by Sam Christer
I laughed. ‘Twice as good as you and only half the trouble, that’s what he was.’
‘Then speak of him.’
So I did. And because I knew he wanted companionship even more than whisky, I began right at the beginning. Back in the days when I was in transition. Changing from a meek child, bullied and chided, to a wild animal, fuelled by a savage rage that once unleashed could not be controlled.
London’s East End, 1875
When I was eleven years old I was a workhouse kid, quite a different character from the one destined to walk to the gallows. The young Simeon was as timid as a mouse, wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone another human being.
But all that changed. Not as the result of a single event, but because of a series of experiences layered upon me like suffocating blanket after suffocating blanket. Humiliation by bullies, fear of being beaten and ridiculed, loneliness and desperation.
Buried inside me, beneath my cowardice and isolation, was a terrible anger that could not escape, that was unable to kick off those psychological blankets and allow me to breathe easily and free.
Until one morning.
Instead of running and crying, as was my wont, I had lashed out at two boys who had been making my life a misery and foolishly, I did so under the noses of our masters, ensuring we were all soundly punished.
I was caned and locked overnight in a coal cellar. The man who released me was memorably horrible. Brandon Timms was the only supervisor more lice-ridden and filthier than any of the wretches he oversaw. He was bald, save lank, greasy hair that sprouted just above his ears and fell beyond his shoulders. His hands were covered in crops of warts that he would rub in our faces. His old brown woollen suit was short in the legs and stank of every belly-load of beer he’d vomited and every careless piss he’d taken.
Timms clipped my head as he pushed me through the boardroom door and commanded, ‘Git over there, boy! And be sure you’re seen and not heard.’
I remember that the room had a cavernous fireplace that burned a mine full of coal. That day, the blaze warmed a gathering of stout men hunched around a dark, highly polished table that supported lazy arms, fat cigars and numerous cups of tea and plates of biscuits and cakes.
‘Stand straight! No slouching, mind,’ ordered Timms as he positioned me for consideration.
The governors talked of the classroom altercation, then fell silent as they waited for Jeremiah Beamish, the workhouse master, to make an entry in a ledger spread beneath his podgy fingers.
Eventually Beamish downed his pen, thumped hefty forearms onto the table and cleared his throat.
‘It is my job,’ he announced, ‘to raise you in a manner that society might approve of you. It is my duty to ensure that everything and everyone within these walls is governed by fairness, equality and transparency. It is therefore my decision that you and the boys you were fighting, Charles and James Connor, will settle your differences in public.’
He picked up a cigar glowing in an ashtray at his elbow, drew on it, and amid a cloud of smoke announced, ‘The three of you seem to have a taste for violence, so my colleagues and I think it just that violence itself will tutor you.’
He could tell from the vacancy in my eyes that I was none the wiser.
‘You are to box, child.’
My brain filled with fear and I struggled not to shake or even soil myself.
‘Whichever brother chooses to face you, you will fight him. It will serve as a lesson for you all, and who knows, it might even produce some extra income for the workhouse through ringside wagers.’
The mention of money prompted mumbles of appreciation from the other men at the table.
‘In preparation,’ continued Beamish, ‘the three of you will be trained in the fine art of pugilism. And I hope that in so doing, you discover some dignity for yourselves and respect for this fine establishment.’ He leaned on the table and it creaked under his weight as he spoke to the governors. ‘I will have Blackson and Miller tutor them; they both have a sense of what is required to make silk purses out of sows’ ears.’
They made more appreciative murmurs. Beamish listened and then turned back to me. ‘There must be no physical contact of any kind between the three of you until the day of the bouts. No kicking, hitting, poking, tearing of hair or even spitting. Any child not heeding my words will be reminded of them by a merciless flogging.’
I was fascinated by a trickle of sweat that dripped from his chin. It hit the table top. Glistened on the polish and formed a tiny, greasy bead.
‘Look at me!’ he shouted.
I lifted my gaze.
‘Do I make myself unmistakably clear, boy?’
I was almost too frightened to speak. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ He turned to Timms. ‘Get him out of here. Have Matron check the mite over. See that he is bathed and disinfected before being returned to the others.’
With a wave of his hand I was dismissed.
Despite the master’s urgency to be rid of me and to start his boxing caper, it was not until the early hours of the following morning that I met the man who would train me.
I was asleep in the cold, overcrowded dormitory when a voice ended the safety of my dreams. ‘Get up!’ it boomed. ‘Get the fuck up! Right this moment!’
I woke with fright. A large, black man was by my bed. The first I had ever encountered. He tore the blanket away and bellowed, ‘GET UP!’
I swung my legs to the floor.
‘People call me Blackson,’ he declared. ‘But to you, I am Mister Blackson.’
He pushed his face intimidatingly close to mine. Grabbed my arms. Squeezed them until I squeaked in pain. ‘Does that hurt?’ He squeezed some more. ‘It must, because I have felt string with more muscle than you have.’
‘Let go. You are—’
‘Be quiet and listen. From now on, I own this puny shoelace of a body of yours. The breath in your tiny lungs and the pansy pink blood in your weedy veins, they are mine.
He let go and my biceps burned where he had gripped them.
‘Put your daddles up,’ he demanded.
Other boys were stirring now, shifting in their bunks, curious to see what was happening.
‘Daddles up!’ shouted Blackson and slapped my left cheek for good measure.
I lifted my left hand and touched the stinging flesh. He slapped my right cheek.
Sniggering broke out in the dorm.
My right hand rose protectively and he jabbed me hard in the stomach. The spluttering I made created another wave of laughter.
‘Next boy that makes a noise feels my fists,’ warned Blackson. ‘So get back to sleeping or playing with yourselves.’
I straightened up and struggled to breathe.
‘At least you’re not cryin’, that’s a start. I hate criers.’ He cupped my chin in one of his giant palms. ‘You want to hit me, don’t you? I see it in your eyes and your balled-up baby fists.’
He put his hands behind his back. Leaned forward. Stuck out his chin. ‘Go on then, lad. Land your best blow.’
I clenched my fist even tighter and threw my hardest punch.
Blackson’s hidden right hand reappeared and caught my fist mid-air. He held it like it was a small ball tossed by an infant and tightened his grip so painfully I thought he might grind my bones to dust.
I danced in pain. Felt water flood my eyes. Pushed my teeth together to halt a scream that would have shamed me for ever.
Finally, he let go. ‘You need to be less pree-dick-table.’ He pointed at my heaped clothes on the floor. ‘Now get dressed, we have work to do. And lots of it, judging by the poor shape you are in.’
And work we did. That morning and every morning, Mister Blackson came for me. His thin form appeared like a spectre at my bed, usually materialising only minutes before Miller came for the Connor brothers.
Day by day he would slap me awake. Grind my soft fists in the pestles of his palms. Laugh at every punch I threw at him.
‘You must learn to bo
b ’n’ weave,’ he told me. ‘Stay on your toes. The floor should never feel your heels.’ He would dance forward and sideways to demonstrate. ‘A boxer’s feet are his leading fists. They strike the first blows by moving you away from the knuckles of your enemy.’
Gradually, the training became easier. My body and mind adjusted to each extra notch of torture. Soon, I could take a slap without flinching. Sometimes, I could even counter with a punch that found its target.
One morning, he stopped the sparring and said, ‘I’m going to show you something now, something you’ll never forget.’ He held his big right hand high in the air. ‘This is called the rabbit punch and it’s a great favourite of Mr Miller. So you can be assured the Connor boys will be instructed to execute this on you.’
He feigned a blow to my stomach with his left hand and then, as I dipped my head and backed away, he hit me hard across the back of the neck with his straight right hand.
I instantly went dizzy, lost my footing and fell to my knees.
‘It’s called a rabbit punch,’ he explained as he hauled me to my feet, ‘because it is used to break the neck of rabbits.’
He left me to wheeze, then added, ‘You will have but thirty seconds to recover if that happens when you’re in the ring. Now, breathe slowly through your nose and out slowly through your mouth. Breathing like that calms your heart and stops you pissing yourself.’
I did as I was told and from that day forth during every training session I kept a vigilant watch for the rabbit punch. Only once more did he catch me with it, and that was during the culmination of a particularly brutal session that involved his newly introduced combination of uppercuts and jabs.
Day by day, I became not only fitter but also more skilled. During an intensive boxing session I found myself wrong-footed but managed opportunistically to throw a strong left jab that caught Blackson under the ribcage and left him coughing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly, afraid of the retribution that might follow.
Still slightly winded, he asked, ‘Which hand did you hit me with?’
I shied away from him; afraid he might crush it, or worse.
‘I’m not going to hurt you. Which daddle?’
I held up my left.
He straightened up and examined it. Raised both his palms as targets. ‘Punch me. As hard as you can, but with only that fist.’
I followed his orders.
‘Harder.’
I complied.
‘Now with your right.’
Again I obeyed.
‘I thought so!’ He sounded delighted. ‘You’re a southpaw.’
‘I am? What’s a southpaw?’
‘A person who punches hardest with their left. I’ve been teaching you all wrong. I should have known.’ His voice grew excited. ‘Only I have never come across a southpaw before. Never fought one. Never trained one. Fancy that.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You keep this to yourself, mind. It’s a secret that will serve you well when you fight one of the Connor boys.’
And keep the secret I did. Though at the time, I failed to see what difference using a left hand could have over a right.
Blackson held a different view and, true to his word, he changed things from that moment onwards. Not only did he make me lead with my right, he had me concentrate so much on my foot movements that at times I felt I was being taught to dance rather than box.
Our daily sessions finished in the biggest of the yards, the one that separated the chapel, dining halls, admin block and machinery shed. Our routine was always the same. He would sit and smoke his clay pipe, and I would have to run until his tobacco had gone up in smoke. By the time he tapped the black ash out on the stone floor, I would be bathed in sweat and unable to speak.
Before we parted, he would always open a roll of cloth and give me chunks of cold chicken and bread to eat as a reward. ‘Food and sleep are your secret trainers,’ he would tell me, ‘they work while you rest. Along with that mighty left daddle of yours, they are what will win those fights for us.’
When the day of the big fight came, it started most strangely, for Blackson took me for a good breakfast instead of a workout and we talked. Just talked. Not about the fight. Not even about boxing. Just about life.
‘You know,’ he said, warming up to tell me something of importance, ‘you think you’ve got it rough. No momma, no father, no home and a fight, in which you might get badly hurt. But that’s just life, boy. Life hurts almost everyone you will ever meet. As you grow up, you’ll always be fightin’. If not with your hands, it’ll be with your head or your heart.’
‘Is that how it’s been for you – one long scrap?’
He laughed. ‘What do you think? Here I am, the only black face in the workhouse; do you imagine I’ve had things easy since my family came here?’
‘You weren’t born in London?’
‘Norwich. My grandparents came from Sierra Leone.’
‘Is that near Norwich?’
He laughed again. ‘No, it is in Africa. That’s a whole world away from here. My parents came on a ship and nearly died during the voyage. They made their way as servants in fine houses. And for their crippling labours they got treated no better than dogs. Our name wasn’t Blackson, not back then.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘Blackson was the name ignorant white men gave my father. To them he was just the black’s son. Bosede Bangura is my real name.’
I pulled a face. ‘That’s a strange name.’
‘Only to you. To me, it is a very precious name.’
‘Then I shall call you by it. At least for today.’
He scratched at his head. ‘Remember, when you fight, you defend both your family’s honour and mine, as I am the one who has trained you.’
‘I’ll remember, I promise.’
‘My father,’ he went on, ‘became a performer in a circus. Many years before, he had heard of a great countryman called Pablo Fanque who became a famous showman. My father decided that if he was going to be pointed out and laughed at for not being white, he might as well get paid for it.’
‘What did your father do?’ My imagination ran away with me. ‘Was he a lion tamer? An acrobat, or—’
‘He was a prize fighter.’
‘A boxer?’
‘An excellent one. A fine trainer, too. He taught me all I know. At the fairgrounds, people would pay to fight my father, on the promise they’d win a guinea if they knocked him down. No one ever did.’ He looked sad and added, ‘One day he beat a gypsy from a rival circus. Much money had been bet on the pikey and the loss wasn’t suffered well. The following night, my mother and father were clubbed to death in their caravan. I only survived because I had been out playing with a friend.’
I didn’t know what to say, or do, to make him feel better. I just sat close and leaned against him, to let him know I was on his side.
‘Come on,’ he said, vigorously ruffling my hair. ‘The talking is over. Now it is time for you to honour yourself, and cost Beamish a bob or two, for he’s sure to have bet on a Connor boy giving you a hiding.’
I got up and followed him out of the room. We walked long corridors towards the quadrangle where the bout was due to be held, past the pungent smells of the kitchens and steam of the laundry. Miller and the Connor brothers appeared from a side door in front of us. They glanced our way. Swaggered on ahead and I had my first pang of nerves.
As we neared the end, Bosede put an arm around me. ‘Remember to hit, hit and hit again. Do not let pain stop you from punching them. Ignore it. Swallow it like water and spit out fire.’
Miller pushed open the double exit doors into the quadrangle and the roar of a crowd deafened me. Workhouse inmates jostled to see us as we walked out. They were packed deep. People at the back were standing on crates or balancing on each other’s shoulders. Towards the front, men in suits and hats were seated on benches and chairs. Most were smoking and placing bets.
Eight posts marked out a rectangle of
tattered turf and two thick ropes ran around it all. Across the centre of the patch of grass was a short, newly painted white line, known as ‘the scratch’. This was where the referee gathered fighters when he wished to commence or conclude the boxing. A couple of three-legged stools stood in diagonally opposite corners.
My teeth chattered in the cold as we ducked the ropes and entered the arena. Bosede slapped my biceps to warm me up. When his eyes caught mine I could see encouragement in them. I wanted to do him proud but feared I lacked the courage.
‘Stand up straight and don’t be frightened.’ He forced my shoulders back and stared intently into my eyes. ‘You won’t notice the crowd. Not when one of the twins hits your face or body.’
Charlie Connor and Miller stayed outside the ropes while Jimmy slipped inside. So he was the one – the best of the Connor boys. The devil I had to beat.
Jeremiah Beamish raised his hands and voice to address the crowd. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! I seek your silence and your keenest attention.’ The master paused until they quietened. ‘A great grievance is about to be settled between Simeon Lynch and the brothers James Arthur and Charles Arthur Connor, who I am told have been in a state of mutual animosity since first clapping eyes on each other.’ Beamish took a couple of paces to his right and clasped the shoulder of a burly white-shirted man with a stern face and a large black moustache that appeared freshly waxed and curled. ‘I am privileged to introduce to you Jonathan J. Clark, a most distinguished official from the London Prize Ring.’
Cheering rang out.
‘Mr Clark,’ continued Beamish, ‘has graciously consented to oversee our match, fought under a most agreeable adaptation of the Broughton Rules. Along with him are two impartial umpires, Mr Gray and Mr Southgate, who will help keep time and rule on the outcome of this fight.’ He paused while the aforementioned gentlemen rose slightly from their ringside seats so they could be identified. ‘I am sure you understand that their decision on the winner and the subsequent allocation of associated battle monies will be final.’ This comment resulted in a mixture of boos and cheers.
‘Come ’ere boys,’ demanded Clark gruffly as he beckoned both Jimmy and myself. ‘I want a fair stand-up fight. Fifteen rounds of three minutes apiece. No gouging, no butting, no punching beneath the belt.’ He motioned to our feet. ‘Show me your boots. I told your master this ’ad to be a fight without spikes.’