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.”
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.