“By the Lord Harry,” Glessing shouted to no one in particular. “That bastard gouged our man!”
“And who started the melee, by God? The round was over!” Major Turnbull said, his temper rising, hand on his sword. He was a taut man of thirty-five and chief magistrate of Hong Kong. “Just because you’ve been appointed harbormaster, you think that gives you the right to mask a foul?”
“No, by God! But don’t try to bring the full majesty of your appointment into a social affair.” Glessing turned his back on him, and shoved forward in the crowd.
“Hello, Culum!”
“Hello, George. Good fight, isn’t it?”
“Did you see that bastard gouge our man?”
“I think he got gouged back, didn’t he?”
“That’s not the point, by God!”
And then the half minute was up and the fighters rushed at each other.
The second and third rounds were almost as long as the first, and the spectators knew that no man could stand such punishment for long. In the fourth round a sailing left hook caught the soldier under the ear and he crashed to the canvas. The bell sounded and the seconds grabbed their man. After the cruelly brief half-minute respite the soldier charged to the line, pummeled the sailor, then grabbed him around the chest and savagely hurled him down. Then back into the corner again and thirty seconds and fight once more.
Round after round. Ahead on falls, behind on falls.
In the fifteenth round Tinker’s fist connected with Grum’s broken nose. Fire burst in Grum’s head, blinding him; he screamed and flailed wildly in panic. His left fist hit home and his eyes cleared a moment and he saw that the enemy was open and tottering and heard a hugeness of screaming and cheering close by, yet far away. Grum hurled his right fist, clenching it as he had never clenched it before. He saw it crush into the soldier’s belly. His left crossed and smashed his enemy on the side of the face and he felt a small bone in his hand shatter and then he was alone. There was once more that godhating bell and hands grabbed him, and someone shoved the liquor bottle into his broken mouth and he drank deeply and vomited the blood-streaked liquor and croaked, “What round, mate?” and someone said, “Nineteenth,” and he was up to scratch once more and there was the enemy again, hurting him, killing him, and he had to stay and conquer or die.
“Good fight, eh, Dirk?” Brock bellowed above the excitement.
“Aye.”
“You wants to change yor mind and wager?”
“No thanks, Tyler,” Struan told him, awed by the bravery of the fighters. Both were at the limit of their strength, fiercely beaten. Grum’s right hand was almost useless, Tinker’s eyes barely open. “I would na like to take on one of them in a ring, by God!”
“They be gutty as any alive!” Brock laughed, showing his brown and broken teeth. “Who’s t’ win?”
“Take your pick. But I’ll wager they’ll never give up, and no towel for either of them.”
“That be truth, by God!”
Hibbs intoned, “Twenty-fourth round,” and the fighters lumbered heavily into the center of the ring, their limbs leaden, and smashed at each other. They kept on their feet only by the strength of their wills. Tinker hurled a monstrous left that would have felled an ox, but the blow slid off Grum’s shoulder and he slipped and fell. The navy cheered and the army roared as the seconds carried the soldier to his corner. When the half minute was up, the army watched breathlessly as Tinker gripped the ropes and pulled himself up. The veins on his neck contorted with the effort, but he rose on both feet and staggered back to the line.
Struan felt someone watching him, and upon turning, saw the archduke beckoning. He pushed his way around the ring and wondered tensely if Orlov, whom he had sent to “assist” the archduke’s transfer to the hulk, had outsmarted the servants and if he had found any documents of value.
“Have you picked the winner, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev asked.
“No, Your Highness.” Struan glanced at the admiral and the general. “Both men are a credit to your services, gentlemen.”
“The navy man’s full of guts, by God, remarkable,” the general said jovially, “but I think our man’s got the wind to stay.”
“No. Our man will be the lad to toe the line. But, by God, your man’s good, M’Lord. A credit to any service.”
“Why don’t you join us, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev said, indicating the empty chair. “Perhaps you’d explain the finer points of prizefighting?”
“With your permission, gentlemen,” Struan said politely, sitting. “Where’s His Excellency?”
“Left early, by God,” the general said. “Something about dispatches.”
The bell sounded again.
Zergeyev shifted restlessly in his chair. “What’s the largest number of rounds that a fight has had?”
“Saw the Burke-Byrne fight in ’33,” the admiral said shortly. “Ninety-nine rounds. By the blood of Christ, that was a battle royal. Fantastic courage! Byrne died of the beating he took. But he never gave up.”
“Neither of these two will give up either—they’ve beaten each other senseless,” Struan said. “It’d be a waste to kill one—or both—of them, eh, gentlemen?”
“Stop the fight?” the archduke asked incredulously.
‘The point of a match is a test of strength and courage, man to man,” Struan said. “They’re equally matched and equally brave. I’d say they’ve both proved their worth.”
“But then you have no winner. Surely that’s unfair, weak, and proves nothing.”
“It’s unfair to kill a courageous man, aye,” Struan said calmly. “Only courage is keeping them on their feet.” He turned to the others. “After all, they’re both Englishmen. Save them for a real enemy.”
A sudden burst of cheering distracted the admiral and the general but not Zergeyev.
“That almost sounds like a challenge, Mr. Struan,” he said with a dead calm smile.
“Nay, Your Highness,” Struan said graciously, “only a fact. We honor courage, but in a case like this, winning is secondary to the preservation of their dignity as men.”
“What do you say, Admiral?” the general said. “Struan has a point, eh? What’s the round? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-six,” Struan said.
“Say we limit the bout to fifty. One’s got to go before that—impossible to stay on their feet till then. But if they can both toe the line on the fifty-first round, we throw in the towel together, eh? Declare it a draw. Hibbs can make the announcement.”
“I agree. But your man won’t last.”
“Another hundred guineas says he will, by God!”
“Done!”
“A wager, Mr. Struan?” the archduke said, as the admiral and general grimly turned away and signaled to Hibbs. “You name the stakes and pick a man.”