“But the part about hitting Stawski ain’t true, is it, Perna?” Holman asked softly. He could see it register on all the closed faces. “All right, Bronson, he used a mess cup. Stawski broke it. And I’ll guarantee Po-han won’t never use another one. Is that one thing enough to cancel out all the good he done, and what he can still do, for the ship? Do you think that’s fair, Bronson?”
The fat face took on a cautious look. Bronson knew he had become a spokesman. He glanced at the other Sand Pebbles and back to Holman.
“Well, considering the difference between a slopehead and a white man, Ho-mang, yes. Yes, I think it’s fair enough,” he said.
Perna, Crosley, Randall and others nodded agreement. Sure it’s fair. Tell him, Bronson. Holman iced his temper.
“What kind of difference you figure makes that much difference, Bronson?” he asked evenly.
“Slopeheads just ain’t Americans and by law they can’t ever be Americans,” Bronson said.
“You mean being fair only counts between Americans?”
“Well, white men.” Bronson shifted in his chair. “I mean, fair’s different with slopeheads. They’re sneaky. They lie and steal. They’re dirty. Their yellow goes clear to the bone. There ain’t one in all China with guts enough to stand up and fight like a man. Fair’s different, with people like that.” He glanced around, and heads nodded.
“None of that’s true about Po-han.”
“He’s a slopehead, ain’t he?”
“Bronson, would you personally fight Po-han? To prove what you just said?”
“Why should I? Everybody knows that!” Bronson said angrily. “I don’t need to prove it!”
“I don’t know that personally about Po-han, and neither do you,” Holman said softly through his teeth. “Are you game to prove that about Po-han personally? I’m asking you.”
Bronson colored. “Oh, I could. I could, all right. But I don’t see why the hell I should oblige you.”
“How about Stawski fightin’ Po-han?” Burgoyne said.
All heads turned aft to Stawski’s table. The suggestion pleased them. Yeah, yeah, let Ski fight him. Stawski stood up, grinning.
“Sure, I’ll fight him,” he said. “I’ll beat his goddamn eyes around to slant the other direction.” He was pleased with the attention.
“If Po-han shows enough guts standing up to Stawski, we’ll let him stay aboard,” Burgoyne said. “How about it, guys?”
“No! No, by God! Only if he wins the fight!” Bronson stood up. “A slopehead would let you beat him to death, if there was any money in it. Winning is the only thing that counts!”
They were all agreeing with Bronson. Holman knew it was the best he could do, just now. Po-han couldn’t win, of course. But if he took a beating and showed real guts, it would touch them, and that would be the time to try again.
“It’s a deal,” Holman said. “Only if Po-han wins.”
He sat down and poured a cup of coffee. He was surprised at how tired and trembling he was. Talk about the fight buzzed at all the tables. They decided to stage the fight at the Red Candle on the next payday, which was a few days off. Bronson turned to face Holman’s table.
“You want to bet any money on your man, Ho-mang?”
“What odds?” Holman asked.
“Even money. You rate slopeheads even with white men using your mouth, Ho-mang. You got the guts to do it with your money?”
Several men laughed. It’s really me they want to hurt, more than Po-han, Holman thought. If I lose some money to ’em, and be a good sport about it, it might help when I try again.
“Okay, even money,” he said.
“How much?”
“Eighty Mex. That’ll be my whole payday.”
“I want twenty of it!” Crosley yelled.
They shared it out among them, arguing excitedly. They were like sharks smelling blood, Holman thought. Perna was very bitter because he did not get any of the bet.
“Bet the payday after, Ho-mang!” he urged. “I’ll give you two to one.”
“I don’t like to be in debt,” Holman said. “One payday’s enough.”
“Three to one,” Bronson said. “Still scared, Ho-mang? How about four to one?”
“Five to one, you cheap bastard!” Perna yelled from his table. “You got shit in your blood, Ho-mang?”
“I’ll take them odds, Perna, if you’re so anxious to bet,” Burgoyne said.
“How much?” Perna was taken aback.
“All you got, boy. All you can borrow.”
Perna hesitated.
Burgoyne grinned and tugged at his mustache. “You smelled of your own blood lately, Perna?”
“All right, forty Mex,” Perna said. “I’ll take your money, Frenchy. It’ll spend as good as anybody’s.”
Then they were all after Burgoyne, shouting and waving arms. The fever had them. Burgoyne bet all he had. Restorff was fidgeting.
“I’ll take some of that five-to-one money, if there’s any left,” he said, not too loudly.
“You already bet the other way,” Farren said.
Restorff hushed him. He went over to the nonrated table looking for bets. After a moment Farren followed him, to hedge his own bets.
“You really figure Po-han’s got a chance?” Holman whispered.
“He’s got anyway one in five,” Burgoyne said. “At least he’s hard and tough. Ski’s soft, and he’s got mud in his blood.”
“Po-han’s got fire. You know, I think he will win!”
“If he’s willing to fight.”
“Sure, he’s willing!” Holman said.
16
Holman and Burgoyne took Po-han to the Red Candle shortly before eight o’clock. It was a clear, cold night. The two sailors were nervous and jumpy, but Po-han was calm. Holman thought it was a kind of false calm, and it worried him.
“Remember, Po-han, you got to fight!” he said for the tenth time, as they crossed the courtyard. “You got to hit him! hurt him! hit him! hurt him!”
“Can do, Jehk.”
Po-han had been that way ever since he had agreed to fight. He had not wanted to fight. He said that he was afraid of Stawski and he could not fight him. Holman and Burgoyne had had a long argument with Po-han, down by the workbench.
“Too much cold this side,” Po-han kept saying, patting over his heart. “Suppose cold this side, any man no can fight.”
“You before plenty time fight Chinese man. One time you fight Fang, makee him black eye,” Holman urged. “How fashion no can fight Stawski?”
“Ski no same!” Po-han was very earnest. “Too much no same! I flaid Ski.”
“I think he means he’s got military fear for Americans,” Burgoyne said.
Military fear was a kind of built-in cringe. They built it into you in boot training and afterward you could never get rid of it. If you thought you did, you were only leaning too far in the other direction trying to fool yourself. They could call it military pride and loyalty up and down all they wanted to, but when you looked at it closely it was still a cringe. It bent a man, and he could never be straight again. You could not just talk him straight.
“Listen, Po-han,” Holman said. “You hit Ski, makee bleed little bit, I think you heart plenty hot.” He patted his own heart. “I already speak you fight Ski. Suppose no fight, I lose face.”
Po-han gave in. “You no lose face, Jehk. I fight Ski.”
They had drilled Po-han on only a few simple things: to keep his left out, his chin in, and to work on Stawski’s gut. They didn’t want to confuse him. They began to think that Po-han would have a real chance if he would only fire up. But he would not fire up.
The dressing room was across the court from the bar. It was small and cold and bare, with Jennings’ medical stuff on a table. In one corner Perna and Crosley were getting Stawski ready. They had drinks and Stawski was complaining because they would not let him have one.
“After the fight I’ll buy you all you can hold,” Perna said. “W
ith Frenchy’s money.”
The two sets of men did not talk to each other. Po-han stripped down and put on a pair of Burgoyne’s white summer shorts. He shivered. Burgoyne went out to get a pukow from Mother Chunk. Farren and Jennings came in and they measured off four long, equal strips each of linen bandage and adhesive tape. Farren had the gloves. He was going to be referee. Burgoyne came back with two Chinese quilts and threw one to Stawski.
“Thanks, Frenchy,” Stawski said.
Holman and Burgoyne bandaged and taped Po-han’s hands. He had much smaller hands than Stawski and the same length of tape would go around several more times. Holman worked carefully, laying firm figure eights around wrist and knuckles and criss-crossing the back of the hand, casing and bracing all the wrist and hand bones, trying to build striking points solid from knuckles to elbow. Farren watched. Burgoyne talked in a low voice.
“They’re right drunk already, over there,” he said. “Shing and Big Chew are there. There’s a table of oil and tobacco men, too.”
News of the fight had seeped all over Changsha. Businessmen could not ordinarily come to the Red Candle, because they would lose face. But it was all right to come to see a fight.
“They got Maily with ’em and a couple of bottles on their table,” Burgoyne said. “They’re out to make a night of it.”
Holman was lacing up the gloves. Po-han sat hunched under the pukow, still with that false calm.
“I guess we’re all set,” Farren said. “Take your man in first, Holman. He’s the challenger.”
“Let’s go, Po-han,” Holman said.
It was warmer in the bar, very noisy and smoky, and the light was dim. The tables were jammed into one end and two strands of heaving line ran across to make a boxing ring of the blind end. It was about twenty feet square of splintery board floor. All the posters were off the walls. A yell went up as they led Po-han across to a chair in one far corner and made him sit down. Burgoyne had a bucket of water there, and a stack of short-time towels and bottles of ammonia and vinegar.
Holman went over the few simple things again with Po-han, in a low voice. He kept glancing at the tables. The businessmen were at far left, five men in the khaki and boots they wore when they went upcountry. They were pretty drunk. Maily had on her brown dress with the round white collar. A tall, good-looking man whom the others called Van was making Maily drink whisky he poured from one of the bottles on their table.
“Them bastards,” Burgoyne said. He was watching too.
The Sand Pebbles had the two tables on the right, and they were very drunk. Franks and Welbeck were there. Duckbutt Randall, on patrol, walked importantly back and forth swinging his club. He was a fat, fair man and he always waggled his rump when he walked.
“That’s Victor Shu, at the center table,” Burgoyne whispered.
It was Holman’s first sight of Shu. He was a big, coarse, dark man in dark European clothes, with a gold watch chain sagging between his vest pockets. Lop Eye Shing and Big Chew, in Chinese gowns, sat at Shu’s table. Shing had been made stakeholder for all the bets. Holman caught Big Chew’s eye and winked. Then the big yell went up.
Stawski was pushing his way through the girls and barboys behind the tables, Mother Chunk clearing a path for him. Stawski came grinning through into the ring and let the pukow slip from his shoulders and shook hands with himself over his head. He was big and pink and slabby with muscle, but not very hairy, for a white man. He pawed with his feet and thumbed at his nose and snorted. He was enjoying it. Perna and Crosley pulled him to the corner by the Sand Pebble table and sat him on a chair.
Red Dog was at that table, with a kettle and a big spoon. He was timekeeper. They were all yelling. Farren came over to Holman.
“Sure your man savvies all the rules, Jake? You ready?”
“He savvies. We’re ready.”
“Then send him out fighting.”
Farren signaled Red Dog, who said “Arf! Arf!” and whanged his kettle. Burgoyne lifted the pukow. Holman slapped Po-han’s shoulder. “Fight! Hit, hurt! Hit, hurt!” he said urgently.
It was no fight. Stawski clowned it. He was calling his shots, light, glancing blows on Po-han’s face. He started Po-han’s nose bleeding and cut his lips and they were laughing at all the tables. Po-han was not fighting. He bounced and jumped and flailed and slapped with open gloves and Stawski would brush them aside and land wherever he pleased. Po-han kept turning his head to look at Holman, and Stawski could have taken his head off at those times, but he did not want to win that way. “Hey! I’m the guy you’re fighting!” he told Po-han once, and it drew a big laugh. Stawski did a lot of fancy dancing and at the end of the round he went back to his corner puffing and grinning.
Holman and Burgoyne stopped Po-han’s nosebleed. They talked fiercely to him. They could not stir him up, and they shook their heads at each other.
The next two rounds were about the same. Stawski was slowing, but he had Po-han bleeding above both eyes. Blood was all down Po-han’s front and all he could throw was looping, clubbing downswings that did not bother Stawski at all. Mother Chunk and the girls and the kitchen help crowded in between the tables and they made a solid wall of people yelling there. Farren kept the fight in the center of the cleared space. Po-han’s blood was all over the dusty floor and their leather shoes thumped and shuffled and Stawski’s gloves splat-splatted steadily on bloody flesh. Through all the noise Holman could hear Stawski puffing. Holman had insisted on three-minute rounds, hoping for that.
Perna and Crosley looked worried. They sent Stawski out to finish it in the fourth round. He began hitting Po-han as hard as he could. He was big and slabby and gasping and unmarked, except with Po-han’s blood. Po-han’s muscles were cleanly rounded, like separate living things under his blood-smeared skin, and he still bounced like a red rubber ball. Stawski was landing hard, knocking Po-han down now, but Po-han would not stay down long enough for Farren to start a count. He spat out a tooth and his eyes were so swollen that he probably only saw Stawski as a blur, but he landed several solid right hooks to Stawski’s ribs. They were the first real blows he had struck.
“Frenchy! If he can only keep up them hooks!” Holman said.
“Kill him! Kill him!” they were yelling from the tables. Stawski had his lips skinned back and his nostrils splayed and he was trying. Po-han caromed off the gray plaster, leaving bloody marks, and he rose from the bloody, splintery boards with slivers in his flesh, and Stawski slammed him down again. Po-han rose, windmilling blindly, not even facing Stawski. Stawski shrugged and looked at Farren. Farren walked over to raise Stawski’s hand and Red Dog whanged the kettle.
“You son of a bitch!” Perna screamed.
“Arf! Arf! Arf!”
Holman and Burgoyne worked on Po-han with towels and ammonia. There was no use trying to stop the blood. Po-han spat out another tooth and he was trying to say something through his pulped lips.
“Hammah hammah hammah,” he was saying.
Farren came over. “Throw in the towel, Jake,” he said. “Your man’s dead on his feet.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll stop it. I don’t want him killed. I’m responsible.”
“Po-han’s just starting to fight,” Holman said.
Red Dog banged the kettle. Holman shouldered Farren aside and pushed Po-han out on the floor.
“Hammah hammah hammah!” he told him.
Stawski was shot. He could hardly keep his arms up. Po-han began the right hooking, and even when Stawski took it on his forearms it thugged and hurt. Stawski could not get set. It came to Holman what was happening. Po-han’s body was fighting, without any hindrance from his brain, and it was sledging Stawski. All the way from the toes, with the fist as striking point, it was pouring its momentum into Stawski and it was killing him. Po-han drove Stawski blindly, gasping and eye-bulging, against the walls and into the tables, spilling drinks, and they were smelling blood and death at the tables. “Kill him! Kill him!” they screamed and the
room was one great, smoky scream as they danced and howled there. Stawski went to hands and knees for a nine count and got up again. Po-han doubled him over and, blindly as a machine, sledged him in the jaw. Stawski went down with a crack and a thud. It was very clear that he was not going to get up again.
Holman half carried Po-han across to the dressing room. Jennings, looking worried, was working on Stawski. He had someone call rickshaws and he took Stawski away to the mission hospital with a broken jaw. He did not have any time to look at Po-han but Tullio, his seaman striker, came to help. Tullio was half drunk but he was very careful and gentle as they sponged Po-han off and stopped the bleeding with collodion and gauze and bandaged him where they could. Tullio pulled out all the slivers with tweezers.
“He’ll have to have a dentist look at that mouth,” Tullio said. “I can’t do anything about that.” He was worried about Po-han. “I wish he’d come out of it,” he said. “He may have concussion.”
They got some whisky into Po-han’s battered mouth, but he would not come out of it. He could neither see nor talk, but he seemed to know Holman and he would do what Holman wanted him to do. They got him dressed and standing outside in the courtyard. It was very noisy across the way in the bar.
“Where can we take him?” Burgoyne asked.
“Back to the ship, I guess,” Holman said. “You want to stand by him while I round up rickshaws?”
Big Chew came out of the bar, walking with a roll and looking very happy. “Ding hao!” he said. “I sabby you luck-man, Ho-mang! Long time I sabby!”
“Must take Po-han shipside,” Holman said. “He no good.”
“How fashion shipside?” Big Chew was a bit drunk. “Takee homeside! He wife catch Chinee doctah, fix evahting!”
“Po-han’s got a wife?”
“Shoo, hab got wife! I sabby what side. My cheh takee he.”
Big Chew called out in Chinese and the two coolies squatting beside one of the sedan chairs at the upper end of the courtyard rose and brought it down beside the group. Big Chew gave them directions in Chinese and they had a noisy argument. Holman had not known that Po-han had a wife. He felt he should go along, but he would not be able to talk to them, and Po-han’s wife would probably be very angry. Or she might cry.
The Sand Pebbles Page 24