A Journeyman to Grief (28 page)

“Gentlemen, your attention, please,” called out the referee. “We are about to begin. Now, I shall remind you in case there are virgins here that this match will be run under the old rules.” He shouted out the last two words and a roar of pleasure came from most of the spectators. Murdoch thought they were already acting as a mob, cheering or booing all together. Christopher held up his hands for silence. “I haven’t finished yet. There will be thirty seconds between rounds; a drop will end the round and the fighter must go, or be taken, to his own corner. At the sound of the bell he must come up to the scratch line immediately or he will forfeit the fight. The winner will be determined by a knockout or by one of the boxers being unable to continue. In which case, his second must so indicate by throwing in his towel. Are we clear?”

“Yes! Get on with it! Stop blathering!” yelled a number of voices.

“There is one more thing before we let these men at each other, and they will be at each other, I promise you. This is a grudge match of unprecedented ferocity. The Chopper has defeated the African once and the African has in turn defeated the Chopper –”

“We know all that,” shouted one man.

The referee scowled. “I should remind you that this boxing match is under my authority just as much as a courtroom is under the authority of the judge. I will not tolerate any brawling or any interfering with the fighters. That is why we have my capable constables.”

He indicated the men who were patrolling the space in front of the spectators, and they all slapped their whips into their hands.

“I should also remind you I do not want to see any wagering going on. As we all know, Her Majesty’s government has declared prize fighting and wagering to be illegal. And far be it for us to break the law. Right, gentlemen?”

A chorus of “Rights!” came from the crowd.

“Besides, you never know if there are narks among us. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Murdoch felt his heart jump a beat. Had Musgrave laid a trap for him? The cabbie must have noticed.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Murdoch, nobody knows you’re here, but there might be more than one of your previous nabs among this lot so you should keep muffled up.”

Christopher continued. “So, we’re all understood then? I don’t want to see no money changing hands.” He paused, “Mind you, I am unfortunately blind in one eye like the Great Admiral himself.” He pointed to his right eye. “I don’t always see what is going on.”

There was a roar of laughter from the crowd. He turned to the Chopper. “Ready?”

The fighter nodded.

Then to Green. “You?”

Lincoln waved his fist in the air in assent.

“Seconds, ready? Timekeeper ready.” The referee’s voice was as strong and hoarse as a carnival barker’s. “Gentlemen, let us begin. Come to the scratch line, if you please.”

The flat-nosed timekeeper clanged the bell. The Chopper threw off the blanket that his handler had put around his shoulders and walked to the centre of the ring to take up his position, standing slightly sideways, his right leg foremost, left arm extended, right arm across his chest.

On the other side of the scratch line, Lincoln took the same stance. The two men began to circle each other. Green attacked first, throwing three jabs in rapid succession, then a hard swing to the side of the Chopper’s head. He caught him high on his nose and a spurt of blood flew out. The Chopper fell to the ground.

“First blood to the African,” called Charlesworth. The timekeeper rang his bell.

“A fall,” cried Elijah. He was echoed by some of Lincoln’s supporters, but a rumble of disapproval came from the crowd.

Charlesworth scowled. “That wasn’t a fall, he backed off and slipped on the grass.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Musgrave. “He’s looks a bit wobbly to me.”

The Chopper’s two handlers were out in a flash and hauled him up and took him to the corner. He sat down while the second flapped a towel in front of his face.

The timekeeper rang his bell and both men jumped up. The next blooding went to the Chopper, who gave Lincoln a stinging blow to his eye.

“One on the peeper,” called out Charlesworth.

Musgrave brought his head closer to Murdoch and started to whisper in his ear, “You know that quarrel I told you about? The one between Mr. Cooke and Elijah? I didn’t tell you everything…didn’t seem up to me. But I did hear more than I let on. Cooke wanted Green to make his brother take a drop and Elijah wouldn’t hear of it. He’s been grooming Linc for months now to be a champion.”

“I see.”

The cabbie’s hot breath was on Murdoch’s ear. “He was a fighter himself not so long ago. I saw him fight. He’s got the killer instinct, if ever I saw it. They both do.”

As if on cue, Lincoln stepped toward his opponent, forcing him into the ropes, and with a powerful swing caught him on the side of the neck. The Chopper staggered away and Lincoln followed, aiming jab after jab at the other man’s torso, which was already showing ugly blotches. It was impossible to tell how much bruising Lincoln was receiving, but his left eyebrow was trickling with blood. The flurry had got the crowd excited, but the Chopper was strong and he suddenly retaliated, throwing vicious punches, landing most of them. Lincoln’s face began to puff up on one side, distorting it.

Murdoch scanned the crowd. The spectators were in deep shadow, but he could see there were five or six negroes standing silently together near the barn on the north side of the field. There was something in their stillness that spoke more than if they had been shouting like the rest of the crowd. From where he stood, he thought they were young. None was particularly small of stature.

“He’s down!” the spectators gave vent as one voice.

The Chopper had managed to grab Lincoln by the throat with one hand while landing two hard jabs to the side of his head with the other. Finally, the Chopper released a huge swing and Lincoln fell to the ground, where he lay writhing.

A loud “Get up” burst from Mrs. Cooke. Elijah and the other second were in the ring helping Lincoln to his feet. They half-dragged him to the corner, sat him on the second’s knee, and Elijah dumped a bucket of water over him, then sponged away the blood that was pouring down his face.

The bell clanged and the crowd quieted down. Both men came out slowly, but Lincoln pounced first.

“One to the snorter, the ruby flows,” said Charlesworth as he scribbled frantically in his notebook. “Oh, the African has got this round easy. The Chopper is staggering.”

Staggering he might be, but the round continued for almost thirty minutes, neither man giving quarter until the Chopper took a fall and the two men walked wearily to their corners.

The next two rounds were shorter, the Chopper taking both falls. It was now obvious that both men had taken dreadful punishment. Their hands were swollen and Lincoln’s right arm seemed almost useless.

“He could have broken it on that last parry,” said Charlesworth.

Round five had hardly begun when the Chopper threw out a swing, all the weight of his body behind it. He caught Lincoln high on the temple and he dropped like a felled ox and lay unmoving. The crowd was shrieking and calling at him, but Elijah and both seconds had to pull him by his feet to the corner.

“He’s done,” said the reporter, and Murdoch had to agree. Lincoln could hardly sit on his second’s knee. His brother was holding him upright. One of his eyes was completely closed, the other almost so. The bell rang to mark the end of the round, and the Chopper advanced to the scratch line and took up his stance. Lincoln struggled to his feet, took one step forward, waving his arms in front of him as if trying to find his opponent. He staggered backward and leaned against the ropes, panting and spitting blood.

“Mr. Green,” called the referee, “is your man up to scratch or not?”

Elijah spoke urgently to his brother, who shook his head and feebly pushed him away. He tried again to get to the line, but he was swaying too much. The Chopper walked toward him, his clenched fist at the ready, but before he could go any farther,
Elijah grabbed the towel from the ropes and threw it down. They had forfeited the fight. The spectators began to shout, a mixture of cheers and catcalls. Murdoch could hear cries of “coward, cheaters.” They wanted the fight to continue. The mood was ugly, and Murdoch felt alarm for the Green brothers and their entourage. All together, the fight had lasted about an hour and ten minutes. Not long enough, obviously.

“Damnation,” said Charlesworth. “There goes my five dollars.”

An ill-kempt, odorous man standing next to him said angrily, “That bloody darkie’s a Miss Molly if you ask me. He didn’t hardly put up a fight at all.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Murdoch. “He caught a good one from the Chopper. You could stop a train with a blow like that.”

Another man beside him chimed in. “That’s all right by me. I had a wager on the Chopper to win. Mind you, a scrap that don’t last ain’t worth a candle if you ask me.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to bet. Didn’t the referee say it’s against the law?” said Murdoch.

The man released a spurt of tobacco on the grass. “I don’t give a fart about that. I just hope my tout is going to pay up promptly. Everybody was betting against the African so he’ll have to shell out a lot of dosh.”

Musgrave tapped Murdoch on the arm. “I’ve got to have a quick chin with a pal of mine, I’ll be right back. Excuse me, Mrs. Cooke, I’ll escort you back to the carriage first. You have been a complete soldier, if I may put it that way, a complete soldier, but the situation might not be safe.”

“Not at all.”

To her credit, Mrs. Cooke didn’t even pretend to be of a delicate sensibility. She had enjoyed herself.

Murdoch could see two men shoving at each other on the far side of the ring. Around them, angry men were waving their fists. It wouldn’t take much to turn the whole event into a full-scale riot, he thought. Charlesworth had vanished into the fray. The Green brothers had left the ring, and Murdoch could see them forcing their way through the crowd toward the barn. Lincoln was still unsteady on his feet and the cloth he was holding to his eye was soaked with blood. The knot of negro men Murdoch had noticed earlier also shoved through and he saw them all disappear into the barn. The Chopper was submerged in a sea of well-wishers but he, too, looked groggy.

“Mr. Murdoch, I’ve changed my mind,” said Mrs. Cooke. “I need time to consider what to do about Green. We can’t throw out an unjustified accusation. I would prefer you didn’t charge him at the moment.”

“I’m not officially on duty, ma’am, and I’d be insane to try to make an arrest for illicit gambling in this crowd, and as for stealing one of your horses and a carriage, I don’t have any evidence at the moment. I will go and have a word with Green, however. Please don’t wait for me, ma’am. I’ll find my own way back.”

“Very well. Come and see me tomorrow and we can discuss how to proceed. No sense in being hasty, is there? We must forgive those who trespass against us, after all.”

She was singing a different tune now. Whatever had caused her to change her mind and had given her such a lively air, Murdoch suspected had little to do with Christian charity.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN

A
s he pushed through the crowd, Murdoch had to sidestep a man who had lifted a boy, presumably his son, onto his shoulders. The lad could have been no more than seven or eight and his face was alive with excitement as he swung his fists in mock battle, his father urging him on. Murdoch had a sudden memory of his own father taking him to see a prize fight when he was about eleven. It was a paltry affair compared with this one and took place in a local farmer’s field. Even to a young boy’s eyes, the two fighters seemed ridiculously mismatched, one of them a strapping blacksmith’s apprentice, the other a flabby, older man who had once been a champion. Harry had got them a place close to the ring, no beaters needed at this match. The ex-champion was canny and seasoned and at first that stood him in good stead, but after less than half an hour, the younger man’s better conditioning began to show. He landed blow after blow on his opponent’s face, closing both his eyes and causing his lips to puff out to twice their size. One blow landed
square on the older man’s nose and as his head jerked backward, the blood spattered over young Will’s shoulders. Harry had laughed. “Got baptized, did you, son?” Murdoch couldn’t bear to let his father see how close he was to retching and he wiped off the blood as stoically as he could. The old champion’s seconds didn’t throw in the towel for another four or five rounds until the brawler’s face was no longer recognizably human. Later, Murdoch asked his father if the man had died. “No, but the poor bastard won’t be able to recognize his wife again,” was the reply.

The bruiser who had served as Lincoln’s other second blocked Murdoch’s entrance to the barn.

“No visitors. Sorry, mister.”

“I’m an acquaintance of Mr. Elijah Green. Tell him William Murdoch would like a word with him. He knows me.”

The man eyed him suspiciously, but he backed off.

“Wait here.”

In a few minutes, Green himself came to the entrance and stopped abruptly when he saw Murdoch. A few paces behind him was one of the young coloured men who had been standing aloof from the match, watching.

“Don’t worry, Green. I’m not going to arrest you, I wouldn’t be so foolish. I’m here unofficially.”

Green grimaced. “I didn’t think coppers were ever off duty if it suited them.”

“Well, this one is. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“I suppose so.”

Green jerked his head in the direction of the man in his wake. “Jim, you stay on the gate. I’ll be back in a minute. Follow me, Mr. Murdoch.”

He led the way down the path. Fortunately, the crowd was drifting across the fields toward the carriages calmed by the fact
that most of them had bet against Lincoln and had won their wager. A couple of men were taking down the chandelier and others were dismantling the ring.

They’d only gone a few feet when a man, thick-set, drunk and dirty, got in their path.