Black Gold (21 page)

***

Music from the party below drifted up to Anne's room. She was combing her hair in front of the mirror. After Georges left, she had changed to a soft rose woolen gown. Her cheeks were pale. The back of her head hurt where she had butted Roach. Her torn red gown lay strewn over a chair. Anger might come later. Now she felt cold, numb.

A soft knock on the door. She opened to Paul. He gazed at her, his brow lined with concern. “Are you well?”

“No serious damage. Just shock. Roach took me by surprise again.”

“Georges told me everything. Who would have imagined Roach would dare to attack you on the portico while a party was going on in the next room! Fortunately, Jeffery was looking after you. We owe him a big favor.” He took her hands, drew her near, and kissed her.

“Roach is toying with me, like a cat with a mouse,” murmured Anne tremulously and held him close. “I don't feel safe anywhere.”

“That's what he wants, but you made him pay for his pleasure. We shall find a way to stop him.”

“What do you make of his remark about Mary Campbell?”

“Poor girl!” He stroked Anne's hair. “If she were pushed, Critchley might have done it—he no longer has an alibi. In this instance, Roach might have spoken the truth. Who can say?”

Anne drew back. “If so, then, did Critchley act alone? Roach would appear involved somehow. How else would he know what happened?”

“Perhaps he found out from someone he has engaged to spy on Critchley.”

“William?”

“He's virtually Critchley's shadow.…But enough of that.” Paul embraced her again. “Let's talk about us.”

She pressed her head against his chest, heard his heart beat. Desire for him kindled in her body. His touch grew urgent.

Footsteps outside the door. Georges' familiar knock, then his voice. “Colonel, the Duke of Portland's expecting you in the dining room.”

“In a minute,” Paul shouted back, then muttered, “I'll strangle Georges one of these days.” His face grew taut with unrequited desire. “It's no use, Anne. I must leave.”

“Yet another time, another place?” She pouted for a moment, then smiled tenderly. “Just teasing, Paul. It can't be helped.” She returned to the mirror and picked up her comb.

He stood behind her, strong hands stroking her shoulders. “Do you feel fit enough to return to the party and watch Captain Fitzroy and Lady Margaret?”

She lowered the comb, her jaw set firmly. “Yes, I'll go downstairs in a few minutes and find them.”

“They're at the faro table in the drawing room.” Paul gazed at her fondly in the mirror and caressed her cheek. “After I've finished with the duke, I must see what's become of Jack Roach.” He leaned over, kissed her again, then left.

Anne stared at the mirror, her fingers feeling her cheek. Its color had returned. Paul had a healing touch. She listened to the sound of his steps fading away in the hall.

***

Anne found Lady Margaret still at the faro table, losing money but apparently enjoying herself. Fitzroy was not to be seen. He must have left Combe Park with his usual companions, Tarleton and Corbett. Anne was debating whether to stay in the drawing room, when a servant approached her with a message. Sir Harry wanted to see her in his study.

He was in fine fettle, sitting back in a large leather chair, a glass of port wine on the table by his side. His eyes were bright, his face florid. Clearly, he was exhilarated by the approaching contest. He rose to his feet as she entered, took her hand, and led her to the chair opposite his.

“A glass of port?” he asked with a smile.

Immediately on her guard, Anne wondered, what was he aiming at? But she replied politely, “No thank you.”

“I've been thinking,” he went on, settling back in his chair. He took a sip of his port. “I want Charlie to watch tomorrow's battle and learn about courage and manliness.”

Anne's heart sank. The boy would learn nothing of the kind. More likely, he'd be amused by the raucous crowd and excited by the brutality of the combat. True courage and manliness would be learned elsewhere.

Rogers put his glass to the side and leaned forward, meeting Anne's eye. “And you, as his tutor, shall accompany him and help him understand the sport.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but….”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You will claim that, as a woman, you can't be expected to stomach such a brutal sport. Rubbish! You may not grasp its finer points. Colonel Saint-Martin and other amateurs can help you there. But you
do
understand man to man combat. I've watched you. Lord Jeff's sparring with Sam fascinates you. Another woman would turn her face away. Your eyes follow every blow. You don't even flinch!”

Anne rose from her chair. Rogers' contempt for Charlie's feelings angered her. She was also disturbed by the insulting tenor of his remarks. “Our agreement,” she said levelly, “allows
me
to decide how I shall tutor your son. I want him to remain at home tomorrow.” She started toward the door.

In an instant, Rogers placed himself in her way. He seemed to have ignored what she had just said. Though he didn't raise his fists, yet he adopted in every other respect the posture of a bruiser—chest out, left foot forward, body tense. From his superior height he glared at Anne, a smirk on his face. “You are the ideal woman to train my son, to put steel in his backbone. You have experienced physical combat—and part of you must have enjoyed it. In Sadler's Wells, you beat Jack Roach to the floor with a chamber pot. Wonderful! I'm sorry I wasn't there to see it.”

Dear Harriet! Anne thought. What have you not told your Harry Rogers!

“Just two days ago,” he went on, “you wounded a pair of highwaymen on the Bristol road.” He raised his fists, huge as hams, and inched closer to her. His eyes narrowed and darkened. “If I were to attack now, you would fight like a she-tiger with fang and claw.”

The air in the room grew deathly still, as if he and she were awaiting a signal. Anne sensed Rogers was wound up tight, a steel spring at the point of snapping. A false move on her part and he might strike. Her heart pounding, she gathered her courage, gazed at him with a steady eye, and stood her ground.

After a few seconds, Rogers lowered his fists and stepped aside. “Charlie will attend the fight, with or without you.”

Anne hesitated a moment. Rogers' eyes had grown cold and distant. The boy's fate was determined. Further protest was pointless. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and said firmly, “I'll go, for Charlie's sake.”

Chapter 18

The Battle

Wednesday, April 4

Clouds scudded across an overcast sky as the coach left Combe Park, Peter Hyde driving and Georges at his side. Unpromising weather for the match, Anne thought. Rain seemed likely. She sighed at the prospect of a long, tedious journey, then an hour or more in a cold, soggy field, watching two big men batter one another, while thousands frantically placed bets on the outcome. But she had to go, never mind that she'd be the only woman in a crowd of raving madmen. Early this morning, Sir Harry had routed Charlie out of bed and ordered him to attend the fight. At risk of a beating, he had whimpered, pleaded to stay home but had yielded when told Anne would go with him.

The traffic out of Bath was a veritable exodus, as if every grown man were leaving the city. Coaches of all shapes and sizes rattled eastward on the road to Calne. Hoping to find a silver lining in the day's dark prospect, Anne stole a glance at Paul sitting opposite her. His eyes were bright with anticipation. The contest seemed to have captured his imagination.

She wasn't surprised. Curiosities of British life, like boxing, fascinated his inquiring spirit. This match took on special meaning for him because it involved Jeffery. Anne had noticed Paul taking a more personal interest in the footman and his dangerous passion for freedom. Yesterday, he had inquired about her meeting with Sarah Smith and the Quaker and said something must be done.

The coach left Somerset behind and rolled on eastward into the Wiltshire countryside. A pale sun thrust thin rays through dark bundled clouds. Halfway to the site, the sky cleared enough for Anne to enjoy fresh green pastures, pink and white apple blossoms, and wild flowers blooming in the hedges along the road. Charlie slumped in his seat next to Anne, listless and morose, taking no notice of the beauties of spring.

Anne nudged him and asked, “What's the matter?”

“Mother wouldn't see me this morning. Said she was sick.”

Sick indeed, Anne recalled. Lady Rogers had drunk far too much brandy last night and had to be carried to bed. To rally the boy, Anne reached into the bag at her feet and pulled out several
Punch and Judy
hand puppets. Charlie sat up, his interest piqued. Anne offered him a choice of the clown Scaramouche or Punch. To her surprise, the boy frowned, pointed to Punch, and said clearly, “Father.” Then he picked for himself the clown's dog Toby. Anne and Paul chose the remaining characters.

A ragged version of the play ensued. The boy became curiously absorbed in the story and oblivious to the players. It hadn't gone far when Anne realized he was acting out his resentment toward his father. When Punch beat his wife Joan, the dog Toby snarled, then bit Punch viciously and with relish, and hid from sight under the boy's coat. An odd expression of satisfaction came over his face. Anne exchanged worried glances with Paul. Charlie clearly recognized the discord between his parents and took his mother's part. His resentment toward his father was deeper than Anne had suspected.

This concern retreated to the back of Anne's mind as the coach drew near to Lord Bascombe's estate. They met excited countrymen on foot pouring through gaps in the hedges and down narrow lanes, swelling the flood toward the site of the match. Bailiffs at the estate's main gate collected a shilling per head. A day's wages for many of the men, Anne calculated, but they smiled as they paid it, eager for the spectacle, eager to bet more.

At eleven-thirty, the coach reached the edge of a wide natural bowl now rapidly filling with men. Anne gazed down a grassy slope to the abbey ruins, a large picturesque enclosure on a low rise of land at the base of the bowl. The boxing ring, a raised platform covered by a canvas, stood in what was once the transept of an immense church. Its fragmented vine-covered walls rose chest high in some places. The walls of the apse, pierced by empty Gothic windows, stood one full story. The sanctuary, once the most sacred place in the church, now served as a gambling venue, a scene of false good cheer among gentlemen placing bets. Often for large sums, she guessed. Her only previous experience of bare-knuckle fighting was in a village market place where brawny countrymen battled one another for a few shillings.

For a moment Anne closed her eyes, blotting out the present travesty of the place and encouraging her imagination to transform the ruins into an outdoor garden theater and the gentlemen into a cast of players. What a perfect setting for
A Midsummer Night's Dream
! She recalled those golden summers at Chateau Beaumont with her as Puck and her stepfather Antoine as Bottom.

A bailiff's shout brought her back into the present. He directed the coachman to the place Sir Harry had reserved in what had once been the church's choir. Black-robed monks had sung their ancient chants there. Spectators now perched awkwardly on the great stone bases of long-gone pillars. Vendors sold food and drink, and burly footmen and grooms kept the peace.

The passengers climbed down from the coach to stretch and look about. “Paul!” Anne exclaimed, venturing forth a few steps, “I never dreamed this would be such an enormous project. And, it's
illegal!
” The magistrates of Bath and many other cities had declared such contests to be disorderly assemblies and forbade them. This assembly seemed orderly enough.

“Lord Bascombe's the law on his own estate and an avid sportsman,” Paul explained. “I wonder about his financial interest in this match.”

Peter Hyde leaned over from the coachman's seat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I overheard Sir Harry this morning speaking to a sporting gentleman as they were about to leave Combe Park.”

Paul glanced up and smiled. “Peter, my good man, we would be grateful for whatever you can tell us.”

The man climbed nimbly down from his perch. Thick-set and middle-aged, he was still agile. His battered nose told Anne that he had been in the ring often in his younger days.

“Sir Harry don't mind me listening in. We often chat about famous pugilists I've known. And I've helped train Lord Jeff.”

“So what have you learned about today's match?” asked Paul.

Hyde glanced left and right conspiratorially. “Lord Bascombe's the real winner! Five thousand men have come to watch the mayhem and give up two thousand five hundred pounds for the privilege—most of it from the Quality. His Lordship will observe the bloody proceedings from his grand coach.” Hyde nodded to an open space near the ring. “It should arrive shortly and park there.”

His voice took on an ironic tone. “At the end he will count out two thousand pounds for himself, then hand two hundred to the winner and fifty to the loser. What's left will go to expenses. His Lordship has also bet on Lord Jeff and hopes to put several thousand more into his pockets.”

“There's much more money in this sport than I had ever imagined,” Paul remarked with a hint of awe in his voice.

“Yes indeed, sir! Gentlemen are coming from as far away as London and beyond. The cream of the sporting set will be here, except for the Prince of Wales, who had another engagement.” He pointed out a few coaches emblazoned with noble shields parked just beyond an outer ring surrounding the inner ring of combat.

Anne took her spyglass from her bag and surveyed the crowd. Within the outer ring, the timekeeper and the two umpires had gathered to confer. Vigilant guards, called whippers-out, kept the crowd from encroaching. Sir Harry, his face florid with excitement, was speaking with other backers and organizers near the ring. His archenemy, Captain Fitzroy, stood beyond the outer circle with Tarleton and Corbett, their gold epaulets shining in the sun. They had joined a group of fashionable young gentlemen drinking from silver flasks. Anne pointed them out to Paul.

He laughed. “If Jeff wins, Fitzroy will be a poor man.” He explained that last night, goaded by Sir Harry, the captain had risked the money he had carried out of France and bet it on Tom Futrell.

Shifting the spyglass, Anne saw Jack Roach slouched against a ruined column, his red coat hanging over his arm. A pair of hard-faced ruffians accompanied him. A few steps away lurked Dick Burton, unobtrusive in a plain gray suit.

Roach glanced at his watch, then whispered in the ear of one of his companions. Seconds later, bailiffs parted the crowd. Jeffery and his handlers made their entrance, passing in front of Roach. Anne focused her spyglass on the black man. He turned his head sharply to the left. Roach must have called his name. Anne switched quickly to Roach, who faced her and spoke full-mouthed. “You shall pay, black bugger!”

Jeffery stopped, stared at him for a moment without replying, then looked straight ahead and went on his way toward the ring.

“
How
shall Jeffery pay?” Anne asked Paul, then explained to him what she had seen.

“Certainly sounds like retaliation for humiliating Roach on the portico. I guess Roach must have uncovered Jeff's secret dealings with the Abolitionists and threatens to expose him.”

At that moment, Futrell and his handlers made their appearance. Paul asked the coachman for his opinion of Jeffery's opponent.

“He's a champion pugilist, comes from Birmingham,” Hyde began, pleased to have been asked. He went on to describe Futrell. He had won over a dozen matches. His brute strength was legendary. “Look at the size of him,” exclaimed the coachman, pointing to the bruiser, now stripped to the waist. He stood on the far side of the ring, barrel-chested, towering over the small circle of his handlers. Two of them were experienced pugilists, to judge from their battered looks. “Will Ward and Richard Humphries,” said the coachman, who claimed to know them both.

Jeffery stood at the ringside closest to the coach in a similar circle of men. Hyde identified one of them as Dan Mendoza, a Jew and a very clever fighter, who had given Jeff some helpful lessons. Mendoza left the circle and tied a crimson scarf, Jeffery's colors, to the nearest corner post. On the opposite post hung Futrell's black scarf.

As noon approached, a fanfare of trumpets sounded. Jeffery and his opponent climbed into the ring. The murmur of the crowd grew to a roar. Charlie gaped at the boxers. When the umpires beckoned them to the center of the ring, Charlie turned anxiously to Anne and asked, “Will Jeff get hurt?”

“I hope not,” she replied, concealing her fears from him. Boxers sometimes maimed or even killed one another in these contests. Taking the boy's hand, she led him back into the coach and settled down to watch the match from the windows. Paul and Georges stood outside. The coachman resumed his perch in the driver's seat.

Anne expected the brutality of the contest to offend her, but she must watch it to know how well Jeffery would do. After the fight, she would report the results to Sarah Smith in case Jeffery could not visit her. The two fighters stood a yard apart, poised for battle. The crowd taunted them, goaded them to destroy each other. Her concern for Jeffery grew. A dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

***

At the umpires' signal, Jeff had stridden up to the scratch line and faced his opponent. The roar of the crowd seemed to fade away. For a few moments, Jeff stood alone with his thoughts. He trembled with wonder and amazement. How strange a path he had taken to this point in his life: from his family's home in Africa to a sugar plantation in Jamaica, then to a great house in Britain. Finally, today, he had come to this match, Lord Jeff, the center of a great spectacle. Thousands of men were staring at him, betting for or against him.

What an opportunity! If he could defeat Futrell, he would gain great honor in the eyes of the powerful men of this country. Even the Prince of Wales would hear of him. How could Sir Harry then keep him in slavery? By God, this was something worth fighting for, even to the death.

He and his opponent were fairly matched. Both men stood over six feet. Futrell was half a head taller, heavier, thicker in the body, but his weight was beginning to turn to fat. Jeff's body was lean, muscular; his arms longer.

His opponent stared at him, head tilted in a gesture of curiosity and contempt. Jeff felt tense but confident. He glanced at his handler. Mendoza smiled and shook his fist. An umpire shouted. The fight began.

In the early rounds, Jeff avoided close combat. He jabbed at his opponent's eyes, parried or dodged his blows, and evaded his attempts to grapple. The champion grew more and more aggressive. The crowd hooted and hissed at Jeff, clamoring for bone-shattering, flesh-ripping punches.

Jeff's confidence grew as he sensed Futrell had not trained well, expecting this to be an easy fight. Jeff's evasive tactics exasperated and tired him. Finally, in a wild rush at his opponent, the champion lowered his guard. Jeff danced nimbly to the side, avoiding the man's grasp, then counterattacked with rapid left jabs that virtually closed Futrell's eyes.

In the meantime, the sky had darkened, thunder rumbled, and a thick cloud drifted in from the west. For a few minutes, it released a heavy shower of rain over the area. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeff could see umbrellas popping open among the spectators, but he refused to be distracted and launched a barrage of blows with both hands to Futrell's head and body.

The champion charged again, arms flailing wildly. Jeff attempted to dodge but slipped on the wet surface. Down he went, tripping his opponent, who fell heavily on Jeff's left arm. He wrenched free and scrambled to his feet, but his arm throbbed with pain.

Though the crowd howled in protest, the umpires stopped the fight. Futrell backed off to one side, scowling. Mendoza rushed out of Jeff's corner and examined his arm. Broken near the wrist. Mendoza looked up at Jeff and asked if he shouldn't quit. He risked ruining the arm for life. Jeff shook his head, having scarcely heard his handler's words. The fight was but half over. He
would
win, regardless of the cost.

***

During the match, Georges had slipped away from the coach and mingled in the crowd. When Jeff fell, a fever of activity had broken out. Betters frantically clustered and exchanged chits. Georges joined Dick Burton. A short distance away, Jack Roach was strutting about, proud as a rooster, hurling loud insults at Jeff.