As she walked home, Fay pictured the steps she would have to take to handle her disguise. A pair of her father’s old corduroys would do for trousers; although she would have liked to cut them to fit, she knew they could not afford the wasting of a pair of pants that could be used. Still, by tucking them into a pair of his boots, she could get away with it. The boots would be large and uncomfortable, but that was better than having to wear a pair that were too small. A slouch hat, her father’s, the one he had worn on the trek, would be fine to hide her hair, done up in a tight bun. She could band her full breasts tightly, and a decent-sized shirt and jacket would properly complete the disguise. She could get away with it, she was sure. Of course there was always the chance she might be recognized as a woman, but it was a chance she was more than willing to take. If Barney might be hurt, she wanted to be there.
As she trudged back to Bultfontein she tried to analyze just why, suddenly, she was having this extraordinary concern as to Barney’s safety. He had always been self-reliant, self-confident, the most self-confident person she had ever known. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be hurt, and it was being afraid for him on that score that surprised her. They had known each other, now, for more than four years, and in all the many times they had seen each other — times she realized a bit sadly that had been growing more and more infrequent — in all the times they had gone on picnics, walked and talked, Barney had never said or done anything to indicate he might want her to commit herself to anything. True, once he had bent to kiss one of her hands, but that had been after staying away from her for six months, and she had practically forced him to that action as a compensation for his previous neglect. No, in all the time she had known him he had never made the slightest move to indicate she could mean any more to him than as a friend. Of course, to be perfectly honest with herself, she had to admit that Barney had once said something about love, and she had been the one to turn the subject to friendship, but that had been a long time ago when they were both very young. Why hadn’t he ever said anything about it since? Obviously because friendship was what he wanted, all he had ever really wanted. There were men who, she suspected, while fearing little else had a deadly fear of love. Barney must have been relieved the subject had never been raised again.
Well, Fay thought defiantly as she marched steadily along, maybe we’ll have to do something about that. If the fool doesn’t get himself killed in that stupid fight of his!
Dr. Josiah Mathews, one of the more respected members of the Kimberley community, had agreed to act as ringmaster for the boxing match for several reasons. One, he was a man whose probity would never be doubted by the crowd, no matter how partisan; and secondly, the doctor had a strong feeling his medical accomplishments might well be required by young Mr. Isaacs. Dr. Mathews had requested Charles Rudd, as a man with some prior boxing experience, to act as referee. Mr. Rudd’s partner had declined to even attend the match for several reasons: while Cecil John Rhodes would have enjoyed witnessing the almost assured defeat of the Jew, Barney Isaacs — for he had heard some time before that Isaacs had had the temerity to name his horse Rhodes — there was the possibility, almost the assurance, that blood would be spilled, and even though it would be the blood of the Jew, Cecil John Rhodes had no desire to get sick before a crowd that included many of his friends.
The area at the foot of Eagle’s Nest — the “nest” itself was a kopje a mere fifteen feet higher than the surrounding territory, but it served as a sort of stadium allowing the spectators to look down at the ring — had been pounded flat and the ring posts well set in the hard soil. The circus worker assigned to string the ropes finished putting the final one in place; he crawled beneath the bottom rope, came to his feet, and launched himself against the triple strands, bouncing back satisfactorily. He nodded to the waiting Dr. Mathews and climbed from the ring. Dr. Mathews, in turn, nodded to the waiting contestants, who stepped through the ropes and took the corners assigned to them by the good doctor, who had been standing in the middle of the ring watching the ropes being put in place. The doctor, satisfied his charges were in place, turned to face the growing crowd.
“Gentlemen!” he cried, raising his voice to be heard. He waited patiently as the noise slowly abated. In their corners Barney and the Angolan Giant eyed each other with no expression at all. Each was stripped to the waist and was wearing rubber-soled running shoes and boxing trunks. He’s really a big ’un! Barney was thinking, and no mistake! Hits me once, good-bye, Charlie! But he’s probably slower than treacle in January. And that belly of his looks like he likes his grub more than anythin’ else! A couple there ought to make him know he didn’t come here for no maypole dance! Across from him the huge Angolan stared at him, wondering at the nerve of a little man like that climbing into the ring against him. Ah, well, he thought, it’s all in a day’s work — or a few minutes’ work, rather, and it’s a living.
Dr. Mathews had waited long enough. “Gentlemen! Please!”
At last a partial silence fell, broken only by the sound of bottles being rattled and the slurping of drinking sounds. Somewhere someone was getting sick. The doctor accepted this as normal and raised his voice.
“Gentlemen, this boxing match shall be held under the rules of Mr. John Chambers and the London Amateur Athletic Club as promulgated in the year eighteen sixty-five. As you can see, the contestants are wearing padded gloves. Each round shall consist of three minutes of fighting followed by a minute of rest. A fighter who is downed must get up unaided within ten seconds, or forfeit the match. There shall be six rounds to this match.” The doctor looked first at the giant and then at Barney, mentally wondering what on earth young Isaacs could have been thinking to get himself involved in anything like this. Ah, well, the doctor had plenty of collodion and bandage should they be needed, and he had a feeling a good part of the items in his bag might be needed before the afternoon was over. He continued his speech. “I shall blow a whistle to signal the start and end of each round. Mr. Charles Rudd has consented to referee this match. Mr. Rudd?”
The doctor climbed through the ropes and took his place at the side of the ring where he could have an unobstructed view of the action without interfering with the view of the spectators crowded on the Nest. His place in the ring was taken by the stocky Charles Rudd, who wasted no more time in calling the two fighters to the middle of the ring.
“No wrestling,” he said sternly. “When I slap you on the back, step away and then resume fighting. No blows beneath the belt. No kicking or slapping. Stop instantly when you hear Dr. Mathews whistle. That’s it.” He suddenly glanced at the large Armando. “Did you understand what I just said?”
Armando shrugged. He hadn’t understood a word, but he had heard the same thing in the same tone so often he was fairly sure he knew what the instructions had been. “Okay,” he said, exhausting his English.
“Fine,” Rudd said. “That’s it, then. Now go back to your corners and be ready to start.”
Rudd watched the two return to their respective corners and nodded to Mathews. The doctor consulted his pocket watch, waited until the second hand had come around to twelve. The crowd waited in drunken expectation, holding their breath. The doctor’s whistle shrilled. The bout was on.