Poe watched Figg’s bulldog face knot with the effort of sudden thought. “You are sayin’, squire, that all is not correct on our journey.”
At the far end of the car, the door opened and slammed shut loudly. Both men stood up, looked and saw nothing. They sat down. Poe’s gray eyes were almost closed. “Odd,” he whispered, fingering the cloak on his lap. “A locked door slams shut. Yet apparently no one enters or leaves. Odd.”
Figg started to say something and Poe hushed him. “Shhhhh. Silence, Mr. Figg.”
“’Ere now, ain’t nobody in ‘ere but you and me.”
Poe’s whisper was barely audible. “That is the question. Are we alone-”
The assassins struck.
Screaming, they leaped over the seats at Poe and Figg, two men dressed in the ragged clothes, burnt cork makeup and woolly wigs of black minstrels. Each assassin carried a straight razor. At the front end of the coach, the door crashed open and a third razor carrying minstrel ran down the aisle toward them.
Figg leaped from his seat, arms extended to grab the head of the minstrel nearest him and with both hands behind the man’s neck, Figg pulled with all his strength. The minstrel’s face smashed into the boxer’s shaven skull, The Liverpool Kiss. A fighting technique named for that English port city where those who entered its waterfront taverns left as either the lucky or the dead.
No time for Figg to open his black wooden box, to remove and cock a flintlock. Poe was down in the aisle, both hands pushing the woman’s cloak at the minstrel who slashed it once, twice, the razor glittering in the sun. Figg knew little Poe wouldn’t last very long flat on his back, what with another blackie running up the aisle with all the speed God gave him.
In one motion, Figg’s hands gripped the wooden box and swung it from the seat into the minstrel’s face, driving him back, down, away from Poe. The box flew from Figg’s grip. Damn it to bloody hell!
Now the man Figg had hit with the box blocked the aisle on his hands and knees, delaying the third man. Delaying, but not stopping him. He leaped over his fallen comrade and Figg backed away, swaying on the speeding train, seeing Poe crawl between the seats and disappear. Two down, one more to go.
Figg continued backing away, fingers tearing at the buttons of his frock coat and vest. He felt his belt buckle.
The third minstrel slashed at the boxer, who leaned back out of reach as the train took a sharp curve. Both men tumbled into the seats. Figg hit the floor, down between seats, smelling tobacco juice and urine, hearing the speeding wheels beneath him. The knife was in his hand and the roar of the rushing train filled his ears. He looked out into the aisle. Goddam Ethiopian was looking down at him, razor held high and ready to come down and draw blood.
Figg kicked out hard, driving the heel of his boot into the minstrel’s ankle. For you, blackie. Enjoy it.
The minstrel hopped back, teeth clenched against the pain, his black woolly wig now lopsided on his head. In the sun his real hair was bright red and there was white skin visible at the top of his blackened forehead.
Now he and Figg faced each other in the aisle, both men crouched, swaying with the motion of the train. Figg’s frock coat dangled from his left forearm like a bullfighter’s cape, hiding his right hand which held the small belt knife. Closer me darling and we will ‘ave our little dance, you and I.
Figg shuffled forward in small steps. Wouldn’t do to trip up now. The minstrel stayed in place. He was young, aggressive and the old man in front of him had gotten lucky with that kick. Just lucky. The minstrel attacked, slashing shoulder level with the razor, then backhanding the weapon at Figg’s face in almost the same motion. The train jerked, slowed, jerked, and the minstrel, leaning forward with his attack, was thrown off balance. He fell face down into the aisle.
Figg, falling backwards, grabbed for the edge of a seat with his coat-wrapped left hand. Got it! He gripped the seat edge, keeping his balance.
The minstrel was on his hands and knees when Figg kicked him in the head, sending him flying backwards and then Figg was on the minstrel, coat pressed down on his face, knee down on his razor arm and digging into the bicep. The knife stroke that cut the minstrel’s throat was smooth, deep; his feet jerked, his left hand came up to push Figg off, then it flopped back to the floor.
Crawling over the dead body, Figg grabbed the edge of a seat to pull himself to his feet.
Jesus wept!
Poe was almost done for. In front of Figg, the minstrel he’d hit with his pistol box was edging towards Poe who backed away along the aisle, arms outstretched. Where the bloody hell was Figg’s pistol box?
The speeding train rocked from side to side and Figg fought for his balance. No gun. Damn it all to hell. And the tiny knife lacked the balance for throwing. Too small, too light in the blade and handle. It was for close work and besides, who could throw anything on a train that moved like the engineer was in a hurry to get us all to hell in time for the devil’s supper.
Nothing to do but have a go. Figg charged down the aisle, wrapping his arms around the minstrel, pinning the man’s arms to his side, lifting him from the aisle. Then Figg slipped a hand between the man’s legs and the minstrel was overhead, squirming in panic.
Figg heaved him through a train window. The sound of shattering glass swallowed the minstrel’s screaming. Figg had only seconds to see the man disappear into a snow bank while the train sped on.
The boxer collapsed into a seat, chest heaving, eyes on the groaning minstrel he’d butted with his head. This one lay back on a seat, arm and leg dangling over the side, mouth opened because he couldn’t breathe through his crushed, bleeding nose.
Figg glanced at Poe who stood trembling in the aisle, clinging to a seat.
Figg snorted. “Thought these ‘ere blackfaced blokes was only supposed to sing and dance.”
Poe closed his eyes and waited for her nerves to calm down.
“Mr. Poe’sMr. Poe?”
He opened his eyes.
“Yer about to tear off a hunk of that nice seat cover. Yer knuckles is white.”
Quickly Poe released his grip on the seat. Violence. It drew him as a bird was drawn to a hypnotizing snake. But his love of it was disgusting. Why did he love it so? And there was the exhilaration of it, surpassing that of drugs and Poe had tried mind expanding substances on more than one occasion, suffering depressions at the conclusion of such an indulgence.
He’d wanted to embrace death, to end this life, but that was in the past. Now there was Rachel. His reason to live.
Figg was on his feet staring at him. Poe looked as though he were about to cough up all his insides. Got to get him talking, get him moving about.
“Jonathan ain’t the kind to give up, it seems.”
Poe shoved his trembling fists into the pockets of his overcoat. “Speak to the man lying there. That one in the aisle, he is-”
“No sense talkin’ to ’em. ‘E ain’t got much to say.”
Figg looked down at the groaning minstrel now trying to sit up from the seat. Blood mingled with-the burnt cork on the man’s face and the sight was not a pleasant one even to Figg, who had seen more than his share of gore. “Who sent you, mate?”
Behind Figg, Poe said, “The attack lacks Jonathan’s sorcery. These were paid hooligans, hired takers of life.”
Figg kicked the minstrel in the leg. The man flinched with pain and tried to back away in the seat. “I says to you mate, who’s yer keeper? Who called the tune for this little dance?”
Figg slipped into the seat opposite the frightened man. “Yer two friends is no longer with us. I can arrange for you to join them, if you wish.”