Drum (41 page)

"Monsieur St. Denis, sir, I hope we're not intruding. I've heard a lot about your new fighter and I wondered if I might have a look at him."

Othon sensed a little additional advertising value in having Drum see Big'un. It could be spread around most carefully that Drum had seen him and been impressed, perhaps could even be embroidered with the suggestion that he was somewhat fearful. It might bring more people. Othon was so convinced that Big'un would win he had borrowed as much money as possible, even putting up his share in Big'un as s&-

curity. The more people, the more chance of bettmg and the great prestige to himself when Big'un won.

"And why not?" he said agreeably. "Come this way. Big'un's just finished working out. Kind of hot and sweaty but you won't mind." Othon led them up a short flight of stairs to the gargonniere and into a small room where Big'un was stretched out full length on a pallet on the floor. Hearing Othon enter, he stood up, wavered a little, then straightened up.

Drum appraised him. Mon Dieu! Quel hommet A veritable giantl This didn't look too easy. And in addition to his size, the fellow looked intelligent, too. There was always some weak point—always something the practiced eye could find in an opponent—but as Drum siu^eyed his man there seemed to be no weak point. He was strong, he was tall, he was intelligent. His legs were like tree trunks, his chest like a barrel, his neck like a black marble column and the muscles in his arm stood out like knotted hawsers. To make matters even worse, the colossus' mouth turned up in an engagingly friendly smile.

"Shake hands," Othon said to Drum, "with the man you are going to fight tomorrow night."

Drum stepped closer and took Big'un's hand. It seemed strangely hot and dry and now that he was closer, he saw an unusual yellow cast in the whites of Big'un's eyes. There was a smell of rum on his breath.

"Ain' got no grudge gainst this-yere fellah, Masta^ Othon, suh," Big'un said. "Don' much care to fight man I ain't mad at. Fine upstanding buck, this Drum. Likes him for a fren."

"You'll fight him, never fear. Once Drum slugs you in the face, you'll forget you wanted him for a friend." Othon stroked Big'un's arm affectionately.

"Fight him an' you says so, Masta Othon, suh."

Drum returned Big'un's smile but his was a smile of gratification more than greeting. His trained eye had just discovered the weak point he had been looking for. Again Big'un wavered on his feet. His hand passed to his forehead as though to wipe away a film before his eyes.

"Then we fights, Mista Drum. Sure do admire them pretty clotheses you and your fren wears. Admire 'em, I do."

"Lick Drum tomorrow night and you'll have a suit better than that." Othon was all encoiiragement.

"And if I Uck you," Drum continued to smile, "I'm going to get myself a new suit too." He turned to Othon. "Merci,

Monsieur St. Denis, merci. See you tomorrow night, Big'un."

'Tomorrow night, Drum. SUre am tired. Been a-punchin' a big sack of dirt all momin'. Sure am tired." Again his hand brushed across his eyes.

Drum and Blaise followed Othon St. Denis down the stairs and took leave of him at the door, not forgetting the proper obsequious ceremonials whereby a slave took leave of a white man. But once outside the door. Drum was jubilant.

"How come you so happified?" Blaise asked. "Don't that goddam big monstruosite scare heU out of you?"

"Because I'm goin' to lick the shit out of that black son of a bitch, that's why." ■r "Looks mighty big to me." Blaise was skeptical.

"No bigger than you and I can hck you." Drum was confident. "Listen, Blaise boy! That Big'un's a toss pot. Stank of rum. Othon gives him rum to make him fight. Now, remember this, a man who's drunk fights viciously. He's mean and nasty and when he's as big as this Big'im bastard, he's dangerous. But when a man drinks, he can't think straight. Pretty soon he gets confused. That's when I step in and hammer the living shit out of him." Drum fingered the sUver box under the ruffles of his shirt, "He's as good as licked now, Blaise boy. Just wait and you'll see. Watch papa Drum."

But, on the night of the fight, with Big'un standing before him in his awesome black nakedness, Drum was not quite as confident. However, if Big'un's wavering had been only momentary yesterday it was certainly in evidence today. The fellow's big feet seemed hardly to support him, his eyes were yellow and bloodshot and his whole skin, despite its blackness, had a brassy, metallic tinge. Drum smelled the reek of rum and knew that Big'un was drunk, bolstered up to fighting pitch by rum. Yet Drum sensed that there was something more to it than mere drunkenness. Big'im's grinning friendliness of yesterday had departed. Now he glared with malevolence and Drum noticed that his surliness extended even to Othon St. Denis, and to Pablo Hernandez when the latter came up to run his hands over him. Pablo looked even more slack-mouthed and dissipated than ever. Instead of taking an active part, as the owner of a fighter, even a part-owner, naturally would, he delegated everything to St. Denis and sat apathetically in a chair on the edge of the cleared circle, seemingly taking little interest in anything that was happening. Drum noticed how he slumped down in his chair, his eyes closed, his hand occasionally pressed to his forehead.

Pablo had never been much of a drinker—^women were his jt only vice—and Drum was surprised to see him drunk, for drunk he certainly seemed to be.

Dominique You conferred with Othon. They advanced together to the center of the cleared space and at a nod from \ Dominique, Othon raised his hands as a signal for quiet. Gradually the voices lulled. Even Pablo Hernandez opened his eyes and sat up in his chair.

"Messieurs,"—Othon lowered his hands and bowed in several directions—"and Madame,"—and he waved up at Alix in her white tent on the balcony. "Tonight, through the kindness of New Orieans' patroness of sport, Madame Alix de Vaux, we are privileged to witness another memorable battle between her slave. Drum, undisputed champion of New Orleans, and a slave, belonging"—he paused for a moment to allow the full significance of his words to sink in, for indeed it was the proudest moment of his life—"to M. Pablo Hernandez, the popular owner of Veinte Robles plantation, and . . . myself. Our fighter's name is Big'un. He's champion of the island of Jamaica, having won many fights in the course of which he has killed two opponents. We therefore offer you tonight the greatest exhibition of fighting the city has ever seen." A shift in the wind sent the smoke from the smudge fire of corncobs into Othon's face and he retired coughing, to the accompaniment of good natured applause, as he and Dominique You backed out of the open space.

"I shall count three," Dominique You said. "Then go at each other. One . . . Two . . . TTiree! Fight I"

Big'un stumbled as he advanced towards Drum but caught himself. Dnun, dancing on the balls of his feet, backed away a step and as Big'un came on, crouching, with both arms outstretched. Drum found his opening and swung low with his right, catching Big'un on the side of the face. The force of the blow staggered him and he stopped, shook his head and then advanced again. Drum tried the same tactics a second time but this time Big'un straightened up just as the blow would have landed and his right reached out and met Drum's chin, hitting him with a force that caused Drum to stagger backwards, lose his balance and fall. He was not able to get up before his opponent had thrown himself across him and now, with Big'un's face close to his, Drum got the full force of the reeking, rum-soaked breath. With difficulty, he arched his body, but Big'un's flesh, strangely hot and exuding heat like a stove, rested on him like a moun-

tain and could not be dislodged. Big'un's enormous fist came down on Drum's face like the blow of a sledge hammer. Drum felt the spurt of his own blood on his face and he felt that his nose was broken. Again the fist descended, but this time Drum saw it coming and was able to move his head slightly to one side, enough so that the fist merely grazed his temple. Even so, the force of it almost knocked him unconscious. He struggled to slip out from imder, but Big'un was now sprawling with his whole body on top of him, his weight crushing him against the flagging. Drum squirmed but it was no use. Suddenly he screamed, as Big'im's teeth sank into the lobe of his ear, tearing it off. The huge black hand closed around his throat, choking off the scream. Big'im laughed.

"Tastes good, yo' do. Thinks I'll take another bite out of yo'. Eats yo' other ear. Chaws it right down. Maybe chaws yo' balls off too. How you likes that, fancy boy?"

Drum had managed to slip one arm free. With all the force he could command from his supine position, he drove it into his tormentor's groin, catching him in his tenderest spot. Now it was Big'un's turn to scream as he released Drum's throat and shifted his weight. It was the opportunity Drum had been waiting for. He heaved, arching his body with its heavy burden, and sent Big'un off onto his back. With a leap. Drum was on his feet. He jumped, landing with the full force of both feet on his opponent's stomach. Big'un's legs stretched out with a jerk. In an instant Drum was astraddle him, feet spread wide apart with Big'un's heaving chest between them. He raised one foot to bring it crashing down into Big'un's face but Big'un was not through fighting. He grabbed Drum's foot, twisting it as he jackknifed up, throwing Drum off balance but far enough away so that both men could scramble to their feet. Once again Big'un rushed, grabbing Drum around the hips and pulling him down.

For the second time, Big'un had the advantage and he used his hamlike fists on Drum's face and chest, pummeling him until he could not raise a hand to defend himself. Dimly Drum heard the cheers of the spectators. As the blows continued to land, he knew for the first time that he was licked. Pain had become so much a part of him that he was conscious of nothing else. Big'un was killing him. And as the blows continued, he hoped death would come soon for it would mean an end to the horrible torture that was being

inflicted on him. But now the blows no longer hurt him. Big'un was still pounding away but it seemed there was no strength left in the blows. Drum's courage returned, dragged up from the limbo of pain. Perhaps he was not beaten yet. Somewhere, floating down and penetrating his consciousness, he heard a voice.

"Separate them, Dominique, separate them. I'll yield the fight. Separate them or Drum will be killed."

Madame—Drum's thoughts were confused—Madame didn't want him killed.

With a last surge of strength he grabbed one of Big'un's hands with both his own. His left encircled the wrist and with his right, he slowly bent the fist back until the fingers opened, increasing the pressure as he forced the hand back until at last he heard the bones of the wrist snap. Big'un howled, rolled off Drum onto the floor, screamed once and was quiet. Only his body twitched. i

"Fight, Big'un!" Othon St. Denis was yelling. "Fightl Getl up, you goddamned black bastard and fight."

Drum struggled to his knees, collapsed, then pulled himself up again, but when he tried to raise himself from his knees, he was unable to stand. He knelt, swaying from side to side. He could see out of only one eye and that through a film of blood and sweat, but he saw St. Denis run to the big' brazier which had been Ut to dispel the mosquitoes. Othon snatched a half-burned corncob from the fire and applied | the glowing coal to Big'un's cheek, holding it there. Drum-I could hear St. Denis' curses and could smell the sickly odor of burning flesh. But Big'un did not move.

Drum managed to hoist himself to his feet and saw Dominique You come toward him, but he waved him back. Slowly, like an earthquake moving a mountain, the black bulk of Big'un twitched in a spasm of convulsions. He rolled over on his side, his stomach heaving and a stream of vomit came from his mouth—^heavy dark blood that, in the light of the flam- ■ beaux, stained the stones black. Dominique You was about to raise Drum's hand in victory when he saw the puke pouring from Big-un's mouth. He dropped Drum's hand and took : a step nearer the supine figure, hesitated, then came close enough so that he could stoop down and put a trembling j hand on the Negro's forehead. He recoiled from the burning [ fever.

"Bronze Johnl" he jumped up and cried out the dreaded) name.

Othon St. Denis rushed forward but Dominique You's restraining hand held him back.

"Don't touch him!"

"But I just did touch him. My God, will I have it?"

The circle started to widen, leaving Dominique You, Drum, Othon St. Denis and the stricken Big'un in tihe center of an ever growing circumference. Only Pablo Hernandez remained, slumped on his chair, his head sunk on his chest, a string of bloody saliva oo2dng from the corner of his mouth down onto his waistcoat. Suddenly, as if the idea of flight had been simultaneous in everyone's mind, there was a stampede for the door, and the porte-cochere became a milling mass of men, clawing their way out. Dominique You walked over to where Pablo was sitting.

"Pablo, have your coachman get your slave out of here." He shook Hernandez by the shoulder but Pablo only slumped lower in his chair. Dominique's hand sought his forehead.

"Mon Dieu! It's struck him too."

"And me next," Othon was wailing.

Dominique You disregarded Othon. "Blaise, where are you?" he called out.

"Here, M'sieur You, suh," Blaise came running up.

"Go outside, call the Hernandez carriage and tell the coachman to drive up on the banquette directly in front of the door."

Rachel came running down the stairs from the balcony.

"Madame's fainted."

"Well, loosen her stays, bum some feathers imder her nose or do whatever people usually do. Is she sick or just fainted?"

"She's got no fever," Rachel answered. "I felt her, she's not feverish."

"Then she'll be all right." Dominique looked up to see Blaise returning.

"Come over here and help Monsieur St. Denis get his nigger out of here."

"He isn't mine," Othon said, denying any ownership, "he's Pablo's."

"You were turkey-cocking around here a little while ago, claiming he was half yours. He still is. He's not going to die here—not if we can help it. Get him out. Blaise, carry Pablo out and put him in his carriage, then come back and help Monsieur St. Denis get his fighter out of here."