Black Ajax. George Fraser MacDonald

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      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, virginal, 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 СКАЧАТЬ