Caleb

by Charles Alverson

  Toward the end of the second day, Jardine was walking down the plank sidewalk of Shreevesville’s main street when Colonel Moran hailed him. Allowing himself to be dragged into a hotel bar, Jardine sat sipping at a brandy and water while the colonel got to the point.

  “The long and the short of it, sir,” Moran said at last, “is that I want to buy that Negro of yours. That is, if you can bring yourself to set a reasonable price. I will not try to bamboozle you, sir. That performance he put on the other night was first-rate. That boy has a future in the ring. The professor is not the same man he was before he tangled with your slave.”

  “But,” Jardine protested, “Caleb never touched him.”

  “Exactly,” said the colonel. “He had free access to the boy, but Mott could neither strike a vital place, nor put him down by legitimate blows to the body.”

  “Yes,” Jardine observed, “that low blow your man landed was not very sporting.”

  “But paid for, sir,” Moran reminded him briskly, “handsomely and from my pocket. Thanks to your—”

  “Caleb.”

  “Yes, Caleb,” the colonel said. “My concession, though not completely unrewarding, is drawing neither the crowds nor the profits I have come to expect from this county fair year after year. But,” he said with emphasis, “if I had your Caleb, I could not only redress that little matter, but give poor Stanley a chance to regain some of his self-esteem.”

  “Well,” said Jardine, “I hate to disappoint you, Colonel, but aside from the fact that Caleb is one valuable slave, the boy has his heart set on being free.”

  “Free!” Colonel Moran reacted as if Jardine had challenged his most precious principles. “Whatever for? If there is one thing I cannot abide, Mr. Jardine, it is a free black. My experience with that species has been too protracted and painful to discuss, but I would rather have no blacks in my show than a single free black. They are nothing but trouble.”

  “I feel the same way, Colonel,” Jardine said.

  “And good riddance to them, sir,” said the colonel fervently. “But may I take the liberty of inquiring whether your man’s activities in the ring have proved as rewarding as you’d hoped?”

  “Not quite, Colonel,” Jardine said. “The fact is that we are still some three hundred dollars short of our target. And, as you know, Shreevesville is the last event of any size until next spring.”

  “All too true,” agreed the colonel. “Three hundred dollars, you say?” Colonel Moran hunched closer to Jardine. “Perhaps,” he said, “we can find a way to come to an accommodation.”

  The next morning, giant posters all over town and outside Colonel Moran’s boxing tent announced:

  SPECIAL GALA EVENT!!!

  REMATCH BETWEEN PROFESSOR MOTT AND CALEB, THE SLAVE OF MR. BOYD JARDINE OF THREE RIVERS PLANTATION.

  TONIGHT IN THIS TENT AT 8 PM.

  PLUS: SPECIAL INVITATIONAL CHALLENGE

  WITH A PRIZE OF $500!!!

  COME ONE, COME ALL!

  Caleb, who had recovered except for a slight tenderness in the kidney area, asked Jardine, “Are you sure this is going to work, Master?”

  “No, frankly, I am not,” Jardine answered. “But we’ve got Moran’s three hundred dollars that, with his other two hundred, puts us over our goal. Why? Are you worried?”

  “Of course I’m worried, Master,” Caleb said. “I can still feel his punches from the other night. I’m glad to have the money, but that professor is a very tough little man.”

  “And you, Caleb,” Jardine said, “are a very tough—and strong—big man, with very little to lose except a reputation as a coward. Of course, if you’d rather I gave Colonel Moran back his money—”

  “Oh, no, Master,” Caleb said hurriedly. “I’ll fight, but I can’t help worrying.”

  That night Moran’s big tent was full to bursting by seven thirty, and scores of the disappointed milled around outside in hopes of a miracle that would make more room. Several local bravos engaged in impromptu boxing matches just to get rid of excess energy.

  Inside the tent in a concealed compartment, Caleb waited to be called. The butterflies in his stomach had gone and had been replaced by the certainty that he was going to earn the rest of his freedom money that night. That afternoon Moran and Mott had spelled it out for him. Still, Caleb reckoned, the price he was paying for freedom was not too high.

  But before Caleb could get to that part of the evening, he had to get through Colonel Moran’s bright idea of inviting any two local fighters to challenge Mott or Caleb. The winning challengers would share the five-hundred-dollar prize if they could knock down either of Moran’s boxers within three rounds. Caleb didn’t like the idea of this very much, but he was encouraged by Moran’s confidence in him. Mott, the old professional, didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the unusual conditions of these bouts.

  Moran, of course, saved the rematch until last, but he warned the professor and Caleb not to wear themselves out on the challengers. He wanted them fresh for the main event of the evening. In all, there were eleven sets of challengers, six white and five black, carefully handpicked by the colonel.

  Since Mott had the extra bout, he went first. As the crowd yelled encouragement, his opponents, two toughs from the Shreevesville stockyards, smirked at their friends and whispered hurried tactics for defeating the little man. Alas, the tactics were not enough, and the professor danced between the hulking youths, hitting each in turn until, in just over a minute, both were laid out in a rough figure X in the middle of the ring.

  Then it was Caleb’s turn. His opponents were a couple of big but green field hands who had been rounded up and carted into town the minute their owner heard about the five-hundred-dollar prize. Neither had ever had gloves on before, nor did they want to fight. Caleb put them out of their misery within seconds, allowing each youth a half-hearted punch and then tapping each on the chin with a sharp right. Their owner might not be pleased, but the slaves would have something to tell people in the quarter that night.

  And so it went. At least partly due to the fact that two unskilled boxers were as much of a menace to each other as they were to the professionals, none of the pairs even came close to winning the five hundred dollars. Moran would have been extremely disappointed—to put it lightly—if they had.

  Mott’s final pair of opponents—a giant butcher and a wizened little man who worked at one of the stables—were so mismatched that the crowd, which was getting bored seeing challengers hit the floor with such regularity, cheered up and rooted for the locals with renewed fervor. The professor disposed of them quickly by picking up the stable hand, placing him gently into the butcher’s arms, and then tapping the larger man lightly but sharply on the chin. Wisely, both stayed down.

  Mott and Caleb’s hands were jointly raised by Moran, and they were about to go to the back of the tent and rest a bit for the main event, when a white man, a small farmer who worked a few acres outside of town, shouted, “It seems to me that the nigger owes us a fight.” The audience around him quieted down. “And I’ve got one for him. I don’t have two fighters, so I can’t enter for the five hundred dollars, but I’ll put my man up against this Caleb for a stake of two hundred fifty dollars. If my man loses, Mr. Jardine can have him, a fine field hand, free and clear.” As the crowd murmured its approval, the farmer put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply. Pompey appeared from the crowd of blacks at the back of the tent.

  Though it hadn’t been that long since Caleb defeated him at that first fair, Pompey had clearly been through some hard times. Besides his uneven gait, Pompey now carried one shoulder low, and his right eye looked to be permanently half-closed. Already stripped to the waist, Pompey was still in splendid physical shape, but there was something slack about the way his powerful arms hung at his sides. His good eye was watching the path to the ring.

  “I’m very sorry,” Moran began to say, “but the
challenge portion of this evening’s attractions is now complete. Ladies and gentlemen—”

  But the crowd, wrathful at being denied something extra for its money, began to shout and clap and boo. “Let them fight!” came a voice from the rear. “Caleb’s afraid of him. Look at him shake!”

  The crowd roared its approval for over a minute until Moran, with raised hands, silenced them. “All right,” he said with a glance over at Caleb, “but if you want extra, you have to pay extra. My men will pass the hat among you for contributions—generous contributions—to a pot to be awarded to the winning fighter.”

  Quickly, Moran’s roustabouts were up in the stands shaking their hats in front of faces and refusing to move along until nickels, dimes, or quarters had been thrown in. “Pay up,” they demanded. Within minutes, they were back at ringside, their hats sagging with coins.

  “Just a damn minute,” Jardine protested from behind Caleb on the ring apron. “I’ll be damned if I am going to risk my man against that slab of meat. I don’t much want him anyway.”

  “Master,” said Caleb. “Please. I’ll fight him. Please.”

  Jardine looked at his slave closely. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Caleb, but if you lose, the money comes out of your share. You understand that?”

  “I understand,” Caleb said.

  Pompey climbed into the ring, and one of Moran’s men worked his corner. The crowd murmured as Pompey stood up even before the bell rang.

  Moran gained the center of the ring and announced, “One round to a conclusion, my friends, between Caleb and Pompey. Go to it!” Then came the bell, and Caleb moved forward to meet Pompey, beginning with a series of showy punches. Then he moved in close, tied up the big man, and whispered, “What you want, Pompey?”

  “Nothin’,” Pompey grunted, “just to get away from that cracker. He treats slaves worse than animals.”

  “Okay,” Caleb said. “You chase me until I catch you. Understand?”

  “Understand,” Pompey said, pushing Caleb backward hard.

  The crowd roared its approval. “Kill him, Pompey!” shouted a red-faced fat woman.

  With unexpected energy and agility, Pompey suddenly launched himself at Caleb and began throwing huge punches. Caleb either caught them on his gloves or slipped away, always dancing just outside of Pompey’s range. Pompey put all he had into his punches. But the last thing that he wanted was for any of them to connect. Jardine couldn’t be worse than that devil Scroggins.

  After more than a minute, Pompey was breathing hard. Caleb tied him up again and whispered, “You had about enough of this?”

  “Yeah,” Pompey panted.

  As Caleb pushed away, Pompey—with the crowd shouting him on—launched himself at Caleb again. As Pompey’s wild punch missed his head, Caleb delivered a straight right to the slave’s jaw. It landed with a loud thud, and Pompey fell. Moran pushed Caleb back and began counting. Pompey twitched at seven, but he stayed down.

  “Eight, nine, ten!” Moran grabbed Caleb’s hand and raised it. Then, while the crowd was still shouting, Moran pushed him from the ring. Pompey stayed on the floor for a few minutes and then got up and looked around, wondering what to do next.

  While Caleb headed to his compartment in the tent, Jardine jumped down from the apron and found Moran’s men just finishing bagging the collection of coins. To their disappointment, he took the heavy bag and said, “I’ll relieve you of that.”

  In the stuffy little compartment, Caleb sat down on an old trunk and rested. He knew that he was but an exhibition away from having enough money to buy his freedom, but it was still hard to accept. Freedom had been a distant goal and a dream for so long that to be so close to it now was like finding a rainbow standing still rather than receding ever into the distance. He didn’t quite know whether he could believe it.

  After fifteen minutes, one of Moran’s men came to tell Caleb, “It’s time. The colonel wants you in the ring.” When Caleb got there, the spectators were settling down on their benches, hawkers were selling snacks, and Mott was lounging in his corner. Once Caleb was in place, Colonel Moran went into a long speech, but neither boxer listened. They knew what was going to happen. In the first round, Caleb would display his defensive skills, daring the professor to land a telling blow and building up the pressure of the crowd and Mott’s frustration. The second round would be Caleb’s chance to show off his fighting skills as he tried to finish the little man off. At the end of the round, the smaller man would be on the ropes but would be saved by the bell. In the final round, Mott and the crowd would have their revenge. Mott would pursue the black man, punishing him for the first two rounds, and—to everyone’s satisfaction save those few who had bet on Caleb—the third round would end with a knockout. Mott’s honor and reputation would be vindicated, and the white race would reign triumphant.

  The first round went as planned. As hard as Mott tried, he could not penetrate Caleb’s defenses. Every punch landed either on his gloves or harmlessly on his shoulders or upper arms. Toward the end of the round, Caleb got the feeling that there was real desperation in Mott’s punches, but that didn’t make them any more effective. When he went back to his corner at the bell, Jardine said, “Nice going, Caleb. You made a monkey out of him.”

  As Caleb rested, the crowd was not so pleased. Some whites were beginning to mutter about the indecency of a black man being as slippery and cowardly as to refuse to stand up and fight. Others dared Caleb to hit a white man. When the bell sounded for the second round, all the shouts and cheers were for Mott. If the few blacks at the back of the tent were on Caleb’s side, they kept quiet about it.

  Caleb leaped forward to show the crowd what he could do in the way of fancy punching, but was suddenly met with Mott’s terrific straight right hand, which barely missed the tip of his chin and scraped painfully along his left cheekbone. Before he could recover, Mott hit him with a left that jolted Caleb and then an uppercut that would have ended the fight right there had it landed.

  Blindly, Caleb went into a crouch and tried to gather his senses, but the little man pursued him across the ring, landing stinging punches right and left and giving him no time to settle and defend. In Caleb’s corner, Jardine—who knew the fight plan—looked angrily at Moran, who was refereeing. Moran merely shrugged and watched as his fighter tore into Caleb. The crowd, loving this turn of events, was on its feet shouting for blood—black blood. But before Mott could do any more serious damage, Caleb managed to shake off his confusion and settle into a consistent defense. Once again, the smaller man’s punches mostly landed harmlessly, though Caleb’s arms and body were taking a considerable beating. Caleb was beginning to doubt that the second round would ever end, and he glanced desperately over at Jardine, who was wondering about the same thing. The timekeeper seemed to have gone to sleep over the bell. Slipping down from the ring, Jardine went over to the man and, hitching back his coat, showed him the butt of the pistol. Suddenly, the man struck the bell, ending the round.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jardine demanded when Caleb had slumped onto his stool in the corner.

  “I think,” Caleb panted, “that the professor has changed his mind. He couldn’t wait for the third round.”

  “Well,” Jardine said through gritted teeth, “all bets are off. I want you to take that little bastard apart in the next round. But don’t hurry. I need a little time. Don’t put him away until you see me again.” Motioning to Caesar to take his place in the corner, Jardine got down from the apron and disappeared into the shadows behind the ring.

  “What you gonna do, Caleb?” Caesar asked nervously, looking out onto a sea of excited and angry white faces.

  “What do you think, boy?” Caleb said. “I’m going to fight for my life.”

  In the opposite corner, Moran seemed to be arguing with his fighter. Caleb was grateful for the extra rest. But, finally, Moran threw up his hands in disgust
and gave the timekeeper the signal to ring the bell.

  Caleb got up warily, willing to let Mott set the pace. It was clear from the beginning that the little man wasn’t going to settle for a victory. He wanted to annihilate Caleb. The excited crowd demanded no less. Caleb would have been happy to follow the original script, but that had been torn up. Besides, he had Jardine’s instructions.

  Waiting carefully in a defensive posture until Mott got within reach, Caleb suddenly lashed out with an open-handed slap that sent the smaller man reeling, leaving him unhurt but confused and embarrassed. The crowd was suddenly on its feet, red-faced with anger and shouting for Mott to kill the black bastard. Mott would have gladly done so had Caleb not gone back into his defensive tactics. Once again, the smaller man stalked Caleb all over the ring, daring him to slug it out. But Caleb refused, doing his best to look frightened. Whistles and jeers came from the crowd, along with a shower of small coins and rubbish. No one in the crowd was still sitting, and the blacks at the back of the tent had begun to slip away to their homes or the wagons of their owners.

  The angrier the professor got, the more elusive Caleb became. Finally, his vision obscured with rage, Mott lost all control and began brawling rather than fighting. Forgetting the rules, he had only one object: to destroy the black man. Finally, working Caleb into a corner, Mott unleashed another low blow directly at his crotch. It would have put him down if Caleb had not again managed to twist his body and take the blow directly on the bone of his hip. Caleb felt the shock of the punch vibrate through his bones.

  But the effect on Mott was even worse. First, his right arm went numb. Then it began to tingle and burn as if it were on fire. Hardly able to lift his arm, much less punch with it, Mott backed off, and the crowd began to jeer him as well as Caleb. The rain of missiles increased. Moran, though acting as referee, had no idea how to end this fiasco and still save his tent. Looking around wildly, he turned to signal the timekeeper to sound the bell ending the bout, but there was no timekeeper to be seen. Moran tried to get between the boxers, but the look in Caleb’s eye sent him away.