Fair Fight (36 page)

‘Who’re they?’ I asked Mrs Dryer, but she only shook her head.

One of them, a wiry long-shanks with something of the snarl about him, now spoke to Tom in a manner that looked to be cheering. He smiled his alley-cat smile and touched Tom’s arm. Tom made his replies with earnest face. The other cull, shorter but broader, bound Tom’s hands round with cloth, though leaving the knuckles bare. Tom’s eyes caught mine over the cull’s shoulder. I wasn’t ready for it; my face stayed stiff as a poker. Next second he’d looked away.

‘Mrs Dryer, Mrs Webber, what a pleasure,’ a gent’s voice said, and I turned to see the handsome gent that Dora was always sweet for take a seat by Mrs Dryer’s side.

I nodded at him and turned back to the ring without waiting to see if he took offence.

That day it was as though the moment I took my eyes from something, other things appeared, or disappeared. Now a small group of culls had appeared in the ring in the opposite corner, in the time it’d taken me to nod to Dora’s handsome gent. One of them, I knew, must be my Tom’s opponent.

‘That’s the cove, there,’ Dora’s chum said, pointing a gloved hand.

I’d already guessed it; this cully was built small but he had a pug’s air about him and was beginning to bob on his toes in the bitter air. He had a longish nose and a point to his chin; I thought Tom might get a good fib in, on either of those. That jaw was ripe for the breaking. The culls about him talked excitedly and waved their hands.

‘He’s a formidable fighter, I hear,’ the fellow went on, ‘but I hold out great hope for Tom. Mr Belcher shall not best him. He must not – I have laid too great a sum upon it!’ He laughed aloud.

Mr Dryer leaned over the ropes and addressed himself entirely to the gent.

‘The betting is five to four on Belcher, though I think nothing of that. I’ve laid down five hundred guineas on Tom.’

I blinked. Five hundred guineas. That was a sum so great as to be ridiculous. And, I realised, the betting was against my Tom, then. Just an arm’s length away from me, he took off his shirt and handed it to the alley-cat cully. Straight off, I saw his flesh pimple in the cold.

Beside me, Mrs Dryer fetched out her own little purse and leaned forward to bid her husband put ten guineas on Tom, for herself. Mr Dryer looked at her sharply. Then he seemed to think better of it and took her coin. He climbed over the ropes and pushed off through the crowd.

‘It is Mr Dryer’s own money,’ she said, leaning in to whisper to me. ‘It was hidden in his dressing room; my husband is not as ingenious as he likes to think himself. I shall return it, when once Tom wins.’

Even sick with nerves as I was, I had to smile to hear that.

As the squire took the ring, to call the pugs to scratch, Tom looked over at me again. This time I stood up just as though he’d called to me, and so quickly that my head span.

Tom came to the ropes and leaned toward me. I came close – I wanted to fly to him, but some foolish pride kept me back a little.

Looking up at him to read his face, I saw a vast distance in his eyes and knew he’d gone already to that place inside his head, that well-known spot I curled myself in, whenever I took the ring. Nothing signified now but the bout to come.

‘You’ll slaughter him,’ I said. ‘You’ll have him spitting teeth. You’ll splinter him like kindling.’

‘I will,’ Tom said. ‘When his jaw breaks, that’ll be all for you,’ and I smiled in sheer relief.

The squire now called the crowd to attention, lifting his arms above his head.

‘Go,’ I put my hand on his arm and felt how chill was his skin. ‘I’ll see you when you’re Champion of England.’

‘A kiss for luck,’ he said, and I obliged, while all about us the crowd screamed.

Then he nodded once, turned to the ring and was not my husband, but a pug to his core.

‘Splinter him like kindling,’ Mrs Dryer said. ‘You are a poetess, Ruth.’

The pugs stood at scratch, their fives at the ready before their chests. Their breath steamed in plumes from their noses, like bulls. The crowd hushed; there’s something terrible about so many men, making not a sound. Even those who couldn’t see were quiet as corpses.

Suddenly Belcher struck out – oh, he was quick! Tom wasn’t ready for it and Belcher’s dart caught my husband’s left eye, snapping his head back upon his thick neck. I found I was on my feet, howling already. Tom didn’t fall; he could take any number of fibs and stay standing. It was a solid facer, mind; in an instant the eye began to swell.

I sat, then stood, then sat again. Mrs Dryer put her hand on my arm.

‘He took that blow well,’ she said. ‘We will see Belcher’s jaw break yet.’

I nodded so firmly, I felt my neck twang.

Now Tom seemed to wake up. He vastly outweighed the cull, but he’d sparred often enough with me that he knew well how speed could outclass size. He couldn’t afford Belcher time to think, but grabbed him now in his two thick arms and threw him to the ground. I saw Belcher’s head bounce upon the frozen earth like an apple shaken from a tree. Mrs Dryer and I screamed in victory together. The first round was ours.

Tom came back to his corner. His skin glistened as though it were frosted. He sat upon his second’s knee and took the bottle offered him.

‘Towel him off!’ I shouted, even as the bottle-holder handed him a cloth.

Tom looked at me and I thought,
Steady yourself, Ruth
, and tried to smile.

‘The betting has evened,’ Mr Dryer reported to us. He was sitting now beside Mrs Dryer, the handsome cull having moved aside for him. I felt a flush of pride; my husband had shown them already. Even bets; the fight was anyone’s. The fight was Tom’s, I knew it.

They came back up to scratch. The worst of sitting in Tom’s corner was that we could see only his back and Belcher’s face, his narrowed eyes on my Tom.

The call of time sounded. Now Belcher took the method I should’ve in his place, and dove and ducked so fast that Tom just stood foxed and watched him. From the whirling dance Belcher fetched Tom up a flush right to the left side of his face.

Damn! The cull can mill
, I thought, and I screamed aloud, ‘Catch him, oh, catch him!’

Tom began to swing at Belcher as he danced about. He landed a couple of left-handed punishers that must’ve been felt, but for the most part his mighty arms missed time and again. I began to see what I couldn’t bear to; my husband looked like a man outclassed. Belcher was too quick on his pins.

Tom’s fives were groping the air like a blind man. I pulled myself up and made ready to scream to him –
Grab the cull and wrestle!
– but just as I opened my mouth, one of those flailing fibs landed: Tom’s fist slammed into Belcher’s windpipe. It was a blow such as only Tom could give, like the kick of a cart-horse. The boy went down, crumpling like a scarecrow come off his post. He looked to be dead, he lay so queerly.

‘He’s done!’ Mr Dryer cried. ‘He’s caught him in the jugular!’

Tom came back to his corner, where Mr Dryer leaned over the ropes to him and talked very fast in his ear. Tom looked very calm, but I knew he was glad. Alley-cat rubbed the sweat from his bare back before it could freeze his skin.

Belcher’s seconds had come and pulled him upright, looping one of the cull’s slack arms around each of their necks and dragging him back to his side. The cull lay back in the arms of one of them, his face dead white, his eyes glazed.

‘He’s beaten, he’s beaten,’ the crowd screamed.

Belcher’s seconds had only a half-minute to return him to the scratch; surely he’d not breathe again that quick, not enough to stand. Belcher’s second was frantic, pummelling his chest, rubbing him down with a towel. He looked to be trying to force water down his throat enough to drown.

The squire looked at his pocket-watch and opened his mouth; Belcher’s second lifted him to his feet, and at the call of ‘Time!’ he stumbled up to scratch and stood, swaying like a drunkard. It would take little to have him down again. One hit and Tom would have it.

‘Charge him!’ I screamed, but I needn’t. Tom ran at Belcher like a heated ram, even as the cull shook his head, dazed.

Belcher didn’t try to fight, but only covered his head with his arms and veered, almost fell, to one side. Tom, too eager, now foundered past, missing his man.

Belcher straightened up and I could see that his head had cleared. If only Tom hadn’t missed him! That one moment had been enough for Belcher to regain his wits; the fight was again a fight in earnest.

Now Tom felt the sting of a hundred blows to the head, till he bellowed as though he’d stepped on a hornet’s nest. His face was wild and savage. I hoped dearly he was keeping his wits about him – if he got hot he sometimes grew reckless. His left eye was near shut, so quick was it swelling.

Both men stood fearless in the ring’s centre, exchanging blows – this was a high treat for the fancy and they cheered the pugs as loud as ever they could. There’s nothing the fancy likes to see more than two culls slugging at each other without dodging, each taking the hits and landing his own. Tom landed fewer, but his fibs had more force and he could take whatever Belcher threw without flinching.

Mr Dryer said, ‘That is real pugilism, dogged and determined.’

This old-fashioned bout was ended only when Belcher closed Tom’s eye completely, provoking my husband to seize him in his arms once more and hurl him to the ground.

With his eye swollen tight shut, Tom would have a hard time judging his distances. I knew from experience what a feeling it was to have your eye swelled so – the pressure of the blood building fogs your mind and makes your thoughts run slow.

They came up to scratch, my husband now the one staggering as if drunk. The round lasted only a moment. At the call of time, Belcher threw his fist straight into my husband’s swollen eye, and down Tom went.

‘Five to one on Belcher,’ the call went out.

Tom’s nose was bleeding, his eye was closed. I thought he’d banged his head something terrible when he fell. I couldn’t breathe. As he went back to scratch I felt Mrs Dryer take my hand and I couldn’t help but squeeze her fingers, hard. She didn’t take her hand away.

Tom now took a battering made the worse by his refusal to fall. My husband had bottom like no other cull, he’d not give over. Now he stood and let Belcher drive again and again at his face. He swung of course, but he didn’t defend himself. Where was his training? Mr Dryer had stood and was screaming at him, to put his hands up, to cover his face. Blood from his nose coated his lips, bubbled with his breath. He looked to be out upon his feet; any other pug would’ve fallen. By the time Tom went down it was to fall to one knee, from exhaustion and blindness and blood in his good eye. Belcher didn’t knock my Tom down; the bottom simply fell out of him. He’d taken everything he could.

The cheers were mixed with hisses as Tom sagged to his knees and his seconds came hurrying over. The crowd would’ve liked a straight knock-down, but I knew Tom well enough; if he sagged, he couldn’t stand.

Tom’s seconds near dragged him back to his corner, where they bathed the worst of the blood from his face.

I stared at his bare back, almost near enough to touch. If I could I’d have helped him back over the ropes and taken his place. I’d have stood in front of him and broken Belcher’s jaw myself. A half-minute was likely not enough, this time. It had to be enough.

They left Tom at the scratch hardly able to raise his fives, blood pouring afresh from his nose. He stood slumped, as though draped over an invisible pole.

The book-men were calling out odds of twenty-to-one on Belcher’s victory. I wanted to pray, but my mind was empty of words. My teeth were clenched so tight that my jaw ached. I felt my heart calling out to him as he stood there, blood running claret streams down his bare chest. He didn’t need to do this, I should never have loved him the less. I’d have done anything to take his place, or to pick him up, had I the strength, and run. I’d never in my life felt more powerless. I couldn’t even blink, I was so tense and stiff. My eyes were devilish cold and dry in the winter air.

The crowd grew silent again as Belcher came toward my husband. Belcher eyed Tom a moment, his fist feinting in the air, as one practises an axe-blow when splitting logs, and then the blow came down, right on my husband’s swollen left eye, and Tom screamed, and fell, and didn’t get up.

A cloud of pigeons took to the air to carry the news; my Tom was brought down, and Belcher was England’s Champion.

I was under the ropes and at Tom’s side before I knew I was moving. Both eyes were closed and swelling faster than I’d ever seen before.
They’ll need lancing
,
I thought,
just to open
. I took his hand, though it being in a muffler I couldn’t hold it, only lifted it and felt its weight. He was in a dead faint. His chest rose and fell but I could hear blood in his breath, bubbling in his pipes. I was afraid he’d drown.

‘Help me turn him,’ I cried out to the nearest cull to me, a stranger in a homespun jacket.

Now I saw that there were folks all about us, as many hands helped me turn Tom onto his side. He went over heavy, his arm slapping against his chest like dead meat. His skin was growing chill but before I could ask, someone laid a coat over him. His face was grown shiny and tight about that eye; I could see it more clear, now that he lay on his side. I touched it very gently and I couldn’t help but cry out as a drop of blood seeped from under the lid like a scarlet tear.

‘Dear God,’ someone said.

I couldn’t speak but all around me the cry went up, ‘Fetch a doctor, a surgeon!’

There were people crowded about, all too close. They towered over Tom and me like trees that might at any moment fall and all of them speaking at once.

‘Move back,’ a voice shrieked. ‘Move back, lest he be crushed!’

I felt an arm about my shoulder and turned to find Mrs Dryer crouching next to me. It was she who’d shouted; tears made lines through the paint on her cheeks. It was only now she held me that I felt how hard I trembled; my shoulder blades shook against her arm.