakness in the legs, a lack of rotundity in the chest and arms that were too finely muscled. In that moment, while he studied the other's physique, the germ of a plan, entirely divorced from the fight he was about to start, entered his mind. It was only half formed but to bring it to fruition he must win the fight. He felt pretty certain that he would.

The Fullah, tired of waiting for Drum to begin, sparred and struck for the stomach but Drum danced sideways, pivoting just enough to let the blow swing past him, and countered swiftly with a short jab with his left to the Fullah's face. He followed this by a slower right hook to the body as the fellow instinctively raised his arms to ward off another blow to his face. The Fullah rocked on his heels, stunned for a moment. Smack! Drum's fist crashed between the Fullah's eyes. Then, with a rapidity which made his arms seem like crashing pistons, he hammered blow after blow on the staggering Fullah. Each one took effect. Blood streamed from the fellow's nose, lips and cheek. He staggered and Drum was upon him, pounding unmercifully on his body until there was scarcely an inch which was not bruised or bleeding. Then, concentrating all his strength in one hammer-like blow which had the whole leverage of his powerful body behind it. Drum drove a blow to the fellow's heart, and saw him crumple. He did not fall at once, but seemed to melt, like a pewter image left on a hot stove, until he sprawled in a welter of arms and legs at Drum's feet. Drum placed one bare foot on the Fullah's chest, reached down and lifted one of his arms, releasing it. It fell limply to the floor. The fight had lasted less then ten minutes, during which time the*

I

FuIIah had not scored one hit. Drum was uninjured except for his bleeding knuckles.

A roar of shouted acclamations burst loose from a hundred throats. Even those who had bet on the Fullah cheered Drum, for it was the neatest, cleanest, quickest fight they had ever seen. Not that they wanted a neat, clean, quick fight Oh, no! They had hoped for something more gory, far more brutal and even deadly. But the very speed and efl&ciency with which Drum had dispatched his man won their admiration. They had never seen such fighting before—it was asi clean-cut as surgery, as economical as the motion of a machine and as deadly as hitting a man with an axe.

Lazare LeToscan, oblivious to the needs or suffering of his own man, stepped across the Fullah's prostrate form and lifted Drum's arm high.

"Voild Our Drum! The best fighter in New Orleans!"

Again the crowd roared and the cheers sounded sweet in. Drum's ears. He had fought and won and the primitive sense of the brute—victory over his opponent—lifted him from; the position of slave. For a moment he was a man among men. Now the plan that had germinated when he first saw the naked Fullah facing him grew in Drum's mind until it blossomed and bore fruit. He knew that at this moment, regardless of his colored skin and his slave status, nothing he could ask would be denied him in the prevailing excited ment.

LeToscan kicked the Fullah with the sharp toe of his varnished boot. The man did not move.

LeToscan shrugged his shoulders. "Did you kill the noj good bastard, Drum? If I keep on fighting my niggers agains you, I'll not have one left."

"No, I didn't Idll him, M'sieur LeToscan. See, he stil breathes." j

"Too goddamned bad you didn't. I bought the clums] lourdaud for a fighting nigger and see how he turned out Now he's worthless as a fighter—everyone has seen him whipped without even landing a blow. I'll send him back tc the canefields tomorrow."

"M'sieur LeToscan, sir." Drum had embarked on a strange request. "Will you sell this boy?"

"Sell him, Drum? Hell, I'll give him away if anyone want3 a worthless heap of merde like that. Paid a thousand dollan for him a month ago. He's not worth three hundred as a field hand now."

"Did you say you would give him away?" Drum was quick to follow up the lead LeToscan had given him.

"Sure, Drum, do you want the bastard? Save me the trouble of carting him back to the plantation and having to look at his smashed face."

"I'd be very happy if you'd present him to Madame Alix, M'sieur LeToscan. We could use him around here."

"Here, Lazare." Bernard de Marigny stepped forward with a clutch of banknotes in his hand. "Give him to Drum and I'll pay you for him. I won nearly two thousand on Drum tonight and you lost. I can aflford to be generous."

"Keep your money, BemardI" LeToscan waved de Marigny back. "What do you want him for, Drum?"

"Well, he can tend bar for Madame and I can teach him to mix drinks."

"Don't forget to teach him to mix my special," a voice called down from the balcony.

Drum recognized the speaker.

"A special Planter's Punch, made with double cognac?" Drum called back and then turned to LeToscan again. "I can use him as a training partner,"—he grinned—"and he can do some other things for Madame that I am not able to do any more."

"Not able, Drum?" another voice called out. "You seemed pretty capable the last time I saw you perform here."

"More able than ever before," Drum shouted back, "but Madame wants me to be a fighter, not a performing stud. Can't do both and this fellow looks like he might put on a good stiff performance."

"ril send Madame the papers in the morning," LeToscan laughed. "Mayhap the fellow can stand up for the women if he can't stand up for you. Get him out of here, Dnmi, and come back and mix us some drinks."

Drum reached down and got the limp Fullah to his feet. He shook him vigorously but the boy did not open his eyes. Drum spied the bucket of water nearby, placed there by the seconds. He knelt on the flagging, letting the Fullah's body slump to the ground and reached out for the bucket, splashing the contents over the fellow's head. Slowly the Fullah opened his eyes to see Drum bending over him.

"Don' hit me no mo', big boy," he mumbled in thick Gombo. "Don' hit me no mo'."

"I'll not hit you. Get up on your feet. Can you walk?"

"Mo' bettah you help me, big boy. Laigs don' seem to hold up no mo'."

Drum got hun to his feet.

"Messieurs," he turned to the crowd. "Monsieur LeToscan asked me to clean this heap of merde out and then come back and mix some drinks for you."

"On the house." Alix' triumphant voice floated down from the balcony.

"And so, with your permission." Drum walked away bearing the weight of the Fullah on his shoulders, dragging the man's bare feet on the stones behind him.

He got him through the kitchen and into the little room that Calinda had occupied alone of late—at least for six nights out of seven—where he fell in a sprawl to the pallet on the floor. Drum straightened out his legs and made him more comfortable.

"Pon' hit me no mo'," the Fullah begged.

"I'll not hit you, man. What's your name?"

"Mo 'pelle Blaise."

"Then, Blaise, you stay here. Rest yourself. I'll send someone to clean you up. We're going to be friends, Blaise. Mais oui! I nearly killed you but I've nothing against you. You're going to stay here with me. We'll be friends, amis, com-prend'?"

"What's your name?"

"Drum."

"We be frens, Drum." Blaise closed his eyes.

Drum went out and closed the door. On his way through the kitchen, he met Calinda who had been waiting for him. She had a pair of freshly ironed pants and a shirt on her arm but they dropped to the floor as she threw herself into his arms.

"Aie, mon massacreur!" She was sobbing and laughing at the same time. "You all right?"

He held up his skinned knuckles. "Just this! Not another' scratch on me. Let me wash my face, mignon, and get into ■ those clothes. There's a couple of hundred thirsty men out: there, all wanting a drink and I owe them a lot tonight."

"Who's he?" Calinda pointed to the closed door while Drum dashed water on his face.

"Name's Blaise. I won him for Madame tonight. Now he: can stay up till morning mixing drinks and I can sleep nights. And he can stand up in Madame's salon while her pretty little bitches rip the clothes off him. Let him work them over. I'm(

0 fancy man. From now on I'm a fighter and Fll use him to )ar with me. May even teach him how to fight."

"He's a pretty boy," Calinda smiled. "I saw him fighting.'*

"You keep your eyes off him and your hands too. Catch you )oling around with him, I'll give you fifty lashes myself."

"I don't want him Drum, not as long as I can have you."

"You don't get me much lately, cherie."

"Not enough. Drum."

"Then don't figure on Blaise being in the saddle when Fm ut of it. That's mine!" He let his hand slide slowly down over er belly. "Mon Dieu! You're getting fat, Calinda."

"That's your son, Drum." She grabbed his hand and held it ver the round swelling of her stomach. "I was going to tell ou tonight if Madame let us be together. You didn't even otice last Saturday night."

"Poupee, I didn't notice anything. I wanted you so much wouldn't have noticed if your skin had turned white. You eally mean you're . . . ?" He drew her to him and kissed her >ng and tenderly. "Oh, poupee."

"Careful now." He pushed her away. "Don't get me excited T those men will never get their drinks. Look, get some warm /ater and go in your room and wash the blood off that poor lastard. Put some of maman's ointment on him and give lim a pair of my pants to put on." He shook a warning fin-;er at her. "M you touch more than his face, you'll be orry." Drum smiled. "You saw him. He's even more of a lan than I am,"

"He'll never be the man you are." Calinda fastened the ast button of his shirt. "Now go, but remember, you've got mother tussle on your hands tonight and one that you won't via in ten minutes either."

"Is it safe for my son?" Drum patted the bulge affection-Ltely.

"Maman says it won't matter."

"After tonight, cherie, 111 make doubly sure that noth-ng happens to my son. When you're sleeping where Blaise is le'll be sleeping with me in my room. Then I'll know where le is and I'll know where you are and I'll know I can trust rou."

"And I'll know where you are and I'll know where he is mt perhaps I won't trust you." Calinda remembered the iftemoon when de Marigny and Dnmi were both beside her.

"That's something you'll never need to worry about." He vas out of the door and across the courtyard. Calinda could

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hear the shouts that acclaimed him as he walked to the bai She was happy. Her Drum was safe. Slowly she gathered U] some clean linen rags, dipped out some still warm wate from the kettle into a basin, lit another candle and wen into her room where Blaise was stretched out on her pallei The candle she placed on the floor, and knelt down besid him. Carefully she washed the blood from his face. But tr as she would, she could not keep her eyes from wandering

chapter viii

The bill of sale for the Negro slave Blaise, which Lazare LeToscan's attorney delivered to Madame Alix, recorded the sale—for the sum of one dollar and other valuable considerations—to Madame Alix de Vaux. Thus he became her property and she was legally his mistress. But Blaise never really belonged to her. He was Drum's own boy, and he felt he belonged to Drum body and soul. Drum had fought him and punished him severely in the fight but Blaise gloried in the remembrance of the pain he had suffered; he saw in Drum all the things he longed to be himself. To him the dashing Drum represented the apex of perfection and the few years' difference in their ages was just enough to bring about the hero worship which Blaise accorded the handsome mulatto.

Drum was light-skinned, Blaise was black, and the difference in pigmentation alone was enough to make Blaise grateful that Drum would even so much as notice him. Drum's rakish good looks were something for -Plaise to marvel at and admire. But he was not jealous of Drum's good looks—he gloried in them. Drum, having lived in the city all his life, had acquired a cosmopolitan dash and a superficial elegance which poor Blaise, a mere brut from the canefields, might never hope to attain. His idol's elegant clothes, which hung from the nail in his room, were venerated objects to Blaise, whose rough cotton pants and shirts did notiiing but cover his nakedness. Often he stroked Drum's lustrous garments, letting his fingers linger lovingly on the smooth broadcloth and the shiny satin.

The finely accented French that Drum spoke was a marked contrast to Blaise's roughly mouthed Gombo. Drum's feet fitted snugly into his varnished boots—Blaise's overgrown, calloused feet had never known shoes. In contrast to Drum's superbly muscled body, Blaise felt his own to be thin and scrawny.

In short, Drum was everything that poor Blaise desired to be and he determined to pattern himself after his idol in every way. Some things of course would be impossible to achieve, such as Drum's good looks and his beautiful suit, but at least Blaise could learn French, which he set out to do, copying Drum's inflection and accent. Although he could never have Drum's long hair, he brushed his own wiry mop to a semblance of order and flattened it with grease, carefully cultivating the few hairs that grew on his cheeks into a semblance of Drum's sidewhiskers. There was, however, one way in which he could excel his idol, although he was not aware of it and would not have believed it had it b6en suggested to him. He was larger than Drum and his physique, although immature and untrained, possessed a greater potential than Drum's; Blaise was taller by an inch, with longer arms and legs. He begged to be allowed to train with Drum, but Blaise, his eyes completely blinded by hero worship, never came to realize that he was beginning to surpass Drum after a few months. Constantly striving to improve himself, he accomplished much. He lost his stooped shiiffle, and began to walk erect, lifting up his feet with the same nervous step that Drum employed. In time he came to relinquish his thick Gombo; he learned to eat with knife and fork, sitting at a table; he pared his fingernails and toenails: evenly and kept the rim of black grime from showing under them. Within a few months, he had changed from a field-hand brut to a smart young man, clean, immaculate in freshly laundered white pants and shirt and a face far more handsome than he imagined it to be.