Black Ajax. George Fraser MacDonald
mercurial that is the sign of the trained boxer. I bid him put up his fists, and he comes on guard like a novice, his hands before his face and his head bowed, as though in fear. I whisper to my Ganymede to strike him suddenly on the face with a cane. He flinches, but his feet do not move. Bon appetit, M’sieu Black Ghost, I say to myself, here is your repast, a mere dull lump of black flesh. But out of regard for Richard I observe only that his teeth are good and his skin smooth, without blemish or scar.
“Say, nevah no welts on nigras o’ mine!” cries Richard. “’Fore Ah has ’em trimmed up we spreads a wet canvas on they backs, so the cowhide doan’ leave so much’s a mark. But Tom doan’ need no whip these days, do ye, Tom? No, suh, ’cos he’s ma fightin’ nigra, so gits the best o’ pamperin’ an’ vittles an’ wenches, ain’t that so, Tom?”
“Yes, mass’,” mumbles the black dolt, his head bowed.
“But you doan’ git no pleasurin’ yet awhiles, haw-haw – not till you done beat that ole Black Ghost into mush an’ broke him up so he nevah fight no mo’! Then yuh gits all the pleasurin’ you want – an’ if you trim him real good, maybe Ah lets you wed wi’ li’l Mollybird? How yuh like that, Tom?” And my Richard cuffs him in playful humour, at which Tom shuffles and grins.
“Like dat right well, mass’,” says he.
This astonishes me. “You permit your slaves to marry, then? My good Richard, why? They will breed as well without benefit of a sacrament which Le Bon Dieu never intended for such creatures. And consider, if you please, that to encourage sentiment of family among them is to sow discontent when they or their brood come to be sold apart, as may well happen.”
He puts out his great American lip. “Doan’ breed nigras for sale. Ma nigras mo’ like to family. Why, this boy Tom heah, he Tom Molineaux. He ma nigra, he bear ma name, take pride in bein’ a Molineaux. ’Sides, he an’ li’l Molly bin sweet on each other since they children, so’s fittin’ they should wed, now she’s full growed.” He cuffs the brute again. “You jes’ itchin’ for her, Tom, ain’t that so? Well, you whup the Black Ghost, an’ she’s yo’s, boy – in a real white dress, an’ Ah give her a locket fo’ a bride gift! Whut you think o’ that, now? Say, Lucie, you like ’em yaller, don’t ye! You gotta see her – hey, wheah that Mollybird?”
Knowing my Richard’s taste in African flesh, I look to see some voluptuous she-ape, but am enchanted when Mollybird comes tripping from the women’s cabins. She is perhaps fifteen, and of a delicacy to kindle the appetite of the most jaded, pale gold of skin and exquisitely slender, with dainty hands and feet, and great gazelle eyes in the face of a madonna. She approaches modestly, putting her hand into that of the boy Tom, and they smile on each other. And this fragile beauty is to be defiled by that hulking animal! An atrocity not to be contemplated.
“Ain’t she the sweetest li’l wench?” crows my vandal cousin. “She virgin, too. Now, Mollybird, make yo’ rev’rence to Messoor la Geeze, now!”
She makes her curtsey, and I see the fear start in her eyes when I beckon her so that I may caress her cheek. It is like silk to my fingers, and when I take a cachou from my comfit-box and place it tenderly between her lips that are like pink petals she trembles in the most delicious fashion. When I stroke her fine long hair and whisper in her ear what a pretty girl she is, and inquire of Richard what is her price, her terror is delightful.
“Why, Lucie, you ole dawg!” guffaws he. “Didn’t Ah say yuh liked ’em yaller? No, no, ma boy, she ain’t fo’ sale! She promised to Tom heah – why, if he was to lose Mollybird he’d mope an’ pine an’ likely die on me! That’s why I brung her f’m Virginny, to keep her close by him, fo’ his comfo’t. But not too close, hey, Tom? No honeymoonin’ ’til you lambasted that ole Black Ghost!”
One does not haggle in the presence of slaves, so I say no more and put the delectable child from my mind for the moment. At supper Richard is his gluttonous self, and insufferably boisterous in his cups, pressing me to change my mind and accompany him to the fight next day, and boasting with intolerable noise of the punishment his protege will visit on his opponent. I am courteously adamant in my refusal, which makes him sullen, and as the evening and his intoxication progress, I detect a change in my vainglorious cousin. He frowns, and falls silent from time to time, and scowls on his glass, and bites his nails – a cannibal at the table of de la Guise, but there it is.
Suddenly he explodes. “You know all ’bout boxin’ an’ fightin’ men! You seen ma boy Tom – he’s a prime figure, ain’t he? He smash this Black Ghost feller, fo’ sure, yuh reckon?”
I ask him, how am I to judge, who have seen neither fight, and he pours my Beaune down his uncomprehending throat. “That Black Ghost, he one killin’ nigra!” he mutters. “They tellin’ me he a reg’lar villain, got no mercy, beat the best fightin’ nigras on the Gulf! An’ Blenkinsop, whut owns him, they say he keep him caged up, in a cage with iron bars, an’ shackled to boot! Say he cain’t let him loose ’mong other nigras, even, for fear he tear ’em up in his rage! He ain’t human, they sayin’!”
“My dear Richard, none of them is human. Vocal animals, as the Romans said.”
His hand shakes as he fills his glass and soaks my table linen. “My boy Tom, he nevah bin beat! Why, he licked Matheson’s nigra, that’d beat ten men, beat him senseless in twenny-two minutes, yessir! Matheson’s nigra a real champeen, they say! Twenny-two minutes, an’ cudn’t git up to ma Tom!”
“Then why such anxiety?”
He licks his lips and drums his great fingers. “Black Ghost killed Matheson’s buck two weeks back. Bust his neck in his two hands like ’twas kindlin’. Fight didn’t last three minutes.”
I assure him that form is not to be judged by such comparisons, and for a moment his fears subside. To revive them, I inquire what odds are being laid on this monster, and the stem of his glass is snapped between his fingers. His mouth works and his voice is hoarse.
“Five to one on th’ Ghost,” says he. “That’s whut had me plungin’. Nevuh was sech odds! Ah cudn’t resist, Lucie, Ah tell yuh!” His face is glistening as he turns it to me, red and staring. “Ah backed ma Tom to th’ hilt!”
This becomes interesting. I inquire of figures, and he brims another glass and gulps: “Fifty-fi’ thousand dollahs!”
I wonder, not at the prodigious sum, but at the folly of wagering it on an insensate piece of black flesh against a fighter of formidable repute whom, it seems, he has never even seen. I remind him of his confidence, so freely expressed but a moment ago, and he groans.
“’Spose he lose! ’Spose he cain’t whup the Ghost! The bastard kilt four men a’ready! ’Spose he kill ma Tom!”
“Why, then, my Richard, your enchanting Mollybird will be inconsolable, and you, dear cousin, will have lost an indifferent slave and fifty-five thousand dollars. What then? Your fortune, to say nothing of your acres at Ampleforth, are sufficient to bear such a trifling loss, surely.”
“Triflin’!” bawls he, starting up. “Triflin’! Damn yuh, Ah ain’t got it!” And another priceless piece of Murano workmanship is reduced to shards. “Ah ain’t got hardly fifty-fi’ thousand cents! Ah’s ploughed, don’t ye unde’stan’, yuh frawg-eatin’ fool!” My gratification at this unexpected news is such that I overlook the disgraceful term of abuse. “Yuh think Ah’d wager a fortune Ah ain’t got if Ah wasn’t desp’rate?” To complete my disgust, he begins to weep, slumped in his chair, this pitiful article of Saxon blubber. “I tell yuh, Ah’s owin’ all aroun’, the bank, an’ the Jew lenders, an’ Amplefo’th bin plastered to hellangone fo’ yeahs, an’ that dam’ Gwend’line” – his wife, an impossible, gaudy female of ludicrous pretensions and no pedigree – “spendin’ like Ah had a private mint – an’ Ah’s burned to the socket, Lucie! Ah’s so far up Tick River Ah cain’t be seen, hardly!” He sinks his mutton head in his hands. “Tom’s gotta win –