Poe must die

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