Tai-Pan

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As the two men and their seconds climbed into the ring that had been erected near the flag at Glessing’s Point, a breathless silence settled on the massed spectators.

Each was a burly hard-faced six-footer in his early twenties. Each had his head shaven to protect him from the other’s grip. And when they took off their rough shirts each had the same rippling steel of knotted muscles and bore on his back ancient ruts from the cat-o’-nine-tails.

The fighters were beautifully matched and everyone knew that much was at stake. The admiral and the general had personally approved the selection of the fighters, and had exhorted them to win. The honor of the whole Service was on their shoulders, the wealth of the savings of their mates. The future would be sweet for the victor. For the vanquished there would be no future.

Henry Hardy Hibbs climbed through the single rope and stood in the center of the ring where the yard-square mark had been chalked. “Yor ’Hexcellency, Yor ’Ighness, M’Lords and Yor ’Onors,” he began. “A fight to the finish, between, in this corner, Bosun Jem Grum o’ the Royal Navy—”

There was a huge cheer from the mob of sailors to the east and jeers and obscenities from the packed ranks of English and Indian soldiers to the west. Longstaff, the archduke, the admiral and the general were seated in the place of honor on the north ringside, an honor guard of impassive marines surrounding them. Behind the archduke were his two liveried bodyguards, armed and vigilant. Struan, Brock, Cooper, Tillman, Robb, Gorth and all the tai-pans had seats on the south side, and behind them were the lesser traders and naval and army officers, all elbowing for a better view. And on the periphery was the ever-growing crush of Chinese who poured down from the hovels of Tai Ping Shan, chattering, giggling, waiting.

“And in this corner, representing the Royal Army, Sergeant Bill Tinker—”

And again raucous cheers interrupted him. Hibbs held up his arms, and his verminous frock coat lifted away from his ball-like paunch. When the cheers and jeers died away, he called out, “London prize-ring rules: each round to end with a fall. There be thirty seconds twixt rounds, and when the bell be rung, eight seconds be allowed for the man to come up to the scratch and toe the line. No kickin’ an’ no buttin’ an’ no hittin’ below the belt and no gougin’. Him wot doan come out of corner, or him wot’s seconds throw in the towel, be the loser.”

He motioned importantly to the seconds, who examined the fists of each other’s fighter to see that they were pickled in walnut juice, as was customary, and held no stone, and inspected the fighting boots to see that the soles had only the regulation three spikes.

“Now shake ’ands an’ may the best man win!”

The fighters came to the center of the ring, their shoulder muscles quivering with pent-up excitement, their belly muscles tight, nostrils flaring as they smelled the dank sour sweat of each other.

They toed the line, and touched hands. Then they bunched their rocklike fists and waited, their reflexes hair-triggered.

Hibbs and the seconds ducked under the ropes and out of the way.

“Your Highness?” Longstaff said, giving Zergeyev the honor.

The archduke got up and walked to the ship’s bell that was near the ring. He slammed it with the striker and a wild frenzy swept the foreshore.

The instant the bell sounded, the fighters lashed out at each other, their legs planted like oaks and as strong, toes firm on the line. Grum’s knuckles rocked into Tinker’s face and left a bloody weal in their wake, and Tinker’s fist sank violently into Grum’s belly. They mauled each other incessantly, driven by the tumult and their anger and hatred. There was no science to their fighting, no attempt at avoiding blows.

After eight minutes their bodies were scarlet-splotched, their faces bloody. Both men had broken noses, and their knuckles were raw and slippery with sweat and blood. Both were gasping for breath, their chests heaving like mighty bellows, and both had blood in their mouths. And then in the ninth minute Tinker smashed a right hook that caught Grum in the throat and felled him. The army cheered and the navy cursed. Grum got up, beside himself with rage and pain, and rushed at his enemy, forgetting that the first round was over, forgetting everything except that he had to kill this devil. He caught Tinker around the throat and they were hacking and gouging and the army screamed “Foul!” The seconds swarmed into the ring and tried to drag the fighters apart, and there was almost a riot among the soldiers and the sailors and their officers.

“By the Lord Harry,” Glessing shouted to no one in particular. “That bastard gouged our man!”

“And who started the melee, by God? The round was over!” Major Turnbull said, his temper rising, hand on his sword. He was a taut man of thirty-five and chief magistrate of Hong Kong. “Just because you’ve been appointed harbormaster, you think that gives you the right to mask a foul?”

“No, by God! But don’t try to bring the full majesty of your appointment into a social affair.” Glessing turned his back on him, and shoved forward in the crowd.

“Hello, Culum!”

“Hello, George. Good fight, isn’t it?”

“Did you see that bastard gouge our man?”

“I think he got gouged back, didn’t he?”

“That’s not the point, by God!”

And then the half minute was up and the fighters rushed at each other.

The second and third rounds were almost as long as the first, and the spectators knew that no man could stand such punishment for long. In the fourth round a sailing left hook caught the soldier under the ear and he crashed to the canvas. The bell sounded and the seconds grabbed their man. After the cruelly brief half-minute respite the soldier charged to the line, pummeled the sailor, then grabbed him around the chest and savagely hurled him down. Then back into the corner again and thirty seconds and fight once more.

Round after round. Ahead on falls, behind on falls.

In the fifteenth round Tinker’s fist connected with Grum’s broken nose. Fire burst in Grum’s head, blinding him; he screamed and flailed wildly in panic. His left fist hit home and his eyes cleared a moment and he saw that the enemy was open and tottering and heard a hugeness of screaming and cheering close by, yet far away. Grum hurled his right fist, clenching it as he had never clenched it before. He saw it crush into the soldier’s belly. His left crossed and smashed his enemy on the side of the face and he felt a small bone in his hand shatter and then he was alone. There was once more that godhating bell and hands grabbed him, and someone shoved the liquor bottle into his broken mouth and he drank deeply and vomited the blood-streaked liquor and croaked, “What round, mate?” and someone said, “Nineteenth,” and he was up to scratch once more and there was the enemy again, hurting him, killing him, and he had to stay and conquer or die.

“Good fight, eh, Dirk?” Brock bellowed above the excitement.

“Aye.”

“You wants to change yor mind and wager?”

“No thanks, Tyler,” Struan told him, awed by the bravery of the fighters. Both were at the limit of their strength, fiercely beaten. Grum’s right hand was almost useless, Tinker’s eyes barely open. “I would na like to take on one of them in a ring, by God!”

“They be gutty as any alive!” Brock laughed, showing his brown and broken teeth. “Who’s t’ win?”

“Take your pick. But I’ll wager they’ll never give up, and no towel for either of them.”

“That be truth, by God!”

Hibbs intoned, “Twenty-fourth round,” and the fighters lumbered heavily into the center of the ring, their limbs leaden, and smashed at each other. They kept on their feet only by the strength of their wills. Tinker hurled a monstrous left that would have felled an ox, but the blow slid off Grum’s shoulder and he slipped and fell. The navy cheered and the army roared as the seconds carried the soldier to his corner. When the half minute was up, the army watched breathlessly as Tinker gripped the ropes and pulled himself up. The veins on his neck contorted with the effort, but he rose on both feet and staggered back to the line.

Struan felt someone watching him, and upon turning, saw the archduke beckoning. He pushed his way around the ring and wondered tensely if Orlov, whom he had sent to “assist” the archduke’s transfer to the hulk, had outsmarted the servants and if he had found any documents of value.

“Have you picked the winner, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev asked.

“No, Your Highness.” Struan glanced at the admiral and the general. “Both men are a credit to your services, gentlemen.”

“The navy man’s full of guts, by God, remarkable,” the general said jovially, “but I think our man’s got the wind to stay.”

“No. Our man will be the lad to toe the line. But, by God, your man’s good, M’Lord. A credit to any service.”

“Why don’t you join us, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev said, indicating the empty chair. “Perhaps you’d explain the finer points of prizefighting?”

“With your permission, gentlemen,” Struan said politely, sitting. “Where’s His Excellency?”

“Left early, by God,” the general said. “Something about dispatches.”

The bell sounded again.

Zergeyev shifted restlessly in his chair. “What’s the largest number of rounds that a fight has had?”

“Saw the Burke-Byrne fight in ’33,” the admiral said shortly. “Ninety-nine rounds. By the blood of Christ, that was a battle royal. Fantastic courage! Byrne died of the beating he took. But he never gave up.”

“Neither of these two will give up either—they’ve beaten each other senseless,” Struan said. “It’d be a waste to kill one—or both—of them, eh, gentlemen?”

“Stop the fight?” the archduke asked incredulously.

‘The point of a match is a test of strength and courage, man to man,” Struan said. “They’re equally matched and equally brave. I’d say they’ve both proved their worth.”

“But then you have no winner. Surely that’s unfair, weak, and proves nothing.”

“It’s unfair to kill a courageous man, aye,” Struan said calmly. “Only courage is keeping them on their feet.” He turned to the others. “After all, they’re both Englishmen. Save them for a real enemy.”

A sudden burst of cheering distracted the admiral and the general but not Zergeyev.

“That almost sounds like a challenge, Mr. Struan,” he said with a dead calm smile.

“Nay, Your Highness,” Struan said graciously, “only a fact. We honor courage, but in a case like this, winning is secondary to the preservation of their dignity as men.”

“What do you say, Admiral?” the general said. “Struan has a point, eh? What’s the round? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six,” Struan said.

“Say we limit the bout to fifty. One’s got to go before that—impossible to stay on their feet till then. But if they can both toe the line on the fifty-first round, we throw in the towel together, eh? Declare it a draw. Hibbs can make the announcement.”

“I agree. But your man won’t last.”

“Another hundred guineas says he will, by God!”

“Done!”

“A wager, Mr. Struan?” the archduke said, as the admiral and general grimly turned away and signaled to Hibbs. “You name the stakes and pick a man.”

“You’re our guest, Your Highness, so it’s your privilege to pick—if the stakes please you: one question—answered by the loser in private, tonight. Before God.”

“What sort of question?” Zergeyev asked slowly.

“Anything that the winner wants to know.”

The archduke was tempted, yet filled with huge misgivings. It was a monumental gamble but a worthy one. There was much he would like to learn from the Tai-Pan of The Noble House. “Done!”

“Who’s your man?”

Zergeyev pointed instantly at Bosun Grum. “I’ll put my honor on him!” And he immediately roared at the sailor, “Kill him, by God!”

The rounds mounted. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five, forty-six. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine. And now the spectators were almost as exhausted as the fighters.

Finally the soldier fell. He dropped like a dead oak and the noise of his falling resounded around the beach. The sailor, drunk with pain, still flailed blindly at the air, impotently seeking the enemy. Then he too fell, equally inert. The seconds carried the men to their corners and the half minute expired and the army screamed at their man to get up and the general was pounding the ring floor, his face flushed, imploring Tinker, “Get up, get up for God’s sake, lad!” And the admiral was purple as Grum forced himself to his feet and stood reeling in his corner. “Toe the line, lad, toe the line!” And Struan was exhorting the soldier, and the archduke was shouting a paroxysm of Russian-French-English encouragement to the sailor to get to the line.

Each fighter knew that the other was beaten. Both tottered to the line and swayed, their arms and legs dead and helpless. Each lifted his arms and tried to hit But all the strength had vanished. Both fell.

Last round.

The crowd went wild, for it was obviously impossible for either fighter to leave his corner in half a minute and walk back to the line.

The bell sounded and again there was an unearthly silence. The fighters groped to their feet and hung on to the ropes and stayed reeling in their corners. The sailor whimpered and made the first agonized step with one foot toward the line. Then, after a breathless eternity, another. The soldier still was in his corner shivering and swaying and almost falling. Then his foot arched forward pathetically and there was a manic screaming—urging, willing, begging, praying, cursing, blending into a final roar of impossible excitement as both men tottered ahead inch by inch. Suddenly the soldier weaved helplessly and almost slipped, and the general nearly collapsed. Then the sailor lurched drunkenly, and the admiral closed his eyes, sweat streaming his face, and prayed.

There was pandemonium as both men toed the line and the towels flew over the ropes, and only when the ring was a welter of men jumping up and down did the fighters know for truth that the brawl was over. And only then did they allow themselves to vanish into nightmare pain, not knowing if they were victor or vanquished—or awake or dead or dreaming or alive—only knowing they had done their best.

“By St. Peter’s beard,” the archduke said, his voice hoarse and painful, his clothes soaked with sweat, “that was a fight of fights.”

Struan, also sweat-stained and exhausted, pulled out a hip flask and offered it. Zergeyev tilted it and drank deeply of the rum. Struan drank and passed it to the admiral, who gave it to the general, and they finished the flask together.

“God’s blood,” Struan croaked. “God’s Blood.”