Читать книгу The Doomington Wanderer - Louis Golding - Страница 5

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The hero of this tale is Tom Molyneux, a fighting negro who came roaring across the sea over a hundred years ago to make himself the champion of the world. He was a hero in the classic sense of the word, like Hippolytus, or Hamlet. He, too, had his tragic frailty; and against him, as against them, the stars were set in their courses. So there was no laurel wreath for the fuzzy hair of Tom Molyneux, who assuredly should have worn it, if ever fist hit hard enough and heart was stout enough to win the whole world’s crown.

It is far away and long ago that we first meet Black Tom of Virginia. The year is 1804, and the scene is in a low, long timber house in Richmond, Virginia, with great white pillars at its portico and the walls smothered with creepers. Light and noise splash out upon the dark lawn through the slats of the shutters. In the great sitting-room, round the enormous log-fire, the Bright Young People of Virginia society are gathered. Apple-jack is flowing in rivers, as it flows to this day.

No, of course, Tom Molyneux, the negro, is not there. He is away down country, for he is only a slave on the Molyneux estate. That was why, in fact, he took that grand name later on when he went to New York. He is only a slave, but his biceps are broad enough for twenty free men. He may be poking the eyes out of a potato at this moment, or poking out the eyes of some other young negro who’s dared to give him sauce. No, you don’t see him at the small house in Richmond, Virginia. But you hear all about him.

For his master, Algernon Molyneux, is very proud of him. The more apple-jack he drinks, the prouder he becomes. “Yes, begad!” cries Algernon Molyneux, “there isn’t a nigger in the South can stand up to my Tom! There isn’t a nigger with a face as ugly and a fist as powerful!”

“What’s that?” roars a young gentleman from Carolina. Peyton, his name is. His face is as scarlet as a cock’s comb. “What’s that? Have you ever heard tell of my nigger, Abe? My Abe doesn’t need his fist to knock your Tom down! He can do it with his breath—like this—poof!” And very rudely he blows his spirit-burdened breath into Algernon’s face.

Now Mr. Peyton’s father died not long ago. Mr. Peyton has inherited far more money than is good for him. He’s hardly been sober a moment since he earthed the poor old gentleman.

Algernon Molyneux’s cheek goes pale with anger. He screws up his fist as if he were himself his own fighting negro. But he catches sight of young Peyton’s head dithering on his neck. Why, the fellow’s stone-drunk!

“Pah!” snorts Algernon. “I said a nigger, not a kitten! I’ll put up any stake you like, Ted Peyton, that my nigger will knock yours into a sweet potato!”

Of course, Algernon wasn’t the whole of one hundred per cent sober, either, or he’d have thought twice about putting up any stake Ted Peyton liked—Ted Peyton who’d just inherited the largest estate in Carolina.

“Done!” cried young Peyton. “Do you hear that, everybody? Do you hear that?” He turned round fiercely towards Algernon Molyneux. “A hundred thousand dollars!” he bellowed, like a ship’s horn.

“Taken!” said Algernon casually, flicking away a speck of dust from his sleeve. He was so fiercely casual that his teeth bit through his lower lip. A hundred thousand dollars was quite a lot of money then. It is a fair sum now. Algernon was just sober enough to realise it was going to take a lot of finding. He knew his father wouldn’t put up the money. He’d have to go along to old Isaacs, the moneylender, just behind Charleston Quay.

If he lost, that is to say ... if he lost. By God, if Black Tom lost his money for him, he’d horsewhip him till he looked like a hank of ribbons. The ugly son of a gun with the lips like saucers! Then suddenly he had a vision of Tom in a cotton-field by the river. Two of the older negroes were creeping up to him where he stooped between the cotton-rows. It was clear they meant mischief. He knew that the other slaves in the plantation thought Tom an upstart, a cadger. They were jealous of the way Massa took him about all over the place.

So he drew rein on the opposite side of the river, and watched. A dry twig cracked when the two crawlers were within three or four feet of young Tom. He uncurled himself like a watch-spring suddenly released. One-two went his left fist and right fist against the jaws of the hulking brutes, each twice his size. Right and left they slid gently off their feet into the bushes. Tom went on with his work as if he’d just swiped two flies on a window-pane.

“At de throne, at de throne, at de throne of my Big White Brudder,”

sang Black Tom quietly. It was surprising that so sweet and small a voice could issue from lips so large and unsightly.

A hundred thousand dollars! A grand sum to win! Algernon thought of the racing-stables he would set up if he won it. He would build a cock-pit. He would import black pigs from Somerset, in England, and have the finest sties in all America.

Somerset! His heart dropped a beat or two. Somerset! It was in the county of Somerset that the city of Bristol was, or a part of it, and from the city of Bristol that the man Mason came, who had lately brought the boxing-booth down to the meadow by Dexter’s Mill. It was odd, coming back again so soon and so queerly to the thought of Mason, whom he had left in the flesh only a few hours ago.

Algernon’s scalp tingled. Yes, it was odd. He had been discussing Black Tom with Mason that very evening, after the last show-bout was over. Mason was a sailor and a prize-fighter. He had apparently slipped his ship a few months ago, and since then had been travelling the country with a boxing-booth, giving lessons to the swells and black eyes to any tough who’d put the mitts up against him. That very evening Algernon had strolled round before supper to see what was doing at the new booth. It was quite entertaining to let the sailor get going with his comic English accent. He’d been singing like a girl in love about Bristol, birthplace and capital of British prize-fighting, nursery of champions. Hadn’t the great Jem Belcher come from Bristol? Didn’t he himself come from Bristol, who would by rights be champion of England this very moment if something or other hadn’t happened that ...

Whatever that same thing was, Sailor Joe Mason didn’t like to think of it. He blushed and coughed and changed the subject. So Algernon Molyneux helped him out. He told him of Black Tom, his bodyguard, who lived on his father’s plantation, way down home. He told him of the two hulking crawlers he had laid flat as two yard-brooms, and of deeds still doughtier. Sailor Joe Mason got more and more excited. His eyes shone like a digger hearing tales about a new country all quilted with gold nuggets you could have for the scratching.

“My God!” cried Sailor Mason. “If what you say of him is true, bring him to my booth, sir! Will you, sir, will you? Give me the chance of putting him through the mill, the way we do it with our lads in Bristol. My God, sir, I’ll make a champion of him. I’ll make him champion of America, that I will!”

“Thank you,” Algernon had replied lightly. “He’s champion enough for me as he is, Mason. I don’t want to put ideas into his head!”

But was he champion enough for him now? Only a few hours had passed, and was he champion enough now? A hundred thousand dollars! It was a large sum to win. It was a larger sum to lose. Bravo, Sailor Mason! You’re the very man for me—and Tom. Teach him everything Bristol has to teach, Sailor Mason—and more. We’ll take no risks.

“Taken!” said Algernon Molyneux again, a little more loudly than before, holding out his tankard for another filling of apple-jack.

“Taken! Taken!” the crowd of young bucks murmured to each other, nervously, excitedly. A negro servant dropped the bottle he was pouring from. A gentleman dropped like a log under the table.

Algernon Molyneux made a quick calculation. He thought two months would get his lad into the pink of condition—if you could call it pink. One month wasn’t enough. In three months he’d get stale. Tom had a tendency to overdo things when he once got started.

“I suggest we sign articles in a day or two. I suggest the fight comes off two months from the signing of the articles!” stipulated Algernon.

Ted Peyton and one or two of his cronies wanted the fight to come off then and there. They started taking their own coats off, with the vague idea of taking a corner. But there were one or two difficulties in the way. For instance, the champions were about a hundred miles away from each other at that moment.

So it was fixed up. In two months from the signing of articles. The tension slackened.

“Fill up these darned glasses,” cried the host, “you lump of ebony mud!”

The glasses were filled again, toasts were drunk again. But the toasts they drank now were not to the trim ankles, the rose-pink cheeks, of the maidens of Virginia.

“To Abe!” went the toasts. “To Tom!” “I’ll take five to four on Tom!”

“Good night, all!” said Algernon Molyneux, and rose. He had more pressing business than to sit here swigging apple-jack till he fell under the table. No one noticed his going. The air struck fresh and sharp on his nostrils as he clattered cloppity-clop over the cobbles. Morning was coming up along the meadow by Dexter’s Mill.

Sailor Mason’s establishment consisted of a tent he boxed in and a caravan he slept in. He slept very soundly, to judge by the amount of time it took to wake him up.

“Are you there?” bellowed Algernon Molyneux. “Are you dead?” The half-door of the caravan nearly sprung its hinges under his pummelling fist. A latch slid shakily. A door creaked back. A huge face appeared, pale as a streak of dirty dough in the thin light.

“W-w-what’s the matter? Who-oo’s there?”

“Good God, man! Who d’you think I was? The police?”

The face withdrew itself into the gloom. “Go away! Go away!”

It was not at all the voice of a sailor-prize-fighter from Bristol town who should be champion of England if he had his rights.

“Come out, you sniffling Englishman! Come out! It’s Algernon Molyneux!”

The face reappeared. It wore a sick smile smacked on its cheeks like a plaster. “Of course it is, Mr. Molyneux! I recognised your voice at once! I’m coming! What can I be doing for you, Mr. Molyneux? Shall we take a run round the meadow, Mr. Molyneux, and have a bout after?”

“I’ve got no time to play about, Mason. You remember my nigger I was telling you about? Young Tom, my bodyguard?”

“Of course I do; yes, of course I do!” His voice was almost shrill with relief. “Yes, Mr. Molyneux?”

“I’ve fixed for him to meet a blackamoor named Abe two months from now. Abe’s the toughest nigger in all Carolina. The stakes are one hundred thousand dollars a side!”

“What?” roared Mason. All the stamina was back in his voice again.

“One hundred thousand dollars a side!” repeated Algernon coldly. “I want you to make a Bristol prize-fighter out of him. Teach him everything they ever knew in Bristol—Big Ben Brain and Hooper the Tinman; all those grand champions you were boasting about. If Tom wins, you’re a rich man!”

“Belly and brains!” roared Sailor Mason. “I’ll make him the master of Jem Belcher himself. S’elp me God, I will! You hear that, Mr. Molyneux?”

“I hear that!” said Algernon, pressing his hands against his ears.

“When do you want me to come?”

“We set out in two days! Get your things packed and stored!”