Black Ajax. George Fraser MacDonald

       PROLOGUE Galway, Ireland, 1818

      The black man is dying, but neither he nor any of the other men in the barn suspects it. After all, he is quite young, and if the heavy negroid face is unhealthily puffy and badly scarred by old wounds which show oddly pale against the coarse dark skin, these are hardly fatal signs, and not unusual in his profession. He slumps, overweight and flabby, on a bench against the rough timber wall, a grimy blanket draped across his naked shoulders, an old hat on his woolly bullet head, and the hand holding a bottle of cheap spirits shakes visibly when he raises it to his lips, one of which has been split so deeply that it has healed into a permanent cleft running halfway to his chin. His arms are long and muscular, and though there are creases of fat overlapping his waistband, his sheer bulk gives an impression of formidable strength not yet quite gone to seed. His eyes are closed, and he is plainly tired, but not with a weariness that can be cured by rest; there may be no outward sign of deadly illness, but the pain in his kidneys and the ringing in his head are now continuous, and seem to him to be draining the spirit out of his big, hard-used body. A few years ago he was as famous in England as Napoleon; now he hardly remembers that time.

      Squatting in the straw, watching him anxiously and now and then addressing him in low voices to which he responds with a grunt or a nod, are two men in the crimson coats and yellow facings of the 77th Foot. They are not typical of the British Army, for they, too, are black. They have been drawn to the barn by fraternal sympathy with the dying man, a sentiment not shared by the only other person in view, a small, rat-like Cockney shabbily dressed in a worn tail-coat whose buttons are either tarnished or missing, stained pantaloons, and a beaver hat almost innocent of fur. He is the manager, for want of a better word, of the man on the bench, and is reflecting glumly that his protege is the very picture of a beaten-up, broken-down, drunken pug who could (bar his sable skin) serve as a model for all those other prize-ring cast-offs from whom the manager, in his time, has scraped a meagre dishonest living, parading them from one country fair to the next, shouting himself hoarse with lies about their past prowess, thrusting them into combat with a bellyful of beer to batter or be battered by the local bully, and passing round the hat afterwards. It may be a far cry from the Fives Court or Wimbledon Common, from the hundred-guinea purses and the twenty thousand pound side-bets, but it usually pays enough to keep manager and man in food and drink as far as the next village or market-town.

      Not that he expects much today, from the ragged, noisy crowd of yokels and urchins gathered about the makeshift roped square in the farmyard. Bleeding bumpkins, in the manager’s estimate, never seen a shilling in their lives, living on pepper, potatoes and water, slaves to Popish superstition, and content to sleep in sties with their animals, if they have any. His one hope is the local squireen, easily recognisable because he wears boots and sits in a dog-cart above the throng, passing the flask with his cronies and flipping a farthing to the ancient fiddler scraping out a jig tune; with luck the bucolic potentate will be good, if not for cash, at least for a leg of mutton and a bag of spuds, provided the fight is a good and bloody one.

      That depends, the manager is well aware, not so much on the local champion, a brawny, red-haired blacksmith who waits basking in the admiration of the gaping rustics, as on his own black fighter, whose behaviour this past month has been causing concern. Moody and withdrawn at the best of times, he has been going into long, trance-like silences, coming out of them only at the call of “Time!”, when he has instinctively come to scratch with his fists up, moving in a slow parody of that lightning dance-step which was once the wonder of the Fancy. Twice he has been so sluggish that the despairing Cockney has had to throw in the towel against opponents too unskilled or lacking the strength to knock him out; once, he has come unexpectedly alive and smashed an opponent into insensibility in a matter of seconds. His manager can only pray that today he will perform somewhere between those two extremes and give the spectators their money’s worth.

      Assuming, that is, that he can be got on his feet and led out to the yard, where the crowd is growing restive, the shrill Irish voices demanding a sight of the famous black, the legendary American hero whose feats once echoed even to this distant backwater, and who remains sprawled and apparently comatose on his bench in the dim interior of the barn. As the two soldiers and the cursing manager haul him upright he mutters a complaint of noises in his head; they demand, what noises?, but he cannot tell them. The manager becomes