Caleb (16 page)

“Was that three minutes?” Caleb asked Benson as the second mopped at his face with a sponge.

“It was long enough,” Benson said. “I told you. Stay away from him. Move around; use your legs. Make him chase you all over the ring. It don’t matter what the crowd thinks. You stand and fight, and that monster will kill you.” The bell sounded. Caleb got up, his legs trembling slightly.

Caleb acted on Benson’s advice throughout the entire second round. Getting up on his toes, he circled around Pompey as fast as he could, throwing punches whenever he saw an opening, but never staying in one place long enough for Pompey to retaliate. Caleb landed all the punches, but they were glancing blows that didn’t seem to affect Pompey at all. To anyone watching, it would have looked like a game of tag, with Caleb always “it.” Caleb could feel his legs getting weary, but the only effect the exertion of the fight seemed to have on Pompey was to make his gasping breaths louder and his little eyes seem smaller. Caleb was glad to hear the bell sounding the end of the second round.

“Nice going,” said Benson, and he sponged Caleb down. “You’re getting smart. He gave Caleb a sip of water. “Spit it out.” Massaging Caleb’s shoulder muscles, he said, “This is it. I want you to start out with about a minute of the same as last round. Dance the hell out of him. Don’t even try to hit him. Are you listening?”

Caleb nodded.

“Okay, then stop dead in your tracks and wait for him to come to you. Keep your chin down and your eyes on his. As soon as he gets within range, let him have everything you’ve got. Never mind his punches. You have to hurt him or he’ll kill you. Once you hurt him, finish him off.” The bell rang.

Again, Caleb followed instructions, dancing around Pompey like a child around a maypole. The hot and sweaty crowd hooted. “If you catch him,” someone called, “you can kiss him!” Others demanded that Caleb stand and fight. Caleb thought of looking for Jardine among the multitude but had no time.

Finally, after what seemed much longer than a minute, Caleb stopped dancing. He stopped running. He picked a spot pretty near the middle of the ring and just stood there eyeing Pompey. It took a moment for the stocky man to realize that the chase was over, but once he did, Pompey stumbled toward Caleb with his arms pumping and a determined look in his eyes.

The moment Pompey came in range, Caleb put a stiff right through his guard and landed a punch right between Pompey’s eyes. Caleb felt the jolt all the way up his arm but did not hesitate. He lashed a left at Pompey’s nose, felt the cartilage break under his knuckles, and saw a spurt of redder-than-red blood. He followed quickly with a right high on Pompey’s left cheek. The punch skidded into Pompey’s eye socket, closing his eye.

Caleb was also being hit. Pompey’s pistoning fists were pummeling him badly, but he tried not to think about it. Hearing the crowd roaring for blood, he leaned forward and continued to punch until he felt that his arms would fall off. Pompey, his face covered with blood from the nose down and trying to blink the sweat from his good eye, did not back up. But neither was he moving forward. Something in his eyes said that he knew he was in trouble. He tried to cover up.

Ignoring his growing exhaustion, Caleb continued to punch at the hurt and bewildered man. He’d just landed a squishy left to Pompey’s right cheek when—as if from far away—he heard the bell, and Hogan was in the ring raising his right hand. Caleb looked around for his master and saw Jardine jumping up and down beside a morose Barney Kingston. While someone led Pompey back to his corner, Hogan made a great show of counting five silver dollars into Caleb’s still-gloved hands.

“You’re a lucky boy,” Hogan told him. “Another round and that animal would have killed you.”

36

When Caleb got back to where Jardine was waiting, Barney Kingston had disappeared, and Jardine was contentedly patting the pocket of his jacket holding their winnings.

“Well done, Caleb,” he exulted. “Well done! I knew we could take that great pile of pudding. Barney’s mad as a hornet. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know, Master. I still can’t believe I’ve been and done it, but my body tells me I have.” Caleb looked around in wonder.

“Well,” Jardine said, “that money in your hand is real enough. You’d better let me put it with the rest of our winnings.”

Caleb had forgotten all about the silver dollars clutched in his right hand. He opened his hand, looked at the coins, and then handed them over to Jardine.

“Whew!” Jardine exclaimed. “My nose can believe you’ve been doing something pretty strenuous. You stink like a polecat. They tell me that there’s a horse trough set up on the other side of the ring. You go take a dip in it and then go sit in the wagon. I’ve got some business to talk.”

Pompey was still at the trough when Caleb got there. Another of Kingston’s slaves was gently pouring water over his battered face. His left eye was totally closed, and his nose had swollen to twice its normal size. He was totally impassive and did not seem to even register Caleb’s existence. But the other slave, a wizened man in his fifties with sparse white hair like dabs of cotton, did. He looked at Caleb and said, “You think you tough, boy? You’ll find out who’s tough next time Pompey gets a hold on you.”

Caleb said nothing. He poured the refreshingly cool—if none-too-clean—water over his head and body. He had begun to ache so completely that he imagined Pompey had delivered a punch to every square inch of his body.

“You hear me, boy?”

“I hear you,” said Caleb, still pouring.

“Least you could do,” the slave continued, “is give Pompey a couple of those dollars you just won. He deserves that. Could have killed you if he’d a mind to.”

“Can’t,” said Caleb. “Master’s got it.” He was suddenly grateful that Jardine had insisted on holding the winnings.

“All of it?”

“Yep.”

“So what you got to show for your winning, boy?” the slave demanded.

“Same as Pompey,” Caleb said. “Hurts.”

Caleb went back to the wagon and dug into the bag of food Drusilla had packed. His jaw ached as he chewed the ham and oven biscuits, but he chewed them all the same. And he drank thirstily from the jug of beer at the bottom of the bag. It wasn’t cold, but it was good.

In the meantime, the grudge match between Tom Flynn and Harry Benson was about to begin. Taking up a speaking trumpet, Hogan bellowed, “Due to the very personal nature of the fistic encounter you are about to witness, there will be no set rounds. There will be no bell to save either boxer should he be hurt. No sir, good people of Camden, South Carolina, these two young champions will fight nonstop until one or the other of them is on the floor bloody, battered, and beaten. Are you ready for the fight?”

The crowd roared, and the two white boxers leaped into the ring. Without another word from Hogan, they set upon each other. The fight was fast, loud, and spectacular, and Caleb was sitting on the back of the wagon enjoying it when he felt a tug on the leg of his trousers. He looked down and saw Prince Zulu looking up at him.

“How you feeling, sport?” the prince asked him.

“Better,” Caleb answered. “That Pompey is a hittin’ fool.”

“You can hit some yourself,” Prince Zulu said and then paused and looked at Caleb curiously. “What kind of funny accent is that?”

“Boston, Massachusetts,” Caleb said. “I was raised there. Only been down south going on six years.”

“Well, you’re lucky you haven’t been lynched yet for talking like that.”

“Speaking of talking,” Caleb said, “that doesn’t sound much like a Zulu accent you got.”

The prince showed a set of big white teeth. “Would you believe that only three years ago I arrived from Zululand without a word of English?” he asked.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Caleb said.

“Well, thousands and thousands do,” the prince said. “You tired?”

“Some. Why?”

“How’d you like to make twenty-five dollars?”

“How?”

“Fighting.” He indicated Flynn and Benson on the distant platform. “When they’re done I’m supposed to fight some local black boy, winner take all, for a hundred dollars.”

“A hundred dollars?” Caleb asked. “You just said twenty-five.”

“There ain’t no hundred dollars,” the prince said. “There never was. For a hundred dollars I would be willing—even delighted—to knock your head off. But for the generous prize of twenty-five, you will have the honor of dancing around in the ring with me while I
pretend
to knock your head off.”

“A fake?” Caleb asked.

“Sure,” said the prince. “A fake. Do you suppose that Tom and Harry are really fighting up there?”

“They’re not?”

“Hell, no. Harry won last week in Fargis, and today it’s Tom’s turn. As soon, of course, as they stop playing the fool and giving these yokels their money’s worth.” He pulled a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “In about six minutes, Tom is going to stop taking a beating, pick himself up off the mat at the count of nine and a half, and put Harry away in a ferocious and bloody display of pure pugilistic mayhem.”

“Bloody?”

“Phony,” said the Zulu. “From inside Tom’s special gloves. Only not always. Tom lost those teeth last month when he forgot to slip a punch. He wasn’t half-sore.”

“Do you ever fight for real?” Caleb asked.

“Only when there’s big money. For instance, when some local tough can get backers to bet big on him. Then either Tom or Harry will take the local champion to the cleaners.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” the prince looked amazed. “Fight a white man? I want to go on wearing my balls. I’m used to them. And I wouldn’t look good hanging from a tree.” He looked around to make sure that they were not being overheard. “That’s why I’m scoutin’ you for a bit of an exhibition. How about it?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just follow my lead,” said the prince. “I’ll take care of everything. But one important thing: when I choose you from this mob, don’t be in too big a hurry to accept. Make me coax you. Make some of these crackers threaten your life if you don’t get your black ass in the ring. But once you’re in there, I want you to put on a show. Get mad at me. Take a punch at me. We gotta generate some excitement. Do you think you can do that?”

“I suppose so,” Caleb said. “Where’s the twenty-five bucks?”

“In my pocket.”

“I’d feel better,” Caleb said, “if it was in
my
pocket.”

Prince Zulu looked at him carefully. “I’m beginning,” he said, “to believe you
are
from Boston.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar gold coin and a tiny five-dollar piece. He stealthily gave them to Caleb. “Don’t cross me.”

“I’ll be sitting right here,” Caleb said.

“One thing,” Prince Zulu said. “You better tell that proud master of yours not to bet any money on you. The odds will be good, but you believe me, he better not take them or you’ll be in trouble.”

“Thanks,” said Caleb. “I didn’t think of that.”

“That’s why I’m free,” Prince Zulu said, “and you’re not.” He continued on his way.

Just as the prince had predicted, Tom Flynn, battered near to the point of surrender, made a miraculous recovery and completely turned the tables on Harry Benson. The crowd roared with a single voice and pressed forward to see the goateed young giant switch from predator to victim. Benson’s sneering face turned white with fear and panic as Flynn set him back on his heels with a sneak punch and then stalked him mercilessly around the ring. As the Zulu had also foreseen, a heavy blow to Benson’s face drew copious blood, which dripped to the surface of the platform. Stunned, Benson could do nothing but cover up as the blond fighter pummeled him into abject surrender. Finally, Benson was lying on the platform, apparently unconscious. Elated by his triumphant reversal of fortune, Flynn gave his unconscious opponent a final kick in the ribs. Some close to ringside would have sworn they heard the comatose vanquished cry out, “Damn it, Tom!” But he did not move, and Hogan raised Flynn’s gory glove in total victory, while his men circulated among the crowd settling bets.

Benson was still being dragged from the ring when Jardine returned to the wagon, wiping beer from his mustache. “Time we got started back,” he told Caleb, “if we’re going to get home before dark.”

“But, Master,” Caleb said, “Prince Zulu is going to fight.”

“I’ve seen about enough fighting for one day,” Jardine said. “And we’ve made some good money. Besides, if that darkie is either a prince or a Zulu, I’m the governor of Georgia. Don’t believe everything you hear, Caleb.”

“Fact is,” Caleb said, “he is going to fight
me
.”

“You?” Jardine asked incredulously. “What for?”

“Twenty-five dollars.” Caleb pulled the gold coins from his pocket and covertly showed them to Jardine.

“You didn’t ask me,” Jardine said accusingly.

“You weren’t here. Twenty-five dollars. That makes a hundred and thirty for the day. For just a few minutes in the ring.” He handed Jardine the coins.

“Well, I never,” said Jardine, but just then Hogan began shouting through the speaking trumpet from the platform. Standing behind him was a confident-looking Prince Zulu, stripped and ready to fight.

“And now, citizens,” Hogan shouted, “in our final event, Prince Zulu, middleweight champion of all South Africa, will challenge any local darkie to go three rounds for the handsome purse of one hundred dollars in purest gold coin of the realm. Winner takes all!” Hogan held up a small leather purse that clinked when he shook it.

Jardine was mouthing “one hundred dollars?” when Caleb begged him hurriedly, “Don’t bet on me, Master, whatever you do.” Jardine nodded his understanding.

By then, Hogan was peering out into the crowd looking for a challenger. “How about you, uncle?” he shouted to a middle-aged black man sweeping the porch of a local shop. The slave looked startled, dropped his broom, and dashed inside the shop while the white crowd hooted.

“Well, then,” Hogan demanded, “how about one of the brave warriors we saw fight earlier?” He shaded his eyes. “Where are they?” Finally, he pointed a stubby forefinger directly at Caleb, who was still sitting on the tailgate of the wagon. “You, boy! What’s your name?”

Caleb did his best to look startled. “Me, sir?” he cried. “Caleb, sir!”

“Well, Caleb,” Hogan said. “You’re some dandy fighter. How’d you like to make a hundred dollars for your master?”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you! Get up here!”

Caleb hesitated, looked at Jardine, and turned as if to go the opposite way. But the crowd between Jardine’s wagon and the platform began to take an interest.

“Get up there, boy,” cried an old man. Other voices picked up the theme.

“What’s the matter, Jardine? Your darkie chicken?”

“I’d fight him myself,” sneered a boy in a striped shirt, “only I’d get my hands dirty.”

Jardine held up his hand. “You got something to say to my slave, Jimmy Witherspoon?” he said derisively. “You say it to me. I’ll whip your ass.” The boy lost interest in Caleb.

Jardine looked up at Caleb on the wagon. “You want to fight, Caleb?” he asked.

“I’ll fight, Master.”

“All right then,” Jardine said. “Get on up there!”

The crowd made a wide corridor for Caleb to walk up to the platform.

“Knock his black head off, boy,” shouted a farmer with a red face.

“Kick his royal Zulu butt!”

“You can do it, Caleb.”

Hogan reached down and helped pull Caleb into the ring. Once he was on the platform, it was clear to the crowd that Caleb—a natural heavyweight who was well muscled by years of hard work—loomed over the compact form of Prince Zulu. Caleb recognized this fact, too. Seeming to gain confidence, he reached out a big hand and patted Prince Zulu on the head. As the crowd sniggered, the prince angrily knocked Caleb’s hand away and turned to walk to his corner. Getting in the spirit of things, Caleb sneaked along behind him, grabbed Zulu around the waist, and held him high above the platform like a struggling child.