Black Ajax

by George MacDonald Fraser

  His hand shakes as he fills his glass and soaks my table linen. “My boy Tom, he nevah bin beat! Why, he licked Matheson's nigra, that'd beat ten men, beat him senseless in twenny-two minutes, yessir! Matheson's nigra a real champeen, they say! Twenny-two minutes, an' cudn't git up to ma Tom!”

  “Then why such anxiety?”

  He licks his lips and drums his great fingers. “Black Ghost killed Matheson's buck two weeks back. Bust his neck in his two hands like 'twas kindlin'. Fight didn't last three minutes.”

  I assure him that form is not to be judged by such comparisons, and for a moment his fears subside. To revive them, I inquire what odds are being laid on this monster, and the stem of his glass is snapped between his fingers. His mouth works and his voice is hoarse.

  “Five to one on th' Ghost,” says he. “That's whut had me plungin'. Nevuh was sech odds! Ah cudn't resist, Lucie, Ah tell yuh!” His face is glistening as he turns it to me, red and staring. “Ah backed ma Tom to th' hilt!”

  This becomes interesting. I inquire of figures, and he brims another glass and gulps: “Fifty-fi' thousand dollahs!”

  I wonder, not at the prodigious sum, but at the folly of wagering it on an insensate piece of black flesh against a fighter of formidable repute whom, it seems, he has never even seen. I remind him of his confidence, so freely expressed but a moment ago, and he groans.

  “'Spose he lose! 'Spose he cain't whup the Ghost! The bastard kilt four men a'ready! 'Spose he kill ma Tom!”

  “Why, then, my Richard, your enchanting Mollybird will be inconsolable, and you, dear cousin, will have lost an indifferent slave and fifty-five thousand dollars. What then? Your fortune, to say nothing of your acres at Ampleforth, are sufficient to bear such a trifling loss, surely.”

  “Triflin'!” bawls he, starting up. “Triflin'! Damn yuh, Ah ain't got it!” And another priceless piece of Murano workmanship is reduced to shards. “Ah ain't got hardly fifty-fi' thousand cents! Ah's ploughed, don't ye unde'stan', yuh frawg-eatin' fool!” My gratification at this unexpected news is such that I overlook the disgraceful term of abuse. “Yuh think Ah'd wager a fortune Ah ain't got if Ah wasn't desp'rate?” To complete my disgust, he begins to weep, slumped in his chair, this pitiful article of Saxon blubber. “I tell yuh, Ah's owin' all aroun', the bank, an' the Jew lenders, an' Amplefo'th bin plastered to hellangone fo' yeahs, an' that dam' Gwend'line” – his wife, an impossible, gaudy female of ludicrous pretensions and no pedigree – “spendin' like Ah had a private mint – an' Ah's burned to the socket, Lucie! Ah's so far up Tick River Ah cain't be seen, hardly!” He sinks his mutton head in his hands. “Tom's gotta win – he gotta win, or Ah's turned up fo'ever! Oh, Lucie, you ma friend, ma own cousin, whut Ah goin' to do?”

  A delightful spectacle, which I view with satisfaction, noting en passant that whereas most men in drink are given to optimism, my Richard in his maudlin state finds himself visited by spectres apparently forgotten in his sober moments. That his terrors are well-founded I do not doubt: the man is a fool, and a wastrel fool, I know, given to reckless gambling, and extravagance in which his ridiculous Gwendoline, with her absurd notions of position, will have borne more than her share. I am astonished only that in a few years he should have dissipated a splendid fortune and one of the finest estates in Virginia, and wonder if his misfortunes have reduced him to the point where he will apply to me for assistance. But no, even in his abject state he does not forget the obligations of gentility. His nauseous lamentations are a mere confessional, for he is of that contemptible sort who find solace in pouring out their miserable secret fears.

  I see no immediate advantage to myself in his plight, but am moved to alter my resolve not to accompany him to the contest which will certainly prove his ruin. The spectacle of the gross Richard tormented by desperate hope, his grotesque antics as he sees, in the destruction of his vaunted “fightin' nigra” at the hands of the Black Ghost, the utter dissolution of fortune and reputation, his dawning despair as he contemplates the shame and degradation awaiting him, the loss of honour and, it may be, life itself – no, that is an entertainment that I shall assuredly not forgo. Indeed, it will afford me infinite pleasure, and some compensation for his boorish denial to me of that ravishing little octoroon, his pollution of my table appointments, and the affront to my senses of his repulsive company.

  My change of heart raises him from the abyss to raptures of gratitude, his pusillanimous nature finding comfort in a mere gesture of support, as though my presence at his debacle should somehow shield him from misfortune. He agrees readily to my suggestion that Mollybird should accompany us, which I assure him must inspire his champion. I do not add that her distress as her hero is thrashed to pulp will be as a sauce piquant to my enjoyment of the occasion.

  The fight is appointed for the following evening, in the garden of one of the larger exclusive brothels of the Vieux Carre, an establishment familiar to me from my youth, when debauchery was an occupation, not an art. All has been arranged to delight the popular taste, with coloured lanterns among the trees to light the raised stage; couches placed for the more favoured patrons with row upon row of chairs behind for the sporting fraternity, and benches for the untouchables; buffets from which wines and delicacies are conveyed to the foremost spectators; an orchestra on the balcony plays the primitive plantation rhythms; black and yellow strumpets in the most garish of costumes flaunt their uncovered bosoms in parade about the stage, or lounge on the couches with the patrons; the bawds, hovering like so many bedizened harpies, despatch their choicest trollops to the richest clients; runners pass among the great crowd giving the latest odds and collecting wagers for the leading gamesters, who are seated at tables before the front rank; and on the stage itself the dancers of the establishment, stalwart young bucks and nubile wenches stimulated by the intolerable din of the musicians, perform measures of the most tedious obscenity to cries of encouragement and advice from the vulgar herd. I am deafened by noise, poisoned by the reek of cigars, offended by recognition from mere acquaintances who presume to greet me as I take my seat on a couch, and disgusted by the raffish abandon of the occasion. I resign myself, bidding Ganymede fan the fumes from about my person, close my ears to the guffawing and cackling of the mob, and am consoled to see that Richard, seated by me, is distraught and of that mottled complexion which in the bucolic passes for pallor, while Mollybird, crouched at his feet, trembles with anxiety. I smile and pat her shoulder, and she shrinks enchantingly.

  Her fiance, our admired Tom, has the appearance of a beast in the abattoir, grey of feature and twitching his limbs as he listens to a small nondescript who wears a brass earring and patters what I assume to be advice and instruction.

  “That Bill Spicer, an English sailor,” Richard informs me. “Knows all 'bout the Fancy, bin givin' Tom prime trainin', teachin' him the guards an' sech.” He says it without confidence, and as I regard M'sieur Spicer, I share his pessimism.

  A positive thunder from the musicians heralds the arrival of the Black Ghost, and, ma foi!, he is a spectacle, that one. He bounds to the stage like a hideous genie from a bottle, the image of that blackamoor who ravishes princesses in the Oriental tale. He is a giant, a full head taller than Tom, stark naked, with great lean limbs and the torso of a Hercules, his whole body scarred with the wounds of his contests and the lashes of his overseers. He is terrific as he stalks the stage, grinning horribly and flaunting himself at the whores, flexing his mighty arms and rolling his eyes about him. His skull, from which one ear has been torn away, is small and shaved clean, so that it resembles a polished cannon ball. He booms “Ho-ho!” like an ogre as he makes his bow to his master, the corpulent Blenkinsop, and squats on his heels above Tom, baring the few yellow teeth remaining in his ghastly jaws, and spitting threats in an awful croaking voice.

  “Po' li'l nigga-boy! Whyn't yuh run back t'yo' mammy? Cuz yuh stay heah, Ah gwine eat yo' ears an' yo' eyes and pull yo' tongue out yo' stoopid nigga haid! Yuh skeered, boy? C'mon up heah, yuh
won' be skeered no mo', cuz yuh'll be daid!”

  Blenkinsop's drivers make a great show of driving the brute back with their whips, to the cheers of the multitude, and I note with interest that Tom, who but a moment since seemed in a state of fear, is now at ease, shrugging and skipping a little as he waits his summons to the stage.

  You must understand that these contests are conducted in the very crudest fashion. There is no question of referee or timekeeper or whip-pers-in to marshal the spectators, no weighing of the men beforehand, none of the ceremonial so dear to the true Fancy of the Ring, whereby the contestants are brought together at the mark for instruction and to shake hands, and without which no English mill is permitted to proceed for a moment. Why, there are no rounds or rules or even seconds. It is the pitting of wild beasts in an arena, without procedure, to belabour and maim as they wish until one is insensible or dead. As to the spectators, they are there to see a slave butchered as cruelly as may be, without proper appreciation of how the thing is done. There is no thought of style or grace or skill. The bully from the brothel bawls: “Fight!” and the savages tear each other to pieces.

  Nor is there that moment of calm so striking in the true prize-fight, when the gladiators face each other at the mark. As Tom and the Black Ghost prepare for the assault the howling rises to a tempest, Richard bellows beside me, Mollybird hides her face at his knee, and in that audience of pandemonium only three are tranquil: myself, the stout Blenkinsop who lounges smiling as he sips his punch and fondles the slut on his knee – and the man Spicer, crouched by the stage, his bright eyes on the combatants. I feel, in that moment, an invisible bond with him: in that ignorant mindless mob who see only the monstrous spectral Goliath towering above the insignificant David, are he and I alone in noting the superb proportions of Tom's limbs, shining with health, the lightness with which he balances on his toes, the steady regard with which he watches his enemy? Spicer is softly calling: “Left hand, lad. Let 'im come to ye. Left, an' side-step. Distance, lad, distance.”

  It is good advice, and my opinion of this Spicer increases – but it proves fatal, for Tom, nodding that he hears, turns his head, and in that moment the Black Ghost, who has been mouthing and snarling taunts, leaps silent across the stage and with a lightning stroke of his mighty arm smashes Tom to the boards and is upon him, screaming again as he beats and tears furiously at his opponent. Tom breaks free and staggers afoot, but even as he rises the Ghost drives his knee into his face, and Tom stumbles like a drunkard as the giant belabours him without mercy. It is all he can do to retreat, shielding his head from those dreadful blows, the blood running down his face and chest, until another ponderous swing of that terrible arm hurls him to the boards, to be stamped and trampled underfoot. It is the end, before it has begun, think I, but he seizes the Ghost's ankle, tumbling him down, and grips him in a wrestler's lock. The Ghost howls and raves, but he cannot break the hold, and Tom has a moment to recover while my Richard shouts without meaning, the spectators deafen us with their cheering, the little Spicer's admonitions are lost in the uproar, and the fat Blenkinsop settles himself at more ease, laughing as he nuzzles his whore.

  Now, it is not for me, who have seen Jackson and Mendoza and Belcher, and could describe every blow, every feint, and every parry of those masters, to record in similar particulars the progress of that unworthy gutter combat. In truth, I observe it only in general, my attention being claimed by the conduct of Richard and my yellow beauty, and the assembly at large as they behold the nauseating spectacle. For as it has begun, so it continues. Tom's respite is but temporary, for the Ghost escapes the lock by breaking his right thumb. The spectators shriek for joy as Tom, with one hand useless, stands helpless under the rain of blows visited upon him. Round the stage he is driven by that roaring black demon whose strokes fall on his body with such fearful impact that it seems his ribs and spine must be shattered. Did the Black Ghost but know how to use his fist, like a rapier rather than a hammer, all would be over in a few rallies. But he clubs with his huge arms, delivers savage kicks a la savate, tears Tom's hair from his head, rakes with clawing nails, and rends and bites when they close, with such ferocity that Tom falls repeatedly, and is twice hurled from the stage.

  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, virgi
nal, 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.”