“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. M
ollybird crouches beneath the stage, her hands clasped and her eyes closed, a charming study of maidenly devotion.
Spicer shouts a sharp command, and Tom directs his blows at the Ghost's body. They fall on the breast, the stomach, the groin, the kidneys, and the flanks. The Ghost wails in agony, falling to his knees. He rises, and is struck down again, and yet again. He crawls to the limit of the stage, imploring Blenkinsop, whom he can no longer see, to end his anguish. “Mass' Bob, Mass' Bob, make 'im stop! Cain't see, Mass' Bob! Ah's beat – mercy on me, Mass' Bob! Please, please, mass'!”
Tom, exhausted by his efforts, sinks to his knees and looks to Spicer. I note with interest the conduct of this English sailor. He frowns, and walks rapidly to Blenkinsop, plucking from his waist the blood-stained rag with which he sponged Tom's wounds. He presents it, but for Blenkinsop it has no meaning. He knows nothing of the pugilist's token of surrender. He calls instead to his drivers, who leap to the stage and lash the fallen Ghost with their whips, goading him to resume the contest. He tries to rise but cannot. He falls on his back, his head lolling over the edge of the stage, his blood coursing to the ground from a face that is a face no longer but a hideous crimson sponge.
Spicer casts down his cloth in anger, and nods to Tom to continue. Tom cannot rise. I see the great muscle a-flutter in his leg, and know that its use has deserted him for the moment. He pulls himself to the side of the Black Ghost, and gathers his strength for a last terrible blow directed at the upturned chin. Even through the din we hear the fearful crack as the spine is fractured at the neck, and as the Black Ghost's head hangs limp a deafening yell of delight rises from a thousand throats. I bid Ganymede bring the girl Mollybird to my house, and make my way to my carriage. Butchery, however detestable, I can view with a dispassionate eye, but slobbering expressions of gratitude from cousin Richard, before such a Gadarene assembly, are not to be borne.
* Waterloo
SEÑORA MARGUERITE ROSSIGNOL,
lady of fashion
and independent means, Havana
Fact is, I don't much care to remember. 'Deed, suh, you'd be astonished jus' how good I can be at dis-rememberin', specially when some 'quisitive stranger comes pokin' his nose in my private affairs, wants to set it all down – for what? So you can lay an info'mation 'gainst me? Pouf! Not these days, mister, not in this town. La Senora Rossignol is re-spectable an' respected, as my good friend the Alcalde can tell you. An' I doubt he'd take kin'ly to any Paul Pry seekin' scandal … to squeeze money out o' prom'nent gennlemen, maybe? That ain't your game? Well, then, I reckon you mus' be one o' those de-generates that get all tickled up havin' a lady tell 'em the intimate de-tails of her past, from her own ruby lips. Brother, have I seen my fill o' that sort! What some men'll pay good dollars for … praise be. Not so, you say? Oh, my apologies. So, mister, jus' what do you want?
Tom Molineaux? Me'ciful heavens! An' what in cree-ation is he to you, may I ask? A subject of his-toric interest? My, my! Tom got called plenty in his time, but that's a noo one. An' why might you s'pose I know anythin' of his-toric interest 'bout him, or would tell you if I did? Ah-h … you been talkin' to Lucie de la Goddam Guise! Well, I trust you scrubbed real well with carbolic aft'wards. Pouf ! An' you want my side o' the story? Tom's story, you mean? Well, perhaps I don't choose to tell. Why should I?
Your pardon? You are prepared to make me a gen'rous onner … say it again, if you please … Honorarium? Suh, if that is some noo kind of European perversion, I'd be 'bliged if you'd tell me what it means, in simple American … Payment? For tellin' you 'bout Tom Molineaux? Now, that I cannot believe! See here, my friend, if you have been overhearin' loose talk an' have called 'pon me for some pu'pose you are too bashful to confide straight out … well, I 'ppreciate the flatterin' attention, but madam is not inclined these days, an' if I was, believe me, you couldn't afford it.
No, suh. I am not in need of capital, as you can see. Yonder coffee service is English sterlin' silver, my gown is pure China silk, f'm Paris, France – well, I thank you for the charmin' compliment – these fine furnishin's an' pictures an' all is bought an' paid for, as is the house; my maid, cook, an' footman ain't owed one red cent in wages, an' there is a drivin' carriage, with canopy, an' two horses in my stable, which you are kin'ly welcome to view – on your way out. Unless you choose to state your real business. Jus' so we und'stand one another.
My stars! You were not bammin' jus' now? You truly want to know 'bout that Tom? Well, that does beat all! Whatever for? I'd not ha' thought he was o' that much account. No one ever cared for him, hardly …'cept me, an' I knew no better. He made a name in England? Now, you do s'prise me. Oh, prize-fightin' … uh-huh, I guess he was good at that, if little besides. Well, it makes no neverminds what he did in England. He surely did hurt enough in America, him an' that … No, I b'lieve I do not care to remember.
My recollections are of the first impo'tance to you? Well, now, I can't think why they should be … oh, fo'give me if I smile, only I wonder do you know 'zackly what you are askin'? My recollections? La-la! My good suh, they are not what you are 'ccustomed to read in the ladies' journals. You 'ppreciate that, you say? Well, I 'ppreciate your candour, I mus' say! No, do not apologise. Like I said, we und'stand each other.
Well, now … I may not care to remember – but I do. 'Tis not the kind of thing a woman forgets, try how she may. Still, 'twill do no harm to tell now, I guess. I got over that mis'ry a long time ago, even if it did break my heart in pieces at the time … I had a heart in those days. So long ago … at Amplefo'th … when I was young in the sunshine … Oh, damn him! An' damn that worm de la Guise! You wouldn't b'lieve I could still feel the pain! Well, I don't –'til some 'quisitive body plagues me to think on it!
I beg your pardon, suh. I fo'get myself. Quite in'scusable, what must you think? You have called 'pon me to make an inquiry, in genteel style, an' my outbu'st was most unbecomin'. Would you have the kindness to pour me a glass of sherry f'm the cellarette yonder – an' kindly help yourself to refreshment. There is French brandy, an' aquavit', an' such. Jus' the smallest trifle … I thank you. Now, let me collect my thoughts.
H'm, my recollections. Well, you shall have 'em plain, an' if they offend your delicate feelin's … why, you shouldn't ha' come.
First thing, Tom Molineaux was a born fool. Strong in the arm, weak in the head, denser'n Mississippi mud. Even when I was little, I could see he had no mo' sense'n an ox. He was willin' an' kin'ly enough, an' I guess I took to him 'cos he took to me. Used to follow me 'round like a great hound puppy, f'm as early as I can remember. He was older'n me, but we used to play together, an' I had to show him how, at our games an' ev'ythin'. The older slave-childer used to make game of him, 'til he got bigger – an' then the boys took no more liberties with him, you bet, for he was prodigious strong an' could whip 'em three, four at a time. Yes, suh, he was one big likely nigger buck, an' ripe as a stud bull! Oh, my, I trust you will pardon the 'spression. Recollectin', I fall back into the common way o' speech. But that is what he was.
'Twas natural the gals all set their caps at him, an' he was fool enough to pay 'em heed, an' had his way with all o' them, but it was me he cared for always. “You my own true love, li'l Mollybird,” he used to say. “True love!”, I declare! Where he learned such words, I cannot 'magine. But he meant it, so far's he had sense to mean anythin', an' I b'lieved him.
One reason why he admired me to worship was I looked so different from the other wenches. They were common nigras, but I was what they called high yaller – yellow, you know, on 'ccount o' my white blood, an' fine-boned an' dainty. Ah, I was the sweetest, neatest little gold fairy you ever did see – well, I am not 'zackly plain in my prime, would you say, so you can imagine. The master's daddy, old Molineaux, used to call me Princess, never Mollybird, which is a real low plantation-wench name, if you like. Not my style at all, which is why I am Marguerite Rossignol, in case you wonderin'. Molly Nightingale, in French – Molly Bird.
So the older an' prett
ier I grew, the more Tom mooned after me, an' I dare say I used him somethin' shameful, as gals will. He was so in awe of me, an' the white people made me such a pet, he never dreamed to treat me like the nigra wenches. Once, when I's 'bout twelve, an' he was maybe sixteen, I teased him on to kiss me, an' like the born fool he was, he bragged 'bout it, and when old Molineaux heard, he was in such a takin' he had Tom triced up an' lashed 'til he couldn't walk. They told me I was never to even talk to him after, an' kept me in the big house in a chamber of my own, with a bed an' coverlet. Oh, I thought 'twas heaven! That was how precious I was.
Can you 'magine, it devoted Tom to me more than ever? An' I cannot think why, now, but I do believe it was bein' kept away f'm him that caused me to fall in love with him. I would see him starin' at my window nights, an' lookin' so melancholy, an' ev'yone knew he hadn't made so much as a whimper when they whipped him. I yearned for him then, as only a young girl can, ugly as sin tho' he was. Well, the other bucks were no better, or near so strong an' fine-bodied as Tom, an' what other men had I seen? It seems foolish now, but for three years I was in love with Tom Molineaux.
You think that hard to b'lieve? You see me here, the elegant lady of colour in her stylish salon, with her Paris gown an' fine complexion an' delicate airs, an' conversin' in that husky way the gennlemen so adore, ole-plantation-an'-la-m'dear – you s'pose I was this smart an' wo'ldly when I was fifteen? Pouf! I had no mo' sense'n a chicken. I was a simple little wench, an' Tom Molineaux was big an' strong an' kin'ly and gentle to me as if I was a ewe lamb. An' I loved him, strange an' all as it seems now. I have had some 'sperience o' the world since, and of men, an' I am no longer simple, but I am here to tell you that when a strong, brave man is fit to be tied for love of you, he is powerful hard to resist … when you are fifteen.