Poe must die

FORTY-FOUR

Jonathan. Sundown of the ninth day

An exhausted, drugged Laertes, more dead than alive, slept. Jonathan sat inside of the protective circle and conjured. Fatigue and strain were forgotten. The sour taste in his mouth from the uncooked dog meat no longer disturbed him; the excitement of being mere hours from obtaining the Throne of Solomon gave him added strength. The goal was within reach.

Jonathan’s power was almighty. There was no one on earth to equal him. No one.

Across space and time, his mind sought out Rachel Coltman. His eyes were closed, his arms extended to the side, his thoughts all directed to him.

Come to me, come to me, come to me. Come …

She would! He knew it. She could not withstand his power; she would have to obey him. And when she was sacrificed to Asmodeus, her dead husband would be next to obey the command to appear and all power that could be imagined would belong to Jonathan. The Throne of Solomon would be his as it was destined to be.

He directed his mind to Rachel Coltman miles away in her Manhattan home.

* * * *

Less than two hours later, Dearborn Lapham looked down from a second floor window and watched Rachel Coltman climb into a coach a servant had brought around to the front of the mansion. Mrs. Coltman had not looked well and Dearborn though that Mr. Poe, for one, would not care to see her going out on such a cold evening as this. Better to stay in a warm bed, with servants bringing you sweets and hot tea.

Mrs. Coltman had said little. Just a quick order to a servant, then down the stairs in one of her many beautiful capes and she was out the door. She had walked by Dearborn without saying a word. Someone else had also not spoken or waved to Dearborn either. Mr. Poe.

Dearborn was almost sure that it was he who had leaned from the carriage just before Mrs. Coltman had climbed in. Mr. Poe, the friendly man from Virginia, the soft-spoken man who so loved to talk about travelling players and life upon the stage. Dearborn had waved to him from the window, trying to catch his attention, calling his name, but he had ignored her. Why hadn’t Mr. Poe waved back?

When Mrs. Coltman climbed into the carriage, the man beside her, whoever he was, flicked the reins and the carriage moved out of the yellow circle cast by the gaslight and rolled into darkness.

Perhaps it wasn’t Mr. Poe after all. It was dark outside and …

She let the curtain fall back into place and turned around to see Hugh Larney and two of his men staring at her. Paralyzed with fear, the child stood silent and rigid.

Larney smiled. “So much beauty in so small a treasure. I am not in the habit of entering a home through the back way, but for one so lovely, I gladly make an exception. It is just as well that the lady of the house was leaving as we were quietly making our way to you, for there is no time to tarry and pay our respects to her.”

His eyes caressed her small body. “We are leaving, my dear, for we are to watch another duel together this very night. Such events please me more when I am with you.”

Larney tapped Jacob Cribb on the shoulder with a silver-headed cane. “Take her.”

In the carriage, a frightened Dearborn sat between Hugh Larney and Jacob Cribb. Three men sat across from her. Two were Larney’s men. The third was bound, gagged and unconscious in the seat directly across from her.

It was Mr. Poe.

But if he’d just left with Mrs. Coltman, how could he be here?

* * * *

The Duel.

Thor jabbed three times with his left, then swung a roundhouse right hand that would have knocked Figg down-again-had it landed. Figg circled backwards, leaning out of reach. He’d been hit tonight by the Negro and the blows had hurt; strong right hands, stinging jabs with the left. Thor could punch and though awkward, he had speed.

Figg’s left cheekbone ached where the bare knuckles of Thor’s left jab had made contact several times. The Negro’s arms were inches longer than Figg’s. He was only twenty-four, half Figg’s age, but at 6’7” almost a full foot taller. Figg weighed 190 pounds, Thor weighed 250, with all of the arrogance to be expected in someone who had never lost a fight.

Thor was also certain of tonight’s outcome; three times he’d put the Englishman on the ground. Three knockdowns, three rounds to Thor, who’d been promised $100 in gold by Hugh Larney if he could kill the white man. There would be no police involved; a death in the prize ring was merely an unavoidable hazard of that trade. And the $100 in gold was more money than Thor had ever imagined he’d see in his lifetime. With that in his pocket he was king among all the coloreds, so he had quickly promised Hugh Larney that the Englishman would not leave the ring alive.

Thor lunged, swinging his left arm wildly and with all his strength. Figg leaned to the right, the blow missing his face by inches and Thor stumbled forward, off-balance. As the Negro stumbled past him, Figg hooked a left into his right rib cage, then stepped behind him driving two quick hooks, left, right, into Thor’s kidneys. Another man would have cried out, dropped to his knees in pain. Not Thor.

The Negro was hurt, but not nearly enough to stop fighting. Arching his back and reaching behind him, he stumbled forward faster until he crashed into a ring post, knocking it out of position. The crowd of shouting men in the cellar of Phineas Taylor Barnum’s warehouse was on its feet, whiskey and rum bottles now fogotten. Thor was tangled in ropes and the spectators seated within inches of the ring. The ring post lay across his thighs.

He fought to get to his feet. “No knockdown! The man he no knock me down!”

Titus Bootham and Phineas Taylor Baraum-Figg’s seconds-ran to the center of the ring shouting and waving their arms, trying to convince two umpires and two timekeepers that yes, it was a knockdown.

“Knockdown!” yelled Barnum in his squeaky voice, his round face red with anger. “You blind ass, can’t you see he knocked the nigger down?”

“I insist it was a knockdown!” yelled Bootham, the shortest man in the ring.

More arguing, shoving, threats.

Figg kept the crowd between him and Thor. God above let them continue arguin’, for I can use the rest. Need time to catch me breath, ‘cause ring fightin’ is a hard road to travel. Go for a man in an alley and you can surprise him and end it quick. But there were no surprises in the ring. Your man knew you were comin’ and he was ready. When the timekeeper called time and the umpired signalled fight, you got up from your second’s knee and you went to the center of the ring. You came up to scratch and fought for your life.

Tonight’s crowd, still on its feet, roared opinions, prejudices, preferences. Tonight a man could be for white vs black, American vs. English, Larney’s enemies vs. Larney. It was a crowd made noisy and dangerous by liquor, by lingering hatreds from two wars between America and England, by money bet on either man, by a love of bloodsport.

Figg, bare-chested, in knee britches, stockings and a borrowed pair of shoes, breathed deeply and rubbed the swollen knuckle on his right fist. He eyed the screaming, bearded faces around him. They want to see somebody killed tonight, they do and they don’t much mind who it is. They don’t know what the quarrel is about and they don’t care. They want to see me or the colored lyin’ here in the dirt with the breath of life gone from either one of us. They can all go to bloody hell, they can.

Once Figg had loved the prize ring, the excitement of it, the camaraderie, the women who spoke against its violence but who whispered their names and addresses to a boxer when the fight was over. It was in the bones of the Figg family for its men to love it, for its women to curse it. But Figg had become disgusted by the corruption in boxing-fixed fights, doped fighters, by the unending call for blood. Tonight in New York, far from his home and everything he held dear, he knew he was a happier man outside of the ring. The life for him was teaching boxing and swordplay in his London academy, seeing young boys learn the science of self-defense, seeing the pride on the faces of fathers as a son took his first steps towards manhood by learning to protect himself.

That was the life for Pierce James Figg; God would decide whether or not he lived to return to it. Too many boxers had gone back into the ring for that last fight and died there. To be in the game too long was to stand on a scaffold; you could only go down. You could only entertain people by dying for them.

Where was Poe?

He hadn’t appeared at Bootham’s home to escort Figg to the fight and a runner had reported Poe was neither in Figg’s room in the boarding house, nor at the Evening Mirror newspaper. Figg had been forced to ask Barnum to be his second. Not only had the master showman enthusiastically agreed, but he had offered one of his several warehouses as a site for the duel. Both sides had accepted the offer of the warehouse cellar and a delighted Barnum had set about bribing the police so that the duel could proceed uninterrupted. Several policemen had been paid to follow a false scent, to head out into the country on a “tip” that the duel-illegal under New York State law-was to be held there.

In addition the the money given them, each policeman received a pass to Barnum’s American Museum, entitling him to a year’s free admission. Barnum bribed well.

Where was Poe?

In trouble. Figg was sure of it. Not in his cups, as someone had laughingly suggested. Not facedown in a Five Points gutter. Not tonight. Figg was certain that nothing, except a serious illness or interference by someone could have kept Poe from acting as his second. Poe was a man of his word, a man of strong loyalty. He’d proven that by the manner in which he had stuck by Rachel Coltman.

Figg looked across the ring at Hugh Larney, who sat with his arm around a pale Dearborn Lapham. The bloody bastard. Surrounded by his friends and him pretending to be as British as the Prime Minister. He’d never have dared to take the child unless certain that Poe would not interfere. Larney knew what had happened to Poe. Figg sensed it.

Thor was back in his corner, sitting on the knee of a second and the ring was more or less cleared. Umpires and timekeepers remained, continuing to discuss the last knockdown among themselves. “Round Mr. Figg!” announced one and the crowd booed, hissed, cheered.

By tradition seconds place one knee on the ground, with the other knee upraised for the fighter to rest on between rounds or while recovering from a knockdown. On Larney’s orders, Thor was taking his rest. Larney moved to stand behind Thor, a hand on his broad, sweaty shoulders, his lips close to the Negro’s ear. Both men smiled across the ring at Figg, who thought damn them. If they think I am to worry about what they say to one another, they got another think comin’. I could die here tonight but I’m dyin’ like a man. Like an Englishman. With pride.

“Time!”

Figg rose from Barnum’s knee, shuffled forward, both arms extended stiffly towards Thor. When both men reached the line drawn in the dirt cellar floor, the umpire yelled, “Commence fighting!”

Thor jabbed quickly with his left, his long reach making Figg lean backwards and, with Figg off-balance, Thor put his head down and charged, butting Figg in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and then the Negro had Figg’s arms pinned to his side, squeezing, threatening to break them.

He lifted Figg in the air and hurled him to the ground, throwing his own body after him, trying to crush Figg’s chest with his 250 pounds. Using instincts learned long ago, Figg rolled clear; Thor missed him by inches.

But Figg was hurt.

His arms ached, his chest felt on fire. The crowd roared and Figg struggled to get to his feet. He was on his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Two umpires and a timekeeper struggled to keep Thor from kicking him while he was down.

Behind a dazed, pained Figg, Bootham yelled, “Up Mr. Figg! Please get up, sir!”

Figg tried to push himself up and collapsed. He lay open mouthed on the ground and tasted dirt.

* * * *

With only four hours to midnight, Jonathan prepared to summon the spirit of Justin Coltman. He sprinkled salt and water, symbols of life, around Coltman’s coffin. Laertes, shuffling like a man almost dead, lit the two white candles, one at the head, the other at the foot of the coffin.

The incense-a combination of opium, hemlock, henbane, wood, saffron and mandrake-was burning in two wooden bowls. Soon Jonathan would wave eleven puffs of it to Qliphoth, the evil spirit of damnation. And there would be the use of the Athame, the ritual knife, to be held in both hands, point up and offered to the four powers in turn, east, south, west and at the north, he would stop.

To the candle burning at the north point of the magic circle, he would offer eleven more puffs of the incense, then touch the northern point of the circle eleven times with the ritual knife. North, the compass point sacred to devil worshippers.

The forces would gather at Jonathan’s command and he would charge and command the spirit of Justin Coltman through the power of Astoreth, Demon of Death and Lord of the Flies, of Loki, Qliphoth and Satan, all of whom would be ordered to return the body of Justin Coltman to this earth from whence it came.

It was then that Justin Coltman would speak to Jonathan, telling him where the grimoires could be found, the grimoires that would lead the magician to the Throne of Solomon.

Speak and tell me what I want to know.

Yes, there was the matter of the sacrifice, but that was easily taken care of. Asmodeus’ challenge had been a pitiful one, one simple to deal with. Jonathan had projected his mind to Rachel Coltman, giving her a strong reason for leaving her home immediately and coming to Jonathan.

Rachel Coltman was more drawn to Poe than she would admit and Jonathan, ruthlessly using that weakness, sent Poe’s image to her. He let her hear Poe’s voice. To Rachel’s mind, disturbed by her kidnapping by Hamlet Sproul and by the shock of learning that Paracelsus was indeed the murderous Jonathan, the projected image of Poe was quickly and easily accepted as the writer himself.

She heard and saw Poe in her bedroom. It was Poe who ordered her to get a carriage and team of horses and come with him to an abandoned barn where she would see Justin Coltman alive.

It was Poe she believed, but it was Jonathan she obeyed.

* * * *

The wine had been drugged; he sensed it more than knew it for certain, for Poe was now in a world that he had dreaded all his life, a world that he did not want to focus on. Was he buried alive? Had it happened to him again?

He was in darkness, musty smelling darkness and his mind fought to cling to sanity. What did he remember? The note from Muddy saying come quickly, she needed his help and Poe had gone with the man who’d brought the note to the boarding house, a man claiming to be a farmer in Fordham, employed at the nearby college of Jesuit priests.

Poe, edgy about tonight’s duel in which Figg was risking his life in Poe’s stead, had naturally followed the man from the boarding house. Yes, he remembered that much. Then he’d climbed into the carriage, wondering if he could get to Fordham then back into Manhattan in time for the duel. Someone, no it was two men. Yes two men had forced him to drink wine, held the bottle to his lips, holding his nose so that he had to open his mouth and the bitter taste of the wine had told him it was drugged.

He’d heard Hugh Larney’s voice, then turned to see the man’s little face. After that, there had been blackness. For a brief moment or two, Poe had been conscious and he’d seen Dearborn Lapham sitting across from him in a carriage, a smirking Hugh Larney beside her. Then it was into darkness and distance again. Had Poe died?

And now his mind tormented him. The darkness would not leave and he cried out against it. He saw Jonathan’s face, the face of Valentine Greatrakes and he saw Rachel lying dead while beasts tore at her flesh. The drugged wine claimed him and he passed out.

Passed out in a coffin buried two feet under the earth in a cemetery directly across from City Hall.

* * * *

Merlin held the bottle of water to Figg’s swollen lips. Barnum, whose knee was being used as the boxer’s chair, wiped blood from a cut around an almost closed left eye.

“Twenty-three rounds, Mr. Figg.” The showman frowned with worry. “That left eye of yours is all but closed, I fear. The colored has gone after it with a vengeance, the bastard.”

Figg’s chest heaved. “Doin’ what I’d be doin’, if I was in his black skin.”

Titus Bootham was close to tears. “Let me throw in the sponge, Mr. Figg. You have taken enough punishment for Poe, who is not decent enough to come here tonight and support you. He has no right to carry your colors, sir.”

“I ain’t quittin’. Never quit in me life and ain’t of a mind to now. All I got left is what I am as a man. You throw in the sponge and you are no friend of mine.”

The tears rolled from Bootham’s eyes as he gently wiped Figg’s face. “Yes sir. I–I had no idea it could be like this. The blood, I mean.”

Figg’s smile through swollen, bleeding lips, was hideous. “Always been that way, mate.”

“Timer!”

Figg pushed himself off Barnum’s knee, forced his one good eye open as far as he could and limped forward to meet Thor. The colored had given him the worst beating of his life. Worse, Figg had never hit a man so many times and not have him go down. Thor had taken Figg’s best blows, most of them to the body and still he was on his feet, strong, aggressive. Like now.

Thor threw a right uppercut that barely missed Figg’s jaw, then brought his huge left fist straight down as though it were a hammer, missing Figg’s head but hitting his shoulder and sending him staggering sideways. Panic. The blow numbed Figg’s shoulder for a few seconds; he could lift the arm but there was no power in it. All he could do was back away, keep out of range of those long, powerful arms.

Thor jabbed with his left. Figg leaned away, then ducked under it, hooking a right into the Negro’s side. The punch had nothing behind it; the shoulder was still numb. Figg rushed him, grabbing Thor around the waist, trying to lift him from the ground and thrown him down. Panic. Thor was smiling down at him. Figg hadn’t moved him.

Thor brought his knee up into Figg’s groin and a series of harsh and blinding white lights exploded in the Englishman’s head. The pain was searing, speeding from his groin to his head and back again and Figg fell forward to the ground.

Dimly, he heard Barnum and Bootham yelling “Foul!", heard the Britons in the huge cellar take up the cry. “Foul! Foul! Foul!” Someone threw an empty whiskey bottle and a half-eaten sandwich into the ring.

Figg, still on the ground, fought to breathe. His knees were drawn up to his stomach. Pain squeezed his brain, his stomach, his groin.

And suddenly-from far away, he heard the voices of a chorus of old men. “YOUhave called. We have come. Celts of old have come.”

Figg rolled over on his stomach, forcing himself to his knees. The roar of the men in the cellar filled his brain and he could not hear the voices of the old men. His one good eye went to a window high and to the right. He saw the moon. Large, round, full and yellow. It seemed to grow right in front of him.

He remembered, Power grows when the moon grows. When the moon grows strong, all beneath it grow strong.

Show your new money to the moon so that it may grow as the moon grows. Sow crops just before a new moon. Wish on a new moon, bow to it and turn around nine times.

In his travels throughout all of England, Figg had heard these things many times. Old wives’ tales, he’d thought. Superstitions remaining from the days of the ancient tribes, left over from the Druids, a priesthood so powerful that not even Julius Caesar could stamp it out.

“Celts of old have come.” The sound of the old men once more.

“Mars Cocidius,” said the old men. “He is with you. You have called upon him, upon us and we have come. We are we and you are you.”

Mars Cocidius. The Druids and Celts had adopted those Roman gods which coincided with theirs. Mars, the Roman god of war, became Mars Cocidius, god of war for Britain’s ancient tribes. Had Figg called on him for help? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he had during those lonely, frightened days spent alone in Titus Bootham’s cellar.

Figg could not remember.

Merlin the dwarf poured water into Figg’s mouth. Barnum was shouting something in his ear and Mr. Bootham, little Mr. Bootham was weeping because he could no longer stand to see Figg take a beating. The Englishmen in the crowd had pushed to the edge of the ring, screaming, threatening to kill the umpires, timekeepers, Thor, Hugh Larney and his friends. The situation was ugly.

Again Figg and Figg alone, heard the voices.

“Widdershins, widdershins, widdershins … ”

Widdershins. The counterclockwise motion used by witches in casting spells. Christianity had outlawed ‘the old religion’ and in retaliation, ‘the old religion’ had declared itself the opposite of all Christianity stood for.

In medieval times, armies marched counterclockwise around a castle before attacking it, the better to work up strength and increase their chances for victory.

Figg pushed himself to his feet, swayed, blinked and tried to focus his one good eye. There was Larney, bloated with arrogance now, accepting the congratulations of his friends on his victory and there was Thor turning to him and grinning. On their side of the ring, men cheered, whooped, drank and jeered at Figg. The betting in the cellar had gotten out of hand; Larney had increased his wager to $100,000 in gold and the English, in the heat of patriotic fever and a hatred for the Americans, had matched the bet among themselves.

Widdershins.

“Be it as your faith,” said the old men.

Me faith, muttered Figg.

He looked at the moon. As he did so, the pain in his body seemed to ease. Suddenly there was some sight in his left eye and the right eye was fine. Perfect. He blinked. He could lift his right arm.

“Time!”

Figg looked into the moon once more, then limped forward to meet a supremely confident Thor.

Widdershins.

Figg limped to his left. Counterclockwise.

Thor stalked him.

* * * *

Rachel felt secure, safe. She sat in the carriage beside Eddy, dear Eddy and soon she would see Justin once more. Eddy had done this for her, he had made it possible for her to see Justin again. Both men were so dear to her; how fortunate she was to have them in her life. She felt peaceful now, rested. There was nothing to worry about.

The carriage rolled slowly, steadily through the moonlit night, along snow-covered roads, through woods, over low hills and across flatlands.

Towards Hugh Larney’s abandoned farm.

Towards Jonathan.

And a mesmerized Rachel, not knowing she was in a trance, sat contented beside an apparition.

* * * *

Poe awoke. He was still in darkness. And there was the dampness around him, the stale air. The coffin lid. He kicked it, punched it, cursed it.

He screamed and screamed and the sound of his voice remained as trapped in the small, hellish prison, as did Poe himself.

* * * *

Thor was confused. He frowned, licked the blood from his lips and charged once more. Waiting until the last second, Figg sidestepped to his left, hooking his left fist into the Negro’s rib cage, then driving his right, arm fully extended, into the same spot. Thor’s eyes became all whites. He staggered backward.

For the past few minutes the Englishman had been hitting him in the same spot, the right rib cage and the pain was growing. All of the white man’s blows had been concentrated there, nowhere else and Thor was feeling it. What Thor hated most of all was that the white man had knocked him down three times and the last time, Thor had found himself getting up slowly.

The Negro, more cautious now, flicked his bloodied left fist at Figg’s face. The Englishman stayed out of reach, continuing to circle to his left. Two more swings by Thor and again, they missed and when the Negro was leaning forward, slightly off-balance, Figg flicked a small jab at his face. The blow stung.

Widdershins.

Every man in the cellar was on his feet, shouting, cursing, encouraging. Some who had been against Figg were now for the squat, bulldog-faced Englishman. His courage had impressed them, his ability to absorb punishment and not quit had won their fickle allegiance. A worried Hugh Larney chewed his tiny lower lip as Figg faked right with his head, drawing a reaction from an anxious Thor, then stepped left, punching on the move, hooking his left fist under the Negro’s heart.

Thor staggered backward, surprised, but he didn’t go down. He’d never seen a man punch and move at the same time. Most boxers planted both feet, then swung from a firm stance. Suddenly the old man in front of him was running all over the ring, hitting while he ran and the blows were hurting Thor.

Thor was angry. He wasn’t going to lose a fight to this old white man, this man who could not walk without dragging a foot behind him, this man with scars on his face and body. Thor was going to kill him and not just for the $100 in gold. He was going to kill him because he now hated him more than he’d hated anyone in his life.

Figg felt strong, confident. He gave no thought as to how that had come about. That it had come about was all that mattered. If he was a part of a tradition that had lived long before Christ and was still alive in the hills and dark woods of England, then so be it. All he was certain of was that now it was a different fight between him and the blackamoor. A very different fight.

He noticed something. The Negro kept his right side farther back than before. It must be painin’ him. Didn’t want any more taps on it. But keeping his right side far back had thrown Thor’s stride off. His stance was too narrow; both feet were one behind the other instead of being wide apart for a firmer grip on the earth. A weak stance meant a weaker punch even from a man as big as him.

Thor jabbed with his left, shuffling forward cautiously, keeping his right side away from Figg, who moved quickly to his right, forcing Thor to lean after him.

Then Figg changed directions. Counterclockwise. As Martin and Tully, two of Thor’s opponents, had said: He cannot move sideways too well. Figg took a chance. He lunged, leaping forward and swinging his left in a wild roundhouse at Thor’s right side. He connected. The blow was one of Figg’s strongest of the fight and drove the big man across the ring. The crowd roared.

Thor was against the ropes and Figg was on him. The Englishman’s hands reached for the Negro’s throat, squeezing, digging in, weakening him. Backing off, Figg hooked to the body with both hands. Again, again, digging his fists into the Negro’s flesh. Thor leaned off the ropes, hands reaching for Figg, who backed off and stepped left, hooking a left into Thor’s temple. Then a right cross and the crowd shrieked, stomped its boots on the damp, black earth. Thor fell forward on his face and Figg staggered backward.

Thor’s seconds dragged him back to his corner. Barnum’s squeaky voice cut above the shouting crowd. “Start counting, timekeeper! Count, I say!” Barnum had $10,000 in gold bet on Figg.

Figg sat on Barnum’s knee, his head flopped back against the ring post, eyes on the moon. Widdershins. They were all congratulating him. Barnum, Bootham. Merlin. The Englishmen sitting at ringside. The cheers, the screams, the yells. It was something from an old tribal rite, it was. Nothing’s changed, thought Figg. Nothing at all. We are them and them is we. The old ones, the new ones. We are all the same.

He looked across the ring. Thor was leaning backward, trying hard to breathe. One of his seconds gently touched the Negro’s right side and he cried out, shaking his head from side to side.

“Time!”

Figg was on his feet, limping forward, reaching the line before Thor.

Thor came up to it slowly, doubled over, left side facing Figg, left hand pawing the air. In adopting the cautious, defensive posture, the Negro had reduced his height. His chin was where Figg wanted it to be. Jes’ keep it there for a while longer, mate. Jes’ a while longer.

They circled each other, Thor with his right side back to protect it. Figg was moving to his left, looking for that opening, that opportunity to end the fight. He knew he could end it, he knew he could win. Be it as your faith. The old and the new are as one, for nothing has ever changed in this world save the eyes of those who view it.

Figg charged, stopped. Thor backed up, then stood confused. Someone booed and shouted. “Hey Larney, yer nigger wants to go home!” Laughter.

Again Figg charged, stopped. Again Thor backed up. More boos, all aimed at the Negro. He looked around, his bloodied face confused, with only the remnants of pride left in it.

Alright, white man. You come again and Thor will not run. Not this time. This time Thor will run to meet you.

Figg faked a charge, two steps, then stopped. Thor lowered his head and charged him and Figg swung a right uppercut that began almost at the ground. The blow caught the Negro on the move, half in the throat, half under the jaw and lifted him in the air and into the ropes.

As Thor bounced off the ropes, Figg stepped to his own left and hooked his left fist into the Negro’s temple. Thor fell forward into the dirt and didn’t move.

The cellar erupted with cheering, roaring, yelling men. There were no boos, no jeers. They had seen what they had come to see.

They’d seen a fight.

Back in his corner, Figg, surrounded by cheering Englishmen, Barnum, Bootham and Merlin, breathed deeply through his open mouth. His face was bloodied, swollen, as were both fists. His back was to Thor, now being dragged back to his corner by his seconds. Figg knew there would be no more fight tonight.

There wasn’t.

“Time!” The timekeeper could barely be heard above the cheering, yelling crowd.

“Time!”

Thor’s seconds frantically worked on reviving him. But the Negro was unconscious, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.

And now the ring was filled with men, almost all of them English, desperate to be a part of Figg’s victory, to touch him, speak to him, listen to him. There would be no raising of Figg’s hand in victory by an umpire. The umpire couldn’t get through the crowd.

As men fought to be near him, Figg pushed his way to Barnum, and when he was close to the showman, Figg whispered in his ear. A jubilant Barnum nodded vigorously. “It will be done, Mr. Figg, exactly as you asked. You have my word on it.”

Barnum looked down. “Merlin? You have work to do.” A delighted Barnum picked up the dwarf in his arms and kissed him on the cheek.

The Englishmen picked up Figg and carried him triumphantly from the ring.