Poe must die

SIXTEEN

A terrified Poe couldn’t breathe.

Paralyzed by panic, he stood on the edge of a dark abyss, in a cold wind that whipped his brown hair around his face. He was in a night without end, unable to pull his eyes away from the interminable blackness at his feet, knowing he was doomed to tumble into it, to disappear down into its unending horror. The abyss was deep, bottomless. He was frightened of anything deep-the ocean, a pit, crater, the grave. He desperately wanted to flee this place but his feet were imbedded on the edge. The cold wind howled and shrieked, knifing into his bare flesh and still he couldn’t run, couldn’t leave the edge of the abyss. He had no control over himself; he teetered forward, leaning into the blackness …

And suddenly he was in a coffin, deep within a grave, buried alive beneath damp earth, chest rising and falling as he fought for air. He pounded the inside of the coffin lid, fists wet with his own blood, knuckles pained and smashed, his cries of terror filling his ears. Buried alive! All of his life he’d lived with this fear and now it was real. Buried alive!

Death had been Poe’s obsession, a companion ever since it had claimed his stepmother, wife, those he’d loved above all others. Death, that most awesome of forces, had crept into his mind and lay in wait until called forth in his writings. But Death had warned Poe, warned him that it wanted more than merely his recognition of its existence; Death wanted Poe’s soul and now Death had claimed it, holding him in its clammy grip.

Poe yielded to the terror of the grave; he punched the coffin until all feeling left his bloodied fists. “Air! For God’s sake, air! I beg you, someone help me! I am buried alive! Aliiiiiiiive!”

“Alright, squire, alright. It’s alright now. Come on, wakey, wakey. Mr. Poe! Mr. Poe! It’s me, Figg. Let’s see both yer eyes. Open wide. That’s it, that’s it.”

Poe looked up from his bed to see Figg sitting on the edge, a worried look on his bulldog face. Figg handed him a towel. “You been nightmarin’, squire. Tossin’, turnin’, yellin’ yer fool ‘ead off. ‘Ere, dry yerself. You’re wet, all in a lather like some race horse whats done its best. Woke me up, you did and probably the rest of the bleedin’ unfortunates in this bleedin’ hotel. You always carry on like this when you’re ‘spose to be sleepin’?”

Poe, bare-chested, heart racing much too fast, quickly sat up. Nightmare. He pressed the palms of both hands against the sides of his head. “Need a drink. Rum, whiskey, anything.”

“Nay to that, squire. Alcohol puts you too much sleepy bye from what I can gather and I can’t ‘ave that, no sir. Got some water in the basin over there and I can open the window and bring you a handful of snow. But you ain’t touchin’ spirits whilst you and me is associated.”

Poe hung his head and inhaled deeply. “The thought, sir, of continued association with you is most unpleasant.”

“Awww now, squire, that don’t come from the heart. You and me is on the same quest. Ain’t it me what’s woke you up? You were carryin’ on like a man possessed.”

“I am indeed a man possessed. I need drink, sir. I need stimulants. I also have need for stimulating and intoxicating conversation and again you offer me abstinence, forced abstinence, since you, sir, are an exceedingly unphilosophical man.”

Poe, tensed face shiny with perspiration, let his eyes get used to the dim gaslight. A look at the curtained window told him it was still dark outside and that he was still in a room at the Hotel Astor with Pierce James Figg. He took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. He was calmer now, but he didn’t want to go back to sleep. Not just yet.

There were always nights like this, nights when his fears mounted a deadly attack on his sanity. Poe feared everything: a hostile world that had rejected and impoverished him; the insanity that had already laid deadly hands on members of his family and could well reach out for him. He feared the demons lurking in his tortured mind, that spewed forth the incredible imaginings no American writer had ever produced. He feared loneliness, he feared dying without ever having been recognized for being an original talent. He feared being buried alive.

But he did not fear Figg. Not anymore. Figg was beneath poe, a brute masquerading as man, something barely animate that smelled of sweat and cheap food, a thing that lacked intelligence and culture and whose thick skull contained a barren void posing as a mind.

He glared at the boxer. “I need relief sir, from myself, from you.”

Figg grinned. “Now that’s all of us what’s in the room, ain’t it. Mr. Poe is displeased by what he sees in God’s universe and would the rest of us in the world kindly leave and allow Mr. Poe to carry on by his lonesome.”

Figg stood up, yawned, stretching his arms towards the ceiling. “Dear me, ain’t life hard. Mind what I said; your lady friend, Mrs. Coltman can stand a bit of lookin’ after, ‘cause if Dr. Parrididdle-”

“Paracelsus.”

“Yeah him. If him and Jonathan is one and the same, well your lady is close enough to this particular fire to get more than her pretty little fingers burned. I know you ain’t happy with a common man like me tellin’ a scholarly gent like yerself what he should be doin’ and all, but you just give some thought to Jonathan carvin’ on the widow Coltman. Heart cut out, liver cut out, oh me, oh my!”

Poe snorted. “Aut Caesar, aut nihil.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Latin. Uttered by Cesare Borgia. ‘Either Caesar or nothing.’ To modernize it, “follow Figg or travel not at all.’”

“Yes sir, I can see where you would say that. I ain’t askin’ you to grieve for my dead. All I wants is for you to help me somewhat and I will be puttin’ things right meself. But you, Mr. Poe’s You be a most proud man, now that’s a fact. Ain’t nobody goin’ to tell you what to do or order you about, no sir. Been that way all yer life, I bet.”

“You seem to disapprove, not that I give a damn about your opinion.”

“Tell you a little story. Back in the days when I was likely to shake a loose leg, meanin’ I did a bit of travellin’. I was with this fair that went up north of England. Small towns we played, puttin’ on a good show for the folks. Tumblers, acrobats, fat ladies, horse racin’ and gypsies what could tell yer future for a bit of silver.”

Figg nodded, remembering. Poe watched the boxer’s right hand go to his bare chest, the back of his hand stroking three six-inch scars on the right side of his rib cage, scars that were now a faded white. In the flickering gaslight, Poe found the scars on Figg’s face, chest and arms repugnant as well as fascinating. For brief seconds he empathized with the pain the man had obviously endured in his miserable existence. But he forced that small bit of compassion from his mind and resumed listening indifferently to what Figg was telling him.

“Now this here fair I was with was nothin’ like the elaborate establishment of Master Phineas Taylor Barnum, which we visited tonight. Master Barnum has done himself most splendid, but let me tell me own tale-”

“I am all agog.”

“Now I had me a little booth, see, just like me father and his father and his father before him. Nothing different. I charge a few pennies to teach a man the use of knife, cudgel, broadsword and towards the end, see, I puts up a pound or two as prize money and I says that any man in the crowd what feels he is able, let him come forward and challenge me in boxin’. Two rounds, no more. Usually there is some local boy what thinks he is good with his fists and his friends encourage him to try his luck. But the lad don’t last long ‘cause it ain’t just what you do with your body, see.” Figg tapped his forehead with a thick finger. “Man got to use his mind in the ring.”

Poe said, “For the present, I shall take your word that anyone stepping into a prize ring is possessed of a mind. Do continue. I find this account of your past life most entertaining.”

I crave drink, thought Poe, and instead I get a pugilist reeking of sentiment. So desperately did he crave alcohol, that Poe would gladly have downed a cup of New Jersey Champagne, that putrid concoction of turnip juice, brandy and sugar. A disgusting blend enjoyed by those with puny purses and little pride in what they swallowed.

Still sitting up in the bed, Poe clenched both fists under the sheet and wondered what harm he had ever done to Charles Dickens to deserve such a fate as Pierce James Figg.

“Now, Mr. Poe, I am comin’ to the point of this story. There was a very important man in England, or so he believed himself to be. This important man owned a huge circus and ofttimes our small little fair would be in competition with him. It was always a race to see who would get to a town first, him or us. Whoever got there first, naturally got the customers’ money first.”

“I am impressed by your logic. Do go on.”

“Well, one day we gets to a town up north near Manchester and we makes our pitch, we sets up camp. We got a good spot but it is a spot that this important man wants for his very own circus. So what does he do? He sends his wagons speedin’ down a hill and crashin’ into ours, damagin’ our goods, our property not to mention our very lives.”

“Not to mention.”

“So what do we do to this most important man what has got a lot of pride?”

“Ah, now I see. The story of a proud man brought to heel.”

“Indeed, Mr. Poe. What do we do? Now you gots to understand that the travellin’ life ain’t for the timid soul. It is a hard existence and them what takes it up ain’t your every day petunia pickers. What we do is we get some clubs, some tools and we sneaks up behind the wagons belongin’ to this most important man and we gets to openin’ them. We starts to let his animals loose. Lions, leopards, elephants, we opens a few locks and before you know it, this most important man is weepin’ and wailin’, not to mention bein’ somewhat terrified ‘cause now some of these very valuable and I might add, very hungry animals, is strollin’ about the countryside.”

Poe found himself smiling.

“Now Mr. Poe, this very important man, him and his henchmen are forced to stop whatever they is doin’ and set to work recoverin’ all these very valuable-”

Poe chuckled in spite of himself. “And hungry-”

“Indeed, sir. And hungry animals. Need I say we never had anymore trouble with that most important man, leastwise whilst I was with the fair.”

“Those scars on your rib cage, were they-”

“Ah Mr. Poe, Master Charles Dickens was correct, sir. You are a most observant gent. These here scars decoratin’ me body was a present from a lion what I turned loose that day and by way of thankin’ me he waved a cheery bye. Except he has got these claws, see, and each one is as sharp as a Jew’s nose for money and I failed to remove meself from his way of passage at the precise moment the lion would have preferred I so move.”

Poe fell back on the bed and roared. He cackled, he shrieked. Figg’s silly story released the tension caused by bad dreams and fear, tension over concern for Rachel Coltman, tension from a growing fear of the mysterious and deadly Jonathan.

Pierce James Figg and his lion.

Phineas Taylor Barnum and his bald eagle.

Leaving the Astor Hotel earlier tonight, Poe and Figg had plunged into the Broadway crowds, joining them in making a precarious trek across muddy Broadway jammed with horses, sleighs, carriages. Humans and vehicles all seemed to be heading to Barnum’s brightly lit American Museum which shone in the darkness like a five-story jewel. Here Figg hoped to find those associates of Jonathan he had pursued from London. Poe, who had a slight acquaintance with Barnum, was to make the introductions.

Phineas Taylor Barnum, the man who had made the American Museum the number one entertainment attraction in all of America, as well as one of the wonders of the world, agreed to meet the two men. But he insisted that business not stop because of mere conversation. Barnum, American’s first and most bombastic showman, worked seven days a week promoting both his exhibits and his ego, an ego Poe found too large to be contained by the huge museum, which Barnum claimed housed over six hundred thousand examples of the freakish and outlandish.

Barnum was an amiable fraud, a champion hoaxer and humbug specialist who always managed to entertain and therefore offended no one. He took your twenty-five cents at the door and delivered illusions, jokes, songs, dances and the most interesting nonsense available. He had created what he called “the show business,” none of it as impressive as Phineas Taylor Barnum himself, a man who had made self advertising an art form. He was world famous, wealthy and a believer in his own maxim that “There is a sucker born every minute.” He should have added, thought Poe, that there is also a Barnum waiting outside of the womb to fleece the newborn fool.

The thirty-seven-year-old highly successful showman was 6’2”, fleshy and running to fat, with a nose the size of a potato, blue eyes, full mouth and fast disappearing curly hair. Tonight he wore a suit of bright pink squares outlined in dark green, a frilly yellow shirt, red cravat and his squeaky voice hit Poe’s ears like an icicle, particularly when the squeak was intense, as it was at this particular moment.

“The goat is shitting!” Barnum’s heated squeak was aimed at a pockmarked blond youth who cringed in the doorway of the small basement room. “I know goddam well the goat is shitting! What I summoned you down here to learn, most callow youth, is why the goat is shitting and what is being done to stem this particular tide.”

“Mr. Barnum, we have tried everything imaginable to get the goat to stop-”

“Dear Homer. Tonight on the five stories of these very premises are thousands of Americans, a goodly portion of whom will undoubtedly repair to the lecture hall where they will expect our goat to tap out a lively, though simple tune on a toy piano. Now get upstairs and do not reappear in my presence until you are able to assure me that the goat will not fail those Americans who have come to expect P. T. Barnum to deliver in full.”

As the young man turned and fled up the stairs, Poe watched Barnum give his attention to a pair of Negro men who sat at a long wooden table stuffing a dead bald eagle. The smell was horrible; the stench from the dead bird along with the elements used to preserve his carcass threatened to mangle Poe’s nostrils and leave him prostrate on the floor. Neither of the coloreds, each of whom wore a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, impressed Poe as being speedy at his task, which is what Barnum was exhorting them to be.

“Hannibal and Job, may I be allowed to inform you pair of stone-fingered Africans that you are faced with one eagle, not a flock of same. Cease handling the deceased as though it were made of porcelain. Stuff, then sew. Stuff, then sew. And you will both receive your reward in heaven, if not on this earth.”

Barnum touched a handkerchief to his nostrils. “Damn bird is more offensive in death than he ever was in life. I pay these darkies four dollars a week and it’s rare I get as much as twelve hours a day out of them, let alone more.”

He looked at Poe and Figg. “Upstairs I have on exhibition such eye-catching marvels as the wooden leg of Santa Ana, a bearded woman who stands nine feet tall and weighs four hundred and twenty pounds and I have fleas in my employ, sir, fleas who do the most astounding things. Upstairs there are jugglers, a family of pig-faced humans, lecturers on every topic know to human reason, ventriloquists and the one and only General Tom Thumb, that thirty inches of marvelous man, a midget born but a giant among giants. But tonight, tonight I am cursed with a goat who gives every indication of shitting forty days and forty nights and two fumble-figgered Ethiopians on the verge of being defeated by a dead eagle. Gentlemen, I find the odor in this room taxing. Let us retire to the stairs where we can converse and I can gaze down upon these two slackers as they rob me of a week’s salary.”

From the bottom step, Barnum watched the two Negros prepare the bald eagle for exhibition; Poe and Figg stood a few steps above him, Figg doing most of the talking, his husky voice telling Barnum in plain words of his murdered wife, of Jonathan, and of the men he had followed from London to Barnum’s American Museum. Poe noticed that no mention was made of the brutal way in which Althea Figg had died.

A frowning Barnum turned to look at Figg. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your wife, sir. I can only imagine your sorrow, though I know that should such a fate befall my darling Charity, I would be crushed. I can tell you that such men as you describe are with me now and yes, the Renaissance Players you refer to did recently join me from London, at my express invitation. Their arrival does coincide with the time you claim they departed England. I encountered them during my final year in Europe. Some four years ago, I first visited your country, dividing my time between England and the continent for more than three years.”

Poe was astounded when Figg said, “I was at Buckingham Palace the night of yer first command performance before our gracious Queen.”

Barnum’s eyebrows quickly climbed to the top of his round face. “You were present on that momentous occasion?”

“I was indeed.”

“Ah, let me say that this was a night for the ages. Charlie-what I call General Tom Thumb, for Charles S. Stratton is his Christian name-Charlie and I dressed for the occasion, him in brown silk and velvet, the both of us in knee britches. Two Yankees in the court of courts. Your indeed gracious Queen, sir, was instrumental in making my fortune, for after having been received at court, the world then became my oyster and since then I have dined well.”

A curious Poe asked Figg the reason for his being at Buckingham Palace.

“I was the guest of the Duke of Wellington and Prince Albert hisself. There was some talk about me teachin’ the Prince of Wales the use of his fists, as every gentleman should know somethin’ of this art. But the Prince he was only three at the time and it was decided that he was too young.”

Barnum said, “Mr. Poe mentioned earlier that you are acquainted with Mr. Charles Dickens, whom I also met in London. Mr. Dickens is a most successful author, a man expert at generating large sums of money for his work.”

Poe shifted uncomfortably on the steps. He saw Figg look at him, then look at Barnum and say, “’E’s ‘ad ‘is hard times, Mr. Dickens has. ’E’s been cheated more than once and some of his friends ain’t really his friends, if you know what I mean.”

Barnum nodded, silently encouraging to continue.

Figg said, “Indeed Mr. Dickens is quite successful, sir-”

“His cash register rings,” said Barnum. It was a sound dear to the showman’s ear, Poe noted.

“Here now,” said Figg. “It ain’t all that simple. You gets to be high and mighty and other people always resent it. They don’t want you lookin’ down on them. Mr. Dickens ain’t no different. He’s got those what envy him and are more than jealous besides. Mr. William Thackeray, ‘e jealous. Mr. Thomas Carlyle, ’e says Mr. Dickens ain’t nothin’ but an entertainer and both these gents, Thackeray and Carlyle, they are ‘spose to be friends of Mr. Dickens. Mr. Alfred Tennyson is a friend, leastwise I think ‘e is, but with that long face he carries ‘round with him, one can never tell. I know for a fact that Mr. Dickens has been betrayed and hurt on more than one occasion and I don’t mean just in regards to his purse. The world will harm you if it can, I figure.”

For a few seconds, Poe had the feeling that Figg was showing him some tiny bit of sympathy. But the writer quickly rejected the idea. How could someone as close to a Neanderthal as Figg was, be blessed with even a modicum of sensitivity. Yet Figg had been in the company of some of the most creative men in the English language and what’s more, he seemed to have a speck of insight into their real attitude towards Charles Dickens. Either that, or perhaps Figg was given to lying which Poe didn’t believe he was.

Figg said, “That night in the palace, we was all pleased with your little Tom Thumb. Like a pretty little doll he was, leapin’ about and him no bigger than a tot’s toy. Dancin’, singin’, tellin’ jokes.”

Poe found the idea of a midget like Tom Thumb having such a hold on the public to be abominable. People had no desire to think. Divert, entertain, bamboozle and deceive them as did Barnum and you had free and easy access to their purses and brains forever.

Barnum squeaked at the two Negroes stuffing the eagle. “For God’s sake, do not damage his eyes! And I want both wings wired, both.” He turned back to his guests. “Please forgive me. The darker brother must be consistently guided down life’s more thorny paths. You were saying Mr. Figg?”

“Yes. I was sayin’ how pleased we all was with Tom Thumb, him bein’ so little and so capable and all.”

“I never let on his real age,” said Barnum. “He was five when I found him in Connecticut with his family but I told the world he was eleven. These days I forget how old Charlie really is.”

“That night at the palace you and him was backin’ out down a long gallery. The Lord-in-waitin’, he was bowin’ out behind you, showin’ you the way, he was.”

Barnum grinned. “Protocol.”

“Well, you and the lord was doin’ just fine. But Tom Thumb, his legs was too small to back up as fast as you two so he kept turnin’ and runnin’ after you, then he went back to backin’ out. Then he’d turn and run some more and back out some more.”

Barnum’s roar exploded in the narrow stairway.

“And somethin’ else, Mr. Barnum. Whilst you two was backin’ out, the Queen’s little poodle, it runs and attacks Tom Thumb who is now fightin’ for ‘is life. He ‘ad this little cane, Thumb did, and he uses it like a tiny sword and he’s really goin’ at it with this poodle and we was all laughin’ til the tears come to our eyes.”

Barnum wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “I remember. Oh how I remember.”

“Then Mr. Barnum, I runs to the window and I sees you and Tom Thumb outside and I sees the two of you smilin’ at each other. I sees you bow to each other, then you picks up Tom Thumb and you puts him in your carriage and the two of you drive off.”

“My fortune was made that night, sir. With my command appearance at the palace of your twenty-five-year-old queen, my fortune was made. From that moment on, I have stood in a shower of gold.”

Poe didn’t look at Barnum when he spoke. “You have done well, particularly when it comes to advertising yourself.”

“I have sir, I have. Advertising is to a genuine article what manure is to land-it largely increases the product.”

Poe didn’t mean to criticize Barnum, but the poet’s sharp tongue had been the habit of a lifetime. “Is it not a fact that your articles are not always genuine? I am referring to your luring people to see your embalmed ‘Feejee Mermaid’ who turned out to be a concoction of half fish, half monkey and no mermaid at all. Or what about ‘The Great Model of Niagara Falls,’ which was only eighteen inches high. You were not advertising the genuine article when you told the world about these attractions.”

Barnum chuckled. “No sir, I was not. I have been called charlatan, hoaxer, deceiver and deceptor deluxe. I have been called controversial but never have I been called dull. It may be said that I occasionally trick the people of this young republic but I invariably give them a good show. I understand and cater to the common man, the average man and therein lies my success and I might add, my acceptability by one and all. You and I, Mr. Poe, are paddlers in the same canoe. We have this hoaxing business in common.”

Poe sneered. “Do we? I write truthfully, sir. Not merely for money, but for truth.”

He didn’t like the grin that eased its way across Barnum’s wide mouth. “Mr. Poe, you are not always truthful. Four years ago you published a story in the New York Sun newspaper about eight people who crossed the Atlantic Ocean in a passenger balloon, a trip your story claimed took a mere three days.”

Poe held his breath, pressing his lips together tightly. Then forcing himself to smile, he said, “I was newly arrived in the city and in desperate need of money to support my sick wife and aged mother-in-law.”

“It was a hoax, sir.”

“It was.”

“And a most effective one. All copies of that newspaper were purchased.”

“Not too much later, I did better with my pen though not exceedingly better financially.”

Barnum nodded. “I am well aware. ‘The Raven’, it was called. A poem to strike terror in the hearts of all who read it. Ah, I think these two darkies are beginning to triumph over that dead fowl. Well, Mr. Figg, I must ask you the question, one I have avoided these past few minutes. You do not intend to discuss the matter of your wife’s death with the authorities?”

“No sir, I do not. I have been told by Mr. Dickens and others that the police in this here city are not the finest.”

“Hmmmm. They do have their lapses, yes. And so you intend to seek out those members of the Renaissance Players who have offended you and deal with them in your own fashion.”

“Yes sir, I do.”

Barnum scratched his bulbous nose. “I want no part of this, allow me to state at the outset. I have only your word as to what occurred, though I have read your letters of introduction from Mr. Charles Dickens to Mr. Poe and Mr. Titus Bootham. Granted they could be forgeries, though I doubt it. In any case, I cannot condone the slaughter of those in my employ. So allow me to say this: I ask only that you not shed blood in my museum, sir. It is my life’s work and there are women and children gathered here at all times in anticipation of merriment and the finest of informative entertainment.”

Boxer, beware the manure, thought Poe.

Barnum cleared his throat. “Mr. Figg, please give me your word that you will not secure your revenge anywhere on my property. Naturally, I have no control over what you do elsewhere.”

“You have me word, Mr. Barnum.”

“Excellent. Then I shall tell you that the Renaissance Players are staying at the second boarding house two blocks west of the Hotel Astor. But before you race off for a confrontation, know that they are on loan for a day. There is a dying man over in Brooklyn who all of his life had wished to see travelling players, clowns and such. He is the father of a youngster in my employ. I sent the Renaissance Players and others to this man’s farm, where they are giving a private performance for him and his family.”

Figg nodded gravely. Decent of you, Mr. Barnum.”

Surprisingly so, thought poe. But then again, not so surprising since Barnum was known to commit an impulsive act of kindness when not promoting himself with all-out vigor.

“They are due back sometime on the morrow. But I do have your promise that nothing will happen inside these walls?”

“You do, sir.”

There were footsteps behind Poe and Figg, who turned to see the blond youth coming down the stairs at top speed. “Mr. Barnum, Mr. Barnum, the goat has stopped shitting! The goat has stopped shitting!”

Barnum pushed his way between Poe and Figg and towards the boy. “Praise be. What is wrong boy? You seem troubled.”

“We have caught a pickpocket upstairs sir and no one knows what to do with him.”

The showman shook his rough head. “Pickpockets are trouble. But catch one and shut him up and tell all that a live pickpocket may be seen for a quarter, you will draw fools and some who are not.” To Poe and Figg-“Gentlemen, please excuse me” and he was gone, pushing the blond boy ahead of him, leaving Poe and Figg behind with the odor of the dead bald eagle.

“’E’s a man on fire, that one,” said Figg. “Seems to whirl about like a spinnin’ top.”

Poe started slowly walking up the stairs. “He makes money because people want to know if what he sells is real or humbug. First he tricks them and then they pay to hear him tell how he did it. Barnum could swindle a man out of twenty dollars and the man would give a quarter to hear Barnum tell of it. I have an intense desire to avoid all eagles in the future, living or dead. Tomorrow the Renaissance Players, I assume.”

“You assume correct.”

“Forgive me if I do not join the slaughter.”

Poe would always remember Figg’s soft, husky voice. “There will be no forgiveness for me until I do what has to be done.”

Poe, hearing the determination to destroy in the boxer’s voice, continued climbing the stairs, keeping his thoughts to himself.

That had been hours ago.

Now Poe, staring up at the ceiling, felt Figg nudge him.

“Ain’t sleepin’, is you?”

“With my eyes open? Hardly.”

“You was so quiet, like you was driftin’ off or somethin’.”

“Thinking about Barnum, our meeting with him earlier tonight. I know you have those travelling players on your mind, but tomorrow I intend to visit the newspaper where I am employed to see if Rachel Coltman has left a message for me. She has no idea where I am.”

Figg nodded. “Anything to keep you happy, squire. We do that first thing, then we go to see the play actors. It’s them two what I seen in front of the museum talkin’ with Mrs. Coltman and one other gent. They are gonna tell me how to find Jonathan. After that, they won’t be needin’ to travel anywhere. I saw you tryin’ to write a bit before we went to sleep, but you hid your papers like you was afraid I was goin’ to eat them for me supper.”

“It is my habit when writing. I desire no audience until a completed work is achieved.”

“How long it take you to write a poem?”

“As long as it takes. Which is usually not long. I prefer short works of art, since I am in constant need of money and the quicker I finish, the quicker I can begin the obscene practice of begging people to buy my work.”

Figg nodded, his head cocked far to the right. He looked down at Poe, studying him carefully. Poe ignored the boxer, his mind on other matters. Rachel. My dearest Rachel.

Figg said, “She know you love her?”

Poe eyed him and said nothing. He didn’t want any intimacy with Figg, but at times Poe had the feeling that he had grossly underestimated the boxer’s mind. Still, he continued to push him away. “My private life is none of your business.”

“Tell her, squire. Tell her before it is too late.”

“My very own cupid. Did you not promise me you would keep her alive if I aided you in your search for vengeance?”

“I did promise. But I am only a man, squire, and there is the chance I might fail, might even lose me own life. This Jonathan, he is a man but more than a man. Don’t know if I am makin’ meself clear. I could die in this cold country of yours, so you best make yer peace with Mrs. Coltman and tell her you love her and see what she says.”

“How do I tell her that she is my last hope, my last chance to be a man, to live and love, and yes, to obtain money enough to start my own magazine.” poe sat up quickly in his bed. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Did you want me to bare my soul to you? Well I have and now please cease to torment me with your questions. If it is no bother to you, and since I cannot sleep, I would like to continue using hotel pen and paper and make some attempt at putting down a few lines in this story which will not leave my head any more than you will leave my side.”

Figg brightened, “You are really goin’ to work on a story while I watch? Never seen a real writer write before. Always wondered how it was done. What is the story about, squire?”

“It is a story of revenge and I shall call it Hop-Frog.’ It is a tale of a man abused who strikes back at his enemies, destroying all of them.”

“Sounds like somethin’ you would like to do, eh squire?”

Which is why I am writing it, thought Poe. And this brute quickly perceives the truth, that I apply to paper and with bitter precision, all of my darkest fantasies and daydreams, that I write of the life I ofttimes wish were mine. He perceives this.

Poe swung off the bed, turned up the gaslight and walked away from Figg. Seated at the desk, he began to write as though he were alone in the room. Once he was able to write fifteen hours a day almost without stopping. Now he no longer had heart nor energy to do that. So he wrote when he could and now he wanted to.

Hop-Frog.

Yes, Hop-Frog is a dwarf, a jester, a man laughed at and scorned, one whose very life is in the world only so that others may exploit him. But the jester will have his pound of flesh. Hop-Frog will have his revenge. On paper.

And Foe will become Hop-Frog, getting back at a world which has given him nothing but pain and failure. Poe will have his revenge. On paper.

He wrote.

And Figg lay silently on the bed and watched him, awed and mystified at actually seeing a man write.