Twenty-Three

Sporting Men

Seeking company with whom to revel over his change in circumstances, Philip set out to locate and make amends with George. Although he was certain to be surly after what transpired at Medmenham, affable ol’ Bosky was of a forgiving temperament, especially to whoever was buying the drinks.

Not finding George at home, Philip made inquiries at the unusually vacant Will’s Coffeehouse.

“They all be gone to the mill,” the proprietor said.

“The mill?” Philip asked.

“Aye. There’s to be some gratuitous head-breaking. Had your own up yer arse the past sennight?” he asked cheekily.

“I’ve been otherwise occupied,” Philip said.

“Well, the entire of Lon’on’s gone to see it. Lord Peterborough challenged Figg to find a man to beat the outlander, a giant Venetian brute he is. He’s said to down a man with a single blow.”

“And Figg, of course, took up the gauntlet,” Philip said.

“Never known Figg to back down, though I hear the odds was favorin’ the foreigner four to one.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Philip said, and left the coffeehouse to metaphorically kill two birds with a single stone. Knowing George for a most ardent votary of blood sport, Philip knew just where to find him, and with his pocket full of coin decided he may as well wager a few guineas as well.

The claim that all of London attended the match was little exaggerated. Philip had to wedge through the spitting, cursing, gin-tippling crowd forming around the wooden stage that served as the boxing ring at Oxford Circus. After a time, he located George Selwyn within the throng.

“You’re in luck, Drake!” George exclaimed. “There’s about to commence some gratuitous head breaking!”

“Cudgels?”

“Fisticuffs,” George corrected. “Seems an Italian noble with a Goliath Venetian gondolier has been flaunting his personal jaw-breaker as unbeatable in every capital of Europe. He offered a substantial wager to Lord Peterborough to find any man in England to best his champion.”

“And?” Philip prompted.

“Seems the fellow’s indeed broken the jaw of most every opponent who’s matched him, but Figg pledged to Peterborough, who’s dropped a hefty sum on the match, to pit a man against the Italian who won’t be broke with a sledgehammer.”

By this time the swarthy giant had appeared. Beaming with bravado, the Venetian commenced to strip to the waist, revealing massive shoulders, long brawny arms, and a torso hard as burnished bronze.

Awestruck by the Hercules before them, an awful silence prevailed amongst the spectators as he flexed his muscles and strutted the stage.

“What a brute!” George exclaimed.

“Who the devil might his lucky opponent be?” Philip asked, eying the foreigner with appreciative speculation.

“Bob Whitaker’s the appointed one,” interjected a gentleman standing at George’s elbow. “Godfrey. John Godfrey.” He introduced himself to George and Philip.

“Captain Godfrey of the Sporting News?” George asked.

“The same,” he nodded. “And here’s our man of the hour, Bob Whitaker, to take the brute’s measure.”

“By any stick, I’d say Whitaker comes up short,” Philip quipped to the captain.

Godfrey chuckled. “Looks often deceive, my good man. Besides, after hearing the waterman boast that he’d take the shine out of any Englishman, Figg himself swore to come out of retirement and enter the ring if Whitaker knocks under. Heard him say myself he’d give the gondolier ‘a Figg to chaw that he’ll have trouble swallowing’ long before he’d let an outlandish waterman rule the roost.”

George remained skeptical. “I’ve seen Whitaker a time or two. The clumsy oaf half-throws himself at his opponents.”

“He’s not known for his agility or grace, but none can deny Bob’s true English bottom. Fists of iron, he has, and tough as elephant hide to boot. His secret is soaking his hands an hour a day in brine,” Godfrey remarked.

“But the odds are still four to one against ’im,” George said. “Though I’m loathe to wager against my own countryman…” He looked to the Venetian with a defeatist shrug.

“I’ve known Figg a very long time,” the captain returned. “If he feels Whitaker’s up to the mark, my money’s on our man.”

At these words, the bullish Whitaker appeared on the platform. Cool and steady as a rock, he approached his challenger who stood nearly a full head above him. Undaunted, Whitaker rose onto the balls of his feet, meeting the Venetian breast-to-breast and eyeball-to-eyeball, all to a chorus of English cheers and huzzahs. Encouraged by his compatriots, Bob tore off his waistcoat and shirt, tossing them heedlessly into the crowd.

“I grant him a fine pair of fine English bollocks, anyway,” George said with lessening skepticism.

Without ado, the men set to, much as fighting cocks in the pit. Coming together in a sudden flurry of blows, the Venetian struck such a hit to Whitaker’s head as to catapult him over the stage and into the onlookers.

“Look! The man’s already finished!” George exclaimed in dismay, having just placed a modest sum on the Englishman. Another frantic round of betting ensued with the odds now laying even thicker against Whitaker at six to one.

Though few believed Whitaker would come about, the unfazed English gamecock brushed himself off and with a grin, propelled himself over the rail, back onto the stage. Amid a second round of huzzahs and frenzied betting, Whitaker re-faced his opponent.

“I’ll be hanged,” Philip remarked with admiration.

“He’s got grit, I’ll grant ’im that, but the Venetian’s a longer arm. He’ll never overcome that reach!” George remarked.

“Don’t be too quick to count Bob out,” the captain said. “What he may lack in finesse, I assure you, he compensates in wiliness and vigor.”

Without further ceremony, and as if choreographed on the captain’s cue, Bob crouched low, and with the ferocious roar of a raging bull rammed a solid English peg to the Venetian’s gut, driving him gasping and careening to the floor.

“Now that’s a devil’s leveler!” George exclaimed with pure glee. “Bob’s bellyful knocked him clean onto his Venetian arse!”

The crowd went wild with raucous guffaws and deafening cheers while the dazed and winded gondolier tried in vain to recover his feet, but Whitaker’s hammer was relentless. Suddenly the odds shifted again to favor the English pugilist, whereby Philip and George were both eager to get in on the action.

Whitaker fell upon the bewildered Venetian, continuing his brutal, unrelenting assault while his beleaguered opponent, thus besieged, barely managed to find his feet against the firestorm of blows, eventually losing his guard altogether.

The match continued but within just a few rounds, the tenacious English bulldog, completely and indisputably, humbled his opponent to the point of fleeing the ring in mortification and disgrace.

Captain Godfrey’s tongue-in-cheek report in the next day’s Sporting News would describe the defeat:

“The Venetian, after much vainglorious boasting, received a blow to the stomach with more rudeness than he could bear, and finding himself so unmannerly used, scorned to have any further doings with the slovenly English fist.”

***

Within minutes of the bout, the majority of spectators dispersed to their favorite taverns to celebrate or commiserate, depending on the results of their wagers. Philip and George, happily amongst the former group, accompanied Captain Godfrey to collect their respective winnings.

“Care to share a bowl of arrack punch, George? I’ve cause for celebration,” Philip said.

Having won nearly treble his stakes, George was in a perfectly conciliatory frame of mind. “Indeed a happy outcome, though one might mourn the short duration of it. Damnably feeble fighter the foreign fellow turned out to be. But still worth a toast to our man of the hour, Whitaker.”

“I don’t just speak of the wager. Remember that windfall I spoke of?”

“I do recall,” said George. “Is it all you expected?”

“My change in circumstances has certainly come about,” Philip grinned.

“So you mean to set yourself up now?”

“I’ve the means to be comfortable, if that’s what you ask.”

“Mayhap ’twould be better advised to maintain a low profile for a time, Drake. That debacle with Dashwood won’t soon blow over, you know.”

“Surely you know I could not have done any differently.”

“Even so, you seem to be adopting a habit of late of poaching women and brandishing your sword at anything that moves. Not actions to endear yourself to the peerage, if you glean my meaning.”

“I fear you grossly overstate the events.”

“Do I? Have you already forgotten your little incident with the Prince of Wales? He’s none too pleased you pinched his intended mistress, and now of course there’s Dashwood. Though I daresay he won’t meet you this time, he vowed to make you answer for the episode if he ever lays eyes on you again. Sandwich will surely second him. You’ve made no friend of him either.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to go into hiding,” Philip said.

“Don’t you think it would be wise to play least in sight for a while?”

“If Dashwood feels the need to defend his dubious honor, so be it, George,” Philip said, with perhaps more bravado than he really felt.

“You’d best hope he remembered nothing of the incident when he sobered. The man did threaten to kill you.”

Philip flushed rubicund. “Nevertheless, Bosky, should I meet Dashwood, or anyone else, I assure you I would acquit myself creditably enough to avoid that fate.”

“You would not expect to shed blood?”

“It would not be my plan to do so.”

“Very droll, Drake. And precisely how many duels have you fought?”

“I’m no stranger to breaking bones, George. I’ve not survived the past four years in the company I keep without encountering blade and cudgel a time or two.”

“A duel is a far cry from a tavern tussle, you know. Have you any formal training with the smallsword?”

“Some, though I don’t boast of any great expertise.”

“And you wouldn’t expect to get pinked? How would you propose to avoid it, my cocky friend?”

“It is my understanding that one is most successful by avoiding the pointy end of the blade.” Philip grinned.

“Well, you can expect to be called upon to use that shiny stick of yours if you continue in this current vein.”

“Then I must count on my luck, superior reflexes, and hope my opponent’s the worse for drink.”

George paused, massaging his chin in thought. “You know, Drake, it’s no laughing matter. If you truly aspire to adopt a gentleman’s life, mayhap it’s time to acquire more of a gentleman’s accomplishments.”

Philip replied, “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Not at all, and it would not be unreasonable to put some of your so-called windfall to good use,” George replied, producing a card from his pocket. Embossed in the characteristic style of William Hogarth, it read:

James Figg: Master of the Noble Science of Defense,

Oxford Road near Adam and Eve Court.

“Teaching gentlemen the use of the sword and quarterstaff.”

George handed it to Philip and said, “Now how about that arrack punch…”