Rebellion. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ – Challenges All Comers!

      Against his better judgement Hawkwood had allowed Jago to drag him into the tent, where they’d been confronted by the reek of stale beer and even staler bodies and a roped-off square of canvas around which a couple of dozen rowdy onlookers had, over the course of the afternoon, watched a succession of rough-hewn labourers and jack-the-lads try their hand at pummelling another man senseless; their incentive being the three guineas on offer if they managed to remain upright for the duration of the three two-minute rounds, and a five-guinea purse if they succeeded in, as the booth owner put it in his sales pitch, knocking the champion on to his arse.

      Not that any of them had stood a cat in hell’s chance. Boyd, a stocky, broad-bellied mauler with a balding scalp, broken nose and knuckles lined with calluses, had stood there knowingly, hands on his hips, watching as, one by one, his deflated opponents were carried from the ring in varying degrees of pain and disability, very few of them having managed to land so much as one decent punch. Looking on, it had been hard to fathom why any man in his right mind would have wanted to climb over the ropes and take him on in the first place.

      It had been the late end of the afternoon. The number of prospective challengers had gradually dwindled away and the tout had been on the verge of calling it a day, when the slight built, strangely dressed figure stepped out of the audience and made his way to the ringside.

      Someone close by had let go a snort of laughter. Hawkwood heard Jago say quietly and with some awe. “Well, now, this should be interestin’.”

      Without doubt, it was the orange coat with its high collar buttoned up to the chin that had drawn the eye; as bright as a sunburst compared to the clothing worn by the majority of men in the tent. The coat wearer’s looks were just as arresting as his attire.

      In the booth’s dim-lit interior, his skin had seemed to be infused with an almost ethereal saffron tint. Hawkwood had also been struck by the man’s uncannily symmetrical features, in particular his oval face, shaven head and deep brown, almond-shaped eyes. His demeanour had been odd, too. There had been a curious serenity in his gaze and a stillness in the way he’d held himself. He’d seemed oblivious to the reaction his arrival had caused, though he must have been aware of it.

      “It’s a Chink!” a gravelled voice had offered helpfully.

      “Well, ’e ain’t from bleedin’ Chelsea!” another wit had shouted.

      “Either way,” Jago murmured in Hawkwood’s ear, “he’s a long way from home.”

      The tout had looked back at his man, unable to keep the grin off his face. The response had been a dismissive shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, “He’s paid the entrance money, it’s his funeral.”

      When Chen climbed into the ring, he’d done so in a hushed silence born out of the crowd’s curiosity and collective assumption that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Another challenger, who hadn’t even had the sense to remove his coat, was about to receive a sharp and painful lesson in the noble science.

      “Not sure I want to see this.” Jago had been on the point of turning away. Hawkwood, though, stayed where he was. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to remain, other than the look in the Chinaman’s eyes, which had intrigued him.

      At the sound of the bell, the champion had exited his corner with all the confidence of a seasoned fighter; a man prepared to give short shrift to any upstart – young or old – who had delusions of unseating him. The crowd was about to be treated not only to a contest between champion and the challenger but a pugilistic exhibition as well.

      It hadn’t turned out that way.

      Billy Boyd liked to toy with his opponents by allowing them a few opening punches to bolster their confidence, before returning a sequence of light, irritating taps to let them know they’d probably made the wrong decision. That was usually enough to incite the challenger into firing off a salvo of haymakers that had no hope of landing but which gave the champion legitimate rein to retaliate with increasing force. Boyd was more than happy to let the challenger think he was going to last the three rounds before finally moving in and disabusing him of such a foolish notion.

      Faced with the Chinaman, Boyd, for the first time in his career, had found himself flummoxed, not least because his opponent made no attempt to attack or put up a protective guard. Instead, all he did was assume a peculiar stance not unlike some kind of strange, one-legged bird. Then, holding his right hand close to his waist in an inverted fist, he raised his left arm to shoulder height, palm open towards the champion, fingers hooked as if it were some kind of claw. Settled, features immobile, as if he had all the time in the world, he waited.

      By the time Boyd realized he’d been duped, it was too late. Even as he stepped forward, drawn by this most unlikely of opponents to initiate contact instead of the other way round, some sixth sense must have triggered a warning. But by then he was already committed. Even as he aimed an exploratory jab towards the challenger’s torso, the Chinaman was moving.

      Chen’s counter-attack, a set of lightning moves that enabled him to block the punch with ease, turn the champion’s arm away and drive the edge of his palm into Billy Boyd’s throat, was almost sinuous in execution and so fast the crowd had barely had time to follow it from start to finish.

      It occurred to Hawkwood that he might have seen scorpions strike with less speed and ferocity; estimating later that it had probably taken Chen longer to climb over the ropes than it had for him to put the champion on his back.

      To a stunned silence that could have been cut with a knife.

      It had been hard to tell who was the most shocked: the crowd, the booth owner, or Billy Boyd.

      “Jesus!” Jago’s whisper had echoed the reaction of every witness in the tent.

      With Boyd still flat on the canvas, Chen had left the ring to claim his purse, only to discover that the tout was not prepared to relinquish the prize in the wake of a bout that had lasted barely ten seconds, even more so when the challenger had not even had the decency to engage in a fair contest. Especially, the tout had added, when he was a “bleedin’ Chinaman” to boot. Emboldened by the belief that he had the bulk of the spectators on his side, he’d told Chen to sling his hook.

      But Chen had stood his ground.

      By then, factions within the crowd had begun to argue, divided between those who agreed with the tout that the Chinaman had employed unfair tactics, typical of a bloody slant-eyed little heathen, and those who thought that landing Billy Boyd on his arse had been no bad thing and worth the entrance fee on its own.

      Things had been on the verge of turning ugly when, with reluctance, Hawkwood had stepped in. Having Jago at his shoulder had helped, but mostly it had been his brass-crowned Runner’s baton and the magistrate’s warrant contained within it that had persuaded the tout that it might be in his best interest if he reconsidered his decision. It was either that, or notice would be issued to close down the booth and both the tout and the champion could spend the night reflecting upon their decision in the nearest police cell. It’d save a lot of bother, Hawkwood promised them, if they paid the Chinaman what they owed him. Then everybody could go home.

      Muttering under his breath, the booth owner had handed over the five guineas. In the interest of public order, Hawkwood and Jago had escorted Chen from the tent and, in case any of Boyd’s supporters harboured thoughts of revenge, from the Common as well.

      When they’d reached a safe distance, Chen had thanked them in halting English. Then he’d asked Hawkwood СКАЧАТЬ