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 have kept Poe from acting as his second. Poe was a man of his word, a man of strong loyalty. He’d proven that by the manner in which he had stuck by Rachel Coltman.
Figg looked across the ring at Hugh Larney, who sat with his arm around a pale Dearborn Lapham. The bloody bastard. Surrounded by his friends and him pretending to be as British as the Prime Minister. He’d never have dared to take the child unless certain that Poe would not interfere. Larney knew what had happened to Poe. Figg sensed it.
Thor was back in his corner, sitting on the knee of a second and the ring was more or less cleared. Umpires and timekeepers remained, continuing to discuss the last knockdown among themselves. “Round Mr. Figg!” announced one and the crowd booed, hissed, cheered.
By tradition seconds place one knee on the ground, with the other knee upraised for the fighter to rest on between rounds or while recovering from a knockdown. On Larney’s orders, Thor was taking his rest. Larney moved to stand behind Thor, a hand on his broad, sweaty shoulders, his lips close to the Negro’s ear. Both men smiled across the ring at Figg, who thought damn them. If they think I am to worry about what they say to one another, they got another think comin’. I could die here tonight but I’m dyin’ like a man. Like an Englishman. With pride.
“Time!”
Figg rose from Barnum’s knee, shuffled forward, both arms extended stiffly towards Thor. When both men reached the line drawn in the dirt cellar floor, the umpire yelled, “Commence fighting!”
Thor jabbed quickly with his left, his long reach making Figg lean backwards and, with Figg off-balance, Thor put his head down and charged, butting Figg in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and then the Negro had Figg’s arms pinned to his side, squeezing, threatening to break them.
He lifted Figg in the air and hurled him to the ground, throwing his own body after him, trying to crush Figg’s chest with his 250 pounds. Using instincts learned long ago, Figg rolled clear; Thor missed him by inches.
But Figg was hurt.
His arms ached, his chest felt on fire. The crowd roared and Figg struggled to get to his feet. He was on his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Two umpires and a timekeeper struggled to keep Thor from kicking him while he was down.
Behind a dazed, pained Figg, Bootham yelled, “Up Mr. Figg! Please get up, sir!”
Figg tried to push himself up and collapsed. He lay open mouthed on the ground and tasted dirt.
* * * *
With only four hours to midnight, Jonathan prepared to summon the spirit of Justin Coltman. He sprinkled salt and water, symbols of life, around Coltman’s coffin. Laertes, shuffling like a man almost dead, lit the two white candles, one at the head, the other at the foot of the coffin.
The incense-a combination of opium, hemlock, henbane, wood, saffron and mandrake-was burning in two wooden bowls. Soon Jonathan would wave eleven puffs of it to Qliphoth, the evil spirit of damnation. And there would be the use of the Athame, the ritual knife, to be held in both hands, point up and offered to the four powers in turn, east, south, west and at the north, he would stop.
To the candle burning at the north point of the magic circle, he would offer eleven more puffs of the incense, then touch the northern point of the circle eleven times with the ritual knife. North, the compass point sacred to devil worshippers.
The forces would gather at Jonathan’s command and he would charge and command the spirit of Justin Coltman through the power of Astoreth, Demon of Death and Lord of the Flies, of Loki, Qliphoth and Satan, all of whom would be ordered to return the body of Justin Coltman to this earth from whence it came.
It was then that Justin Coltman would speak to Jonathan, telling him where the grimoires could be found, the grimoires that would lead the magician to the Throne of Solomon.
Speak and tell me what I want to know.
Yes, there was the matter of the sacrifice, but that was easily taken care of. Asmodeus’ challenge had been a pitiful one, one simple to deal with. Jonathan had projected his mind to Rachel Coltman, giving her a strong reason for leaving her home immediately and coming to Jonathan.
Rachel Coltman was more drawn to Poe than she would admit and Jonathan, ruthlessly using that weakness, sent Poe’s image to her. He let her hear Poe’s voice. To Rachel’s mind, disturbed by her kidnapping by Hamlet Sproul and by the shock of learning that Paracelsus was indeed the murderous Jonathan, the projected image of Poe was quickly and easily accepted as the writer himself.