Marc Olden: Poe must die

He broke down and sobbed.

Dickens watched helplessly, both hands now squeezing the tiny white china monkey. Hadn’t life already done enough to this man who had survived more than his share of brutality in the prize ring? And now it had taken what little family he had and placed them to rot somewhere in the earth. The Greeks are correct: Let no man count himself happy until he is dead. Jonathan. Let Figg find him and kill him.

At his desk, Dickens opened a drawer and pulled out two pale blue envelopes and a man’s black leather belt. In the hall, Timber Doodle stopped whining and now began to bark.

Dickens said, “I promised to help you. Are you certain I cannot offer you spirits or tea?”

“No sir. No stomach for it at the moment, thankin’ you.”

“Mr. Figg, you have buried three people you loved: a wife, a son, a father-in-law dead of grief. And yet you remain a most considerate gentleman. It is I who should thank you for allowing me to-”

“I have me downy moments, Mr. Dickens. Me moments of cunning, sir.”

“As do we all. But here, please take these.” He handed him the pair of envelopes and the belt.

Figg held the belt in both hands. It seemed slightly heavy as though there was some sort of metal under the black leather.

“There’s a fold inside,” said Dickens. “Open it.”

It was a money belt, its inside lined with gold sovereign coins.

Figg frowned, a sight most men would have found upsetting. He looked up at Dickens. “Sir, I cannot accept this. It is more money than I could every repay.”

“You can accept it, you shall accept it and you shall not pay me back.”

“This could do for your lad’s boxin’ lessons ‘til me dyin’ day.”

“Call this a payment, a very small one, on the lives of my two children whom you rescued without knowing who they were.”

“Sir, you don’t have to-”

“Mr. Figg, fortunately I am in the position of being able to do exactly as I choose, thanks to what some say is my materialistic ruthlessness. Now listen to me, for my voice is fast fading and soon I shall be as silent as these walls around us. I have been to America and you sir, have not. Advantage, mine. That rather crude, uncultured land has no currency. Imagine such a happenstance. No currency.”

Dickens began pacing the study, marching up and down in front of Figg, warming to the task of performing before an audience. “One barters or pays in gold. Oh, there is some paper currency, but it is neither respected nor highly prized. The national government, the governments of local cities, banks, railroads and private citizens, each, sir, issues its own paper funding. One need not be a seer to realize that such an overabundance of financial paper cannot retain excessive value.”

He clapped his hands together once, stopping in place. “Gold matters in the new world, dear friend, and you now are possessed of a tidy sum. I can well afford to share my good fortune for I have prospered far beyond my wildest dreams, far beyond my worth some would say. I am told and believe that no English author, nay, no author in any language, is as highly paid for his labors as I, for which I thank both providence and my own ability to drive a hard bargain. Publishers. They are the bloodsuckers of our day.

“Now Mr. Figg, you are in my house and I beg you to do me the courtesy of agreeing with me in this matter. The money is yours, I lay no further claim on it and I refuse to entertain the slightest contradiction from you as to whether or not you are going to accept it.”

Figg attempted to interrupt. ”I had planned to sell me academy. There’s a person what’s interested. Wants to turn it into a hokeypokey factory. That’s a popular sweet at the moment, sir. Americans call it ice cream.”

“Mr. Figg, you also planned to place yourself in the hands of the Jews, did you not?”

Figg nodded. He had talked to the money lenders.

“Keep your academy, Mr. Figg. And keep the sovereigns. They will allow you to travel to America and seek out this man who kills as easily as I sharpen a quill pen. I recommend you sail on Samuel Cunard’s steamer Britannia, which also was my conveyance to America. Forty guineas passage money, I believe.”

“I have got most of that, sir. Thanks to your generosity, I’ll have no trouble with the rest.”

“Good. The journey will take two weeks, possibly less if the sea is smooth. It’s a most swift passage, but it has its adventuresome moments. I remember the ship’s cook got drunk on my crossing. Captain had him beaten with the fire hose. And we played whist on a day when the sea was in utter turmoil. Had to put the tricks in our pockets.

“Well Mr. Figg, to the matter of these envelopes. One is a letter of introduction to Titus Bootham, an Englishman who is editor and publisher of a small newspaper for Britons living in New York. Call upon him for any assistance in my name. He will gladly extend himself.”

Dickens smiled at the ceiling. “The other letter. Ah, the other letter.” His throat was worse, the pain was strong but he had to talk now, for he was speaking of-

“Edgar Allan Poe. Remember that name, Mr. Figg, for you will find Mr. Poe one of the experiences of your lifetime. He is an American writer who is also poet, critic and very much an individual. I met him in Philadelphia during my tour of America six years ago. At that time, let me see, yes he was a journalist. Graham’s Magazine, I believe. Yes, Graham’s. Highly intelligent, supremely cultured, though I cannot in truth describe him as the most lovable man on God’s earth.”

“Poe, sir?” Figg narrowed his eyes.

“Poe. Little Mr. Poe and his black cape. His enemies, of whom he has more than a few and his friends, of whom he has but a few, have bestowed upon him the nickname ‘Tomahawk,’ in tribute to his sharp tongue and aggressive talent for cutting up one and all in print. He can be most murderous when writing of those whom he considers inferior in ability to himself, which I am given to understand is everybody. He is possessed of a rather magnified opinion of himself. He is bitter, he can be amusing and it is my opinion that he is a man of some literary worth.”

“Poe,” repeated Figg.

“He knows the underbelly of New York. Underworld, theater, those consumed by the new fad of spiritualism, which I believe to be utter nonsense. He is a man of darkness, our little Mr. Poe, but not like Jonathan. Poe’s darkness lies in his mind, in his soul and he has effectively placed it on the page. At least that is my opinion. He is far from being a prosperous man and he is bitter because of it.”

Dickens coughed. “He, I feel, best knows the haunts Jonathan will be drawn to. We have corresponded on occasion and I fear his health is none too good. His wife died a year ago and he still carries that pain. This letter will introduce you and I trust he will be of service.”

“Yes sir.” Figg had doubts about service from such a man as Mr. Poe, but Mr. Dickens was trying to help him, so the boxer remained respectful.

“One further matter, Mr. Figg. The belt. Can you get it around your waist?”

Figg stood up, taking off his black frock coat. The belt did surround his waist, barely. Dickens nodded in approval.

Figg said, “Seems a bit firm near the buckle, I would have to say.”

“It is indeed and not from the added coinage. You’ll notice you do not slip the end into the buckle as you do most belts. It fastens onto a catch on the inside, leaving the buckle free. Now do as I say. Grip the buckle, then press that outside stud. Yes. Now pull sharply, Mr. Figg.”

Figg did as he was told. The buckle came free and he now held a dagger in his hand. The blade was small, but it could kill.