Poe must die

FORTY-ONE

Four days before the duel.

Poe said, “By deduction, it appears that Hugh Larney had a hand in the brutal death of Rachel’s doctor.”

“We are listenin’.” Figg sat on the bed massaging his right kneecap, while Titus Bootham sat in one of the two chairs in the small room. The three were in Bootham’s home.

“I have made inquiries,” said Poe. “The doctor was summoned by a servant of Larney’s, one Jacob Cribb and Mr. Cribb declared that a woman was in need of immediate treatment for a pistol wound. There are people in the area where the doctor resided who remember Mr. Cribb, who it seems beat his horse to excess, thereby drawing attention to himself. Cribb is in the employ of Larney. Cribb was heard to mention the words pistol shot and woman.”

Poe eyed each man. “Given the association of Larney and our missing mystical friend, is it not an extension of the logic I have just presented to assume that the woman in difficulty is that same woman who appeared at my cottage, Mr. Figg, and to whom you gave evidence of your excellent marksmanship?”

Figg nodded, impressed, “Yer deductin’ jes’ fine, Mr. Poe. Larney is keepin’ the hurt woman while our mystical friend keeps hisself involved in other ways. I take it Mr. Cribb is also avoidin’ people?”

Poe sighed. “He is. Mr. Bootham?”

“Yes, Mr. Poe?”

“You are dealing with Prosper Benjamin in matters of the duel?”

The little Englishman leaped from his seat. “Oh yes, Mr. Poe. Indeed I am. Mr. Benjamin says he speaks for Mr. Larney and his colored. Mr. Benjamin has made it plain that he has no love for you, Mr. Figg or for you either, Mr. Poe.”

Poe smirked. “I assume Mr. Benjamin did not make himself explicit as to why he refuses to utter our names in his prayers?” He thought of Benjamin naked in Scotch Ann’s brothel.

Bootham shook his small head. “No, Mr. Poe, he has not divulged the matter of what I sense is a private quarrel. He and I have quarreled concerning conditions of the forthcoming combat, but fortunately we English are familiar with the rules of the prize ring, a sport which owes much to us, sir.”

He nodded once for emphasis. Hardly pausing to take a breath, he continued. “Mr. Benjamin has more or less agreed to abide by the London Prize Ring Rules of 1838.”

Figg muttered, “Do not wager yer last penny on that, mate. What’s ‘e agreed on?”

Bootham counted on his fingers. “A single line-”

“Comin’ up to scratch,” said Figg. He looked at Poe. “You draw a line in the dirt and both fighters meet there. If a man cannot come up to that line what has been scratched in the dirt, then he loses. What else, Mr. Bootham?”

“A round ends when a man is knocked down. He has thirty seconds to get up, eight to come up to scratch. We, my friends and I, argued with Mr. Benjamin concerning whether or not you come to scratch alone or with your seconds. In England a man must come up alone. Too often has an injured man been carried to scratch by his seconds, sir, and the result has been that an exhausted man has been made to fight when he should have been allowed to walk away. You must come up to scratch alone, Mr. Figg. We insisted on it, for your own safety.”

The boxer nodded. “A round is a man knocked down.”

Bootham nodded. “We are quarreling over the choice of an umpire, but I think that can be settled. There will be two timekeepers, one English, one American. Two seconds per fighter, seconds to be allowed in the ring.”

Poe said, “I count it an honor to be the other second if I may, Mr. Figg.”

“I would be pleased to have you in my corner, Mr. Poe. Well, that is a matter done with. I hear, Mr. Bootham, that there is a fair amount of bettin’ going on?”

“Indeed, Mr. Figg. The English to a man are supporting you. Most of the Americans are with Larney’s colored, who has not yet been defeated. He has also killed two men in the ring.”

“’Is killin’ don’t stop there, I’ll wager. When can I talk with them what’s been in the ring with the colored?”

“Tonight.” Bootham adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles. “We are seeking those you requested. Three men who have faced Thor in the prize ring. One is nearly blind and the other two have bitter memories. The Negro is a brutal man. Strong and it would seem, a formidable foe. But our prayers are with you, sir.”

“Thankin’ you muchly. Please inform the men what talks with me that there is a shillin’ or two in it for ’em. It is a help to me to know what Mr. Thor does in a prize ring.”

“He kills and brutalizes. And Larney gloats. Larney is said to have wagered ten thousand in gold that Thor will kill you.”

“Blimey! Ten thousand? Ain’t that much money in the bloomin’ world.”

Bootham coughed to clear his throat. Bending over, he picked up a small cardboard box and opened it.

“Handkerchiefs, Mr. Figg. I took the liberty of ordering them. Mr. Poe informs me that you are partial to the color lavender.”

“Me wife was, yes.”

“May we distribute them?”

Figg nodded yes. It was the custom among British prizefighters to hand out handkerchiefs to their supporters. If the fighter won, each person who accepted the handkerchief was to pay the fighter five pounds.

Bootham’s eyes gleamed as he slowly, gently pulled a handkerchief from the box and held it up as though it were spun gold. “Thank you, Mr. Figg.”

Bootham held the box out to Poe, who swallowed and looked down at the floor. “I am aware of the custom, Mr. Figg, but I am in the worst of financial straits and upon your victory, which I hope for with all my heart, I fear I could not pay as called for.”

Figg took a handkerchief and handed it to Poe. “Yer me second, guvenor. It would not look well to ‘ave you in the ring and not sportin’ me colors. I would feel proud to ‘ave Mrs. Coltman carry one, though she is not to attend the fight.”

Poe accepted a second handkerchief. “Mr. Figg, the honor will be hers, I am sure.”

The writer looked at Bootham. “I suggest that we ourselves bottle the water Mr. Figg will drink in the ring on that day. And seal it. No one but you and I, Mr. Bootham, is to go near that liquid. It is not above Larney to somehow manage to poison the water on that day. Also, those who attend the fight in support of Mr. Figg are to sit on his side of the ring, to prevent assassins and blackguards from doing him harm during the contest.

Bootham nodded vigorously. “Yes, Mr. Poe. That seems to be a wise course.”

Poe took his hat, stick and greatcoat from the bed. “I go to Rachel now. She is somewhat better, though still in the grip of nightmares and horrendous deliriums. I shall also continue my attempts to locate Hugh Larney. I am convinced that the death of Rachel’s physician means that Larney can tell us where our mystical friend is. Larney knows, Mr. Figg, and that is why he is avoiding us until the day of the fight. He enjoys his games, does Hugh Larney. He enjoys mortal combat from a distance and I am sure he is intoxicated at the idea of watching it once more, while harming you and I.”

Figg nodded. “Guard yerself well, squire. Larney is a blackguard.”

“I am of no consequence to him until the conclusion of the duel, Mr. Figg. By absenting himself, he not only aids Jonathan, he also avoids having to confront our pressing inquiries. I assume my life is safe until the termination of the duel. I do not wish to think of Larney and his Negro triumphing over you, but should that happen, I believe my life to be forfeit. And the child Dearborn becomes his. Good day Mr. Figg, Mr. Bootham.”

* * * *

Larney watched Thor punch the sandbag suspended from a beam in the barn. The Negro was barechested, sweating, hitting the bag with powerful blows.

Larney, several feet away, turned to the man who had ridden out from New York to report to him.

“Poe is askin’ all over town,” said the man. “He’s inquisitive about the dead doctor, your whereabouts, everything.”

Larney frowned. “I would say kill him but there exists a peculiar truce between our camps and this fight is attracting much interest. A dead Poe would cancel the occasion and what would I tell my guests, who expect some diversion after a long and tedious sea voyage.”

He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Let him live. And on the day of the fight, on that very day, I think, I think I shall re-enter Mr. Poe’s dreadful life, to his undying displeasure. Undying, dear friend.”

Larney threw back his head and roared.

* * * *

Martin said, “Hammer blows he uses. Brings his right hand high and down on your head, relyin’ on his strength. Will crowd you if he can. Likes to grapple, hug you close, squeeze your back ‘til it hurts.”

Figg nodded.

“Watch yer eyes,” said Tabby, pointing to his eye patch. “Took out mine, he did. Thumbs. Presses down. Nigger’s a tall one. He jes’ presses down.”

Figg said, “’Ow’s ‘is moves left and right?”

Martin shook his head. “Ain’t got none. Straight ahead, right Tabby?”

The one-eyed man nodded. “Black bastard is like a damn train. Straight ahead and nothin’ else. Both of his hands are like the wrath of God. Long arms and he can keep you at a distance, if he wants. Punches down. He’s almost seven feet.”

“Nahhhh,” said Martin scowling. “Over six to be sure, but under seven by five inches or more.”

They argued over Thor’s height until Figg gently stopped them. There was agreement over the Negro’s boxing skills; the two men drinking Figg’s whiskey in Bootham’s parlor estimated that Thor had defeated more than thirty men in the ring.

There was no way to estimate what the Negro had done outside of the ring. Only Larney and Thor himself knew those deadly figures.

Thirty fights, resulting in cripplings, blindings and at least two deaths. Figg was facing the challenge of his life.

When he’d given the men a few shillings and the remainder of the whiskey and sent them on their way, he returned to Bootham’s cellar where he trained alone and in secret, despite the pleas from Bootham’s English friends to watch him prepare. Figg was taking no chances that Jonathan or Larney had planted a spy anywhere near him.

Tomorrow Figg would talk to another survivor of Thor’s boxing ability, this one a man who Bootham said was half blind and addled, but who could talk. Several men who had fought Thor refused to talk to Bootham. Larney would not like it, they said.

And as Figg reminded himself, two boxers wouldn’t talk because they were dead, as dead as Rachel Coltman’s doctor.

In the cellar, in candlelight and musty heat, Figg trained.

And worried.