Black Ajax Read Free Page A

obligations of gentility. His nauseous lamentations are a mere confessional, for he is of that contemptible sort who find solace in pouring out their miserable secret fears.
    I see no immediate advantage to myself in his plight, but am moved to alter my resolve not to accompany him to the contest which will certainly prove his ruin. The spectacle of the gross Richard tormented by desperate hope, his grotesque antics as he sees, in the destruction of his vaunted “fightin' nigra” at the hands of the Black Ghost, the utter dissolution of fortune and reputation, his dawning despair as he contemplates the shame and degradation awaiting him, the loss of honour and, it may be, life itself – no, that is an entertainment that I shall assuredly not forgo. Indeed, it will afford me infinite pleasure, and some compensation for his boorish denial to me of that ravishing little octoroon, his pollution of my table appointments, and the affront to my senses of his repulsive company.
    My change of heart raises him from the abyss to raptures of gratitude, his pusillanimous nature finding comfort in a mere gesture of support, as though my presence at his debacle should somehow shield him from misfortune. He agrees readily to my suggestion that Mollybird should accompany us, which I assure him must inspire his champion. I do not add that her distress as her hero is thrashed to pulp will be as a sauce piquant to my enjoyment of the occasion.
    The fight is appointed for the following evening, in the garden of one of the larger exclusive brothels of the Vieux Carre, an establishment familiar to me from my youth, when debauchery was an occupation, not an art. All has been arranged to delight the popular taste, with coloured lanterns among the trees to light the raised stage; couches placed for the more favoured patrons with row upon row of chairs behind for the sporting fraternity, and benches for the untouchables; buffets from which wines and delicacies are conveyed to the foremost spectators; an orchestra on the balcony plays the primitive plantation rhythms; black and yellow strumpets in the most garish of costumes flaunt their uncovered bosoms in parade about the stage, or lounge on the couches with the patrons; the bawds, hovering like so many bedizened harpies, despatch their choicest trollops to the richest clients; runners pass among the great crowd giving the latest odds and collecting wagers for the leading gamesters, who are seated at tables before the front rank; and on the stage itself the dancers of the establishment, stalwart young bucks and nubile wenches stimulated by the intolerable din of the musicians, perform measures of the most tedious obscenity to cries of encouragement and advice from the vulgar herd. I am deafened by noise, poisoned by the reek of cigars, offended by recognition from mere acquaintances who presume to greet me as I take my seat on a couch, and disgusted by the raffish abandon of the occasion. I resign myself, bidding Ganymede fan the fumes from about my person, close my ears to the guffawing and cackling of the mob, and am consoled to see that Richard, seated by me, is distraught and of that mottled complexion which in the bucolic passes for pallor, while Mollybird, crouched at his feet, trembles with anxiety. I smile and pat her shoulder, and she shrinks enchantingly.
    Her fiance, our admired Tom, has the appearance of a beast in the abattoir, grey of feature and twitching his limbs as he listens to a smallnondescript who wears a brass earring and patters what I assume to be advice and instruction.
    “That Bill Spicer, an English sailor,” Richard informs me. “Knows all 'bout the Fancy, bin givin' Tom prime trainin', teachin' him the guards an' sech.” He says it without confidence, and as I regard M'sieur Spicer, I share his pessimism.
    A positive thunder from the musicians heralds the arrival of the Black Ghost, and,
ma foi
!, he is a spectacle, that one. He bounds to the stage like a hideous