Carson City, the capital city of the State of Nevada, lies in a bowl of the Sierra Nevada at an altitude, so I am told, of nearly 5000 feet, and is surrounded by mountains. It was then a flourishing township, Jacka said, with a population of about 2000 people and had several handsome buildings, including the capitol, a mint and an orphan’s home, and a good sprinkling of pool rooms. This morning the mountains were glimmering with snow, and an icy breeze loitered through the town. Dust whorls rose in the streets, and the wooden sidewalks were packed five abreast with men strolling through or looking for food or drifting slowly towards the arena to be sure of gaining good seats. In the gutter mendicants and others stood begging alms or selling favours and crying out for attention. Pretty many of the men who had come to see the fight already wore four-leafed clovers in honour of St Patrick’s Day and to show they supported Corbett. Some of the badges were six inches across, and some men wore green shirts and green hats and green ribbons on their sleeves. Women were very absent from the scene.
Food was a big problem, for the eating houses and tents were soon full, and long jostling angry queues formed outside them; but Jacka and his friends had brought meat and potato pasties that Jacka had cooked the night before, and so after a brief walk around the town they tramped off to the arena and got seats. Jacka was much concerned as to which corner the boxers were occupying; Corbett, they found, had been given the south-east corner, so they took seats as near to the northwest corner as they could get. It was a great amphitheatre of a place with the white peaks of the snow-covered mountains all round. You could see the ring from almost anywhere; but although the fight was supposed to start at ten it was scarce dotted with people when they arrived, and they squatted on the grass to break their fasts. After they had eaten they went off in turn, and Jacka, passing a betting booth which had the guarantee of the local bank to support it, could not refrain from slipping in and putting on another $200 as a final token – though here he found the odds had shortened to five to two.
By ten the arena was almost half full, but no sign of the boxers and only one or two officials fussing round the ring. Old pugilists of one sort or another strolled all about, followed by their admirers. Sharkey was there, the only one who had beaten Fitzsimmons – though this, it was generally admitted, was with a foul blow. John L. Sullivan, grey-haired now but as big as ever. And Goddard, and Billy Madden and others. Not far from where Jacka was sitting was a strange contraption on wooden legs which he was told was a kinetoscope. This, they said, would take moving pictures of the fight – or rather many pictures which shown quickly one after the other would give the appearance of movement. It was said this was the first time such an invention had ever been used at a boxing match.
At ten-thirty the arena was three-quarters full, and the sun beat down and the wind had fallen away. This might be March and high in the Nevadas, but it was more like San Francisco in the summer. Everyone had come wrapped up for a cold day and everyone was now sweating. Coats, jerseys, mufflers, waistcoats came off. They lay in piles on the grass and cluttered up the aisles.
Now the famous boxers each made an appearance in the ring and made speeches, most of them challenging the winner of this fight: and they were greeted with applause or derision according to the wayward fancy of the crowd. Then there was a big cheer as Mrs Fitzsimmons came upon the scene. She looked some pale – though normally she was as rosy-faced as her husband – and went down the east aisle to sit in a box beside Governor Sadler and Senator Ingalls. A man behind Jacka, who was a Carson City man and had a stake in the local newspaper, said out loud that Fitzsimmons had told him that win or lose, this was his last fight. He would soon be thirty-five, and not many boxers stayed in the game above the age of thirty, except as human punch-balls. And Mrs Fitz was tired of travelling and longed for a quiet home life.
‘Thirty-five, damme,’ muttered Sil Polglaze, who had put fifty dollars on Fitz. ‘ ’Tis old, Jacka. ’Tis a bare five years younger than me, and I could no more fight than ride an ass backwards. It makes you think, Jacka.’
‘You,’ said Jacka, contemptuous. ‘ You could no more fight not when you was twenty. Fitz is differenter. Fitz’ll not let us down.’ But for the first time for days the veil of self-hypnosis that was upon him was shaken. This ageing man who talked of retiring – was he the man on whom you risked all your own hopes of retirement?
Muldoon, the time-keeper, was up there now, with Dan Stuart the promoter, Physician Guinan, Manager Brady, Billy Jordan the Master of Ceremonies, Referee Siler, and other big pots. The local man behind Jacka was useful, for he knew the names of them all and pointed them out in a loud voice.
Then suddenly there was a great roar from the crowd, which by now was barely short of 12,000 strong. Bob Fitzsimmons was coming down along the side seats. Martin Julian led the way, then came Fitz, and he was followed by his seconds and half a dozen of other men. Fitz was in a bright pink and mauve dressing-gown and looked just the same bald, red-faced, skinny, thin-legged man Jacka had met six years ago. All the fights he had been in since, all the punishment he’d given and accepted, hadn’t altered his face except the skin round his eyes was puffier and he walked a little more with his neck thrust forward as if he was wearing a discomfortable collar. As he passed the box where his wife was sitting he stopped and kissed her, then went on to the ring.
Then before even he had climbed in the great James J. Corbett had appeared from the other side, with his brother Joe at his side and six other men in attendance. The man behind Jacka was giving names to them all, but Jacka paid little attention. His heart was suddenly wanting to fall into his stomach as he saw the difference in physique betwixt the two fighters.
At the roars which went on and on, several thousand more folk outside the ground who had been waiting for a reduction in the price of the tickets, concluded that after all they must pay the proper charge and came pushing and thrusting in, filling up the empty spaces. Few women were to be seen, and those few had peroxide hair and you could hazard a lively guess at their business. To all this Jacka was now blind, as he saw the preparations going forward in the ring. Near beside him the man working the kinetoscope came out to take sightings. One after another, men were making speeches in the ring. The time wanted twenty-five minutes of noon. Then Billy Jordan introduced these two fighters and everyone went mad again. When this was done, the fighters went back to their corners and a silence fell like the day before the Day of Judgment. Overhead was not a cloud, not a wisp, only the brilliant hot sun that made many men drape kerchiefs upon their heads. Fitzsimmons’s bald patch shone like a polished saucer. The timekeeper took up his place beside the gong, and behind him stood a guard with a club to stroke down anyone who tried to interfere. The referee was in the middle looking at Muldoon. Muldoon nodded, the two boxers stripped off their gowns and came into the centre of the ring, Fitz thin and gangling with his great chest, looking like a hairless ape, Corbett, far taller and heavier, handsome built, in the peak of condition, proudly ready for the fight. The gong sounded and they were off.
Jacka watched the beginning but says he could remember precious little of the first few rounds. Suddenly the veil was cleft altogether from before his self-opinionated eyes and he saw not two men struggling for a crown but his own wicked wanton recklessness in risking three-quarters of his fourteen years’ savings on the outcome of a fight. He felt sick, his bowels rumbled, hammers beat in his head, the blows raining on Fitzsimmons might have been raining upon his own body.
And certainly blows were landing upon Fitzsimmons everywhere. He was lighter than Corbett, shorter than Corbett and slower than Corbett. He looked smaller even than his eleven stone four pounds. Everyone knew he had a punch like a mule, but he never was given a chance to use it. The crowd were in raptures of pleasure. Nine in every ten backed Corbett; he was from San Francisco, he was Irish-American, he was good-looking, he was quite the gentleman. Fitz was going to receive what was coming to him.
And Fitz does. After the third round
it looks like a massacre. Corbett is boxing like a champion, powerful and fast, landing blow upon blow. Some Fitz partly parries, some he takes full strength on his face and his body, yet he scarcely ever seems to wince or cringe away. Every now and then he will snake out that terrible left of his, but it never finds its mark. His face is red, his mouth bleeding, one eye partly closed – already. It is a strange expression he has upon his face, Jacka says; there is sentiment and tragedy in it, and a sort of fixed grin that bears it all while he still keeps closing in, waiting for an opening, his eyes watchful. There is no temper in those eyes, Jacka says, no resentment, just watchfulness and utter determination that he must not be beat.
In the fourth round there is a lot of in-fighting, with Corbett landing three punches to Fitzsimmons’s one. ‘Good old Jim!’ the crowd screams. ‘ Good old boy, good old Jim!’ while Jacka sits there too paralysed even to shout for his man. Unmarked, Corbett steps away from Fitz, thumping in half arm blows the while, to the face, to the nose, to the ribs, to the jaw. Sometimes Fitz looks like a turtle, his head, red and damaged, half sunk between his great shoulders for protection from the storm.
In the fifth round it appears as if Fitz is done. His lips are swollen, the eye half closed, his nose bleeding, his body crimson all over, part with the blows it has received, part from the blood on Corbett’s gloves. He begins to lie on Corbett’s shoulder, trying to get a breather, trying to smother Corbett’s blows to his ribs. ‘Knock his head off, Jim!’ they shout. ‘Punch his ’ead!’ ‘Lay ’im out, boy!’ It seems endless that round. At the bell Corbett walks smiling to his corner. Fitz turns and plods slowly back to his. They are betting again around Jacka, or offering bets: no one is taking them. Eight to one it is again now. Back to the first odds. Now ten to one. Ten to one, a loud-mouthed check-shirted miner is shouting. Jacka gets up, near sick, fumbles in his pocket, takes out his purse and from it 100 dollars in gold, offers it to Check-shirt. Everyone stares – there is a wild cackle of laughter. Check-shirt thumps Jacka on the back. ‘Right, pard, right, it’s a deal: settle after the fight.’
In the sixth round it is all Corbett, and he lands a tremendous smash in the second minute that forces Fitzsimmons to his knees and sends more blood spurting from his nose. Fitz climbs slowly up, patient, his great teeth still showing white in a face that no one any longer can recognize. Corbett’s body is smeared with blood now, but it is not his own. The seventh round is much the same, Fitz crouching to avoid the worst punishment, and every now and then darting out his terrible blows that still have not lost all their strength.
In the eighth round Corbett has clearly decided to finish it off. Dropping his own skill, he steps in and lands almost as he likes, blows to the neck and the chest and the ribs and the heart. Men round Jacka shout: ‘Why don’t Fitz give up.? Why don’t he quit?’ In the ninth Fitzsimmons is down again after a right uppercut that would have put an ordinary man out for ten minutes. He is up on the count of nine, leaning on Corbett, hitting back, weakly but enough to prevent another knock-down before the bell. Corbett is smiling again as he walks back to his corner. So far as you can tell he is unmarked. The check-shirted miner offers Jacka another hundred dollars at 15 to 1. Jacka just stares and shakes his head.
The minute rest has given the seconds a chance again to sponge the blood off Fitz’s face, and he comes up looking no different from what he looked six rounds ago. Corbett will need an axe to finish the job, nothing less will do. They fight toe to toe through the first half, and Fitzsimmons seems no weaker for all his terrible punishment. Now he suddenly lands hard and high and often on Corbett, and though Corbett is not hurt, it is blow for blow for the first time in all the contest and a significant change. He goes back to his corner with a more thoughtful look on his handsome face, and you even hear one or two men in the crowd shout: ‘Game boy, Fitz!’ The eleventh round is much the same, and much whispering after it in Corbett’s corner. Divided counsels. There is no doubt Corbett can outbox this indestructible land crab but can he outlive him? Can he by boxing ever tire him out? It is a fight to a finish, and somehow Fitzsimmons must be put down for a count of ten. In the twelfth round Corbett is getting tired and he takes a breather. He boxes comfortably, leading Ruby Robert about the blood-stained ring, landing when he wants but avoiding a fight, while Fitzsimmons patiently pursues him. Suddenly at the end of the round Fitz manœuvres Corbett into a corner and lands some violent punches to the body.
The bell goes and Corbett’s face has changed. You can see no expression on Fitz’s at all; it is too badly cut and battered. So to the thirteenth and Corbett comes out with a last intent to finish it. Incredibly it is the fastest hardest round of all the whole bout. Now Fitzsimmons is giving as good as he gets, and the crowd stands up and shrieks and bawls its head off. Toe to toe they fight, and Corbett again gets the best of it. A great blow to Fitz’s ribs causes him to drop his hands, and for a moment it looks all over. Corbett swings to the jaw, and by a split second Fitz takes the step back that saves him. Then they are at it hammer and tongs again to the last moment of the round.
So to the fourteenth and Jacka is standing up all through it, jaw slack, eyes staring, like a revivalist who has seen the light. For Fitzsimmons is growing confident, those long thin terrible arms after all his punishment are shooting out like pistons, driving Corbett before them. The crowd are mad with the noise and the excitement. Fitz’s blows knock aside the champion’s defence, a half-dozen take their toll, and then a withering deadly left just below the ribs and Corbett sags. Fitz’s right comes up to the point of the jaw and Gentleman Jim Corbett topples and slides and kneels and falls, and is down and out.
Then all hell breaks loose. Within moments the ring is invaded, officials swept away. Men shout and scream, seconds fight to protect their men. In the middle of it Corbett comes round, dazed and shaken, and thinks the fight is still in progress – he lays out a newspaper man cold with one swing and rushes across to Fitzsimmons and gives him a tremendous punch in the face, which Fitz shakes bloodily off like all the rest. The men pull Corbett away and minutes pass in a maelstrom of fighting and shouting. Somewhere amidst it Referee Siler holds Fitzsimmons’s shaking glove aloft, and somewhere amidst it Corbett, still protesting, accepts defeat.
Jacka is trembling from head to foot and his shirt is like it has been dropped in the river. He fights his way towards the ring and near him is Mrs Fitzsimmons fighting her own way, and he catches up with her and kisses her hand, mumbling meaningless expressions of joy. Others are fighting and falling over the chairs, and it is an age before anything like order and sanity is restored. Then the biggest surprise of all for Jacka is that he finds big-mouth Check-shirt waiting beside him shaking his shoulder and wanting to pay him a thousand dollars.
So my grandfather, as a result of a single fight for the Heavyweight Championship of the World, because of his reckless pigheaded belief in a fellow countryman and a fellow townsman (who was no more than a middleweight, and an ageing middleweight at that) and the insane risk he took in backing that belief – made $24,000. So with this and the little extra he had not put at risk, he came overland to New York and thence by sea to Falmouth, and from there by coach to Helston. And there he arrived in triumph and was met by Essie, grown grey and portly, and his five sons, all taller than he, and his three daughters, of whom my mother was the youngest, and his four daughters-in-law and his one son-in-law and his five grandchildren, all waiting for him, all nineteen of them, who with Essie’s mother made a round score, and they partook of a splendid tea together at the Angel in Helston and then went out their several ways all over the country, and all twenty of them never met together at the same time ever again.
But Grandfather Jacka, a rich man by the standards of the country and the time, bought a handsome little farm with land running down to the Helford River, and there I was born, and there he lived out a pleasant, useful, quiet and agreeable life for another thirty-six years. And never a stranger would pass the door but what Jacka must te
ll of how he came to be there and how he had risked so much over a fight in Carson City, Nevada at the turn of the century.
And when it came to my turn, from that fight, thirty-six years later, I inherited three hundred pounds.
But For The Grace Of God
They picked us up about three on the Monday near the Fish Gate. I’m usually the one to run into trouble, but this time it was Gestas’s doing. The four soldiers were about their normal duty fetching a political prisoner from Tekoa, some poor devil with a bee in his bonnet and not one of our crowd at all; so much unrest they had their hands full and would have missed us entirely but for Gestas.
We’d barely escaped the night before when they’d come down the narrow street from both sides and trapped our gathering. I’d been on the sill making my speech, and they saw me and came for me, hacking a way through the men and women who got in their way. I’d jumped through the window behind and just got clear, but Gestas had got a spear jab in his thigh that had been paining and festering all today, and maybe that tried his temper. Anyway, as these four soldiers went past he spat, and the wind was blowing and the spittle fetched up on the sandal of the officer; and somehow in no time they’d recognized us and we had a fight on our hands.
Even then, with Dysmas with us, we should have got away, because no one handles a knife better than he does, but at the very worst moment when one of the soldiers was lying skewered on the road with his own spear and another had his tunic ripped up and showing red, what should come round the city wall but a half maniple of the Twelfth Legion escorting one of their high officials back from some country visit.
Had there been people around I could still have melted away amongst them the way I’d done so often before. But this being normal sexta time, the few who watched watched from behind the safety of shuttered windows, and soon I was rolling in the dust with the other two.
The Japanese Girl Page 23