The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  Had he won? No, he couldn't claim that he had. A draw, maybe. That flash knockdown didn't count for anything. Those happened, and he had landed a lot of good punches. His fists were sore and he saw swelling on a knuckle. He tried sucking on it, but his mouth hurt too much. Fighting was exciting, and he liked it, but afterwards a man surely did pay for his pleasure.

  Chapter 2

  When Mickey McFee marched up the towpath, China Smith called big Matt Miller over to watch.

  "Young McFee is going for little Matt, Skipper, and we've got the best seats in the house."

  They stood in the headquarters' door, and Brascomb Miller went to a window to watch.

  All Brascomb saw was a worker boy standing in front of little Matt with his fists planted on his hips.

  "How do you know they are going to fight?" Brascomb asked what big Matt would not have thought to question. If China Smith said it was so, that settled it for Matt Miller.

  "Just watch for a minute, Mister Miller, and you'll see." Smith never addressed big Matt's younger brother as anything other than Mister. If Brascomb noticed, he never commented, and Brascomb certainly preferred that an employee like China Smith did not take personal liberties.

  The fight started and big Matt twisted and grunted as if he were down there and part of it. When young Matt went down, China heard the father mutter, "Get up, boy," and little Matt did.

  Big Matt's laughter led China's when both fighters were thrown into the canal, but Brascomb turned away, his lip curled. Brawling with the help demeaned the family, and when he ran the businesses—the younger brother stifled the thought. That happy circumstance was unlikely to be. Big Matt was hale and hearty and, in fact, they should both have decades ahead.

  Still, if the time ever came that he, Brascomb controlled the Miller companies, a great deal would be different. A more disturbing reality entered Brascomb's mind.

  Big Matt owned the business. If he passed away, his son, the brawling boy they had been watching, would inherit, and Brascomb would still be under the thumb of his brother's side of the family.

  This unchangeable fact had galled Brascomb since young Matt had been born. He did the books, paid out the money, and counted everything that came in. He deserved his chance at the Miller helm—and how he would change things. That worker boy, for instance, who dared to punch at a Miller, would never work for them again.

  Deep within his mind, Brascomb changed the thought. If he ever gained control, there would never be a "them." The companies would be his and his alone. The bookkeeper tore his mind from such improbabilities and concentrated on his ledgers.

  Matt Miller turned to Smith with amusement in his voice, but China also heard a deeper concern.

  "Well, he about held his own, wouldn't you say, China?"

  "Just about is all, Skipper."

  Big Matt turned toward his desk, then hesitated, watching his son start the climb to the company's field office.

  "I've told him to quit fighting those boys, but what's he to do? They come at him because of who he is, and it wouldn't do for him to turn down too many. Some day he will have to lead these same boys, and they will remember how he stood up or laid down when they were young."

  Brascomb interjected. "They call him the Boss's Boy as if it were a pugilist's nickname. You should put a stop to that as well."

  Neither Smith nor big Matt bothered to answer, and that soured in the soul of Brascomb Miller. They always did that, as if he hadn't even spoken.

  Matt scrubbed at his thick mop of brown hair and thought about it. "Well, if we can't stop him fighting, the next best thing is that he do it right. God a'mighty, China, those two just swung at each other like they didn't have any brains at all. If anybody blocked or dodged a punch I didn't see it."

  Smith chuckled. "That's the way boys fight, and if they don't learn better, that's how they'll hammer when they are men."

  There was a certain grim satisfaction in Smith's next words that brought Matt Miller's head around.

  "There's one thing different about those two though, Skipper, and I reckon you could see it clear enough. Both of 'em like it. Lumps and a little blood don't slow them, and little Matt was back up before his rump hardly hit the ground."

  "You admire that, don't you, China?"

  "Admire it? Don't know that it's quite like that, Skipper, but I respect it. When they're grown, those two won't be afraid to do whatever comes along, and that is a thing to look for in any man."

  "You're hinting that little Matt will be fist fighting for years to come, aren't you?"

  Smith was mildly surprised. "Well, that wasn't actually in my mind, but that is what'll be happening. As long as he's the boss's son and stays out with the men, others will try him for size."

  "'The Boss's Boy.' What a hell of a name to hang on him."

  Smith laughed aloud. "Nothing wrong with it, Captain. For a fist fighter the name has a certain balance. It will stick, as sure as I'm standing here. Like it or not, little Matt will get called Boss's Boy long after you and me are looking at the sky."

  "He'll be the boss then, China."

  "Won't make any difference. When fight talk or just plain remembering comes up, those men that were urging on him or McFee and their sons and their son's sons will call him by his fighting name. It's always been like that."

  Big Matt sighed in resignation. "You are right, China, so that leaves only one sensible solution, doesn't it?"

  Smith nodded immediate understanding. "I teach him so that he won't be taking unnecessary beatings from the likes of that McFee."

  Brascomb muttered just loud enough for them to hear. "Of course, turn him into a better brawler."

  Matt Miller considered his brother for a long moment, but spoke again to China Smith.

  "We'll be leaving for Perry County in the morning, so you will be able to start right away. We will probably settle in Baskinsville or Petersburg. Near where the Susquehanna and the Juniata Rivers join, but I won't know for sure until we've looked things over.

  "Little Matt won't have much to do until he goes back to school in the fall, so you can work hard with him—assuming that he takes to the teaching, of course."

  Smith nodded acceptance. "He'll take to it. Just like I told you, he likes fighting. He isn't afraid, and he sort of glories in having it out with someone trying to put a lot of fists on him."

  Smith's laugh was rueful. "You'll remember that I happen to know how that feels, Skipper."

  Little Matt tried to know a lot about China Smith, but there were so many stories that he couldn't tell for sure which were real.

  Smith had appeared nearly four years earlier. Big Matt had been at Brascomb's office in Philadelphia, and the two had connected like long separated brothers. Now China stood at Matt Miller's right hand, and if you saw one, you were likely to encounter the other.

  Beyond personal appreciation and special understandings, China Smith was important for his wide knowledge and occasionally remarkable insights. In the city, China had advised his new friend to avoid investing in a Far Eastern shipping venture because, he said, that despite its bright paint and new sails, the vessel was rotten in the bottom and would be unlikely to survive the voyage. Miller had held off, and the ship had sprung a plank and foundered in Delaware Bay with its cargo spoiled and investments lost.

  China Smith had been to China. It seemed sometimes, that he had been everywhere. Smith claimed only ten years at sea, but they had been adventurous years, and the Miller enterprises profited from his accumulated knowledge.

  Smith had also been a successful prizefighter, and his bouts in little known ports on other continents had given him his nickname.

  Smith was called China because of his delicate hands, not for his distant travels. China Smith had never lost to anyone at or near his weight, but China's hand bones were delicate, and he had suffered breaks and fractures in too many bouts. Table china dishes also broke easily, and so the nickname China-hands Smith had appeared but was quickly shortened to
the more convenient China.

  As a fist fighter, Smith had relied on skills discovered in foreign lands, and his fighting styles were virtually unknown among the American pugilists he had encountered. Because his hands broke so easily, Smith could not fight often, but when a purse was too large to refuse, China went in and while dazzling his opponent with movements others did not have, he carefully picked his shots and avoided bashing his tender fists on thick skulls and iron jaws.

  In effect, China Smith wore his opponents out by pounding their bodies and by twisting face punches so that skin split letting blood flow into eyes, and broken noses and slashed lips made breathing laborious. Not until he had his man well softened did China throw the few brutal blows that knocked men unconscious.

  Little Matt Miller looked on China Smith as a sort of older uncle who could be relied upon to know the best ways. Smith willingly imparted his knowledge and his humor but did not seek a close relationship with the boss's son. China Smith knew his place in the order of things, and big Matt Miller had already raised his new friend far above any expected social stature.

  Experienced but uneducated men like Smith were usually destined to labor hard but progress little. Even in this new nation, life was rarely fair or easy. Some prospered, but most men struggled in the pits and shops eking out enough to survive but rarely forging far ahead.

  Matt Miller placed China Smith at his side and saw that the former seaman, ship's carpenter, and professional boxer invested his few dollars wisely while living the style of a man of at least medium prosperity. Smith made his appreciation known, and Matt Miller grew to trust his companion in things both personal and business.

  As expected, big Matt asked his son, "Did you win?"

  "Not this time. The towpath foreman broke us up. I was fighting Mickey McFee, and he's tough. If I could have landed one or two more I'd have had him."

  Big Matt nodded seriously, but the boy could not see China's approving nod. Every fighter worth watching believed if given just another few moments he would land the big one. That confidence and self-assurance went with being a battler.

  Matt's father said, "I caught the end of it when you got thrown in the canal. Looked like you and McFee helped each other out."

  Young Matt was a little embarrassed.

  "Yeah, McFee is all right. He's learning to be a money fighter and thinks he's tough. I'll get him next time."

  As soon as he said it, young Matt regretted his words. He'd been told to quit fighting, and here he was talking about the next time. He wished China Smith was standing where he could see him, but China often took a position behind whoever was facing big Matt. His father had explained that having someone from the other side just out of your sight made anybody uneasy and therefore gave him an advantage. That was particularly true if the someone was known to be dangerous.

  Big Matt never told Smith where to stand, China just knew. Right now, little Matt understood exactly what his Pa had meant. If he could see China's expressions maybe he could tell how his words were going over.

  Big Matt took another tack, which gave his son momentary relief.

  "We'll be gone from here for many months and maybe we will never come back to this particular canal, but McFee's father is one of my best workers, so he will go where the crews go, and we will see them all again."

  Big Matt scrubbed at his jaw in thought.

  "So, you're likely right. You will run onto young McFee again, and he will probably want to take up where you two left off." Again the older man paused.

  He raised an eyebrow in question. "You say he's learning to be a prize fighter?" At young Matt's nod he turned to China Smith.

  "You heard anything about this, China?"

  "I know that Klubber Cole is picking up a few coins and more than a few drinks teaching anybody interested the finer arts of self-defense, as he sees them. McFee is probably with him."

  Big Matt snorted. "Defense? I didn't know Klubber knew the word. Ten thousand fists must have bounced off his noggin before he quit."

  China smiled, "Klubber did lean toward getting him afore he got you, but he does know what being in there is all about."

  "So, that means that the next time you two square off Mickey McFee will have learned a lot more than he knows now." Little Matt nodded ruefully, and his father added, "And seeing that you barely held your own this time, he will undoubtedly knock your block off."

  Little Matt wanted to bristle, but his Pa had it right, and the awareness did not sit well with him.

  Big Matt let him stew for a long moment before he announced his solution.

  "Well, I don't see any sense in letting some bog Irish kid whip up on one of us Millers. Do you, son?" Little Matt knew he didn't.

  His father went on. "What we'll have to do is either ship you out to some distant place or get you trained so that McFee and others like him won't have an advantage.

  "That means that China here will have to take you in hand and teach you how to fist fight. How's that sound to you, son?"

  Little Matt could barely contain himself. Nothing could have suited him more. "I'd like that, Pa." He turned to China. "That is, if Mister Smith is willing to teach me how he does it."

  China knew the answer big Matt wanted.

  "I'll train you, boy. I'll teach you things these locals never dreamed of, but I'll only teach as long as you stay with it. You've got to go through hard work and some painful lessons to make progress that is real and lasting.

  "I'm not interested in wasting my time showing someone how to hold their hands or move their feet. With me, you either learn all your brain can hold and all your body can rise to, or I'm not even starting."

  The youth was enthusiastic. "I'll stay with it, Mister Smith. I'll work just as hard as you want, and I don't hurt all that easy."

  Smith nodded approval. "I like hearing brave words, and I figure you mean them—right now. Question will be, how much heart you'll show when the going gets real tough and pains like you've never felt before arrive real often."

  Smith turned to big Matt. "You think he's up to it, Skipper? I'm not interested in wasting both our time."

  The Skipper looked to his son. "If you say you will see it through, I'll believe you, but, Matt, I'll be highly disappointed if you let me down on this.

  "China is right. We all have better things to do, but as much as I'd like to see you prepared to stand your ground against the river rats and wood choppers we hire, you have to admit that you haven't worked at your studies in school. I'm therefore inclined to ask why this education will be any different from book learning?"

  Little Matt hated the comparison. Couldn't everybody see the difference? In school you sat on your behind and tried to be interested in what somebody long dead said about something. In fight training you would be moving and working with your muscles and your mind at things that would keep a slugger like McFee from lumping your skull.

  All he could say was, "It would be a lot different to me, Pa, and I won't let you down. I want to learn what Mister Smith has to show me, and I will stick with it no matter if it does hurt."

  What could hurt, after all? Some punches along the head or in the gut? They would be worth anything he might get better at like faking or dodging punches. He had never seen China Smith fight, but big Matt had said it was beautiful to behold.

  Little Matt Miller thought some about being beautiful in a real fight. He could see himself sliding like he was on ice, left and right hands working so much faster than the other guy that he'd hardly get hit at all. He was anxious to get started, and he hoped China would begin teaching him even before they got to wherever it was they were going.

  Chapter 3

  They sat around their evening fire while hired men worked at camp chores. Big Matt was backed against a wagon wheel, willing to listen in because with encroaching dark he could no longer study the paper piles he had brought along.

  China Smith said, "Your fight training will begin with conversation. I will talk and you will
listen."

  China Smith was not physically intimidating. He had no real size to him. He stood average height and was said to weigh about one hundred and sixty pounds. Big Matt claimed the best fighters to watch were close to that weight because they could hit hard like bigger men but were lightning quick like the flyweight battlers. Big Matt also pointed out that China's ordinary size had lured many a gambler to bet against him, which allowed unusual profits when Smith pounded out the tougher looking opponent.

  Smith's features showed the wear of many conflicts. There was scar tissue above his eyes, and his nose was wide and crooked from being repeatedly broken. Cheekbones were prominent, as though calluses had packed beneath his skin. China's ears were flattened, and one sagged slightly from having been nearly torn from his head and crudely doctored by tightly wrapping the injured member within a rag around his skull until reattachment was well along.

  It was China's hands that caught the eye. His fingers were crooked, and the joints were huge and distorted, but they had healed so that their owner could still make tight fists. Smith had explained that when he broke a hand he folded it into a fighting fist and wrapped it tightly. Unless he fought, he did not use the broken hand for six weeks.

  Smith laughed that when both hands were broken at once he wasn't worth a dead rat to his shipmates, but they covered for him because when he fought, he stood for them and their vessel, and their bets on China Smith always paid off.

  The backs of China's hands were worse looking than his fingers. Those hand bones that he enjoyed describing as metacarpals, rolling the word as if savoring its sounds, had healed poorly too many times, and they jutted at odd angles, some clearly overlapping their broken ends.

  China was want to flex his seemingly destroyed fingers and hands, marveling that they opened more or less fully, and remarking with undisguised awe that his hands never hurt even a little. He would wonder how that could be possible but swore it was so. Young Matt Miller looked at the fighter's hands and hated the thought that his might someday suffer similar batterings.