POE MUST DIE (47 page)

And men bear their pain in quiet forests and on secluded farmland.

There was a light tapping at a tiny cellar window. An English voice shouted, “Hello in there! You are our man, Pierce James Figg! Our money is on you! A cheer for Figg. Hip, hip hooray! Hip, hip hooray! Hip, hip hooray!”

An unimpressed Figg looked towards the sound. “Like to kick them all in the bleedin’ arse with a pair of hobnail boots, I would. Bet Mr. Bootham’s neighbors got their own thoughts on all this ’ere noise what’s going’ on.”

Poe took a bloodstained handkerchief from his greatcoat pocket and coughed into it. It was the lavender handkerchief given him by Figg.

“I shall give your regards to Rachel and to the child, Dearborn. She is a delightful creature, little Dearborn. So much like my Sissy.”

“Make sure you eats some decent grub. You looks like a horse sat on you.”

Poe smiled. “I dare say I do not resemble a dashing beau. My gratitude for the use of your room at the boarding house. With my perennially impaired financial position—”

“It’s yers, mate. Rent has been paid fer two weeks. If I get meself kilt by the blackamoor, you got a place to mourn. If, if somethin’ like that does ’appen, there are some private things in me carpetbag, a ring that belonged to me wife, a tiny paintin’ of her and Will. There is a family bible and—”

Poe swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I shall see that they are buried with you, Mr. Figg.”

“Thankin’ you muchly. Now please leave me be. There are some things in me mind and it’s bein’ alone that will ’elp me deal with ’em.”

Poe looked at the sweating, naked man. Scars on the outside of him, scars on the inside. And like all warriors, the day he had long dreaded had come to Figg, the day when he doubted if his fighting skills were enough to keep him alive.

Poe was halfway up the stairs when he stopped and turned. “Thus thou shalt possess the glory of the whole world; and all darkness will flee from you.”

Figg had stepped back into darkness. “Sounds like the bible.”

“No. It is from an ancient occult inscription which some claim was discovered by Sara, wife of Abraham and others say was found in a cave by Alexander the Great. Medieval students were quite fond of quoting it, though the entire inscription runs much longer.”

“Sounds pleasant. I appreciates you sayin’ it to me.”

“With all my heart, dear friend. I say it to you with all my heart.”

“You ain’t startin’ to believe any of this, this ‘old religion,’ are you, Mr. Poe?”

“Be it as your faith, Mr. Figg. So Christ said to one who came to him for a miracle. May your faith in whatever you believe be strong enough to bring you victory.”

Silence.

Poe turned and continued up the stairs.

FORTY-FOUR

J
ONATHAN
. S
UNDOWN OF THE
N
INTH
D
AY

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.