They’d seen a fight.
Back in his corner, Figg, surrounded by cheering Englishmen, Barnum, Bootham and Merlin, breathed deeply through his open mouth. His face was bloodied, swollen, as were both fists. His back was to Thor, now being dragged back to his corner by his seconds. Figg knew there would be no more fight tonight.
There wasn’t.
“Time!” The timekeeper could barely be heard above the cheering, yelling crowd.
“Time!”
Thor’s seconds frantically worked on reviving him. But the Negro was unconscious, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.
And now the ring was filled with men, almost all of them English, desperate to be a part of Figg’s victory, to touch him, speak to him, listen to him. There would be no raising of Figg’s hand in victory by an umpire. The umpire couldn’t get through the crowd.
As men fought to be near him, Figg pushed his way to Barnum, and when he was close to the showman, Figg whispered in his ear. A jubilant Barnum nodded vigorously. “It will be done, Mr. Figg, exactly as you asked. You have my word on it.”
Barnum looked down. “Merlin? You have work to do.” A delighted Barnum picked up the dwarf in his arms and kissed him on the cheek.
The Englishmen picked up Figg and carried him triumphantly from the ring.
FORTY-FIVE
In the abandoned barn, a proud and arrogant Jonathan spoke to the freezing winds raging around him. “Soon, the woman will be here.”
“Sacrifice her,” replied Asmodeus, “and you are forever free from me.”
Jonathan, eyes closed, spoke to the demon king with this thoughts. “But you will never be free from me. Never. You will serve me as I wish. You will serve me forever, for soon I shall hold dominion over you.”
The howling winds suddenly disappeared. He fears me, thought Jonathan. He fears me.
Jonathan remained seated, eyes closed. He waited. It was less than three hours to midnight on the ninth and final day.
* * * *
Holding Dearborn’s hand tightly, a nervous and bitter Hugh Larney hurried from the doctor’s small clapboard house and rushed down the stairs towards his carriage. Thor was still bleeding from the nose and mouth and he couldn’t talk. That last punch in the throat had crushed something and Larney didn’t know or care what it was. Let the doctor worry about it. Larney was concerned with Figg. The Englishman was alive and the smartest thing Larney could do was flee to his small farmhouse and hide there.
Figg. Damn him, damn him, damn him! He’d cost Larney $100,000 and the best prizefighter in New York; Thor would never be the same man again, no matter what the doctor did for him. And what bothered Larney more than anything else was the loss of prestige, to have this defeat occur in front of his friends.
Jonathan had been correct. Beware Poe and Figg. Well, little Poe was no longer a bother to anyone, not where he was at the moment. Lying in a coffin, in an unmarked grave, perhaps still drugged by wine, perhaps screaming and begging to be let out. Perhaps dead from fright by now. He deserved it, the snivelling little bastard. Larney was not going to be humiliated by the likes of a shabby, dirt poor writer who lacked even the money to bet on the man who was taking his place in the prize ring. Larney had money, position. Poe had none of these things, so why should he be proud? He had nothing to be proud of. Let him now be proud in his coffin let him parade and boast in front of the worms who would soon be drilling holes in his sallow flesh.
Larney had left two men with Thor, to bring the Negro back to the farm when the doctor said he could travel. Jacob Cribb was waiting in Larney’s carriage to drive him out of Manhattan, away from Figg. It would be wise to get as far away from Figg as possible.
At the carriage, Larney lifted Dearborn up, then climbed inside himself.
His jaw dropped.
Figg, in the seat across from him, rasped, “I’m here to get yer congratulations, Mr. Larney. You left without sayin’ ’well don, Mr. Figg.’ ”
Larney looked at the horrible dwarf who stood on the seat beside Figg, a flintlock aimed up at the back of Jacob Cribb, who sat outside on the driver’s seat.
“How, how did you-?”
“Find you, Mr. Larney? Little Merlin ‘ere, ‘im and another one of Mr. Barnum’s friends followed you and one of ’em comes back and tells me. Little fella like ‘im must be hard to see at night.”
Figg leaned forward. “And now you are goin’ to tell me, mate. Where is Mr. Poe and where is Jonathan?”
“I do not-”
Figg leaned over and backhanded a slap in his face. Larney fell to the side and lay there, whimpering.
Dearborn said softly, “They took Mr. Poe to the cemetery and left him there.”
Figg grabbed Larney’s hair, jerking him upright again. “If Poe is dead, you will lie beside him, me promise on that. Merlin!”
The dwarf jammed Figg’s flintlock into Jacob Cribb’s back. The carriage jerked forward, pulling away into the night.
* * * *
“Sweet Jesus,” muttered Figg.
He, Dearborn and Merlin stood beside the open grave as a disheveled, dirt-covered Hugh Larney and Jacob Cribb, pulled the cover from the coffin with bloodied hands.
Poe lay curled on his side. He didn’t move.
“Take ‘im out you two and pray to God ‘e ain’t dead, ‘cause if ‘e is, then you two will be as well.”
Larney and Cribb supported Poe between them. Was he breathing? Figg watched him carefully. Poe’s head snapped up and his eyes widened in his pale face. There was dirt on his wide forehead and on his mustache.
Figg grinned. “Evenin’ squire.”
“Mr., Mr. Figg. You, you do not look well, sir.”
“You ain’t no ‘angin’ tapestry yerself. Glad to see you, I am.”
“And I you, sir. And I you.”
“Little Miss Dearborn ‘ere, she tells me she saw you twice tonight. Sees you drive off with Miss Rachel, and quick after that she sees you tied up in Mr. Larney’s carriage. She is the one what told me you were ’ere in this awful place.”
“The-the duel, Mr. Figg. Did you-”
“We were victorious, Mr. Poe.”
Poe’s smile was weak. “I am delighted, sir. I am extremely delighted and pleased beyond measure.”
Pushing himself clear of Larney and Cribb, Poe staggered forward, found his balance and straightened up. “Wine, that bane of my existence, in essence saved me, for through its drugged mercies, I slept much more than I screamed and clawed at the coffin lid. Even now, I am not entirely in control of my mental faculties, but soon I shall be. Soon. I never imagined myself as ever being grateful to alcohol, but it was that which gave me welcomed sleep. Welcomed sleep.”
Poe stepped towards Figg. “You say I drove away with Mrs. Coltman?”
“That’s right.”
“I most certainly did not. I have not seen her in two days, having spent my time securing intelligence regarding the property owned by Mr. Larney. It is for that reason that I feel I know where Jonathan is.”
Figg held his breath. “We gots barely two hours before-”
“I know, Mr. Figg. I know.”
“One thing, squire. If it was not you what drove off with Miss Rachel tonight, then ’oo was it?”
Fear descended on Poe. ‘I am terrified, Mr. Figg. Not for myself but for Mrs. Coltman. Only one man has the power to create such forceful illusions, for it was not I who took her tonight. It was Jonathan. Even though he cannot leave the site of his evil ritual, somehow he managed to convince her that it was I who was beside her and so she succumbed to his illusion. Mr. Figg let us leave this place. We shall need fast horses, for we ride to the country, to the north of the city, to a certain abandoned horse farm-”
“No!” Larney took a step forward, then stopped. “I mean-”