by Kyle Onstott
‘Time a’-runnin’, gen’lemen,’ announced Remmick. ‘Ain’t you goin’ to bet?’
Redfield, Gasaway and a few others posted their bets upon the Mandingo, which Neri immediately covered and looked around for more victims.
A rumble of talk, claims and counter-claims, opinions and refutations, arguments and rebuttals, echoed about the building. Nobody attended much to what another said. All the whites, except Neri, had been drinking; some had drunk too much, but only one fight between spectators had threatened and Remmick, coming from behind his counter, easily quelled that. He maintained order in his tavern and all knew it. Moreover, none chose to risk exclusion from the fight.
Remmick delayed as long as he was able, but at last men had arranged their wagers; the sale of whisky had stopped; the circle around the fighters had broken; and the groups of threes and fours that gossiped and speculated were growing restless.
‘We a-startin’ up. All you-all gen’lemen repair to the back-yard. We startin’,’ the tavern keeper proclaimed; and, as an afterthought, enjoined Holden, ‘Fetch along Mista Maxwell’s chair, Sam, an’ set him in the shade whure he kin see good.’
The throng moved through the rear door, promptly but with order. Everybody wanted a place of vantage. Holden chose the most level place he could find for Maxwell’s chair, with its back to the west that the sun might not be in its occupant’s eyes. Lewis Gasaway courteously remained behind to lead and guide the invalid to the reserved seat of honour.
Brownlee, who had stayed discreetly away from Neri, none the less remained behind to offer him any aid he might need; and Redfield tarried to second Hammond. Their aid was not required. Holden filled the tin cup the bar reserved for Negroes and set it on the counter, but neither manager chose to use it. Topaz extended his arm towards Neri, opening and closing his fingers nervously. The owner, recognizing the meaning of the gesture, again withdrew the phial from his pocket and poured a cone of powder into the slave’s open hand. Deftly and surely Topaz raised his hand and the powder disappeared at a single sniff.
‘More in the bottle. It half full. If we win——,’ the master promised.
‘I a-goin’ ’a,’ affirmed the Negro.
‘Course you are,’ said Neri, reaching to pat the yellow shoulder with assurance and affection.
Redfield nudged Hammond. ‘I knows whut he givin’ him,’ he confided knowingly. ‘Make him wil’ while it last, but it won’t las’. Countin’ on winnin’ quick. Tell your buck fight slow, wear him out.’
‘This nigger cain’t whup, noways,’ Ham conceded. ‘Ain’t train, cain’t make him. I bein’ a fool. That Topaz buck whetted sharp.’
‘We goin’ to win,’ Redfield affirmed with a show of confidence he didn’t feel. He turned to Holden, behind the counter. ‘Give Mista Maxwell a corn. He needin’ it.’
Sam set out glasses, filled them, and touched the cup as a reminder. The white men drank. Mede looked askance at his master, opened his mouth to speak, but was silent; he wanted to cheer Hammond, for whose faint heart he felt a kind of sorrow, but sensed that to voice his own confidence would only aggravate the owner’s despair. Mede harboured neither fear nor doubt. He had a job to do, the job for which he had been purchased. His money was not at stake and he had no interest in the twins, no concern for his own body, for the pummelling he was about to receive, the pain he must undergo. His body was the property of another; the other accepted the risk. In the glory of victory, however, he should share, as he must partake, if it should come, in the shame of defeat. These were Mede’s only stakes, victory or defeat.
Remmick appeared at the door, impatient of the delay. Neri and his fighter, he said, were waiting at the ringside, ready.
‘Come ’long,’ Hammond said. He limped through the open door, followed by the towering Mandingo, with Redfield bringing up the rear. The crowd parted to give them a place at the ring, and Redfield continued around the space to Maxwell’s chair, squatting beside it.
Remmick made his way to the centre of the area and raised his hand superfluously, for quiet had already settled on the sun-drenched spectators. ‘Last, we ready. We goin’ to start in. I don’ know the why all this waitin’!’ he deprecated the delay. ‘You-all knows about this event. You knows it between Mista Neri, come clean from New Orleans with his nigger, an’ Mista Ham Maxwell of Falconhurst with his big varmint you-all seen fight here afore now. Mista Neri’s boy name of Topaz, somethin’ like that——’
‘That right—Topaz,’ Neri nodded.
‘An’ Mista Hammond’s name of Mede. They ’bout the biggest bucks, an’ the fines’ ever honour this here arena. Mista Neri an’ Mista Hammon’ both puttin’ up big stakes—money an’ niggers. Both these bucks been trainin’ an’ worked down right fine, seem like. We goin’ to see somethin’ choice, something like whut ain’t never bin seen in Benson afore this, somethin’ like whut they does in New Orleans.’ He ended, as he always did, with ‘Let ’em FIGHT,’ and he lowered his arm.
Neri cautioned Topaz not to forget to cross himself, and made the sign on his own front.
The owners simultaneously clapped their respective fighters on the shoulder and propelled them forward into the ring. Topaz danced out with a show of footwork in demonstration of his eagerness. If Mede was equally keen, it was not apparent. He strode stolidly to the centre of the ring, planted his feet on a broad base, and raised his arms for defence. But his defence was futile. Topaz danced around him, striking him with his long arms almost at will, and forcing him to shift his awkward stance. A dozen powerful blows found the exact marks towards which they were directed; a score of minor ones were deflected or glanced away. One mighty punch landed with a dull impact beneath Mede’s eye, which began to swell, another cut his thick upper lip, which bled profusely, still another bruised the region just below the heart.
Topaz was a boxer, skilful and precise. He frisked in and away again before Mede was aware, each time planting his knuckles just where he chose. Mede warded the blows as best he could, but each time he intercepted a feint of Topaz’s right hand, Topaz countered with his left, which found its mark. Mede seemed unable to counter, unable to block, and unable to strike. He was stolid in acceptance of his chastisement.
The spectators began to jeer. This was no fight, it was a mere flogging.
Topaz ceased to dance away. He was wasting his energy in avoidance of an enemy who couldn’t strike, wasting his skill upon an impotent adversary. Mede, however, absorbed the blows like a bag of sand. He just stood and took what came.
Topaz retreated for a deep breath. He was fatigued from victory. He returned with a fresh fury to the kill. Another blow and yet another. But he was making no impression upon this immovable object. He began to swear at Mede, to curse him, to vilify him with every punch. The words that squirted through Topaz’s broken teeth spattered inane and uncomprehended upon their target. So they failed to anger him.
But he had taken enough blows. He moved forward, making no effort to ward himself. He poised himself, closed his fist and slung at his opponent, caught him on the upper sternum. Neri gasped at Mede’s temerity; he expected the divine wrath. Topaz staggered two steps backward. Mede sent another blow to the same spot. Topaz staggered, slipped on a stone and went down on his back. Mede made a plunge for him and fell on top of him, pinning his shoulders. Topaz extricated his arms from between their bodies, circled Mede’s waist and with the heavy nails of his long fingers clawed and ripped the skin of Mede’s back. Eight streams of blood trickled through the sweat.
Mede sought to entwine his legs with those of his adversary, but Topaz was too agile. He succeeded with short punches to Topaz’s face, but his arm lacked leverage. He made for Topaz’s eye to gouge it from its socket, but the nimble yellow man writhed on the ground, tumbled Mede’s body to one side, and sprang to his feet. His back was scraped by small stones, and his sweat was muddied with soil. When Mede sought to rise, a smart blow from Topaz knocked him back to a sitting position, whence by reaching out
he grasped Topaz’s knee and brought him down, his head in Mede’s lap. Topaz bared his broken teeth to bite Mede, but by a turn Mede eluded him, extricated his legs from beneath Topaz’s body, and sprang upright. The more agile Topaz was also again on his feet. He was again sparring, boxing, whipping sharp blows to Mede’s head and face. Mede felt them, ducked to avoid them, but there was little force in their impact. They teased him and smarted, but they did not rock or stagger him. His face was bruised and swollen, his left eye all but closed, his brow cut and bleeding, but the right eye smiled with confidence and contempt. No longer did Topaz dance, the resilience had left his legs and feet. His fists still flew, but his arms were tired. He had lost his cockiness and his face was grim with a bloodlessness that beneath his yellow skin seemed like a pallor. His invective too had ceased.
Maxwell leaned back in his chair, chuckling at the spectacle. That his Negro was being whipped did not destroy his relish of the contest. He marvelled at Topaz’s skill, the certainty and precision of his blows, the agility with which he ducked the occasional heavy fist Mede threw in his general direction. A country-trained Negro couldn’t hope to compete with one trained in the city—a blundering bumpkin against the schooled expert. Maxwell admired a winner. He was not one to disparage superiority just because he did not own it.
‘My two hundert ain’t gone yet,’ Redfield whispered over Maxwell’s shoulder. ‘I ain’t a-givin’ up.’
‘Might as well kiss good-bye that two hunerd,’ Maxwell looked up at his friend.
Mede found an opening and planted on Topaz’s long jaw a blow that staggered him backward. Topaz’s hand went to his face to feel the injury, to feel whether the jaw was broken. There was a long sigh from the spectators.
‘He ain’t done yet. I was thinkin’ it about over.’
‘Jesus!’
‘That varmint of Hammond Maxwell’s is powerful powerful, when he kin git there.’
‘Trouble is that othern won’t hol’ still.’
Kyle rubbed his own jaw, so vivid was the suggestion of Mede’s blow.
Hammond Maxwell edged about the ring in the direction of Brownlee. He was aghast at the thought of defeat, the loss of the twins. ‘Mista Brownlee,’ he muttered, ‘I’m givin’ you two thousand dollars fer them boys. They ain’t worth it, but Papa, he ain’t wantin’ to part.’
Brownlee shook his head.
‘Twenty-five hunderd. That five hunderd profit fer you.’
‘They fancies. I gits me five thousand fer ’em, I gits ’em to New Orleans. A Frenchy waitin’ fer ’em.’
The fight was decided, but it continued. The spectators lost interest. Nobody was holding a watch upon the fight, which had now lasted the better part of an hour.
The fighters grappled, staggered, went down and wallowed in the dirt. Mede knelt on Topaz’s groin, kneading it painfully with his knees. Again they were on their feet, Topaz sparring, Mede countering the light blows as best he was able. Mede toppled Topaz again and fell on him, and was flung away. Still again they rose, and clinched and swayed, Mede’s weight falling on the other’s shoulders, while he pummelled his kidneys. The effects of Topaz’s powder had worn away, and it was apparent that both were tiring. Again they were on the ground, struggled to their feet slowly, laboriously. Both heaved for breath, panted.
Mede came clumsily to his knees, and Topaz gained his feet but only momentarily for Mede hurtled forward and brought him down. They rolled again on the ground in the direction of Maxwell’s chair, which he pushed back by a scant half-foot to be out of their way. Topaz was on top, Mede supine. Too tired to struggle, they lay one on the other, Mede’s arms clasped tightly around Topaz’s waist. It was nearing the end.
No use to prolong this quietude. Topaz had won. It was undeniable. Remmick entered the ring to kick him off his opponent and award him the victory. As he made his way across the arena, there was a gurgling cry from one of the combatants, and a convulsion of Topaz’s shoulders which ran down his back and body. His legs twitched and writhed. With a promise of further action, Remmick retreated from the ring and waited. The convulsion stopped and the negroes lay still in their embrace.
Seconds, a minute, sped by and still they lay. Remmick again started across the ring. Redfield looked at the ground and saw a pool of blood lying on the ground at Mede’s shoulder. The pool grew and spread. The body of Topaz twitched again, his leg jerked crazily. Remmick reached down to dislodge Topaz from on top of his victim. Topaz was limp and inert. Remmick turned him over. Blood flowed from his neck upon his shoulders. Topaz was dead.
Relieved of his burden, Mede moved to rise, but sank back in the dust. He was able to draw up one knee and flex the leg. His mouth and teeth were stained with blood. He had gnawed his way into Topaz’s neck and severed the jugular vein. He kicked Topaz aside and helped Mede to rise to sitting, but he fell backwards upon the ground.
Hammond rushed forward, amazed at his victory. Remmick raised his hand to announce his decision and to tell the crowd that there would be more fights the following Saturday, but nobody listened. Some men gathered about the corpse of Topaz. More sauntered toward the bar. The excitement was over. Holden brought a bucket of water and dashed it over Mede.
Neri came and bent over Topaz to see what had killed him. Satisfied, he shrugged and spurned the wretched body with his boot.
Hammond and Redfield, one on either side of Mede, helped him to rise unsteadily to his feet. They led him into the tavern, where his clothes were. He sank to the floor where Hammond struggled with him to get his legs into his pantaloons, while Redfield went to the bar to requisition a cup of whisky.
Hammond took the cup and held it to Mede’s mouth. ‘Drink it down,’ he commanded. ‘Whure you hurtin’?’ he asked.
‘I tired, I jest tired,’ said Mede, and tried to smile, but only succeeded in distorting his puffed face.
‘We won. We won the fight. We killed that nigger,’ Hammond told him, not sure that Mede was aware of his victory.
‘Yas, suh, Masta, suh,’ Mede acknowledged the information. ‘Take me home, please, suh. I wants old Luce.’
Hammond helped him again to rise and, with the aid of Redfield, supported him slowly across the road to the surrey. The exhausted giant fell obliquely across the cushions of the seat and closed his eyes.
Stragglers were leaving the tavern. Returning across the road, Hammond met Alonzo Kyle and Asa Gore coming out. They stopped to slap Hammond’s shoulder in congratulation of his triumph but refused to return with him for a drink in celebration. Gasaway had helped Maxwell back into the tavern and Holden had carried the chair in which Maxwell again sat downing a toddy. Remmick paid off the bets, and each of the winners bought a round of drinks for everybody. Hammond drew down his three thousand dollars, counted it carefully, folded the currency and stuffed it all, paper and gold together, into his pouch. Brownlee took back the two thousand dollars he had deposited for purchase of the twins, neither a winner nor a loser but disconsolate about his failure to obtain the twin mulattos. He left the room hurriedly. Neri had already gone.
The whole party escorted the Maxwells across the road. Mede lolled clear across the rear seat of the surrey.
‘Swim that big lummox tomorrer,’ Redfield suggested. ‘Work out that stiffness.’
‘Salt him, salt him down in hot brine. Draw the fever an’ take down the swellin’,’ Maxwell prescribed more drastically, climbing to his seat, Gasaway’s hand steadying his arm.
Remmick pressed forward to shake Maxwell’s hand and to thank him for coming. Maxwell was not a very old man but his infirmity and solvency made him venerable. His presence had lent prestige to the tavern and to the sport it offered. ‘You all come back again; come often, suh.’
Hammond said little as he bade good-bye around. It seemed to him he was as tired as Mede, as he mounted to the seat and took the reins. Even the mares were tired of standing in the heat and switching flies, but they turned with a will towards Falconhurst and supper.
T
hey drove in silence most of the time, Maxwell massaging the swollen joints of one hand with the palm of the other. He, too, was tired and hungry and satisfied, pleased with the day.
Hammond had little to say about Mede’s triumph. A queasiness caused a growing tremulousness of his hands upon the reins. Perhaps he had drunk too much whisky at the tavern. It would pass. He could compare his feeling only to that after the flogging of Memnon.
But it did not pass. It grew. He felt himself fainting, but he retained his consciousness. His hands shook.
He passed the right rein into his left hand and murmured, ‘You got to take ’em.’
‘Whut?’ asked Maxwell.
‘These lines. I cain’t drive no more.’
‘Why, Son, you sick. You right white,’ declared Maxwell, frightened and horrified, as he grasped the reins, winding them for security about his crippled hands.
‘I goin’ to be all right. I’ll take ’em back in a minute—soon as I kin. Don’t hurt your hands. Reckon you got the stren’th?’
‘They go. Don’t need no drivin’, jest hold the line,’ the older man assured the boy, between his gritted teeth. ‘We’ll git home; ain’t fur. Whut reckon ails you?’
‘Don’ know. Jest feel sinkin’ like,’ breathed the young man weakly. ‘I be all right direc’ly.’ He braced his back against the back of the seat and inhaled deeply.
‘Day too much fer you. You fretted ’bout the Mandingo. Ain’t maimed much. He come all right in a day or two.’
Hammond denied his anxiety about Mede. ‘I wishin’ we never risked Meg and Alph, though,’ he added.
‘Why? Good price fer ’em. A thousand apiece, fer jest saplin’s. Ain’t worth it. An’ besides, we never lost ’em.’
‘But we promised Lucretia Borgia, an’ then went an’ chanced ’em.’
‘She ain’t a-goin’ to know. We never lost ’em,’ the father reiterated. ‘It’s your mamma in you—too tender-livered.’ His reproof was tempered with approbation.
