Black Ajax. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ