Rodney Stone - The Smith’s Last Battle - (1)

“CLEAR the outer ring!” cried Jackson, standing up beside the ropes with a big silver watch in his hand.
    “Ss-whack! ss-whack! ss-whack!” went the horse-whips—for a number of the spectators, either driven onwards by the pressure behind or willing to risk some physical pain on the chance of getting a better view, had crept under the ropes and formed a ragged fringe within the outer ring.  Now, amidst roars of laughter from the crowd and a shower of blows from the beaters-out, they dived madly back, with the ungainly haste of frightened sheep blundering through a gap in their hurdles.  Their case was a hard one, for the folk in front refused to yield an inch of their places—but the arguments from the rear prevailed over everything else, and presently every frantic fugitive had been absorbed, whilst the beaters-out took their stands along the edge at regular intervals, with their whips held down by their thighs.
    “Gentlemen,” cried Jackson, again, “I am requested to inform you that Sir Charles Tregellis’s nominee is Jack Harrison, fighting at thirteen-eight, and Sir Lothian Hume’s is Crab Wilson, at thirteen-three.  No person can be allowed at the inner ropes save the referee and the timekeeper.  I have only to beg that, if the occasion should require it, you will all give me your assistance to keep the ground clear, to prevent confusion, and to have a fair fight.  All ready?”
    “All ready!” from both corners.
    “Time!”
    There was a breathless hush as Harrison, Wilson, Belcher, and Dutch Sam walked very briskly into the centre of the ring.  The two men shook hands, whilst their seconds did the same, the four hands crossing each other.  Then the seconds dropped back, and the two champions stood toe to toe, with their hands up.
    It was a magnificent sight to any one who had not lost his sense of appreciation of the noblest of all the works of Nature.  Both men fulfilled that requisite of the powerful athlete that they should look larger without their clothes than with them.  In ring slang, they buffed well.  And each showed up the other’s points on account of the extreme contrast between them: the long, loose-limbed, deer-footed youngster, and the square-set, rugged veteran with his trunk like the stump of an oak. The betting began to rise upon the younger man from the instant that they were put face to face, for his advantages were obvious, whilst those qualities which had brought Harrison to the top in his youth were only a memory in the minds of the older men.  All could see the three inches extra of height and two of reach which Wilson possessed, and a glance at the quick, cat-like motions of his feet, and the perfect poise of his body upon his legs, showed how swiftly he could spring either in or out from his slower adversary.  But it took a subtler insight to read the grim smile which flickered over the smith’s mouth, or the smouldering fire which shone in his grey eyes, and it was only the old-timers who knew that, with his mighty heart and his iron frame, he was a perilous man to lay odds against.
    Wilson stood in the position from which he had derived his nickname, his left hand and left foot well to the front, his body sloped very far back from his loins, and his guard thrown across his chest, but held well forward in a way which made him exceedingly hard to get at.  The smith, on the other hand, assumed the obsolete attitude which Humphries and Mendoza introduced, but which had not for ten years been seen in a first-class battle.  Both his knees were slightly bent, he stood square to his opponent, and his two big brown fists were held over his mark so that he could lead equally with either.  Wilson’s hands, which moved incessantly in and out, had been stained with some astringent juice with the purpose of preventing them from puffing, and so great was the contrast between them and his white forearms, that I imagined that he was wearing dark, close-fitting gloves until my uncle explained the matter in a whisper.  So they stood in a quiver of eagerness and expectation, whilst that huge multitude hung so silently and breathlessly upon every motion that they might have believed themselves to be alone, man to man, in the centre of some primeval solitude.
    It was evident from the beginning that Crab Wilson meant to throw no chance away, and that he would trust to his lightness of foot and quickness of hand until he should see something of the tactics of this rough-looking antagonist.  He paced swiftly round several times, with little, elastic, menacing steps, whilst the smith pivoted slowly to correspond.  Then, as Wilson took a backward step to induce Harrison to break his ground and follow him, the older man grinned and shook his head.
    “You must come to me, lad,” said he.  “I’m too old to scamper round the ring after you.  But we have the day before us, and I’ll wait.”
    He may not have expected his invitation to be so promptly answered; but in an instant, with a panther spring, the west-countryman was on him. Smack! smack! smack!  Thud! thud!  The first three were on Harrison’s face, the last two were heavy counters upon Wilson’s body.  Back danced the youngster, disengaging himself in beautiful style, but with two angry red blotches over the lower line of his ribs.  “Blood for Wilson!” yelled the crowd, and as the smith faced round to follow the movements of his nimble adversary, I saw with a thrill that his chin was crimson and dripping.  In came Wilson again with a feint at the mark and a flush hit on Harrison’s cheek; then, breaking the force of the smith’s ponderous right counter, he brought the round to a conclusion by slipping down upon the grass.
    “First knock-down for Harrison!” roared a thousand voices, for ten times as many pounds would change hands upon the point.
    “I appeal to the referee!” cried Sir Lothian Hume.  “It was a slip, and not a knock-down.”
    “I give it a slip,” said Berkeley Craven, and the men walked to their corners, amidst a general shout of applause for a spirited and well-contested opening round.  Harrison fumbled in his mouth with his finger and thumb, and then with a sharp half-turn he wrenched out a tooth, which he threw into the basin.  “Quite like old times,” said he to Belcher.
    “Have a care, Jack!” whispered the anxious second.  “You got rather more than you gave.”
    “Maybe I can carry more, too,” said he serenely, whilst Caleb Baldwin mopped the big sponge over his face, and the shining bottom of the tin basin ceased suddenly to glimmer through the water.
    I could gather from the comments of the experienced Corinthians around me, and from the remarks of the crowd behind, that Harrison’s chance was thought to have been lessened by this round.
    “I’ve seen his old faults and I haven’t seen his old merits,” said Sir John Lade, our opponent of the Brighton Road.  “He’s as slow on his feet and with his guard as ever.  Wilson hit him as he liked.”
    “Wilson may hit him three times to his once, but his one is worth Wilson’s three,” remarked my uncle.  “He’s a natural fighter and the other an excellent sparrer, but I don’t hedge a guinea.”
    A sudden hush announced that the men were on their feet again, and so skilfully had the seconds done their work, that neither looked a jot the worse for what had passed.  Wilson led viciously with his left, but misjudged his distance, receiving a smashing counter on the mark in reply which sent him reeling and gasping to the ropes.  “Hurrah for the old one!” yelled the mob, and my uncle laughed and nudged Sir John Lade.  The west-countryman smiled, and shook himself like a dog from the water as with a stealthy step he came back to the centre of the ring, where his man was still standing.  Bang came Harrison’s right upon the mark once more, but Crab broke the blow with his elbow, and jumped laughing away. Both men were a little winded, and their quick, high breathing, with the light patter of their feet as they danced round each other, blended into one continuous, long-drawn sound.  Two simultaneous exchanges with the left made a clap like a pistol-shot, and then as Harrison rushed in for a fall, Wilson slipped him, and over went my old friend upon his face, partly from the impetus of his own futile attack, and partly from a swinging half-arm blow which the west-countryman brought home upon his ear as he passed.
    “Knock-down for Wilson,” cried the referee, and the answering roar was like the broadside of a seventy-four.  Up went hundreds of curly brimmed Corinthian hats into the air, and the slope before us was a bank of flushed and yelling faces.  My heart was cramped with my fears, and I winced at every blow, yet I was conscious also of an absolute fascination, with a wild thrill of fierce joy and a certain exultation in our common human nature which could rise above pain and fear in its straining after the very humblest form of fame.
    Belcher and Baldwin had pounced upon their man, and had him up and in his corner in an instant, but, in spite of the coolness with which the hardy smith took his punishment, there was immense exultation amongst the west-countrymen.
    “We’ve got him!  He’s beat!  He’s beat!” shouted the two Jew seconds. “It’s a hundred to a tizzy on Gloucester!”
    “Beat, is he?” answered Belcher.  “You’ll need to rent this field before you can beat him, for he’ll stand a month of that kind of fly-flappin’.” He was swinging a towel in front of Harrison as he spoke, whilst Baldwin mopped him with the sponge.
    “How is it with you, Harrison?” asked my uncle.
    “Hearty as a buck, sir.  It’s as right as the day.”
    The cheery answer came with so merry a ring that the clouds cleared from my uncle’s face.
    “You should recommend your man to lead more, Tregellis,” said Sir John Lade.  “He’ll never win it unless he leads.”
    “He knows more about the game than you or I do, Lade.  I’ll let him take his own way.”
    “The betting is three to one against him now,” said a gentleman, whose grizzled moustache showed that he was an officer of the late war.
    “Very true, General Fitzpatrick.  But you’ll observe that it is the raw young bloods who are giving the odds, and the Sheenies who are taking them.  I still stick to my opinion.”
    The two men came briskly up to the scratch at the call of time, the smith a little lumpy on one side of his head, but with the same good-humoured and yet menacing smile upon his lips.  As to Wilson, he was exactly as he had begun in appearance, but twice I saw him close his lips sharply as if he were in a sudden spasm of pain, and the blotches over his ribs were darkening from scarlet to a sullen purple.  He held his guard somewhat lower to screen this vulnerable point, and he danced round his opponent with a lightness which showed that his wind had not been impaired by the body-blows, whilst the smith still adopted the impassive tactics with which he had commenced.
    Many rumours had come up to us from the west as to Crab Wilson’s fine science and the quickness of his hitting, but the truth surpassed what had been expected of him.  In this round and the two which followed he showed a swiftness and accuracy which old ringsiders declared that Mendoza in his prime had never surpassed.  He was in and out like lightning, and his blows were heard and felt rather than seen.  But Harrison still took them all with the same dogged smile, occasionally getting in a hard body-blow in return, for his adversary’s height and his position combined to keep his face out of danger.  At the end of the fifth round the odds were four to one, and the west-countrymen were riotous in their exultation.
    “What think you now?” cried the west-countryman behind me, and in his excitement he could get no further save to repeat over and over again, “What think you now?”  When in the sixth round the smith was peppered twice without getting in a counter, and had the worst of the fall as well, the fellow became inarticulate altogether, and could only huzza wildly in his delight.  Sir Lothian Hume was smiling and nodding his head, whilst my uncle was coldly impassive, though I was sure that his heart was as heavy as mine.
    “This won’t do, Tregellis,” said General Fitzpatrick.  “My money is on the old one, but the other is the finer boxer.”
    “My man is un peu passé, but he will come through all right,” answered my uncle.
    I saw that both Belcher and Baldwin were looking grave, and I knew that we must have a change of some sort, or the old tale of youth and age would be told once more.
    The seventh round, however, showed the reserve strength of the hardy old fighter, and lengthened the faces of those layers of odds who had imagined that the fight was practically over, and that a few finishing rounds would have given the smith his coup-de-grâce.  It was clear when the two men faced each other that Wilson had made himself up for mischief, and meant to force the fighting and maintain the lead which he had gained, but that grey gleam was not quenched yet in the veteran’s eyes, and still the same smile played over his grim face.  He had become more jaunty, too, in the swing of his shoulders and the poise of his head, and it brought my confidence back to see the brisk way in which he squared up to his man.
    Wilson led with his left, but was short, and he only just avoided a dangerous right-hander which whistled in at his ribs.  “Bravo, old ’un, one of those will be a dose of laudanum if you get it home,” cried Belcher.  There was a pause of shuffling feet and hard breathing, broken by the thud of a tremendous body blow from Wilson, which the smith stopped with the utmost coolness.  Then again a few seconds of silent tension, when Wilson led viciously at the head, but Harrison took it on his forearm, smiling and nodding at his opponent.  “Get the pepper-box open!” yelled Mendoza, and Wilson sprang in to carry out his instructions, but was hit out again by a heavy drive on the chest. “Now’s the time!  Follow it up!” cried Belcher, and in rushed the smith, pelting in his half-arm blows, and taking the returns without a wince, until Crab Wilson went down exhausted in the corner.  Both men had their marks to show, but Harrison had all the best of the rally, so it was our turn to throw our hats into the air and to shout ourselves hoarse, whilst the seconds clapped their man upon his broad back as they hurried him to his corner.