The road is full o’ people what’s heard about the fight. Many reckons they’ll go to see it and seek their fortunes in the diggings afterwards. Some have been walking for weeks to get to Yass. Lots of ’em cheer heartily when they sees Hawk. They run beside our coach to wish us well, stretching out their hands so that Hawk might touch ’em for luck.
I can see Mary is thrilled to see all the fuss being made over her boy by the passers-by. But every now and then I catch her watching Hawk with an anxious, loving sort o’ look, as if she’s seeing terrible things happen to him at the hands of the English and Irish double champion. Some of the travellers around us ain’t so pleasant, with a band of rough Tipperary men jeering insults at Hawk and his team, Bungarrabbee Jack and Johnny Heki, sitting atop the coach with Ah Wong and his uncle, Ah Sing. But Mary brushes off the insults and is back quick enough to her staunch old self, declaring that o’ course Hawk will win!
Mary and Maggie is having a grand time together as we trundles along, which pleases Hawk very much, and me too! Maggie makes Mary laugh such as we ain’t never heard. The two of ’em gossips from morning ‘til night, swapping whispered stories about their work on the streets—at least that’s what I gathers from the way they huddles together, and then bursts into giggles, like two naughty little girls! Maggie’s even told Mary the rudiments o’ bare-knuckle fighting so that she can follow the bout.
When we arrives in Yass our carriage is mobbed by every sort of human being you could imagine—women, young and old, men from the city, men from the diggings, men of all nations! There’s as much booing as cheering around us. Our carriage can hardly move an inch down the street for men hanging off the harnesses of the horses. It’s said that our welcome be every bit as big as that of the Irish champion.
The Bolt arrived the previous day and is now settled in at the Golden Nugget Inn. He’s taken three rooms for himself and his six doxies, what I reckons be mostly for the look o’ things.
With his doxies on his arms, the Bolt is already a great favourite with the crowd. We hear that last night in the pub, he challenged everyone there to down one drink to his two. He were the last man still standing at dawn, waving a whiskey bottle and singing Mother Macree and Danny Boy to the cockerels! They reckon he drank four bottles of Irish whiskey in all, followed by any number of beer chasers. The publican’s made a fortune in drinks and out o’ sheer gratitude has sent his wife to stay with a relative and given the Bolt their very own bed chamber for his visit.
We’re staying with the manager of the Oriental Bank, a mate of Caleb’s. Mary and Maggie will stay in the house with him and his wife. We’ll camp behind the bank in the yard, what has a high wall to protect us from them what wish us well and them what wish us dead!
By nightfall several thousand visitors are in town. The diggings for a hundred miles around be just about empty o’ manpower. The celestials has made their own camp a couple o’ miles out, so as to avoid harassment by the drunken revellers. Ah Wong and Ah Sing has gone to join them and will make their own way to the fight.
At eight o’clock at night, a young boy arrives with a message from my employer. ‘Mr Sparrow sends his compliments!’ he says brightly and I brood darkly for a moment on what Mr Sparrow’s idea of a compliment might be. ‘The bout will take place at Black Billy Creek, about five mile out o’ town on the road to Lambing Flat, noon tomorrer! Fighters to be there an hour before!’ he tells us. Mr Sparrow must be bloody confident of the Bolt to make his man fight in the midday sun.
After that news, we all tries to settle in for a good night’s sleep. But all night long, folks is arriving by whatever means possible, and making a lot o’ noise about it too. It’s hard to get a wink what with all the hullabaloo. Hawk seems calm enough and sleeps soundly all night. I’ve learned a long time ago that whenever Hawk’s gunna face some manner o’ danger, he draws into hisself. In the Maori wars, when every other bloke were shouting, singing and doing the haka to get a bit o’ courage, Hawk’d be away on his own, sitting very still and silent. He be at his most powerful then and so it is on the morning of the fight. He ain’t even got eyes for Maggie.
‘What’s up with ’im then?’ she pouts as we climbs into the coach at nine o’clock to go to Black Billy Creek.
‘He’s gettin’ ready to fight,’ I comforts her. ‘To win!’
‘Ooh, I hopes ’e does!’ says Maggie, smiling and squeezing her arms with anticipation. ‘Then he might be ready to go a few rounds in the bed chamber again!’
‘Maggie!’ I look ‘round to see if Mary’s heard. But she just gives Maggie a little smile and I reckon I sees a wink there too!
The road is rocky and rutted, with a vast army o’ men walking along, and others on horseback or in carriages, traps and drays. We even pass a one-legged man what’s being pushed in a wheelbarrow. It takes us nearly two hours to cover the five-mile distance.
Mr Sparrow has a genius for picking locations, I’ll give him that much. This one’s right near a billabong and is like a natural amphitheatre in a sort o’ half-moon shape. Several thousand men can be seated on the slope with the prize ring built below. There’s plenty of water for the horses and men, though already the banks o’ the billabong are knee-high deep in black mud and several men are trying to pull a mare out what’s got herself stuck. Rumour has it that Mr Sparrow’s arranged for all the local traps to be called to Lambing Flat to meet with all the militia, navy and police forces what’s gathered there. What a piece of timing! Even though he’s our sworn enemy, I still can’t help admirin’ the way he operates. Me boss has his very own police, the fight stewards what wears red armbands and carries truncheons, and they ain’t reluctant to use ’em either. It’s their job to keep the drunks under control and break up any fights between the two sides. But the atmosphere here is mostly one o’ goodwill, with lots o’ loud singing and good-natured chaffing from both sides.
The crinoline cruisers are all here, parading about in their finery. Some be from Melbourne and others Maggie knows from Sydney. The rougher sorts from the brothels in the diggings is also trawling for business, and many an insult is traded between the city whores and the gold dust girls.
Mary’s the subject of much curiosity as she walks in. She’s dressed in a respectable black gown, with a black veil over her face, looking like a good Christian lady on her way to church! She sits herself down on the small stool she’s brung with her, as prim as someone’s maiden aunt what’s turned up at the wrong place but won’t admit it.
Maggie, seated beside her, is the only other woman in the ring enclosure. While Mary sits stiff as a musketeer’s ramrod in her black dress, Maggie’s as bright as a butterfly, in a blue silk gown what’s displaying all the necessary. She wears a matching blue bonnet with her magpie roosting atop—a stuffed one this time. Maggie’s nigh impossible to contain and keeps jumping up from her seat while we waits for the fight to begin, chirping like a bloody budgerigar.
From where I stands in the ring, I can sense both women’s fears. Mary’s silent and thoughtful, like Hawk, and Maggie’s a regular chatterbox—but both are worried. Caleb Soul is with them and seems to be tryin’ to keep ’em occupied.
Bungarrabbee Jack and Johnny Heki are with me in the ring. Johnny Heki is massaging Hawk’s shoulders and torso with eucalyptus oil, and the Aborigine has a branch o’ coolibah leaves what he’s using to swish the flies away. Our corner is the red one, shown by a red bandanna tied to the ring post. There’s a green one tied to the ring post where the Lightning Bolt will sit. Hawk also wears a sash of red to hold up his knee breeches—no doubt the Bolt will be wearing one of the best Irish green.
It’s nearly half-past eleven, but the Bolt ain’t yet arrived. Bloody cheek, I reckons—we’ve been sweating in the ring for half an hour. It could be a tactic o’ course to make us anxious. Finally at ten to twelve, just before the bout is meant to start, the Irishman makes his way to the ring from a tent, followed by our dear friends, Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred. The crowd is on its feet and
roaring.
The Bolt’s gained nearly twenty pounds o’ lard since arriving in the colonies. He’s most flabby ‘round the waist, his gut sticking out further than his great barrel chest. His knee breeches show the bottom part of his legs, the calves still thick, and the skin scarred from a hundred fights. Scar tissue what’s built up on his shins shines pink in the bright afternoon sunlight. His nose has been broke beyond ever looking natural again, and his ears are half the normal size, bunched up like cauliflowers. His head’s fresh-shaved and gleaming and his broad smile glints with gold teeth.
The Irish champion climbs up the crude steps and slips between the ropes and into the ring. He’s followed by Fat Fred, what lumbers up behind. He’s much too fat to fit through the ropes, and the Bolt has to come back and hold ’em apart for Fred to climb through. Once in, Fat Fred takes up the hailing funnel what a fight steward’s given him. With Fat Fred as the referee, I wonder, what chance have we got? But I keep my thoughts to meself.
Mr Sparrow’s perched high on a special timber seat built up so he can see clearly how the fight progresses. He don’t acknowledge Hawk or me, though he smiles when the Bolt nods in his direction.
The crowd hushes. Only the melancholy sound of a crow cawing can be heard as Fat Fred starts his announcement.
‘Gentlemen, sportsmen and punters, I welcome you on this grand occasion. Today is a tournament, the greatest bare-knuckle fight yet fought in the colony of New South Wales. Two truly great behemoths contesting for a purse o’ five hundred pounds—winner takes all!’
The crowd gives a good cheer, after which Fat Fred declares, ‘This be the biggest purse in the history of the colony!’ There is further clapping and yelling and Fat Fred waits for it to die down before gesturing to the Bolt, what’s holding up his arms and waving to the largest group of his supporters on the centre of the hill. ‘In the green corner, we have the champion o’ Great Britain and Ireland! Undefeated in the colonies, the most remarkable pugilist in the known, civilised world—the one and only, Lightning Bolt!’
The Bolt jumps up and down as the crowd roars. Then he catches sight o’ Mary and Maggie and he blows a kiss at Maggie. Maggie lifts her veil at this and the Bolt blows her another kiss before wiggling his hips and thrusting them at her. Hawk’s kept his eyes well down so far but at the very moment the Irish fighter does this, he looks up and sees it. His whole body stiffens and he begins to rise, taking the three of us to restrain him. Maggie makes matters worse by giving the Bolt a knowing tap of her finger against her nose, as if to egg him on.
Hawk don’t see this, as he’s too busy staring at the Bolt, what gives another big thrust of his hips in Maggie’s direction. Johnny Heki has his arms about Hawk’s neck trying to hold him down, with Bungarrabbee Jack hanging on as well, but Hawk’s too strong for them both and brushes them aside. He rushes towards the Irishman.
‘Hawk! Come back!’ I yells, but he hears nothing. Reaching the Bolt, he grabs him by the neck. He’s holding him at arm’s length and has started to squeeze. The Irishman’s trying to tear Hawk’s arms away but he ain’t got a chance and his eyes is beginning to pop. Then Hawk throws him to the ground and the Bolt goes sprawlin’. Me brother bends down now and says something to him, though I don’t hear what. Then he walks calmly back to his corner. Mary’s pulled up her veil the better to see all this, and has a huge smile on her face, what she tries to hide behind her glove.
The Irish fighter rises to his feet. He ain’t hurt, but he’s angry. If half a dozen ring stewards hadn’t jumped into the ring to hold him back, the fight would’ve started then and there.
Back in our corner, Hawk’s sitting down again but his nostrils are flared and his breathing’s a bit fast.
‘Calm, be calm,’ I says. ‘If ya fights him with temper he’ll get the better of ya.’
He nods, and takes a few deep gulps of air.
Meanwhile the stewards have pulled the Bolt over into the green corner and his seconds have made him be seated. Fights are breaking out all over the hill and the crowd is screamin’ and roarin’, each side wanting blood.
Up gets Fat Fred, sweating lots and keen to get the preliminaries over with. ‘Gentlemen, sportsmen and punters, in the red corner, we have the Black Hawk, New South Wales champion and challenger for the British and Irish title! May the best man win!’ Before we knows it, the two men are facing each other alone in the centre. The fight against the mongrels has begun. My heart is in my mouth as I watch Hawk prepare to meet the Irish fighter. The Bolt’s also reined in his temper and smiles as he approaches Hawk. Like true pugs, they spends the next few minutes walking about each other, sizing each other up.
The Bolt takes the first move, a good kick at Hawk’s ankle. But he misses and in that moment Hawk’s left goes in hard, followed by the right. The one-spot, left-right, bang-bang is seated right under the Bolt’s heart and it’s plain to see Hawk’s hurt him.
The Irishman draws back and circles ‘round. Closing in, he plants a punch in Hawk’s belly. You can hear the smack of his enormous fist as he puts the full weight behind it. He has hit Hawk a blow what would put most fighters to the ground or, if not, leave ’em clutching their bellies, so that they’s opened up to the uppercut. But Hawk don’t even flinch. Now the Bolt realises he’s gunna need every trick in the book to win against this opponent.
He rushes Hawk, lashing out his leg. Over goes Hawk with a mighty thud. In an amazing exhibition of the fighter’s craft, the Bolt manages to head butt Hawk at the same time and my twin lies dazed on the ground, his eyebrow split wide open.
Fat Fred begins to count, but Hawk is up by the count o’ five, though dripping blood from the cut to his eye. The first round is ended after seven minutes.
The second round be a longer affair, as the Bolt’s much more careful in his approach. Hawk manages to hit him several times, though mostly on the arms. Twice the Bolt lands good blows to me twin’s ribs and stomach. The round has gone nearly fifteen minutes and I can see the Irishman’s getting tired. Hawk’s watching him most careful, expecting to be rushed and sure enough, in comes the Irishman. He grabs at Hawk, ready to deliver his head butt. This time Hawk’s ready and in goes his fist—one-spot, two-shot, left-right, bang-bang—straight under the Tipperary man’s heart again. The Bolt goes down like a sack o’ potatoes but manages to rise unsteady to his feet at the count of nine. Fat Fred quickly brings the round to an end.
The next fifteen rounds goes along much the same lines. I keep me eyes fixed on me twin—not looking at Mary, Maggie, Mr Sparrow, or the crowd—as if by doing this I can somehow help him. The Irishman uses all his dirty tricks against Hawk, butting and gouging. Twice he knees Hawk in the groin as they go down. He is awful cunning and always has his back to Fat Fred so his actions can’t be seen. Fat Fred ain’t too eager to look neither. The Bolt’s having a grand old time at Hawk’s expense. Several of the toffs and sportsmen in the enclosure complain about the dirty play, shouting ‘Fair go!’ and ‘Steady on!’ but nothin’ happens about it. I complains twice too, but Fat Fred waves me away. ‘All in the game, lad. All in the game o’ fisticuffs!’ he says, smiling.
Hawk’s shins are cut deep by the raking of the Bolt’s spiked boots and his left knee is much swollen where the Irish champion’s stamped upon it as he’s pulled me brother to the ground. In round twelve the Irishman suddenly bites Hawk’s ear and Fat Fred is forced to stop the bout. The Bolt is all innocence and points at the corner post, what has some blood on it where he’s pushed Hawk’s head against it. ‘The post done it, I swear!’ he protests.
Fat Fred accepts his explanation straight off and orders the fight to go on. Part of Hawk’s ear has been completely torn away and we has great trouble stemming all the blood, though a doctor stitches it up with horsehair.
All the cloth rags we got is now soaked in blood. Between rounds Johnny Heki fetches buckets o’ water and rinsing cloths. But, by the end of each round, Hawk’s shoulders and chest is smeared crimson from the claret leaking from
his ear and the cut to his eyebrow.
The Bolt don’t seem damaged almost at all, though he’s huffin’ and puffin’ and starting to wear out. In round twenty he manages to get Hawk into a clinch and he brings his head down to break me brother’s nose with a mighty crunch. Now the whole crowd can see that the Irishman’s fighting dirty and as the blood gushes from Hawk’s nose, a huge cry o’ protest goes up. It’s the second time Hawk goes down himself to end the round and his bleeding’s getting worse.
But the Irish pug ain’t finished with him yet and, in the very next round, he tries the same routine again. This time Hawk’s ready for him. His hand comes up under his chin and I see him make one of the Chinee grips what Ah Sing’s taught him. A moment later the Bolt’s eyes roll up and he goes limp. Hawk lets go of him so quick that nobody sees what’s happened. The Bolt begins to topple, his eyes wide open in surprise. It’s like a mighty mountain crumbling. Now Hawk sees the spot clear and it’s the one-spot, two-shot, left-right, bang-bang as the Bolt goes down. I can see the fear in the Irishman’s eyes.
To me surprise the Bolt gets up again at the count o’ six and in the very next round, gives Hawk a few more of his rotten tricks. He uses every pug trick in the book, gouging Hawk’s left eye and biting his lip so that it bleeds into his mouth. He’s torn Hawk’s ear again and I can see me twin’s losing too much blood. In every clinch what follows, the Bolt makes sure to tweak his nose hard to make it bleed the more. Hawk’s knee is paining him too and the Irishman bangs his kneecap into Hawk’s swollen cartilage at every chance. As a result, Hawk’s knee has blown up like a balloon and he’s dragging his leg behind him.
Now the Bolt’s starting to hit Hawk more easily. If he weren’t near exhausted himself he’d quickly finish me brother off. Only Hawk’s top physical condition keeps him going. The Irishman goes into a clinch and brings his hand up to hook into Hawk’s nostril with two fingers. But he’s a slow learner, the Bolt, and Hawk’s hand comes up under his throat with another Chinee grip. The Irish fighter’s eyes roll up, his arms fall to his side and he tumbles backwards like a sack o’ spuds thrown from a dray. I think Hawk’s killed him! Even those standin’ close by don’t see what’s happened, and they shouts at him to get up and get on with it. Most o’ the crowd now favours Hawk, for they sees how the Bolt be fouling him cruel at every chance.
Tommo and Hawk Page 58