by Anne Groß
Suddenly pressed against men, the odor of the crowd became nearly overwhelming. The turnips, onions, and terrified barn animals that they had all eaten for dinner oozed from the men’s pores and assaulted Elise’s nostrils. Breathing through her mouth, she continued to use the cross, twisting it ruthlessly between shoulders, hips, and knees to create a path for her increasingly desperate quest to find the waitress. A good head and shoulders shorter than everyone else, she had completely lost sight of where to go and was now anxious to find the center of the circle and a little space where she could feel some air on her face. As she moved through the layers of the crowd, she collected men behind her who were unhappily clutching their bruises. Elise was only two thicknesses of men away from a fresh breath when she felt the inevitable heavy hand on her shoulder. She ducked under the hand, looked behind her and met a sea of glowering faces.
“I’ll be taking that stick of yours, if you don’t mind,” said a man with pores the size of craters and whiteheads like smoking volcanoes. His polite phrasing belied the daggers that shot from his eyes. When he reached for her weapon, Elise pulled it sharply away and accidentally caught a man next to her in the ribs. He howled in pain and jumped sideways, knocking his nearest neighbor off balance. Fortunately, this gave Elise just enough room to squat low as the man with the acne lunged at her.
With one hand out for balance and the other clutching the shorter shaft of the cross like a billy club, she swung a low arc at her attacker. His ankles tangled under the blow and Elise stepped aside to watch him stumble into the foremost rows of the crowd. A cloud of profanity rose towards the ceiling. Men pushed each other to avoid being struck by the flailing legs and elbows of Elise’s tumbling opponent. Elise followed the path he created through the crowd and emerged in a small clearing at the center. Only now, with all eyes on her, she wished she had never left the thick of it. And still the waitress was nowhere to be seen. “Buy me a beer?” she asked the acne scarred man sprawled at her feet.
It was more of an arena than a simple clearing in the center of the crowd. Two bare-chested men, one well over six feet tall with broad muscles and a healthy defending layer of fat, the other slightly shorter and a good deal leaner, stood in the center of the arena and faced off with their fists raised. They both wore pants that stopped below their knees, white stockings, and soft black leather shoes. Each had a different colored sash tied around their waist. When the smaller man turned to look at Elise in surprise his opponent took advantage of the distraction and clocked him with a massive roundhouse, sending him skittering off to be caught by the crowd. A roar of cheers went up and the men around Elise suddenly pressed back together, anxious to see what they had missed. The man at Elise’s feet lifted himself off the floor and slunk away before anyone remembered that a skinny woman with a heavy cross had just bested him.
Off to one side of the ring, the slender boxer rested on one knee with his head bowed in his hands, recovering from his opponent’s last punch. A referee stepped into the ring and began to count loudly while the crowd chimed in cheerfully. Elise counted along with everyone else, but choked on the number twelve when the crowd parted and Richard stepped through to kneel beside the fighter and talk into his ear. “Thirty!” howled the spectators. Richard slipped away into the crowd and the slender boxer stood back up on unsteady legs. The referee circled around the edge, calling “Behind the line, Gentlemen. Please step back behind the line.” When no one moved he started pushing. “Get back you buggers,” he shouted. Elise tried to take a few hasty steps backwards but was launched forwards by the men behind her who were pushing for a better view. She scrambled back to her place, receiving a glare from the referee as he passed.
“Knock him out, Mr. MacEwan!” came a scream from the other side of the crowd. Elise finally saw the waitress again. She had climbed onto the back of one of her customers for a better view and was now cheering wildly for the slender boxer. The crowd became loud with their various opinions on the matter. “Please come to the scratch line,” the referee called, and the fighters met warily in the center. They lifted their bare fists in an upright stance and everyone hushed.
The feeling that she had fallen into a rabbit hole slowly crept back into the forefront of Elise’s mind. She shook her head to clear it and hugged the cross tightly to her chest as her ribs throbbed painfully. Then, the bigger boxer’s powerful arm swung out and she was swept back up into the excitement of the fight. From the back of the room, Elise heard the waitress scream, “Look out, Mr. MacEwan!” The slender boxer easily pulled away from the jab and took a step back. The bigger fighter tried again with a hook, which Mr. MacEwan easily slipped under before taking another two steps back. Again the big boxer swung, and again the slender boxer stepped back. They were moving out of the center of the ring and towards the edge of the crowd. “Steady on, you coward” the man next to Elise yelled. “Stand and fight.” When the combatants reached the edge of the ring, Mr. MacEwan crouched down and pulled in tight against the ring of the shouting audience. His face took on a look of intense concentration while his opponent’s eyes widened, uncomfortable with the proximity of the crowd. Although it looked as though Mr. MacEwan had been running away, Elise realized the retreat had been a deliberate maneuver to draw his opponent to the place where he was most insecure.
The crowd reached out to slap at the fighters’ backs and give friendly pushes, completely oblivious to the danger of getting caught in a swing as the two men shuffled past them. Elise could see the psychological effect the proximity of the crowd was having on the bigger man as they approached from around the circle. Sweat was streaming down his face and his eyes were darting from his opponent, to the crowd, and back again. As he passed, Elise hauled out and slugged his shoulder in what she hoped would be construed as a friendly, sportsmanlike punch, knowing she’d never again get the chance to punch a boxer in a bare fisted boxing match. His flesh twitched, but he continued forward.
“How long have they been circling like this?” Elise asked the man next to her.
“Thomas has been ducking and dodging all night,” the man responded.
“Thomas is the skinny one?”
“The smart money is on Jim. He’ll win if he can ever land a punch. He’s got more strength and weight behind his fists.” The man nudged Elise with his elbow. “You did me a good turn earlier with that commotion—nearly got Thomas MacEwan knocked out.”
“Thomas, is it?” Elise’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t share the man’s view on bigger being better.
Just then, Jim attempted another right-handed jab. This time, the smaller Thomas MacEwan stepped forward under the swing, landing a strong upper cut to Jim’s face. The crowd gasped. Elise’s neighbor groaned. “Now I see what he’s doing,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s damned unsportsmanlike, and if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, the match is nearly finished.”
Elise watched as Jim tried to throw a couple of punches at close range but was obviously more comfortable with distance. His fists landed weakly on Thomas’s torso before he darted out of reach. Nearly finished? It hardly seemed like it had begun, thought Elise. Aside from the few punches she’d seen, neither man had sustained much injury. Jim swung again, telegraphing his intention from miles away. Thomas slipped to the right and countered with a blistering cross. The big man roared in frustration and tried for an upper cut. Thomas pulled away and landed a straight jab before resuming his endless shuffle backwards.
Elise studied the two men and the cogs in her brain began to lubricate as they passed in front of her again. Jim carried his arms like they were a chore to lift. He dragged his feet. Thomas was blinking hard from sweat that rolled into his eyes, but he seemed focused. His movements were gracefully methodical. Jim suddenly reached out with both hands in a desperate lunge and tried to clinch Thomas’s shoulders to stop the endless backwards movement, but Thomas easily shook off the clumsy grip and took two steps to the inside to start pounding. It was like the burst of chaotic fireworks at the
end of a lightshow. Elise gasped as blood sprayed from Jim’s nose. The smell of sweat surged and the crowd roared, pressing against her. Then Thomas calmly walked away to the other side of the ring to watch as his opponent threw hook after hook into thin air in an attempt to land a punch on what he could no longer see. Finally, he dropped his arms in defeat and put his hands on his eyes. They had swollen shut.
The man next to Elise grumbled unhappily. The crowd loosened. The referee came back out into the ring, to call Thomas the victor and lead Jim away. The waitress screamed from the top of the bar where she was now standing and clapped her hands over her head.
“That was the sorriest excuse for a fight I’ve ever seen,” Elise heard a man mumble to another who nodded in agreement but still kept his hand held out. The first man hesitated before he fished for coins in his pocket and slapped them into the open palm. As the crowd thinned, she saw a pushing match start up near the bar that was quickly ended by a large woman who came roaring out of nowhere like an enraged bear. The woman seemed to disappear back into a cave when the threat was over. The tension was palpable. Elise decided it would be best to return to the back of the room near the exit until all money had passed into the correct hands.
Unused to walking in long skirts, she bunched the hem of her gown over her knees to quietly slip around the tables as they were being returned to their proper places from their pile in the corner. With the fight over and nothing else to centralize people’s attention, eyes drifted and landed easily on her. Elise felt them on her back as she headed for the shadows. A man nodded as she walked by. Without trying to hide his interest, he let his gaze slide over her from top to bottom and lingered on her bare legs. Every inch of Elise’s body tingled a warning. She dropped her cavernous gown and let it drag along the wooden floorboards. In three steps, it got caught between her toes and she stumbled off balance.
“Careful,” said a gentle voice at her ear. Someone caught her elbow to steady her. Elise gasped and snatched her arm away while jumping two steps back. “You’re as skittish as a rabbit, aren’t you?” said the man, taking two steps forward to keep her near. It was Thomas, the slender man from the fight, only now up close he seemed more massive than slender. Elise craned her neck up to look at him as he stopped to casually button his white shirt over his broad chest and roll his sleeves with hands that were still bloody.
His expression was unreadable. A thin white scar cut through the right side of his upper lip, making the corner of it turn up in a smile, but the left side of his lower lip was swollen from the fight and drooped over a fast blooming bruise on his jaw. His blue eyes, framed with black lashes, were unflinching. His skin was pale against a shock of unruly dark hair. The heat of the room and his recent victory flushed his cheeks bright red. He loomed close in an obvious move to intimidate. “That’s a heavy cross you bear,” he said. “Let me help shoulder your burden.”
Elise backed up again quickly to gain distance between them, but he anticipated her movement and caught her upper arm with a vise-like grip while keeping himself out of her swing zone. Having seen him fight, she knew he could have unarmed her easily without the sarcastic offer of aide, and likely would do it still if she refused. However, for Elise, conceding was a bitter pill. He waited for her decision with his hand extended for the cross and one eyebrow patiently raised. Finally, she hedged her bets. “I’ll give it to you if you get me a beer.”
Thomas straightened up and dropped his grip on her arm with a surprised look. Then instead of insisting, the hand that had demanded the cross swept widely and generously towards the bar. “After you,” he said stepping to her side. While not actually touching her, he crooked his arm around her shoulders, allowing her to move forward without forcing the action. It was both a polite gesture, and a means to keep her slightly in front of him where he could watch her carefully. As they walked, Elise saw her new companion raise his hand slightly from his waist in a subtle signal. Like magic, the waitress appeared for his order. “Two,” he said simply, and she rushed off ahead to the bar without a word, but managed to give Elise a nasty look.
They walked around men who were settling down at the tables to drink. Some eyed the champion fighter with malice, but many slapped him on the arm as he passed and lifted their drinks. Thomas stopped at each table to chat while Elise protectively hugged the cross to her chest when the men turned their openly curious faces towards her. No introductions were made, and none were asked for. Elise counted the ceiling beams instead of risking eye contact with anyone.
When they finally turned to resume their trek to the bar, the referee stepped into their path. With a light touch to the inside of her elbow, Thomas stopped Elise. “That was the damndest thing,” the referee said as he shook his head.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Cooper,” Thomas replied.
“Can’t say that I did. Where did you learn to shuffle and curtsey like that? You looked like a bobbing hen.”
“If I was fighting to entertain, I’d have done it different. But I fought to win.” Thomas nodded towards a purse the referee held in his hand. “I’ll take that now.”
“That was a dirty trick, blinding him like that.”
“Come now, it wasn’t a trick. If you thought I fouled, why did you call the win the way you did?” His expression clouded as he stepped forward. “Who changed your mind?” Elise recognized the strategy Thomas had used against her moments earlier: close in, look down, raise the eyebrow, hold out the hand. The purse was given over.
“No one changed my mind. You just didn’t do it proper is all.”
“You did right proper in ending it when you did. I wouldn’t have wanted to fight a blind man.” Cooper didn’t look convinced. “Look,” said Thomas, “everyone knows Jim’s got a good chin on him. If I’d have done it the way you wanted, he’d have easily knocked me down first and I wouldn’t have liked that one bit.” Thomas studied the purse in his palm as he thought. “Though it might make you happier to know I wont be fighting for you again. This money will likely make the Quiet Woman square with the brewery.”
Mr. Cooper smiled and shook his head. “You’re not square Tom. Your Mr. Ferrington laid his own path for squaring debts, and Jim was a sure bet.”
Thomas looked up sharply. “Richard gambled on this match? Against me?” He ran his fingers through his dark hair and tugged it gently. It stood thick and wild when he let it go.
“The other lad was a sure bet, Tom,” Cooper repeated. “But don’t worry. That young Cribb I told you about will be coming through in a fortnight. We can set the next fight up proper, with ropes and a platform. Cribb will draw a right crowd to the Quiet Woman, you’ll see.” He paused to smile down into the waitress’s cleavage as she handed him a pewter mug.
“The porter is for the lass.” Thomas said, nodding towards Elise.
Cooper seemed to suddenly notice Elise standing in his prize-fighter’s shadow and reluctantly passed her the beer. “I’ll take that other one,” he suggested reaching for the second.
“That one’s mine. Hand it here Mary, if you please.” The waitress did a neat pirouette from one man to the other and dark liquid sloshed out of the mug onto Thomas’s hand. He barely flinched when the beer flowed over his battered knuckles. “If you’d like a porter, Cooper, you can pay for it. The Quiet Woman is not yet yours. We’ll be paying our mortgage, so I’ll thank you to pay for your pints.”
After dismissing the waitress to her duties, Thomas easily swept the cross from Elise’s grip while her attention was centered on her first sip of the cool alehouse beer that slid across her tongue. “No,” he shook his head, picking up the thread of the prior conversation. “I’ll not fight your Cribb. I’m tired of fighting. I’m a publican, not a pugilist. I’ll find another way to pay our debts, Richard be damned.”
WHAT TIME IS IT?
“Suit yourself,” Cooper said with a shrug. “But you’ll be hard pressed to find an easier means for making your mortgage.”
“I’d prefer it i
f my nose stayed in the middle of my face,” Thomas replied.
“Even if your nose gets hit to the back of your head, you’ll still need to pay back the brewery.”
As the two men continued arguing, Elise felt a wave of exhaustion flow over her. She had been able to maintain her focus since she’d escaped the bedroom, but now that the fight was over and a beer was in her hand, she began to feel the bruises in her body and a dull thud in her head. Despite a vision that was becoming blurred, she could see it was late enough that the wiser of the customers were avoiding trouble and starting to head home. Some of the less wise types, still nursing their beers, stopped their conversations to look at Elise when she leaned on their table and clumsily set her mug down.
“Next time there’ll be no more dancing in circles like you did,” Cooper continued behind her. “The lads don’t like to see one of their own prancing around like the prissy French.”
“I’ll fight the way I want to fight. Or maybe I’ll let the brewery know what kind of work you’ve been doing on the side? I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear how their compliance inspector has been setting up boxing matches in their public houses.”
Elise blinked hard and shook her head. She spread her hands flat on the table’s surface. Tiny newsprint on an open paper swam before her eyes. She ground her fist into her right eye until the letters stopped moving and she was able to read, The Morning Advertiser, June 21, 1808. Elise blinked again and felt her stomach knot. A tear rolled down her cheek. Though her rational mind screamed that it was impossible, her intuition catalogued all her recent experiences and came up with a clinical assessment based on the sudden weakness in her knees. It had to be a horrible dream, she thought as Thomas’s angry voice faded away.