“You’d both best wait. I’ll see him first and see what he has to say. Then it’s up to him if you come in or not.”
They were taken upstairs and Carr was shown into what looked like a back bedroom, with no bed, but a large, rough-cut dressing table, resting on the crude oak floorboards. Bright sunlight shone in through the small window, showing motes of dust floating on the air currents that circulated the room to reach a portly, bucolic middle aged man, with ruddy cheeks, white whiskers and thinning white hair, but his cold blue eyes stared out from above his full cheeks with what could only be described as greedy malice. He was sat behind a small table, the only other piece of furniture in the room, and his countenance did not, overall, display any kind of greeting. He didn’t bother to get up, and his tone was challenging from the start, which could come from the reason for their visit, or the plain attitude of superiority that cavalry always felt towards infantry.
“So, Carr, is it? And you have a man to make a match with mine?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Where is he?”
“Just outside, Sir.”
“Jenkins!”
The Orderly entered.
“Fetch Pearce.”
The Colonel’s face split into a shark like grin as he brought the tips of his fingers together with his elbows on the table.
“Any good, is he, your man? Bring him in.”
Carr returned to the door.
“Davey.”
Davey entered and came to the attention. Reede-Smythe spoke as though Davey wasn’t there. They could have been discussing a horse in the stable below.
“He’ll need to be bigger than that, Carr! We’re almost looking at a mismatch.”
“Well, Sir. If you’ve had other offers…….”
“No, Carr. In truth, none. My man has a bit of a reputation, you see.”
They stood in silence whilst Reede-Smythe sat equally silent, still maintaining his smirk and posture.
Waiting outside the door, Miles heard footsteps on the stairs and a large figure emerged from the gloom of the stairwell. Miles was the first to recognition.
“Hello, mate. Did you get back well and sound? Not too hard a ride back was it? No Frogs to cause you worry? Well, that’s no mind, ‘cos they didn’t get past us.”
He was looking at the scarred Dragoon from the well at Maida. The Dragoon immediately recognized Miles.
“Be it you I’m fightin’?”
“Oh no. He’s in there. You’d best knock.”
Pearce took the advice, and heard the “enter”. It wasn’t long before he recognised Davey whilst he came to attention and the remembered dislike narrowed his eyebrows. He was almost a foot taller than Davey, and broader, with huge hands at the ends of almost simian arms.
“This is my man. Corporal of Horse Nathaniel Pearce.”
Carr said nothing, not being sure if he was supposed to say anything. Eventually he concluded that he should respond.
“Yes, Sir. So; as you choose, Sir. Is the match on?”
“If you choose it, Carr! Your man is giving about two stone, I’d say. What does he say? He’s the one in the ring.”
Carr looked at Davey, who nodded stiffly, still remaining at attention. It was Reede-Smythe who reacted by springing up out of his chair, more rapidly than his bulk seemed to make possible.
“Right, Carr. Last points. Under Jack Broughton Rules, and with mufflers. Yes? We can’t have two soldiers going hors de combat because of smashed hands. You agree?”
“Regarding Jack Broughton Rules, Sir, I am wholly unaware.”
“Then ask your man.”
Carr looked at Davey, who nodded again.
“We agree, Sir, but we have no mufflers. If you have a spare pair, we’d be grateful.”
“We have. I’ll get them sent over. Until the due date, then; at five o’ clock. Unless you care to start the betting. Shall we say five guineas?”
“At what odds?”
“Four to one on your man.”
“Make it three!”
oOo
The next day saw the three, Miles, Pike and Davey running up to the woods behind their camp, but Davey had a log across his shoulders. Once in the woods Miles wound an old tent around a tree and Davey, with his hands bound with strips of sheet began pounding the tent for all he was worth. Then Miles had him ‘bunny hopping” around a series of obstacles, then throwing the log to Miles and then to Pike then back to Miles. A break came for midday meal, which saw them back in the trees shadow boxing. More pounding of the tent and “bunny hopping” saw out the day. This proved typical, the content for each day, but what was often added in was Ezekiel Saunders holding up a haversack full of cloth for Davey to hit, at his head height, then down to body height. The next week saw another addition. Late afternoons, after their training, ten men from the Light Company came into the woods with them, each with a canvas bag full of small stones, that each had been asked to prepare. From a variety of angles these were thrown at Davey’s head and body and he was expected to block or avoid them as they came in quick succession. Miles final trick was to have Davey chase a chicken around a pen, trying to catch her. The final day before the fight arrived, and training finished with light shadow boxing, then with Saunders and his haversack, then finally with the bags of stones.
That evening found them all at their camp fire, the meal finished, with Mary O’Keefe repairing the stitching on the mufflers, that had proven to be old and much worn. Miles, as usual was holding forth.
“Now remember, John. Broughton rules allows for holds. Keep movin’ and dodge away. Make him chase you and get him tired. Make him miss too. If you can get some hits into his body as you go, all the better. Dodgin’ and movin’ is your best chance. He’s a big bugger, but no cavalryman was ever any good on his feet. Sway and move. He’ll tire.”
All this being illustrated by very enthusiastic swaying and moving from his own body.
“Yes, Tom. You’ve told me all this before.”
Joe Pike took the chance to examine what he didn’t understand.
“This Colonel’s putting up 30 guineas, that goes to the winner. Yes?”
Miles nodded.
“So how does he make any money? He’s giving it to the winner.”
Miles leaned forward, forearm draped over his knee as though indulgently addressing a rather ignorant child.
“He puts up the money to cause the fight. To make it happen, like. Then, bein’ as he fancies his man as a winner, he gets it back, and more, from the bettin’. If his man wins, that is. Understood?”
Joe Pike nodded, the motion of which disturbed Mary, mending done, she having reclaimed his left arm.
“Right, sleep. Big day tomorrow. The fight’s in the afternoon, after trainin’, but there’s no substitute for sleep before midnight. One hour before’s worth two after, my Father used to say.”
“Yes, Tom. You’m the trainer.”
The next day dawned, and the clear sky told of a hot one. Miles immediately required Davey to drink plenty of water.
“You can’t drink during the fight, but with fightin’ in this heat you’ll sweat plenty.” They ate their food and spent the day back in the woods flexing and shadow boxing. Pike, Miles, and the whole Mulcahey family did their best with the stone bags. Mid afternoon saw them leave the camp and walk to a field that was two over from theirs, dedicated as neutral ground, but some men of the 20th had been busy, erecting a ring with ropes and painting a square yard in the centre. The ring looked to be about seven yards square, erected in a natural amphitheatre, a dip with a slope going up and away on three sides. Miles took a look and returned.
“I’d like that ring bigger, but it’s about right. This Reede-Smythe’s missed a chance to take space off you. We’ll settle for that.”
They took themselves off to the shade of some trees and watched the shadows move around as the sun swung across to its final horizon. Davey continued to sip water. After a while, Miles bandaged his hands. Spectat
ors began to arrive, in 10’s, 20’s then 100’s. The word had circulated around and all had seen the notices. A crowd was building. Miles looked around and over.
“’Tis a fair crowd that’s buildin’ here, John. If ‘tis a good fight, they’ll pass the hat round to be split between the two. That can raise a tidy sum, a pound or two, sometimes more.”
“Shouldn’t we be goin’ down, and take our corner?”
“Not yet, John. No point in waitin’ in the sun. Bide ‘ere until the opposition arrives.”
With that there came an outburst of cheering, markedly from those in cavalry uniform. Pearce had arrived and was making his way to the ring, accompanied by his Seconds. Reede-Smythe led the way, still bearing his shark like grin. They reached the ring and chose a corner.
“Come on then, John, time we joined the party.”
They left the shade of the trees and walked down the slope to the ring. The cheering at his appearance grew louder, his support coming from those with a uniform that included a red jacket. This was plainly a contest that was more than a simple fight between two men, this was cavalry against infantry.
It was Joe Pike who was carrying the bucket of water and Miles bid him stay outside the ring when himself and Davey entered. They went immediately to the whitewash square in the centre and waited. Pearce and his Second came forward to stand the line opposite. Miles took the initiative.
“Jack Broughton Rules, yes?”
The second nodded, but Pearce had fixed upon John Davey with a look of pure hatred. Davey replied with a happy grin.
“I told you I hoped we’d meet again.”
Miles looked at Davey quizzically, then continued.
“We has to choose Umpires. Do you have one?”
The Second replied.
“Yes, our Colonel.”
“Right.”
Miles looked around and saw Major O’Hare. He went over to him.
“Sir, will you act as Umpire?”
O’Hare raised his shako.
“Yes, I certainly will, and I’m sure that Major Willoughby there will act as third, if you have no objection, Colonel?”
Both Major and Colonel raised their hats and nodded. Miles returned to Davey and motioned him back to his corner and began to put on the mufflers. Davey began deep breathing. They waited a good five minutes, as convention required, to allow all bets to be placed, which was furious and fully occupied the time of waiting.
Carr, Drake, and Rushby were stood somewhat back from the ring, but still with a good view. Carr turned to Drake.
“ Jack Broughton Rules. What do you know?”
“Ah, now I’ve been making enquiries. The fight goes on until one man cannot stand and defend himself at his line on that square, there. Any man can go down on one knee for 30 seconds if he cannot continue, but after that he must get back to “toe the line”. If a man goes down, or is knocked down, he cannot be hit, but he has 30 seconds to return to the fray. By toeing his line. A Second can help him to get there, that’s why he stays in the ring, but after that, it’s up to the fighter.”
“So it can go on and on?”
“Yes, that’s right, on and on, until one of them cannot put up any kind of fight, any more, which is shown by not returning to their line on the square.”
The gloves were on and Miles accompanied Davey to his side of the square. Pearce and his Second did the same, each Second with their hand on their fighter’s shoulder. Davey raised his guard, whilst Pearce raised both his fists cocked for punching. Both Seconds removed their hands and the fight began. Davey took a pace back whilst Pearce sprang forward and swung aimed punches at Davey’s head, but Davey swung his body left but dodged right, leaving Pearce sawing at thin air. Davey sent a clean left into his right ribs, a left hook to his jaw, then jumped away. The clean piece of boxing brought a roar of approval from the redcoats in the crowd, but Pearce was after him. He wasn’t slow despite his size. For some minutes, this formed the fight. Davey moving and dodging, never keeping his head still, moving around the ring. Pearce was throwing heavy punches from all angles and Davey was doing his best to dodge, or block, or ride the punch if he had to. Davey threw some blows of his own, but it was plain that it was Pearce who was running the fight, taking it to Davey, who was using all his skill to avoid the continual stream of heavy blows aimed at him.
The fight began to settle and the ferocity of Pearce’s attacks lessened but not significantly. If Pearce had planned to pound Davey out of the fight within a few minutes, it hadn’t worked. Davey still circled and weaved around the ring, making Pearce chase and throw punches when he felt in range, but many were missing. Pearce attempted to grapple and make a throw, but Davey dodged away and cuffed the side of Pearce’s head for his trouble. The crowd had grown almost silent. This was an exceptional fight, one that Gentry would pay pounds to see, the boxer against the brawler, but Pearce had settled to a steady level of aggression. The punches still came thick and fast, unscientific, but still they came. Pearce, the experienced champion, was getting both the range and the measure of Davey and punches began to land more frequently. Pearce managed to sieze Davey across the waist and threw him into a corner, then began a flurry of punches with all the strength and energy he had. Davey swung and twisted and tried to cover up, but the rain of punches was unavoidable. Davey dropped to one knee, but Pearce still took the chance to land a blow on the top of his head. The timekeeper shouted the seconds as Miles came forward with a wet cloth to wipe his face.
“That’s right, John. Take your chance if he locks you up. But look, that last took some out of him. He’s breathing hard. Do as you’ve done, and hit his body when you can.”
Davey rose up and immediately placed his foot on the line. If Pearce is feeling it, why give him the rest? Pearce bored in, hoping to finish it, but his eagerness made him clumsy. Dodging the ‘haymaking’ punches Davey crashed two hard punches, right then left, into Pearce’s ribs and sent a precise right into the side of Pierce’s head. Pearce staggered and his chest heaved for breath. Davey sent another left into his side, but Pearce seized him and bore down upon him, making Davey take his weight. Davey wrestled his way out and stepped away, but not so far as to let Pearce stop and rest. Davey remained within range, continuing to feint and move, looking for an opening whilst tempting Pearce to continue to swing and miss.
More minutes passed as the fight continued, Pearce continuing to hunt, Davey continuing to dodge, weave, and run, making Pearce lumber after him. Pearce attempted his wrestling move again, and it worked, locking Davey into a corner and pummelling him with heavy blows. Davey dropped again, but this time he protected the top of his head from the blow that came. Miles attended him, carrying a wet cloth and dry rag.
“Right, John. How’re you feelin’?”
Davey grinned.
“Well, I’ve sure felt better and been in better places, but I’ll say not too bad.”
Miles ignored the joke and continued wiping Davey’s face with the wet then the dry.
“It’s workin’ John. He’s wearin’ out, not carryin’ his gloves so high. We’ve got to drop ‘em further. Start hittin’ his arms and body too, when you can. But make his damn arms ache.”
Davey went to the line, but Pearce wasn’t there. He was taking a rest against the ropes listening to the seconds. 28, 29, then he was there and the bout continued. Davey was encouraged. He didn’t know what he himself looked like, but Pearce certainly looked none too fresh. Davey began to work, boxing closer and taking risks, but throwing more punches that almost all connected. Pearce was a boxer who relied on his size and strength, ready to take blows if that placed him in range to deliver his own huge punches. Avoiding a punch was not in his technique and Davey’s punches steadily attacked Pearce’s arms, shoulders, and midriff. Now the crowd noise grew, this was genuinely a contest of science against strength, with both boxers now trading blow for blow. Davey was taking punches, but they now lacked power and were swinging and clumsy, easier to block and ride, wh
ilst releasing shots of his own. Davey landed a two handed attack into Pearce’s ribs, but took a heavy blow to the side of his head. Davey dropped again. It had hurt and he would take the time, but also to assess Pearce. Although on one knee, Davey looked carefully at him. He felt tired himself, he didn’t have much more, but Pearce, back in his corner leaning on the ropes, looked exhausted. Miles came again with the wet cloth. He looked worried, but it was Davey who spoke.
“Now or never, Tom. This is it, win or lose.”
Davey came to the line first, straightened up and motioned Pearce to his place. The insolent challenge was clear. “Get to your line and let’s get this settled.” Pearce pushed himself off the ropes and came to his line. Davey immediately feinted with his left then crashed in an overarm right that broke Pearce’s nose. Pearce bellowed with rage and the toe to toe exchange began. Davey was relying on his movement and defence to avoid and block the punches from Pearce that were becoming fewer and easier to predict. Davey put everything he had into an attack to Pearce’s body, then switched to his head. Three heavy blows battered Pearce’s head from side to side. He swayed and tilted forward. Davey stepped aside and Pearce sagged to his knees. The count began as Davey went to Miles to have his face wiped. Miles was like a child at Christmas.
“You’ve gott’n, John, You’ve gott’n. One more like that and he’s gone.”
Davey could hear the yelling of the crowd, he could make out very few words, but he could hear Reede-Smythe screaming for Pearce to get up. Pearce was still on his knees over the square, but his Second was manfully attempting to get him to his feet. Eventually, Pearce pushed himself off the flattened earth as the count reached the middle twenties. His Second led him to his mark and propped him up, as Davey came to his mark. The instant the Second let go of Pearce, Davey stepped forward and slightly to his right and crashed a vicious left hook into the point of Pearce’s jaw. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been severed. The count began and Davey waited. Pearce’s head moved slightly but that was all; his length was fully measured across the ruptured grass of the ring. 28, 29, 30. Davey raised his arms in triumph, Miles ran forward shouting something, but it was lost in the din of cheering.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 50