intervene, or would the law take its course? Was the expulsion of one constable from the force a matter worth sacrificing all their investigations for? Hadn’t Thackeray himself suggested Cribb was callous towards his subordinates? He was a strange man, this Sergeant Cribb, and inspiring in his way; Jago wished he knew him well enough to trust him.
It was easier in this strange mood to believe that he was fighting for Mrs. Vibart than Cribb.
“Will the two antagonists and attendants come to the scratch, please?”
To confirm the dreamlike nature of this experience, the referee was the landlord of the Fox. Jago was quite prepared for his opponent, whose face had been in shadow, to be Lydia’s Papa, attended by the curate from St. Martin’s. Instead the man who stepped forward was a total stranger, Jago’s height, but broader in the chest and bronzed from work in the fields. Instead of boxing drawers he wore flannel longjohns artfully adapted, but obvious for what they were. If anyone felt uncomfortable it was Jago in the expensive white silk drawers Isabel had provided.
“Mr. Jago?” said the landlord. “We know each other, of course. This ’ere is Luke Judd from Benson’s farm.” The rivals nodded in recognition. “As to the rules, gentlemen, they are according to the London Prize-Ring, last amended 1866. Thirty seconds between rounds, and when I call ‘Time’ you ’ave eight seconds to get to scratch unaided. No butting, gouging, biting, kicking or tearing the flesh with the fingernails. And no seizing of your antagonist below the waist or belting ’im when ’e’s down. A man’s down when ’e’s got one knee and one ’and on the ground, and don’t let me see no deliberate falling on each other. Seconds and bot-tle’olders keep outside the ring until someone goes down. Then you can lift your man to ’is corner. The final matter to mention is that the referee gets five per cent of the takings, by the usual arrangements. No questions? Good. Retire to your corners and wait for the call of ‘Time.’ ”
Everyone but the two fighters climbed out through the ropes. The imminence of action brought even the serious drinkers from the bar. Jago caught the surprised glance of one of the regulars. Last week he had been one of the window-seat group.
A light breeze fluttered the colours tied to the centre stake: black silk for Isabel. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago.” Was he the protege-or she the prize?
“Time.”
Time of reckoning.
He walked to scratch and took his stance.
A fist jabbed at him. It was easy to jerk aside and respond with a probing left. Short of the target. He edged forward and measured the distance again. Judd rocked out of reach.
Judd was coming back, open to a straight left. A fast, no-nonsense punch direct to the point. Short, though! What was wrong? That should have floored him, not chucked him under the chin.
A sudden, vicious haymaker from Judd came perilously near. It fanned his ear as he leaned away. Then a second swing rammed his chest. He countered with one to Judd’s ribs. Bone against bone. His knuckles smarted.
Pain transformed Judd into a threshing machine. Arms flailed destructively, unstoppable. Most glanced off the forearms, but some Jago could not parry. He felt one jolt on his collarbone. Another scraped his ear cruelly. “They’re almost as vulnerable as eyes to bare fists,” D’Estin had told him.
Now Judd was upon him, groping for a handhold. The grasp for the throat was easy to deflect. But not the simultaneous crunch of the spiked boot on his foot.
Jago reeled in pain. A cuff on the temple. Balance gone.
Down!
With astonishing speed D’Estin was through the ropes and hoisting him to the corner. Propped there on Vibart’s knee, gasping for air.
“Drink this. Takes the pain away.”
Brandy and water, by the taste.
“Box the man. Don’t let him wrestle you. Strike for the face.”
Agonized pulsation from the pierced foot.
“Time.”
Out to scratch again, to shoot a long right to Judd’s head, warning him away. Beady brown eyes glinted in annoyance. “Box the man.” Devilish hard with him waiting there, hands half open to grapple. Try, though. A feinting right, and immediately a strong straight left. On the mark!
Judd winced and backed. Jago tried two more long lefts, more to intimidate than injure. Judd retreated again. A right. Judd was cornered, waiting for the onslaught.
Here was a chance for real advantage, not to be squandered. Coolly Jago set to work, measuring the punches and delivering them crisply. Judd bowed, arms locked across his face. Seeing no way past his attacker, he clearly decided on a strategic closure of the round. Far from convincingly he tottered forward and fell at Jago’s feet.
“Prettier work,” said D’Estin, as he sponged Jago’s face. “Don’t finish him too early, though. You fight to instructions. Understand?”
Jago understood. Even in a backyard scuffle between two unknowns the ritual of the prize ring had to be observed. You didn’t finish a fight in three rounds.
So for the next five he fought to the book, controlling the bout as he pleased, treating the crowd to first blood in the sixth with a fine blow to Judd’s swollen lip. In the seventh he allowed Judd to throw him down from a neck hold. There was no difficulty now in believing in the reality of the fight; the spike wounds in his foot had greatly helped his concentration.
“You can give ’em a show of your quality in the next two, Jago, and finish it in the tenth, as we arranged,” D’Estin said between rounds. “How are your knuckles?”
“Damned painful,” Jago told him, looking at them as detached objects resting on his thighs.
“Grip some oakum, then.” He pushed several strands of loose rope fibre into the damp palms. “It’s quite within the rules, don’t worry. It’ll cushion your punching.”
As Jago rose from Vibart’s knee, he thought for a second that he recognized a face at an open window of the Fox. He had not been much aware of the crowd before; they supported Judd almost to a man, and he had ignored them. That face, though, was somehow familiar, and it watched him intently.
He gave his attention to Judd. The local man’s strategy now was the desperate tactics of attacking the neck. Early in his instruction from the Shoreditch professor Jago had learned how vulnerable the carotid artery was, either to persistent punching or to manual pressure. Fortunately the punches were slow in coming and he was able to deflect them easily. And as Judd in desperation bore down on him with fingers outstretched for a stranglehold, Jago turned his hip inwards, gripped his attacker’s right arm and guided him across his hip into a cross-buttock. Judd crashed against one of the stakes and lay still.
“Neatly executed!” said D’Estin, genuinely pleased, when Jago returned to the corner. “You’re learning well.”
He was not listening. His attention had returned to the face at the window, for it had now been joined by another, easily recognizable as Sergeant Cribb. The first face couldn’t be Thackeray’s. It was entirely clean- shaven.
“Time.”
Out for the ninth. Judd was slow to scratch, barely within the eight seconds allowed. This would need to be a less punishing round, or he would never come out for the tenth. Not a blow had been exchanged when both men were distracted by shouts from outside the ring. The bombardment of mingled abuse and encouragement they had learned to accept. It was integral to the fight; they heard it and dismissed it.
This shouting carried a more urgent note that broke into the ritual. The fighters stood back from each other, and looked about them, trying to comprehend the scene. Spectators were abandoning the fight. Men were struggling to uproot the stakes. The ropes had already collapsed.
D’Estin was at Jago’s side, wrapping a coat around him. “The blues, man! Can’t you hear? For God’s sake, get into the pub and hide. Here’s your trousers.”
