A Journeyman to Grief, page 22
Musgrave was clearly enjoying being mysterious, and Murdoch felt like shaking him. He heard the wail of one of the twins from the back room. He stepped across the threshold and held the door closed behind him.
“You’d better have a good explanation, Musgrave. We have two babes living here and it sounds as if you’ve woken one of them up. What do you want to say, man?”
“Just this, sir. You know Mrs. Cooke complained that somebody was taking out the carriages and horses without permission or payment. Well, it’s true and if you come with me, I’ll show you who it is and where they go.”
“Tell me now.”
Musgrave touched the peak of his cap with his forefinger. “Allow me my bit of fun, Mr. Murdoch. I’d rather you see for yourself. I promise you it will be worth your while.”
“Damn it, Musgrave. If you’re leading me by the nose, I warn you I have sharp teeth.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
Murdoch stared at him. The man was full of his own importance and clearly was not going to yield up any information until the last minute.
“I’ll get my clothes on.”
“I’ll be at the carriage, sir.”
Both twins were howling and the light was showing underneath Katie’s door. He hesitated for a moment but decided not to disturb things even more. He dressed quickly and went outside.
Musgrave gave him another irritatingly conspiratorial wink. “We have a companion.” He opened the carriage door and Murdoch got in. The blinds were down on the windows, but an oil sconce was burning on a low wick and he could make out a woman’s figure in the corner. It was Mrs. Cooke. She had abandoned her widow’s bonnet and veil and was wearing a plain felt hat.
She flicked her hand at the cabbie. “Get going, Mr. Musgrave. We don’t want to get too far behind. Good evening, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Good evening, ma’am.”
Musgrave called to his horse and the carriage started to move at a good clip.
“Where are we going?” Murdoch asked. He lifted the blind sufficiently to determine they were heading west along Queen Street.
“I don’t know. I have put myself entirely in Mr. Musgrave’s hands. He is the one who is determined to get to the bottom of this pernicious thieving. I’m thankful that somebody cares.” Her tone was aggrieved, as if Murdoch had been negligent in not pursuing the matter with the ardour it deserved. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw something soften in her expression. “I am aware, Mr. Murdoch, that you consider me an unfeeling woman who has not shed a tear for her husband. I will not stoop to divulging my private affairs to you, but suffice it to say that my marriage had been unhappy for some time, and we were husband and wife in name only. My affections for Daniel were destroyed many years ago.”
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, giving Murdoch no chance to pursue the topic.
“Paul warned me the journey might be a long one,” she said. “So, I will take the opportunity to rest a little. This has been a most wearing time.”
Murdoch had felt a twinge of sympathy for her when she had spoken so honestly, but the moment had passed and all he could see on her face were the marks of entrenched discontent. He took the opportunity to check out her boots. They were of good leather, old-fashioned and round-toed. She hadn’t said a word about Thomas Talbert’s death, but he didn’t have the impression that she was trying to hide something. She seemed to be completely preoccupied with her own affairs. After a few minutes, he, too, leaned back.
He was awakened by the carriage door opening. Musgrave pulled down the step.
“Here we are. Mr. Murdoch, I suggest you come with me and Mrs. Cooke should remain in the carriage.”
“I will most certainly not,” she said and followed right behind Murdoch as he climbed out.
“Are you sure, Adelaide? They’re a rough crowd.”
“I haven’t come all this way to sit in a carriage.”
So, it is Adelaide now, thought Murdoch. Musgrave handed him a grubby woollen scarf that smelled of tobacco.
“Wrap this around your chin and pull your hat low. You don’t want anybody to recognize you. It could make things most awkward. Follow me. Adelaide, give me your arm. We should hurry.”
They had stopped on the edge of an open field that sloped away from them and disappeared into a thick stand of trees. The air was pungent with the smell of crushed grass and horse droppings. Oil lamps were hanging from posts around the perimeter and he could see several other carriages. Musgrave had unhooked the rear lantern and he led the way down a path of trampled grass. In a few minutes, Murdoch could hear voices that grew louder as they finally emerged from the trees. About fifty feet in front of them was a dense crowd of men, buzzing with excitement and all facing a brightly lit, roped-off ring.
“It’s a prize fight,” said Murdoch.
“Quite right about that, sir. They happen here regularly, but don’t let on I told you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Prize fighting with bare knuckles was illegal, but Murdoch was in no position to enforce the law at the moment. Musgrave had taken him for a ride in more ways than one.
The ring was cordoned off by four posts with ropes strung between them. Four taller posts were also strung with ropes that crossed and from the centre hung an iron chandelier, incongruous in this setting but which threw a good light onto the ring. About six feet away from the first ring was a second rope barricade behind which were pressed the noisy spectators.
“Can we move closer?” asked Mrs. Cooke. “There’s space around the ring where nobody is sitting.”
“I’m afraid not, Adelaide. That area is reserved for the high-paying Fancy and the officials.”
“Who are those men with whips?”
Six men, two of them negroes, were stalking around the inner space.
“They look most ferocious,” she added.
“They are ferocious,” said Musgrave. “All of them are former bruisers. Their job is to keep the riff-raff behind that second rope. You’d be amazed how excited men can become once the fight has got underway.”
“Goodness gracious, isn’t that Alderman Jolliffe down there, just to the right of the post?”
It was indeed Alderman Jolliffe, an ardent and self-righteous Orangeman who was vocal about his anti-Catholic sentiments. Murdoch thought that he just might let it slip to the newspapers that the councillor was attending an illegal prize fight.
They had been speaking in low voices, but one of the men in front of them turned around. He had a notebook in his hand.
“It’s not common to see ladies at these fights, ma’am. I hope you can stand it.”
“She’s a nurse,” said Musgrave, smooth as cream.
The man tipped his hat. “Indeed. Well, I do hope, ma’am, for the sake of the sport that you won’t intervene. I’ve got a wager that says the match will go to twenty-two rounds and I’d hate to lose that money.”
“Get on with your own business, Charlesworth. Nobody’s going to spoil your story.” Musgrave winked at Murdoch. “Mr. Charlesworth here writes up these little donnybrooks for the Fancy to peruse at their leisure.”
The chatter of the crowd suddenly subsided, the spectators responding to some signal that Murdoch hadn’t noticed. On the other side of the ring, a few feet up the slope, was a stone fence and beyond that a barn. At that moment, the barn doors were flung open and a cheer went up from the crowd. Out stepped a posse of men. The two in front were carrying lanterns burning at full wick and behind them was a tall man dressed in white knee-length knickers and a blue singlet. A flowered silk belt was around his waist. He strutted down the path to the fence gate, which was quickly opened for him by two bystanders. Here he paused, removed his old-fashioned tall hat, and tossed it into the ring to the yells of the crowd.
“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Cooke.
“He’s the challenger. He goes by the name of the Chopper. He’s from up north somewhere. The story is he’s a full-blooded buck.”
“Who’s he fighting?” asked Murdoch.
“Ah, sir. That’s the question, isn’t it. There he is, look.”
The barn door opened again. There were shouts from the crowd but considerably less enthusiasm. A single man held the lamp ahead and behind him, wearing a singlet and black knickers, was Lincoln Green. His belt was red and yellow. Elijah was directly behind him, carrying a towel over his arm.
“Well, I don’t know about you, Mr. Musgrave, but I’m not surprised. Green is the one stealing my horses,” said Mrs. Cooke. “I never trusted that man and I was right.”
Murdoch thought the cabbie would prove himself a first-rate liar if he admitted to surprise at the presence of the Green brothers, as it was obvious he was quite familiar with the whole goings-on.
Lincoln tossed his hat, a brown tweed crusher, into the ring and another roar went up.
The two entourages, each making a circle around their champion, climbed through the first set of ropes. A little terrier of a man in a black cap and fisherman’s jersey hopped into the ring.
“He’s the referee, name of Christopher,” said Musgrave. “A good man, by all accounts. He won’t allow any funny business.”
Christopher made beckoning motions, and Elijah Green and a man with the battered face of a pugilist who was standing next to the Chopper both ducked under the ropes and walked to the centre of the ring. Here Elijah marked out a line on the grass with the heel of his boot.
“That’s called his scratch line,” said Musgrave, who seemed to be enjoying his role as teacher. “Each fighter has to be able to come up to scratch for the next round or else he forfeits the match.”
Mrs. Cooke nodded. She was completely engrossed in what was happening. The reporter, Charlesworth, was scribbling in his notebook.
Now Christopher beckoned the two fighters into the ring. Under the brilliant light, Murdoch had a better opportunity to assess each man. The Chopper was a good head taller than Lincoln and looked a lot heavier. He had wide, well-muscled shoulders and long arms. His legs, however, were spindly, and Murdoch wondered if he’d been a lumberjack. When he’d worked at the camp in Huntsville, he’d seen lots of men with similar physiques, all of the heavy work being done by the arms and shoulders. Lincoln was better proportioned, his leg muscles were well developed and his arms looked powerful. The skin of both men gleamed with oil, and both of them were clenching and unclenching their massive fists.
The referee pointed at Lincoln. “First call to the African,” he said and tossed a coin in the air. Lincoln called out, “The Queen” in a loud voice. Christopher checked. “Her Majesty it is.” There was a mixture of cheers and boos from the crowd.
“He’ll take the north corner, or he’s a fool,” said the reporter in front of them. “The field slopes upward and when they tire it’ll give him a bit of an advantage.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And he needs all the advantages he can get. The Chopper outweighs him and outreaches him. In my opinion, the African doesn’t stand a chance, even though, of the two of them, I’d say he has the most bottom.”
Mrs. Cooke frowned and Musgrave interjected quickly. “That’s a term the Fancy use for courage.”
Lincoln looked at his brother, got the nod, and pointed to the north corner. This elicited another wave of jeers mingled with a few cheers from the crowd. He was not a favourite.
The fighters touched knuckles briefly and then went to their respective corners. Here each man’s second was ready in position on one knee. Murdoch could see Elijah talking in his brother’s ear. Then he stood in front of him and held up his hands while Lincoln did a few warm-up punches into his palms. The Chopper seemed content to sit on his second’s knee and have one of his entourage massage his shoulders.
“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.
