Poe must die

TWENTY-THREE

Ten minutes past midnight. For the second time tonight, Poe watched fire bring death to someone.

An hour ago in Five Points, he’d been near enough to feel the heat from flames that had killed Johnnie Bill Baker. He’d been sick to his stomach at watching the Irishman die. But there was that part of him always drawn by violence and the dark side of life, so he’d fought hard against admitting to himself the fascination he’d felt witnessing Baker shriek as fire crawled all over him. Fascination, then guilt.

Now Poe and Figg stood with the crowd looking at the Ann Street boarding house go up in flames Witnesses said that some of the Renaissance Players had gotten out alive. Some hadn’t. The three who’d survived were not those Figg had been searching for.

The disappointed boxer’s whisper came from the corner of his mouth. “Convenient little business, this. Now it appears there will be nobody to converse with.”

“You wanted them dead. Circumstance appears to have spared you the labor involved.”

“’Nother road leadin’ nowhere, squire. If I coulda got me ‘ands round the neck of one of them players, it wouldna been long before me ‘ands were around Jonathan’s neck as well.”

Damn them, thought Poe of the chattering crowd around him. They conduct themselves as if this were a sporting event. Mothers hold babes up to see the terrible beauty that is fire and men share their bottles with strangers, a sudden harmony engendered by gazing upon the misery of others. Colored stableboys point at the disaster, then jabber to each other as though they still swung from trees by their tails. Children crawl from warm beds for such an event as this, for it is a promise of more momentous occasions to come, a false promise I could tell them, for too soon misery will be theirs to embrace and others will stare at them and point.

“You are silent, Mr. Poe.”

“Tonight, sir, I have seen too much of such things as this.” He desperately craved alcohol. The guilt was now mingled with disgust.

“No sense dwellin’ on Mr. Baker. It was ‘im or us. Don’t the bible say that ‘im what digs a hole for others gets to fall in it ‘imself?”

Two small boys ran out of the night and at Figg, throwing themselves to the ground just in front of him, then turning to watch the fire.

Figg gave the boys a half smile. “When I was their age, would ‘ave given a king’s ransom for such a fire as this. I-”

He looked around.

Poe was gone.

Damn his eyes! Figg angrily pushed through the crowd, looking left, right. That sneaky little bastard. What the bleedin’ hell was upsetting his tender soul-seeing Johnny the Gent turn into a cozy fireplace in front of his eyes? Seeing the boarding house get toasted to a crisp? That was it. Too much burnin’ for the little man.

Maybe he was back at the Astor Hotel. Maybe. But not bloody likely. Little Mr. Poe of the sad gray eyes was probably indulging himself in strong beverage and weepin’ like some old woman. Well, maybe he’s got a right to his tears. Ain’t every day you see a man burn to death, and you close enough to spit on him.

They were beneath the Louvre in a dark, damp storeroom dug from the earth. Around them were opened barrels of homemade whiskey, along with stacks of dark green unlabeled bottles in which to put it. The air was musty, breathing was an effort. Rats squeaked and ran in terror and twice bats had flown low over their heads, flapping their wings, then disappearing into the black tunnel straight in front of the four people who’d just entered the storeroom. Poe held the only light, two cheap whale oil lanterns.

Figg shoved the muzzle of the flintlock into the ear of Johnnie Bill Baker, who faced an earthen wall, leaning forward on tiptoe and touching the wall with just his index fingers. Black Turtle, beside him, did the same. Seconds ago, Baker had followed Figg’s order and climbed into, then out of, a barrel of whiskey, submerging himself in it up to the neck. Now he reeked of alcohol, his expensive clothing drenched and ruined.

“Speak softly, Johnny Gent,” said Figg. “How many’s up ahead waitin’ fer us?”

“Three. They are waitin’ in a tiny room at tunnel’s end.”

“I would like to inquire why you was plannin’ to kill Mr. Poe and meself?”

“Mr. Figg, now who said anythin’ about killin’.” The Irishman, clinging to his courage and charm, attempted to turn around slowly. Figg pressed the flintlock harder against his ear, his other pistol still aimed at Black Turtle.

“Ah, Mr. Figg, I get your point. Very well, me bucko, I shall remain in this most uncomfortable position, though I admit the smell of me own whiskey is not as pleasin’ as I once thought. Now I had not planned for you and Mr. Poe to die. Hamlet Sproul wants you to die, but not me. You have me word on that.”

Poe coughed. The dampness down here sent a chill deep in to his bones. “Why does Sproul require your assistance to kill us?”

“He blames you and Mr. Figg here for the deaths of his woman and his two sons. Asked me ‘elp in gettin’ him a few good boys to accompany him in some little scheme he’s got to get back at you. When I sees you both, I figured no sense turnin’ you over to him. I’d turn ye over to Captain Collect and make a shillin’ or two for meself. I’d let them crimp you, then tell Sproul I killed ye both meself and he’d have to live with that. He doesn’t know you’re here.”

Poe’s anger made his hands shake and the light from the two lanterns sent jiggling shadows across the backs of Baker and Black Turtle. “Crimping means drugging and kidnapping men to serve at sea. The life of a sailor is miserable and Captain Collect is the most brutal sea captain of all. His real name is Z. C. Leap and men die on every voyage he makes on his whaler. No one sailswith him willingly, so he ‘collects’ them by crimping. Mr. Baker was going to sell us to him, Mr. Figg.”

Figg was quiet.

Baker, trembling from the effort of balancing himself on his toes and two fingers, closed his eyes tightly. He was less sure of himself now. “A re-regrettable error, Mr. Figg, one which I prefer to drown upstairs in champagne, if you would be so kind. Let us all retire into me dance hall.”

Poe’s anger had only grown. “Ido not trust him, Mr. Figg. Upstairs or down, we are at his mercy.”

Baker grinned at the wall. “The man is correct, Mr. Figg. You are at me mercy. Fire your pistol and those men up ahead will hear it and come runnin’. Try going back upstairs and me boyos will come down on ye like the wrath of heaven. God, this whiskey of mine is an abomination, it is. Must do somethin’ about it. Well Mr. Figg, what is it to be? Hand me those pistols and I promise-”

Slipping one pistol under his arm, Figg hooked his left fist into Baker’s side, driving him into Black Turtle. Both of them fell to the ground. The huge black woman was quick to get up, snarling like an animal, her mouth flecked with spit. Baker rolled left and right in agony. When she’d helped him to his feet, his crossed eyes bore into Figg with as much hatred as the boxer had ever seen.

“Black Turtle will not-not-” he winced at the pain in his ribs. “She will kill you, Mr. Figg. Bet on that. Nobody harms her Johnnie, no-nobody. Down-down here in this dust and cobwebs or-or in an alley. She will find you and kill you for what you have done to me this night.”

He jerked, eyes closed. Black Turtle held him up, keeping him from collapsing.

Figg said, “Now Mr. Baker, I shall tell you why you are wearin’ yer own whiskey. Slip open the panel on one a them lamps, Mr. Poe.”

Poe did.

“Now, Johnny Gent, you see that tiny flame. Well, the minute you get to be too much for me to handle, I am going to toss that tiny flame on you and you, me bucko, are goin’ to become one big flame.”

Baker frowned.

Figg said, “Tell yer blackamoor to walk easy. One false move from her and you get a touch of the fire. Ever see fire mix with whiskey? Ain’t a pleasant thing to watch. Now you and yer lady friend move on ahead of us. You gets them inside to open the door in a nice manner. When that happens, you and the blackamoor step in then stand aside. Hear me well on this: Play me cheap the both of you and I will have your lives.”

The walk to the tiny room was short. And a nightmare to Poe. Squeaking rats. Low flying bats. Cobwebs. Water dripping from the dirt ceiling down onto Poe’s neck. The darkness. Deep, deep darkness and only the flames from two cheap lanterns to give some little light. And the excitement. What lay in wait for them on the other side of the door? Poe wanted to turn and run. He wanted to continue. He was terrified and he was irresistibly drawn towards that door.

They stood in front of it.

Baker turned to look at Figg, who nodded at him, while sticking one pistol into his belt and taking a lantern from Poe.

Baker knocked on the door. “It’s me, Johnnie.”

The door opened.

Poe saw more darkness. A stub of a candle in a dish on the table. Another lantern in the hand of someone beckoning them inside. Poe’s heart leaped within him and he bit his lip to avoid crying out.

Figg whispered to him, “Stay behind and don’t get in me way!”

Baker and Black Turtle stepped inside the room and Poe watched Figg stiff arm them violently aside and shoot the man holding the lantern.

Baker screamed, “Kill him! Kill him! He’s on to you! Kill him!”

Poe wanted to run and couldn’t. He stepped inside the room, shaking hands holding the lantern.

“Kill him!” Baker was hysterical. There was another shot and from a dark corner of the room, a man screamed.

Poe saw Black Turtle and another man rush Figg.

But before they reached him, Figg quickly swung his lantern into Baker’s stomach.

The Irishman ignited as quickly as a torch dipped in oil, shrieking as his whiskey drenched clothes went up inflames. He spun around and ran into an earthen wall, clawing at it, then spinning and running into another wall.

Figg was on the ground, Black Turtle and the last remaining man from Captain Collect punching, clawing at him.

But it was Johnnie Bill Baker who kept Poe transfixed in the open doorway. Johnnie Bill Baker who lit up the room with his dying and filled it with his screams. “Sweet Jesus, help me! Help meeee!” He bounced from wall to wall, running blindly, filling the tiny room with a horrible light and the sickening smell of his burning flesh. This is a nightmare, thought Poe. Not real. But it is real and I am watching it happen.

On the floor, Figg fought for his life. Struggling to his knees, he smashed his left elbow into the face of Captain Collect’s man, crushing his nose, driving him back to the dirt floor. But there was a sharp pain in Figg’s eye. The black bitch. She’d stuck her fingers in his eyes and was digging, digging …

Pulling his head back, Figg opened his mouth and sunk his teeth deep into her fingers. She clawed at his throat. Pushing her hand away he rose, bringing his knee up under her chin at the same time. She flew backwards, rolled over and began getting to her feet. She was hurt but still ready to fight. She was as tough as any man Figg had ever faced and she would not stop until she had his life.

Black Turtle charged, head down. Figg sidestepped and she hit the table behind him, going down to the floor with it. Shaking her head, she jammed a foot down on the table, gripped one of its legs with her hands and tore it loose.

And me without a pistol, thought Figg. Behind her he could see Johnnie Bill Baker’s body on the floor, wrapped in orange, yellow and blue flames, the body curling up and the man within the flames crying out no more. And the big black woman who served him was going to kill Figg if she could.

Poe watched.

She edged towards the boxer; he covered his belt buckle with his hand. She didn’t notice him removing the tiny knife and it would have made no difference, Figg knew. Nothing would have stopped her. Besides, she had the better weapon. A long, heavy piece of wood against a tiny blade. The reach was hers. And she had the stomach for killing.

Figg had the knowledge.

She charged, the wood lifted high over her head.

Figg waited, timing his move perfectly.

The technique was called the Boar’s Thrust, one of the most famous moves in combat fencing, the invention of Donald McBane, the great professional swordsman of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century. McBane, who taught the finest sword play from his string of establishments combining fencing schools and brothels.

When Black Turtle was almost on him, Figg dropped his right knee and left hand to the ground as though genuflecting in church. But the position had a much more deadly intent. As soon as he touched the ground, he thrust his right hand up and forward, driving the tiny knife deep into Black Turtle’s stomach. On one knee with Mr. Dickens’ little knife, Figg became the deadly boar with a horn that killed.

She staggered backwards, stopped, eyes protruding, hand still gripping the table leg. Then she stumbled towards him, a dark stain growing across her shiny green dress. She said the first and only word Figg had ever heard come from her mouth. “Johnnie … ”

Figg took a step backwards. Black Turtle stopped, her large bosom rising and falling as her breathing became more labored and the pain increased. The table leg slipped from her hands, which went down to the stain and pressed against it. Turning her back to Figg, she staggered towards Baker’s burning body and that’s when Poe felt Figg grab his wrist.

As Figg dragged him towards a small door in the back of the earthen room, Poe looked back to see Black Turtle fall forward across Johnnie Bill Baker’s burning body.

Poe, on his knees, head on his chest, looked up and smiled at nothing and nobody, for the Hotel Astor hallway was empty, to be expected at almost three o’clock in the morning. He was drunk, indeed, and to hell with worrying about it. Two glasses of wine. No more, no less. Never did have much capacity for spirits, did you Eddy. Takes little of that dreaded water to make you sick, drunk, quarrelsome and a wild man. The mere smell of it is enough to set you off, is it not? Well stand up, Eddy, and stagger down the hall to the hotel room you share with Figg.

If he’s asleep, wake him. Perhaps he’ll give you a few coins to take a train back to Fordham. You have just spent your last money on the cheapest wine available and now you are stuck with Figg’s company. Figg’s the man burner. Johnnie Bill Baker has been fricasseed and there is one less paddy to break the law in Gotham.

But do not blame Figg, for Baker and his colored female behemoth would have killed us both. Indeed, indeed.

Poe was on his feet, both hands on the wall and he walked, slowly, most unsteadily and now he was at the door of the room he shared with Figg. An odd one, our Mr. Figg. Skilled in the ways of destruction but a man who has seen important personages. If he has not achieved the culture and breeding of a Socrates, he has at least learned to function in this not so best of all possible worlds.

In front of the door, Poe stopped, frowned, sniffed. He smelled something. Something. Gas. He smelled gas. Why was there gas coming from the room? Poe closed his eyes, opened them wide, blinked. Gas. He banged on the door.

“Figg, you ninny. Why is there gas in there? I demand to know why, sir.”

Poe leaned backwards, then forward, finally getting his key out of his pocket. Gas. And then Poe knew. The alcohol controlled most of him but not all of him. Something was wrong inside, something quite wrong. He dropped the key, bent over and after reaching for it several times, gripped it tightly, then fumbled at the keyhole, finally opening the door.

The gas smell was overpowering. The room was filled with it.

Poe staggered forward, grabbed the washbasin and hurled it through the window. Cold air hit him with force, a most welcomed force. He coughed, his eyes watered and he saw everything in the dark room as though viewing it all through a pinhole. His lungs burned and he yearned for air. Air.

Poe flopped across Figg’s bed. “Get up, damn you, get up! He tugged at the boxer, pulled his arm. Figg didn’t move. Violence. This you’ll understand. Poe slapped Figg’s face and fell to the floor himself. On his knees, he slapped Figg’s face again, again, and lifting his arm to do so was the hardest thing Poe had ever done in his life. His arm seemed to weigh a ton and the hand came down in slow motion, as if this were all a dream.

Figg groaned.

“Damn you, get up!”

Poe pulled at him. Figg moved.

Now they were both on the floor. Figg had fallen out of bed.

Poe sat on the floor, mouth open, his lungs burning, his brain whirling and threatening to disintegrate as he gripped Figg’s upper arm and pulled. The open door was behind him, light from the hallway beckoning them to safety.

He pulled. Figg inched himself forward towards the light, towards the sound of Poe’s voice. To the boxer, the voice seemed to be life itself, warning him away from death, pulling him back from something hideous, something horrible and unknown.

Poe shouted, not knowing what he shouted and he pulled at Figg and he scraped himself towards the door, towards light, towards air, towards life.

Both men collapsed in the hallway, Poe on his back and feeling himself sink into that blackness which always seemed to be reaching out for him. He heard footsteps running towards him and then he could hear no more.