The Power of One

by Bryce Courtenay

  “You know the young lady in the café at Tzaneen?”

  “The pretty one?” I asked, knowing all along whom he meant.

  “Ja, she’s really pretty, isn’t she? Well, she done this with her own hands.”

  “Is she your nooi? Are you going to marry her, Hoppie?”

  “Ag, man, with the war and all that, who knows.” He had walked over to the dressing table and taken the brown envelope from the top drawer. “These are my call-up papers. I have to go and fight in the war, Peekay. A man can’t go asking someone to marry him and then go off to a war, it’s not fair.”

  I was stunned. How could Hoppie be as nice as he was and fight for Adolf Hitler? If he had got his call-up papers that must mean that Adolf Hitler had arrived and Hoppie would join the Judge in the army that was going to march all the Rooineks, including me, into the sea.

  “Has Hitler arrived already?” I asked in a fearful voice.

  “No, thank God,” Hoppie said absently, “we’re going to have to fight the bastard before he gets here.” He must have seen the distress on my face. “What’s the matter, little boetie?”

  I told Hoppie about Hitler coming and marching all the Rooineks right over the Lebombo mountains into the sea and how happy all the Afrikaners would be.

  Hoppie came over and, kneeling down, he clasped me to his chest. “You poor little bastard.” He held me tight and safe. Then he took me by the shoulders and held me at arm’s length, looking me straight in the eyes. “I’m not going to say the English haven’t got a lot to answer for, Peekay, because they have, but that’s past history, man. You can’t go feeding your hate on the past, it’s not natural. Hitler is a bad, bad man and we’ve got to go and fight him so you can grow up and be welterweight champion of the world. But first we’ve got to fight the big gorilla. I tell you what, we’ll use Jackhammer Smit as a warm-up for that bastard Hitler. Okay by you?”

  We had a good laugh and he told me to hurry up and put my tackies on and he’d show me how to tie the laces like a fighter.

  The sudden sound of a motor horn outside made Hoppie jump up. He put the dressing gown in the suitcase with his other things. “Let’s go, champ, that’s Bokkie and Nels.”

  “Wait a minute, Hoppie. I nearly forgot my suckers.” I hurriedly retrieved them from my suitcase.

  SIX

  The rugby field was on the edge of town. We parked the bakkie with all the other cars and trucks under a stand of blue gums, their palomino trunks shredded with strips of gray bark. In the center of the field the men from the railway workshop had built a boxing ring that stood about four feet from the ground. The miners, who were responsible for the electrics, had rigged two huge lights on wire that stretched from four poles, each one set into the ground some ten feet from each corner of the ring.

  Huge tin shades were fitted over the lights and in the dusk the light spilled down so that it was like daylight in the ring. Hundreds of moths and flying insects spun and danced about the lights. The stands, a series of tiered benches, were arranged in a large circle around the ring. It meant everyone had a ringside seat. There looked to be about two thousand men packing the stands, while underneath them, looking through the legs of the seated whites, the Africans stood or crouched, trying to get a view of the ring as best they could.

  Bokkie and Nels led us to a large tent. We entered to find Jackhammer Smit, his seconds and four other men, three of them ordinary size and one not much bigger than me. Hoppie whispered that they were the judges and that “the dwarf is the referee.” I was fascinated by the tiny little man with the large bald head. “Take it from me, he knows his onions,” Hoppie confided.

  Jackhammer Smit had already changed into black shiny boxing shorts and soft black boxing boots. In the confines of the tent, lit by two hurricane lamps, he seemed bigger than ever. As we’d entered he’d turned to talk to one of his seconds. My heart sank; Hoppie was right, I had seen his stomach muscles as he turned; they looked like plaited rope.

  Hoppie clipped open his small suitcase, and taking off his shorts and shirt, he quickly slipped on a jockstrap. He looked tough, tightly put together, good knotting around the shoulders and tapered to the waist, his legs slight but strong. He slipped on his shiny red shorts and sat to put on his boxing boots.

  Jackhammer Smit now stood in the opposite corner of the tent facing us, with the light behind him. He looked black and huge and he kept banging his right fist into the palm of his left hand, a solid, regular smacking sound that seemed to fill the tent.

  The referee, who only came halfway up Jackhammer Smit’s legs, called the two boxers together. I wondered if all dwarfs had such deep voices. He asked them if they wanted to glove up in the tent or in the ring.

  “In the ring,” Hoppie said quickly.

  “What’s wrong with right here, man?” Jackhammer shot back.

  “It’s all part of the show, brother,” Hoppie said with a grin. “Some of the folk have come a long way.”

  “Ja, man, to see a short fight. Putting on the blerrie gloves is going to take longer than the action.”

  “Now, boys, take it easy.” The referee pointed to a cardboard box. “Them’s the gloves, ten-ounce Everlasts from Solly Goldman’s gym in Jo’burg.”

  Bokkie took the two pairs of gloves out, and moving over to Smit’s seconds, he offered both sets to them. They each took a pair, examined and kneaded them between their knees before making a choice. The gloves were shiny black; they caught the light from the hurricane lamps and, even empty, they looked full of action.

  Bokkie held the gloves out for Hoppie to inspect. “Nice gloves, not too light,” he said softly.

  Hoppie put a towel around his neck and then slipped into his dressing gown. Bokkie slung the gloves around Hoppie’s neck. “Let’s kick the dust,” Hoppie said, moving toward the open tent flap.

  Suddenly Jackhammer barked, “What you say, Groenewald, okay by you, winner takes all?”

  Hoppie turned slowly. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Smit. What would you do for hospital expenses?” He took my hand.

  “That kid of yours is gunna be a blerrie orphan by the time I’m through with you t’night,” Jackhammer yelled at Hoppie’s departing back.

  Hoppie squeezed my hand and laughed softly. “I reckon that was worth at least another two rounds, Peekay. Never forget, sometimes, very occasionally, you do your best boxing with your mouth.”

  A small corridor by which the patrons and the fighters entered the brilliantly lit ring intersected the stands on either side. It at once became obvious that one semicircle contained only miners, the other railway men. I had never been at a large gathering of people before and the tension in the crowd was quite frightening. I held on to Nels’ hand tightly as he took me to the top tier of a stand and handed me into the care of Big Hettie.

  Big Hettie seemed to be the only lady at the fight. She was the cook at the railway mess and Hoppie had introduced us earlier at dinner. Big Hettie had given me a second helping of peaches with custard. She patted the place beside her. “Come sit here, Peekay. You and me is in this together.”

  Hoppie was seated on a small stool in the corner of the ring with Bokkie bandaging his hands ready for the gloves. When Jackhammer Smit entered, he didn’t look up.

  “Ho, ho, ho, have we got a fight on our hands!” Big Hettie said gleefully.

  Now the fighters had both been gloved up, and while Hoppie remained seated, Jackhammer Smit continued to stand, looking big and hard as a mountain. While my faith was invested in Hoppie, I’d been around long enough to know the realities of big versus small. Big, it seemed to me, always finished on top and my heart was filled with fear for my newfound friend.

  “Look at that sparrow fart!” Big Hettie exclaimed, pointing to the tiny referee. “How is he going to keep them men apart?”

  “Hoppie says he knows his onions, Mevrou Hettie.”

  Jackhammer Smit began to move around the ring, snorting and snuffing and throwing imaginary punches in the air, g
runting each time he threw a punch as though it had mysteriously connected to the body of an invisible opponent who was soon to become my new best friend, Hoppie. Jackhammer seemed to be increasing in size by the minute, while Hoppie, crouched on his stool, looked like a small frog. Nels was putting Vaseline over Hoppie’s eyebrows while Bokkie seemed to be giving him some last-minute instructions.

  The tiny referee said something and the seconds left the ring and the fighters moved to the center. The crowd grew suddenly still. Standing between the two men, the referee looked up at them and said something. They both nodded and touched gloves lightly and then turned and walked back to their corners. The crowd began to cheer like mad. The referee held his hands up, turning slowly in a circle to hush the crowd, his head just showing above the top rope of the ring. Soon a three-quarter moon, on the wane, would rise over the Murchison range, though as yet the night was black, with only a sharp square of brilliant light etching out the ring with the three men in it. It was as though the two fighters and the dwarf stood alone, watched by an audience of a million stars.

  The referee addressed the stilled crowd, his surprisingly deep voice carrying easily to where we sat. “Dames en Heere, tonight we are witnessing the great biblical drama of David and Goliath.” He paused for his words to take effect. “Will history repeat itself? Will David once again defeat Goliath?” The railway men went wild and the miners hissed and booed. The referee held his hands up for silence. “Or will Goliath have his revenge?” The miners cheered like mad and this time it was the railway men who booed and hissed.

  “Introducing in the blue corner, weighing two hundred and five pounds and hailing from Murchison Consolidated Mines, the ex-light-heavyweight champion of the Northern Transvaal, Jackhammer Smit. Twenty-two fights, eleven knockouts, eleven losses on points, a fighter with an even stevens record in the ring. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Jackhammer Smit!” The miners cheered and whistled.

  “What’s eleven losses on points mean, Mevrou Hettie?” I asked urgently.

  “It means he’s a pug, a one-punch Johnny, a slugger. It means he’s no boxer.”

  The referee turned to indicate Hoppie, who raised his hands to acknowledge the crowd. “In the red corner, weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds, from Gravelotte, Kid Louis of the South African Railways, Northern Transvaal welterweight champion and the recent losing contender for the Transvaal title; fifteen fights, fourteen wins, eight knockouts, one loss.” He cleared his throat before continuing, “Let me remind you that the fighter he narrowly lost to on points in Pretoria went on to win the South African title in Cape Town.” He raised his voice. “Let’s hear it for the one and only Kid Louis!” It was our turn to cheer until the referee orchestrated us back to silence. Hoppie had once again calmly seated himself on the stool, while Jackhammer Smit was still snorting, and throwing punches at the air in front of his body.

  “This is a fifteen-round contest. May the best man win.” The referee had already assumed the authority of the fight and he didn’t look small anymore. He moved to the edge of the ring where the light spilled sufficiently to show three men seated at a small table. “Ready, judges?” They nodded and he turned to the two fighters. “At the sound of the bell come out fighting, gentlemen.”

  Out of the darkness the bell sounded for round one.

  Hoppie jumped from the stool as Nels pulled it out of the ring and Jackhammer Smit stormed toward him. The big boxer’s torso was already glistening with sweat. I had earlier unwrapped my first sucker, the yellow one the beautiful Indian lady with the diamond in her tooth had given me, and the wrapper tasted of pineapple.

  Hoppie danced around the big man and Jackhammer Smit let go two left jabs and a right uppercut, all of which missed Hoppie by a mile. He followed with a straight left, which Hoppie caught neatly in his glove as he was going away. Hoppie feinted to the right as Jackhammer tried to catch him with two left jabs; then he stepped in under the last jab and peppered Jackhammer’s face with a lightning two-handed attack. Two left, then two stabbing rights to the head. Hoppie had moved out of reach by the time Jackhammer Smit could bring his gloves back into position in front of his face. Hoppie continued to backpedal most of the time, making Smit chase him around the ring. Occasionally he darted in with a flurry of blows to the head and then danced out of range again. Jackhammer came doggedly after him, trying to get set for a big punch, but Hoppie was content to land a quick left and a right and then move quickly out of harm’s way. The first round saw him land a dozen good punches, most of them just above Jackhammer’s left eye, while the big man only managed a long straight left that caught Hoppie on the shoulder.

  It was clear that Jackhammer Smit was having trouble with the southpaw and was showing his frustration. The bell went for the end of the first round and the fighters returned to their corners. This time Jackhammer sat down, breathing heavily. He drank deeply, straight from a bottle of water one of his seconds held up to his mouth. The other second sponged him, dried him and smeared Vaseline above his left eye.

  Hoppie looked composed, breathing lightly. He drank from a bottle with a tiny bent pipe coming out of it, rinsing his mouth and spitting the water into a bucket Bokkie held for him. Nels was massaging his shoulders and Hoppie was nodding his head at something Bokkie was saying.

  “Is Hoppie winning, Mevrou Hettie?” I asked anxiously.

  “It’s early times yet, Peekay. In the early rounds the Kid will be too fast for the big guy, but one thing’s for sure, Hoppie’s punches are too short to hurt Smit.”

  The bell went for round two, a round much the same as round one except that Jackhammer Smit landed three punches to Hoppie’s head, all glancing blows, but each time the miners went wild. After the second round a red blotch began to appear above Jackhammer’s left eye. The next three rounds saw Hoppie leading Smit all around the ring, making him throw punches that nearly always missed and then darting in with a quick flurry of blows before bounding back out of harm’s way.

  The bell went for the sixth round and Jackhammer shuffled to the center of the ring, his gloves rotating slowly in front of his chest. He was getting the hang of the southpaw and was going to make Hoppie take the fight to where he stood.

  Jackhammer dropped his gloves, leaving his head a clear target, knowing he could take anything Hoppie dished out. Hoppie was forced to move in close enough for Smit to hit him in the gut and around the kidneys. Hoppie had to take a couple of vicious blows to the body every time he moved in to hit the spot above Jackhammer’s left eye. By the end of the sixth the eye was almost closed but deep red welts showed on Hoppie’s ribs where Jackhammer had caught him. Both men were breathing hard as they returned to their corners.

  “It’s not looking good for the Kid. The big ape has found his mark and he’s going to wear him down with body punches. You could of fooled me. He got more brains than I would have given him credit for,” Big Hettie said.

  “Don’t let him have brains, Mevrou Hettie. Brains is one thing you’ve got to have to win,” I said in anguish. Big Hettie was fanning herself with a bright Chinese paper fan, the perspiration running down her face and neck.

  “He hits awful hard, Peekay,” she said.

  The bell went for the seventh and Jackhammer shuffled back to the center of the ring. The heat was plainly telling on him and his gloves were held even lower than before. This left enough of his body exposed for Hoppie to hit him at long range, getting a lot more power behind his punches. The left eye was closed and Hoppie was beginning to work on the right, jabbing straight lefts right on the button every time. Near the end of the round he attempted a right cross to Jackhammer’s jaw just as the big man had moved back slightly to throw a punch. Hoppie missed with the right and was thrown slightly off balance as Smit followed through with an uppercut that caught the smaller man under the heart. Hoppie’s legs buckled under him as he toppled to the canvas.

  “Oh, shit! One-punch Johnny has found the punch. Goliath wins in seven,” Hettie
said in dismay as the miners went wild. The tiny referee was standing over Hoppie and yelling at Jackhammer Smit to get into a neutral corner, but the big man just stood there, his chest heaving, waiting for Hoppie to rise so that he could finish him off. The referee wouldn’t start the count and precious seconds passed as the big man stood belligerently over the fallen welterweight. Jackhammer’s seconds were screaming at him to move away and when finally he did so a good thirty seconds had passed.

  The referee started to put in the count. Hoppie rose onto one knee and waited until the count of eight before getting to his feet. The referee signaled for the fight to continue and Jackhammer Smit lumbered across the ring to finish Hoppie off. The almost forty-second respite had been enough to stave off disaster and Hoppie simply kept out of harm’s way as Jackhammer, energy leaking out of him with every assault, kept charging like an angry bull. The bell went just as Hoppie landed a hard left uppercut to Jackhammer’s eye.

  “Dammit, Peekay! That was lucky. Thank the Lord Sparrow Fart knows the blerrie rules, or the Kid was out for a ten count for sure.” Big Hettie removed a dishtowel that covered the basket and mopped her face and bosom. “Smit’s just another stupid Boer after all. Hoppie can thank his lucky stars for that.”

  In all the excitement I had bitten the sucker clean off its stick and crunched it to bits, shortening its life by at least half an hour. Big Hettie took a thermos flask from the basket and, using the lid, which was shaped like a cup, poured it full of hot, sweet, milky coffee and handed it to me. Then she opened a large tin and handed me a huge slice of chocolate cake. My eyes nearly stood out on stalks. This was going to be a night to remember, all right. If Hoppie, beloved Hoppie, could just keep away from the big gorilla. The way he danced around the big man, seeming only to get out of the way of a punch at the last second, reminded me of how Granpa Chook used to dodge when stones were thrown at him. I only hoped Hoppie had the same survival instinct. For an instant I grew sad. In the end even Granpa Chook’s highly developed sense of survival couldn’t save him; the big gorilla finally got him.