Текст книги "A Place Called Freedom"

Автор книги: Ken Follett

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

In the morning he would fill his belly with porridge and ham and set out for Edinburgh. Once there he would leave on the first ship that would hire him, no matter where it was going—any destination from Newcastle to Peking would serve his purpose.

He smiled at his own bravado. He had never ventured farther than the market town of Coats, twenty miles away—he had not even been to Edinburgh—but he was telling himself he was willing to go to exotic destinations as if he knew what those places were like.

As he strode along the rutted mud track he began to feel solemn about his journey. He was leaving the only home he had ever known, the place where he had been born and his parents had died. He was leaving Esther, his friend and ally, although he hoped to rescue her from Heugh before too long. He was leaving Annie, the cousin who had taught him how to kiss and how to play her body like a musical instrument.

But he had always known this would happen. As long as he could remember he had dreamed of escape. He had envied the peddler, Davey Patch, and longed for that kind of freedom. Now he had it.

Now he had it. He was filled with elation as he thought of what he had done. He had got away.

He did not know what tomorrow would bring. There might be poverty and suffering and danger. But it would not be another day down the pit, another day of slavery, another day of being the property of Sir George Jamisson. Tomorrow he would be his own man.

He came to a bend in the road and looked back. He could still just see Castle Jamisson, its battlemented roofline lit by the moon. I’ll never look at that again, he thought. It made him so happy that he began to dance a reel, there in the middle of the mud road, whistling the tune and jigging around in a circle.

Then he stopped, laughed softly at himself, and walked on down the glen.

II

London

13

SHYLOCK WORE WIDE TROUSERS, A LONG BLACK GOWN and a red three-cornered hat. The actor was bloodcurdlingly ugly, with a big nose, a long double chin, and a slitted mouth set in a permanent one-sided grimace. He came on stage with a slow, deliberate walk, the picture of evil. In a voluptuous growl he said: “Three thousand ducats.” A shudder went through the audience.

Mack was spellbound. Even in the pit, where he stood with Dermot Riley, the crowd was still and silent. Shylock spoke every word in a husky voice between a grunt and a bark. His eyes stared brightly from under shaggy eyebrows. “Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.…”

Dermot whispered in Mack’s ear: “That’s Charles Macklin—an Irishman. He killed a man and stood trial for murder, but he pleaded provocation and got off.”

Mack hardly heard. He had known there were such things as theaters and plays, of course, but he had never imagined it would be like this: the heat, the smoky oil lamps, the fantastic costumes, the painted faces, and most of all the emotion—rage, passionate love, envy and hatred, portrayed so vividly that his heart beat as fast as if it were real.

When Shylock found out that his daughter had run away, he hurtled on stage with no hat, hair flying, hands clenched, in a perfect fury of grief, screaming “You knew!” like a man in the torment of hell. And when he said “Since I am a dog, beware my fangs!” he darted forward, as if to lunge across the footlights, and the entire audience flinched back.

Leaving the theater, Mack said to Dermot: “Is that what Jews are like?” He had never met a Jew, as far as he knew, but most people in the Bible were Jewish, and they were not portrayed that way.

“I’ve known Jews but never one like Shy lock, thank God,” Dermot replied. “Everyone hates a moneylender, though. They’re all right when you need a loan, but it’s the paying it back that causes the trouble.”

London did not have many Jews but it was full of foreigners. There were dark-skinned Asian sailors called lascars; Huguenots from France; thousands of Africans with rich brown skin and tightly curled hair; and countless Irish like Dermot. For Mack this was part of the tingling excitement of the city. In Scotland everyone looked the same.

He loved London. He felt a thrill every morning when he woke up and remembered where he was. The city was full of sights and surprises, strange people and new experiences. He loved the enticing smell of coffee from the scores of coffeehouses, although he could not afford to drink it. He stared at the gorgeous colors of the clothes—bright yellow, purple, emerald green, scarlet, sky blue—worn by men and women. He heard the bellowing herds of terrified cattle being driven through the narrow streets to the city’s slaughterhouses, and he dodged the swarms of nearly naked children, begging and stealing. He saw prostitutes and bishops, he went to bullfights and auctions, he tasted banana and ginger and red wine. Everything was exciting. Best of all, he was free to go where he would and do as he liked.

Of course he had to earn his living. It was not easy. London swarmed with starving families who had fled from country districts where there was no food, for there had been two years of bad harvests. There were also thousands of hand-loom silk weavers, put out of work by the new northern factories, so Dermot said. For every job there were five desperate applicants. The unlucky ones had to beg, steal, prostitute themselves or starve.

Dermot himself was a weaver. He had a wife and five children living in two rooms in Spitalfields. In order to get by they had to sublet Dermot’s workroom, and Mack slept there, on the floor, beside the big silent loom that stood as a monument to the hazards of city life.

Mack and Dermot looked for work together. They sometimes got taken on as waiters in coffeehouses, but they lasted only a day or so: Mack was too big and clumsy to carry trays and pour drinks into little cups, and Dermot, being proud and touchy, always insulted a customer sooner or later. One day Mack was taken on as a footman in a big house in Clerkenwell, but he quit next morning after the master and mistress of the house asked him to get into bed with them. Today they had got portering work, carrying huge baskets of fish in the waterfront market at Billingsgate. At the end of the day Mack had been reluctant to waste his money on a theater ticket, but Dermot swore he would not regret it. Dermot had been right: it was worth twice the price to see such a marvel. All the same Mack worried about how long it could take him to save enough money to send for Esther.

Walking east from the theater, heading for Spitalfields, they passed through Covent Garden, where whores accosted them from doorways. Mack had been in London almost a month, and he was getting used to being offered sex at every corner. The women were of all kinds, young and old, ugly and beautiful, some dressed like fine ladies and others in rags. None of them tempted Mack, though there were many nights he thought wistfully of his lusty cousin Annie.

In the Strand was the Bear, a rambling whitewashed tavern with a coffee room and several bars around a courtyard. The heat of the theater had made them thirsty, and they went inside for a drink. The atmosphere was warm and smoky. They each bought a quart of ale.

Dermot said: “Let’s take a look out the back.”

The Bear was a sporting venue. Mack had been here before, and he knew that bearbaiting, dogfights, sword fights between women gladiators and all kinds of amusements were held in the backyard. When there was no organized entertainment the landlord would throw a cat into the duck pond and set four dogs on it, a game that generated uproarious laughter among the drinkers.

Tonight a prizefighting ring had been set up, lit by numerous oil lamps. A dwarf in a silk suit and buckled shoes was haranguing a crowd of drinkers. “A pound for anyone who can knock down the Bermondsey Bruiser! Come on, my lads, is there a brave one among you?” He turned three somersaults.

Dermot said to Mack: “You could knock him down, I’d say.”

The Bermondsey Bruiser was a scarred man wearing nothing but breeches and heavy boots. He was shaved bald, and his face and head bore the marks of many fights. He was tall and heavy, but he looked stupid and slow. “I suppose I could,” Mack said.

Dermot was enthusiastic. He grabbed the dwarf by the arm and said: “Hey, short-arse, here’s a customer for you.”

“A contender!” the dwarf bellowed, and the crowd cheered and clapped.

A pound was a lot of money, a week’s wages for many people. Mack was tempted. “All right,” he said.

The crowd cheered again.

“Watch out for his feet,” said Dermot. “There’ll be steel in the toes of his boots.”

Mack nodded, taking off his coat.

Dermot added: “Be ready for him to jump you as soon as you get in the ring. There’ll be no waiting for a signal to begin, mind you.”

It was a common trick in fights between miners down the pit. The quickest way to win was to start before the other was ready. A man would say: “Come on and fight in the tunnel where there’s more room,” then hit his opponent as he stepped across the drainage ditch.

The ring was a rough circle of rope about waist height, supported by old wooden staves hammered into the mud. Mack approached, mindful of Dermot’s warning. As he lifted his foot to step over the rope, the Bermondsey Bruiser rushed him.

Mack was ready for it, and he stepped back out of reach, catching a glancing blow to his forehead from the Bruiser’s massive fist. The crowd gasped.

Mack acted without thinking, like a machine. He stepped quickly to the ring and kicked the Bruiser’s shin under the rope, causing him to stumble. A cheer went up from the spectators, and Mack heard Dermot’s voice yelling: “Kill him, Mack!”

Before the man could regain his balance, Mack hit him on each side of the head, left and right, then once more on the point of the chin with an uppercut that had all the force of his shoulders behind it. The Bruiser’s legs wobbled and his eyes rolled up, then he staggered back two steps and fell flat on his back.

The crowd roared their enthusiasm.

The fight was over.

Mack looked at the man on the floor and saw a ruined hulk, damaged and good for nothing. He wished he had not taken him on. Feeling deflated, he turned away.

Dermot had the dwarf in an armlock. “The little devil tried to run away,” he explained. “He wanted to cheat you of your prize. Pay up, long-legs. One pound.”

With his free hand the dwarf took a gold sovereign from a pocket inside his shirt. Scowling, he handed it to Mack.

Mack took it, feeling like a thief.

Dermot released the dwarf.

A rough-faced man in expensive clothes appeared at Mack’s side. “That was well done,” he said. “Have you fought much?”

“Now and again, down the pit.”

“I thought you might be a miner. Now listen, I’m putting on a prizefight at the Pelican in Shadwell next Saturday. If you want the chance of earning twenty pounds in a few minutes, I’ll put you up against Rees Preece, the Welsh Mountain.”

Dermot said: “Twenty pounds!”

“You won’t knock him down as quickly as you did this lump of wood, but you’ll have a chance.”

Mack looked at the Bruiser, lying in a useless heap. “No,” he said.

Dermot said: “Why the devil not?”

The promoter shrugged. “If you don’t need the money …”

Mack thought of his twin, Esther, still carrying coal up the ladders of Heugh pit fifteen hours a day, waiting for the letter that would release her from a lifetime of slavery. Twenty pounds would pay her passage to London—and he could have the money in his hand on Saturday night

“On second thought, yes,” Mack said.

Dermot clapped him on the back. “That’s me boy,” he said.

14

LIZZIE HALLIM AND HER MOTHER RATTLED NORTHWARD through the city of London in a hackney carriage. Lizzie was excited and happy: they were going to meet Jay and look at a house.

“Sir George has certainly changed his attitude,” said Lady Hallim. “Bringing us to London, planning a lavish wedding, and now offering to pay the rent on a London house for the two of you to live in.”

“I think Lady Jamisson has talked him around,” Lizzie said. “But only in small matters. He still won’t give Jay the Barbados property.”

“Alicia is a clever woman,” Lady Hallim mused. “All the same, I’m surprised she can still persuade her husband, after that terrible row on Jay’s birthday.”

“Perhaps Sir George is the type who forgets a quarrel.”

“He never used to be—unless there was something in it for him. I wonder what his motive might be. There isn’t anything he wants from you, is there?”

Lizzie laughed. “What could I give him? Perhaps he just wants me to make his son happy.”

“Which I’m sure you will. Here we are.”

The carriage stopped in Chapel Street, a quietly elegant row of houses in Holborn—not as fashionable as Mayfair or Westminster, but less expensive. Lizzie got down from the carriage and looked at number twelve. She liked it right away. There were four stories and a basement, and the windows were tall and graceful. However, two of the windows were broken and the number 45 was crudely daubed on the gleaming black-painted front door. Lizzie was about to comment when another carriage drew up and Jay jumped out.

He was wearing a bright blue suit with gold buttons, and a blue bow in his fair hair: he looked good enough to eat. He kissed Lizzie’s lips. It was a rather restrained kiss, as they were in a public street, but she relished it and hoped for more later. Jay handed his mother down from the carriage then knocked on the door of the house. “The owner is a brandy importer who has gone to France for a year,” he said as they waited.

An elderly caretaker opened the door. “Who broke the windows?” Jay said immediately.

“The hatters, it was,” the man said as they stepped inside. Lizzie had read in the newspaper that the people who made hats were on strike, as were the tailors and grinders.

Jay said: “I don’t know what the damn fools think they’ll achieve by smashing respectable people’s windows.”

Lizzie said: “Why are they on strike?”

The caretaker replied: “They want better wages, miss, and who can blame them, with the price of a four-penny loaf gone up to eightpence farthing? How is a man to feed his family?”

“Not by painting ‘45’ on every door in London,” Jay said gruffly. “Show us the house, man.”

Lizzie wondered about the significance of the number 45, but she was more interested in the house. She went through the building excitedly throwing back curtains and opening windows. The furniture was new and expensive, and the drawing room was a wide, light room with three big windows at each end. The place had the musty smell of an uninhabited building, but it needed only a thorough cleaning, a lick of paint and a supply of linen to make it delightfully habitable.

She and Jay ran ahead of the two mothers and the old caretaker, and when they reached the attic floor they were alone. They stepped into one of several small bedrooms designed for servants. Lizzie put her arms around Jay and kissed him hungrily. They had only a minute or so. She took his hands and placed them on her breasts. He stroked them gently. “Squeeze harder,” she whispered between kisses. She wanted the pressure of his hands to linger after their embrace. Her nipples stiffened and his fingertips found them through the fabric of her dress. “Pinch them,” she said, and as he did so the pang of mingled pain and pleasure made her gasp. Then she heard footsteps on the landing and they broke apart, panting.

Lizzie turned and looked out of a little dormer window, catching her breath. There was a long back garden. The caretaker was showing the two mothers all the little bedrooms. “What’s the significance of the number forty-five?” she asked.

“It’s all to do with that traitor John Wilkes,” Jay replied. “He used to edit a journal called the North Briton, and the government charged him with seditious libel over issue number forty-five, in which he as good as called the king a liar. He ran away to Paris, but now he’s come back to stir up more trouble among ignorant common people.”

“Is it true they can’t afford bread?”

“There’s a shortage of grain all over Europe, so it’s inevitable that the price of bread should go up. And the unemployment is caused by the American boycott of British goods.”

She turned back to Jay. “I don’t suppose that’s much consolation to the hatters and tailors.”

A frown crossed his face: he did not seem to like her sympathizing with the discontented. “I’m not sure you realize how dangerous all this talk of liberty is,” he said.

“I’m not sure I do.”

“For example, the rum distillers of Boston would like the freedom to buy their molasses anywhere. But the law says they must buy from British plantations, such as ours. Give them freedom and they’ll buy cheaper, from the French—and then we won’t be able to afford a house like this.”

“I see.” That did not make it right, she thought; but she decided not to say so.

“All sorts of riffraff might want freedom, from coal miners in Scotland to Negroes in Barbados. But God has set people like me in authority over common men.”

That was true, of course. “But do you ever wonder why?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Why God should have set you in authority over coal miners and Negroes.”

He shook his head irritably, and she realized she had overstepped the mark again. “I don’t think women can understand these things,” he said.

She took his arm. “I love this house, Jay,” she said, trying to mollify him. She could still feel her nipples where he had pinched them. She lowered her voice. “I can’t wait to move in here with you and sleep together every night.”

He smiled. “Nor can I.”

Lady Hallim and Lady Jamisson came into the room. Lizzie’s mother’s gaze dropped to Lizzie’s bosom, and Lizzie realized her nipples were showing through her dress. Mother obviously guessed what had been going on. She frowned with disapproval. Lizzie did not care. She would be married soon.

Alicia said: “Well, Lizzie, do you like the house?”

“I adore it!”

“Then you shall have it.”

Lizzie beamed and Jay squeezed her arm.

Lizzie’s mother said: “Sir George is so kind, I don’t know how to thank him.”

“Thank my mother,” Jay said. “She’s the one who’s made him behave decently.”

Alicia gave him a reproving look, but Lizzie could tell she did not really mind. She and Jay were very fond of one another, it was obvious. Lizzie felt a pang of jealousy, and told herself it was silly: anyone would be fond of Jay.

They left the room. The caretaker was hovering outside. Jay said to him: “I’ll see the owner’s attorney tomorrow and have the lease drawn up.”

“Very good, sir.”

As they went down the stairs, Lizzie remembered something. “Oh, I must show you this!” she said to Jay. She had picked up a handbill in the street and saved it for him. She took it from her pocket and gave it to him to read. It read:

AT THE SIGN OF THE PELICAN

NEAR SHAD-WELL

GENTLEMEN AND GAMESTERS TAKE NOTE

A GENERAL DAY OF SPORT

A MAD BULL TO BE LET LOOSE WITH FIREWORKS ALL

OVER HIM, AND DOGS AFTER HIM

A MATCH FOUGHT OUT BETWEEN TWO COCKS

OF WESTMINSTER,

AND TWO OF EAST CHEAP, FOR FIVE POUNDS

A GENERAL COMBAT WITH CUDGELS BETWEEN SEVEN

WOMEN

AND

A FIST FIGHT—FOR TWENTY POUNDS!

REES PREECE, THE WELSH MOUNTAIN

VERSUS

MACK MCASH, THE KILLER COLLIER

SATURDAY NEXT

BEGINNING AT THREE A CLOCK

“What do you think?” she said impatiently. “It must be Malachi McAsh from Heugh, mustn’t it?”

“So that’s what’s become of him,” said Jay. “He’s a prizefighter. He was better off working in my father’s coal pit.”

“I’ve never seen a prizefight,” Lizzie said wistfully.

Jay laughed. “I should think not! It’s no place for a lady.”

“Nor is a coal mine, but you took me there.”

“So I did, and you nearly got killed in an explosion.”

“I thought you’d jump at the chance of taking me on another adventure.”

Her mother overheard and said: “What’s this? What adventure?”

“I want Jay to take me to a prizefight,” Lizzie said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said her mother.

Lizzie was disappointed. Jay’s daring seemed to have deserted him momentarily. However, she would not let that stand in her way. If he would not take her she would go alone.

Lizzie adjusted her wig and hat and looked in the mirror. A young man looked back at her. The secret lay in the light smear of chimney soot that darkened her cheeks, her throat, her chin and her upper lip, mimicking the look of a man who had shaved.

The body was easy. A heavy waistcoat flattened her bosom, the tail of her coat concealed the rounded curves of her womanly bottom, and knee boots covered her calves. The hat and wig of male pattern completed the illusion.

She opened her bedroom door. She and her mother were staying in a small house in the grounds of Sir George’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. Mother was taking an afternoon nap. Lizzie listened for footsteps, in case any of Sir George’s servants were about the house, but she heard nothing. She ran light-footed down the stairs and slipped out the door into the lane at the back of the property.

It was a cold, sunny day at the end of winter. When she reached the street she reminded herself to walk like a man, taking up a lot of space, swinging her arms and putting on a swagger, as if she owned the pavement and were ready to jostle anyone who disputed her claim.

She could not swagger all the way to Shadwell, which was across town on the east side of London. She waved down a sedan chair, remembering to hold her arm up in command instead of fluttering her hand beseechingly like a woman. As the chair men stopped and set down the conveyance she cleared her throat, spat in the gutter and said in a deep croak: “Take me to the Pelican tavern, and look sharp about it.”

They carried her farther east than she had ever been in London, through streets of ever smaller and meaner houses, to a neighborhood of damp lanes and mud beaches, unsteady wharves and ramshackle boathouses, high-fenced timber yards and rickety warehouses with chained doors. They deposited her outside a big waterfront tavern with a crude painting of a pelican daubed on its wooden sign. The courtyard was full of noisy, excited people: workingmen in boots and neckerchiefs, waistcoated gentlemen, low-class women in shawls and clogs, and a few women with painted faces and exposed breasts who, Lizzie presumed, were prostitutes. There were no women of what her mother would have called “quality.”

Lizzie paid her entrance fee and elbowed her way into the shouting, jeering crowd. There was a powerful smell of sweaty, unwashed people. She felt excited and wicked. The female gladiators were in the middle of their combat. Several women had already retired from the fray: one sitting on a bench holding her head, another trying to stanch a bleeding leg wound, a third flat on her back and unconscious despite the efforts of her friends to revive her. The remaining four milled about in a rope ring, attacking one another with roughly carved wooden clubs three feet long. They were all naked to the waist and barefoot, with ragged skirts. Their faces and bodies were bruised and scarred. The crowd of a hundred or more spectators cheered their favorites, and several men were taking bets on the outcome. The women swung the clubs with all their might, hitting one another bone-crunching blows. Every time one landed a well-aimed buffet the men roared their approval. Lizzie watched with horrid fascination. Soon another woman took a heavy blow to the head and fell unconscious. The sight of her half-naked body lying senseless on the muddy ground sickened Lizzie, and she turned away.

She went into the tavern, banged on the counter with a fist, and said to the barman: “A pint of strong ale, Jack.” It was wonderful to address the world in such arrogant tones. If she did the same in women’s clothing, every man she spoke to would feel entitled to reprove her, even tavern keepers and sedan chair men. But a pair of breeches was a license to command.

The bar smelled of tobacco ash and spilled beer. She sat in a corner and sipped her ale, wondering why she had come here. It was a place of violence and cruelty, and she was playing a dangerous game. What would these brutal people do if they realized she was an upper-class lady dressed as a man?

She was here partly because her curiosity was an irresistible passion. She had always been fascinated by whatever was forbidden, even as a child. The sentence “It’s no place for a lady” was like a red rag to a bull. She could not help opening any door marked “No entry.” Her curiosity was as urgent as her sexuality, and to repress it was as difficult as to stop kissing Jay.

But the main reason was McAsh. He had always been interesting. Even as a small boy he had been different: independent-minded, disobedient, always questioning what he was told. In adulthood he was fulfilling his promise. He had defied the Jamissons, he had succeeded in escaping from Scotland—something few miners achieved—and he had made it all the way to London. Now he was a prizefighter. What would he do next?

Sir George had been clever to let him go, she thought. As Jay said, God intended some men to be masters of others, but McAsh would never accept that, and back in the village he would have made trouble for years. There was a magnetism about McAsh that made people follow his lead: the proud way he carried his powerful body, the confident tilt of his head, the intense look in his startling green eyes. She herself felt the attraction: it had drawn her here.

One of the painted women sat beside her and smiled intimately. Despite her rouge she looked old and tired. How flattering to her disguise it would be, Lizzie thought, if a whore propositioned her. But the woman was not so easily fooled. “I know what you are,” she said.

Women had sharper eyes than men, Lizzie reflected. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said.

“You can play the man with me for a shilling,” the woman said.

Lizzie did not know what she meant.

“I’ve done it before with your type,” she went on. “Rich girls who like to play the man. I’ve got a fat candle at home that fits just right, do you know what I mean?”

Lizzie realized what she was getting at. “No, thank you,” she said with a smile. “That’s not what I’m here for.” She reached into her pocket for a coin. “But here’s a shilling for keeping my secret.”

“God bless Your Ladyship,” the prostitute said, and she went away.

You could learn a lot in disguise, Lizzie reflected. She would never have guessed that a prostitute would keep a special candle for women who liked to play the man. It was the kind of thing a lady might never find out unless she escaped from respectable society and went exploring the world outside her curtained windows.

A great cheer went up in the courtyard, and Lizzie guessed the cudgel fight had produced a victor—the last woman left standing, presumably. She went outside, carrying her beer like a man, her arm straight down at her side and her thumb hooked over the lip of the tankard.

The women gladiators were staggering away or being carried off, and the main event was about to begin. Lizzie saw McAsh right away. There was no doubt it was he: she could see the striking green eyes. He was no longer black with coal dust, and she saw to her surprise that his hair was quite fair. He stood close to the ring talking to another man. He glanced toward Lizzie several times, but he did not penetrate her disguise. He looked grimly determined.

His opponent, Rees Preece, deserved his nickname “the Welsh Mountain.” He was the biggest man Lizzie had ever seen, at least a foot taller than Mack, heavy and red faced, with a crooked nose that had been broken more than once. There was a vicious look about the face, and Lizzie marveled at the courage, or foolhardiness, of anyone who would willingly go into a prizefighting ring with such an evil-looking animal. She felt frightened for McAsh. He could be maimed or even killed, she realized with a chill of dread. She did not want to see that. She was tempted to leave, but she could not drag herself away.

The fight was about to begin when Mack’s friend got into an irate discussion with Preece’s seconds. Voices were raised and Lizzie gathered it had to do with Preece’s boots. Mack’s second was insisting, in an Irish accent, that they fight barefoot. The crowd began a slow hand clap to express their impatience. Lizzie hoped the fight would be called off. But she was disappointed. After much vehement discussion, Preece took off his boots.

Then, suddenly, the fight was on. Lizzie saw no signal. The two men were at one another like cats, punching and kicking and butting in a frenzy, moving so fast she could hardly see who was doing what. The crowd roared and Lizzie realized she was screaming. She covered her mouth with her hand.

The initial flurry lasted only a few seconds: it was too energetic to be kept up. The men separated and began to circle one another, fists raised in front of their faces, protecting their bodies with their arms. Mack’s lip was swelling and Preece’s nose was bleeding. Lizzie bit her finger fearfully.

Preece rushed Mack again, but this time Mack jumped back, dodging, then suddenly stepped in and hit Preece once, very hard, on the side of the head. Lizzie winced to hear the thud of the blow: it sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a rock. The spectators cheered wildly. Preece seemed to hesitate, as if startled by the blow, and Lizzie guessed he was surprised by Mack’s strength. She began to feel hopeful: perhaps Mack could defeat this huge man after all.

Mack danced back out of reach. Preece shook himself like a dog, then lowered his head and charged, punching wildly. Mack ducked and sidestepped and kicked Preece’s legs with a hard bare foot, but somehow Preece managed to crowd him and land several mighty punches. Then Mack hit him hard on the side of the head again, and once more Preece was stopped in his tracks.

The same dance was repeated, and Lizzie heard the Irishman yell: “In for the kill, Mack, don’t give him time to get over it!” She realized that after hitting a stopping punch Mack always backed off and let the other man recover. Preece, by contrast, always followed one punch with another and another until Mack fought him off.