attitude, and when invited to express an opinion on the sermon, replied
that there was a good deal to be said on both sides. Mr. Shillabeer
smelt mystery, but knew his friend’s ways too well to interfere. At
present the event stood fixed for an early hour on the following Monday
week, and Mr. Fogo was prowling about the neighbourhood to find a
secluded and suitable theatre for it; but nothing had been settled, and
not until the Tuesday before the fight did he make the final
announcement.
Mr. Fogo had already kept his appointment with Mr. Merle and listened to
the arguments of the vicar and the churchwarden.
"I may tell you that the lord of the manor has only just left me,"
remarked Mr. Merle. "He, too, has harboured some erroneous opinions on
the subject of this outrage, and I have gone far to convince him of his
mistake."
But Mr. Fogo knew all about the opinions of Sir Guy Flamank. Indeed, he
had enjoyed a considerable discourse in private with that sound
sportsman only a few hours earlier in the day.
"Sir Guy Flamank," said the vicar, "at first argued speciously that
there are times when a magistrate ought to act, and times when he ought
to shut his eyes, or look the other way. Deluded by fanciful
obligations to the claims of sport, he supposes that this is an occasion
for looking the other way. But he is wrong--ignorantly, rather than
wickedly, wrong--and I have thoroughly convinced him of the fact. A
fight between two men, no matter whether they fight in the spirit of
friends, or avowedly as foes, is none the less legally a breach of the
peace, morally an outrage on the Creator. It is an un-christian, a
brutal, a degraded performance, even though we regard it not as a battle
of enmity but a trial of strength. Who are we that we dare to deface
the image of God? Tell me that, Mr. Fogo. A prize-fight is the most
complicated and many-sided offence it is possible to conceive--an
affront alike on man and his Maker. None can attend such orgies without
lowering his sense of decency and manhood; none can be present at such a
spectacle and not suffer for it in the secret places of his
self-respect. In the interest of public morals and of religion I take
my stand, Mr. Fogo; and as a minister of the Word of God I tell you
that, Heaven helping, this thing shall not be within my spiritual
jurisdiction--nay, or beyond it, if energy and foresight can prevent."
Mr. Fogo rose from the chair whereon he sat, and bowed.
"I have not heard such burning words, your reverence, since I sat under
a bishop a few weeks ago in Paul’s, London. I would have you to know
that I take life seriously. I am a pious man, though my calling has to
do with rough characters; but I never saw things quite in this light
before. We sporting blades mean no harm, and we are honest according to
our lights. I’ve known many of the noted pugs and can assure your
reverence that they are straight and kindly men--just such good souls as
Mr. Shillabeer, my friend in this village. If they’ve done wrong, ’tis
through their ignorance of right. And as for me, never, until I heard
your great and forcible discourse o’ Sunday, did I think that a fair
mill was not agreeable to the morals of the kingdom, even though the law
don’t allow it."
"A prize-fight is not agreeable--either to the morals of this kingdom or
the next," said Mr. Merle; "and I hope you are convinced of it."
"You told me you was," said Moses. "You made it very clear to me you
was wavering, Mr. Fogo."
"I am wavering," answered the old hawk, while he tried to cool the fire
in his eye with a film of piety. "I am hit very hard over this. You’ve
let in the light on me, your reverence. It calls back to my mind that
famous party, namely Bendigo--once a Champion of England, now a champion
of the next world; for he’s taken to preaching and, as he told me last
time we met, is under articles to fight the Devil and all his works. A
great man in his way, and they’ve given his name to half Australia, I’m
told; but, though very free and forcible with words, he hasn’t got the
flow of your reverence. Of course you wouldn’t expect it from a
prize-fighter. And now with your solemn speeches booming on my sinful
ears, I ask myself what I am to do."
"Let me tell you the answer to that question, Mr. Fogo," said the
clergyman, very earnestly. "If your conscience has been mercifully
permitted to waken at my voice, take heed that it shall not sink to
sleep again. Emulate your reformed friend, Mr. Bendigo. Put on the
armour of light and the breastplate of righteousness. Look back at these
days of seclusion in this rural scene as Paul looked back to that
journey on which burst in the dazzling light of living truth. Let the
scales fall from your eyes, Mr. Fogo. Choose the better path,
henceforth, sir. You are an able man. I can see it in your face.
There is intellect there. With greater advantages you might have made a
mark in the world and assisted its welfare. And that you must and shall
still do! There is none among us so humble but that he possesses the
grand, the glorious privilege and power to help the world towards
goodness. Act rightly in this matter and great will be your reward--if
not in this world, my dear friend, none the less and of a surety in the
world to come."
"Exactly so," said Mr. Fogo. "I know you’re right--I’m sure of it. You
understand these things--nobody better. It is your holy calling so to
do. I see now as never I saw before, that fighting oughtn’t to be. I
almost begin to believe that it’s my duty to stop this fight. And
yet--"
"Don’t dally with the idea, Mr. Fogo," urged Charles Moses. "Believe it
once for all and do your duty. Your salvation may hang upon it!"
Mr. Merle was a little vexed with the warden’s interference. He put up
his hand and said, "Hush, Moses; leave this to me, please."
"It’s like this," explained ’Frosty-face,’ mildly; "most of the males
are for the fight; most of the women are against it. And his reverence
here is against it, and you’re against it, Mr. Moses, and of course the
constable is against it, being paid by the nation to be so. Well, I must
tell you that in these cases, if the police appear on the ground, the
fight is always stopped at once and the Fancy goes off--either into
another county, where the warrant don’t hold, or else, if that’s
impossible, they stop altogether till the next meeting is arranged by
the referee. Now, in this business, the fight has either got to stop or
not begin at all if the police put in their appearance, because there’s
no getting into another county; so it all comes to this: if your
reverence knows when and where the fight is to take place, you can stop
it."
"Then your duty stares you in the face, Mr. Fogo. You must tell me,"
asserted Mr. Merle.
"It isn’t decided yet."
"You’ll have a hand in the decision, all the same," declared Charles
Moses. "Very like they’ll look to you to settle that point, as, with
your learning of such things, would be natural."
Mr. Fogo glanced round about him as though he feared an eavesdropper.
"If I do this, and tell you the battle-ground, will you promise never to
let it out?" he asked.
"It will be for you to let it out, and triumph in your righteous
action," said Mr. Merle.
"Well, I’d rather not," answered the Deputy Commissary, with frankness.
"I’ll do good by stealth, and ’twill be quite time enough for me to
write and tell Mr. Shillabeer that ’twas my work after I’ve got back to
London out of harm’s way. So there it stands: you’ve conquered me, your
reverence. I put myself in your power. But this is thirsty work--this
well-doing. Might I make so bold as to ask for a drop of
liquor--spirits, if they may be taken without harm in the dwelling of
holiness?"
Mr. Merle went to his sideboard and got a bottle of whisky, from which
the repentant Fogo helped himself to a stiff glass.
"On Monday next at eleven o’clock the fight will begin, unless we stop
it," he said. "And since, in the high name of the church and parson, it
did ought to be stopped, stopped it shall be. The place is still a
secret. But this I’ll do for the sake of my own salvation, and other
reasons, including my great respect to your reverence--this I’ll do: on
Monday morning next, at cock-light or earlier, I’ll be here in secret to
meet the police and his reverence and Mr. Moses; and I’ll lead them to
the ring. That’s the work of your Sunday sermon on the heart of a
sinful creature, parson Merle. At five o’clock next Monday I’ll be at
this house; but I trust those present to keep the secret, for if a word
is breathed and it gets out, there’s men interested in this fight that
will change the ’rondeyvoo’ and hide it even from me."
The clergyman, elated, yet not without secret doubts, gave all necessary
promises, and Mr. Moses did the like. Then Mr. Fogo went his way.
He was in church again next Sunday and, meantime, conducted himself in a
manner that mystified most frequenters of ’The Corner House.’
Shillabeer declared that something was weighing on Mr. Fogo’s mind, and
Moses, who heard rumours, carried them to the vicar.
Then came grey dawn on the eventful morning and, before it was yet
light, ’Frosty-face,’ as good as his word, arrived at the vicarage.
Mr. Ernest Maunder, with the warrant and another constable, had already
arrived, and a moment later Mr. Moses came on the scene. The first
glimmer of light was in the sky and the day opened cold and clear. Stars
shone overhead and the road tinkled with ice underfoot; but clouds were
already banking against the northern horizon.
"I’m here to take you to the appointed place," said Fogo. "All is
settled and the men are to be in the ring before eleven o’clock. You
will be snugly hidden not a hundred yards from the spot when they begin.
’Tis Ringmoor Down has been chosen--alongside the wood at the west end
by the turnpike. We can’t miss it, because the ring was pitched
overnight--I helped, so as not to bring down no suspicion on myself."
They started silently to climb the steep hill that ascends out of
Sheepstor to Ringmoor. At Fogo’s advice they carried food and drink
with them, for the morning was very cold and laden with promise of snow.
"You mustn’t mind hard words," said the betrayer. "They can’t do nothing
to any of you, because it’s a fair score and you’ve won for two reasons.
Firstly, by having more wits in your heads than them, and secondly,
because his reverence has converted me to see the truth. I’m the only
one as would be roughly handled and very likely--an old man like me--get
my death from it; so I shan’t stop for the great moment when you step
forth in the name of the Queen’s Majesty and bid ’em all to keep the
peace. I shall see you in your places, and then I’ve arranged for a
trap to come for me to the pike, and off I go to Plymouth. I won’t face
the music--why should I? As it is, I shall go in fear and trembling
this many a day."
"You need neither fear nor tremble, Fogo," said Mr. Merle. "The mind
conscious of rectitude is armed against all fear. You have done your
duty, difficult though it was; you will have your reward."
"Thank you for that helpful word," answered ’Frosty-face’; "and I beg,
if your reverence don’t find it too much for your bellows against the
hill, that you’ll speak a few comforting speeches to me as we travel
along. I’m an aged man to turn from vanity at my time of life; yet in
your sermon yesterday you said ’twas never too late to mend, and I took
that to myself."
"You were perfectly justified in so doing," said Mr. Merle.
He uttered exhilarating reflections until the severity of the hill
reduced him to silence. Then Ernest Maunder, who had not yet recovered
from his amazement at finding Fogo a traitor, asked him a question.
"If you’re going straight away off to Plymouth, what about your
luggage?"
"You’ll see it in the trap," answered ’Frosty.’ "I’ve got a box and a
bundle and no more. Mind, Constable Maunder, that you step boldly into
the ring; and don’t do it too soon. Wait till the men have stripped and
shook hands. Then out you go, and not a man dare withstand you. Have
no fear for yourself. At their everlasting peril would they do it, for
you are the State. ’Twill be the greatest moment in your life, and I
hope you’ll bear yourself with dignity."
"I hope I shall," replied Mr. Maunder; "but ’twould be easier if ’twas
milder weather."
Dawn rolled along Dartmoor edge as they reached the silent hill-top, and
it revealed an unfamiliar object upon the featureless bosom of Ringmoor.
As Fogo had foretold, distant one hundred yards from a little wood
beside the highway, the twenty-four-foot Ring stood stark in the
twilight of morning. Heavy stakes, painted blue, supported the ropes.
An outer ring--to keep spectators clear from the fight--was also set up
beyond, and the ground could not have been better chosen.
Close at hand an open trap was waiting, and the driver stamped up and
down to keep himself warm. Mr. Maunder, with a flash of professional
zeal, satisfied himself that ’Frosty’s’ luggage was really in this
vehicle and marked a wooden box, studded with brass nails, and a parcel
containing a large umbrella and some walking-sticks.
"I got my kit out last night, after Shillabeer had gone to his rest,"
explained Mr. Fogo. "This morning he’ll think that I’ve risen betimes
and come up here--and he’ll think right, for that matter."
In half an hour the party had cut down some boughs of fir, made a screen
against the north wind, and hidden themselves carefully at the edge of
the wood. Then Mr. Fogo joined the vicar in a light breakfast of
hard-boiled eggs and cold tea; and finally he prepared to take his
leave.
He declared that he left for Plymouth with reluctance and would much
have liked to see the triumph of right; but, in plain English, he feared
greatly for his own skin if the disappointed sportsmen discovered him
with the police. Therefore he bade all farewell, invited and obtained
Mr. Merle’s formal blessing upon his future, and then drove away along
the road to Plymouth.
Yet, for some private and obscure reason, when a mile had been
traversed, Mr. Fogo appeared suddenly to change his mind. He directed
the driver to sink down to Meavy valley; and thence the trap returned as
swiftly as possible to Sheepstor.
Already that village was awake and alert. Strange men moved about
through it; within the field, under the churchyard wall, had sprung up a
square of ropes and bright blue stakes--the counterpart of that besides
which Mr. Merle and his friends were waiting and crowing somewhat cold
on the sequestered loneliness of Ringmoor.
Mr. Fogo had told Simon Snell the truth, though his listeners all
laughed at the joke when they heard it. The fight, instead of taking
place upon Ringmoor Down at eleven o’clock, was planned for Sheepstor
bull-ring at nine.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE FIGHT*
The bull-ring of Sheepstor is a grassy field of near an acre in extent,
surrounded west and east with beech trees, hemmed by a road and a little
river southward, and flanked by the churchyard wall on the north. Here
bull-baiting, cock-fighting, cock-shying, and other rough sports of our
great-grandfathers were enjoyed; and here, on this winter morning, one
of the last authentic prize-fights ever fought in England was duly
conducted with all right ritual, pomp and circumstance, under direction
of that high priest and poet of the P.R., ’Frosty-face’ Fogo.
From Lowery and Kingsett by Crazywell; from Yellowmead and Dennycoombe;
from Meavy and Middleworth and Good-a-Meavy those in the secret came. A
large sprinkling of local sportsmen rode into Sheepstor before eight
o’clock and stabled their horses at ’The Corner House.’ Sir Guy
Flamank’s friend, the young boxer from Oxford, and a Plymouth
professional, were umpires for the men; while the sporting doctor from
Tavistock acted as referee on the strength of wide experience and sound
knowledge.
Bowden and his party came down from Ditsworthy in a cart, and beside it
walked Bartholomew Stanbury and his son. Simon Snell also arrived, with
Mattacott, Screech and other local men. Just before nine o’clock two
stout and frantic women rushed to the rectory and then disappeared up
the hill towards Ringmoor. They were Mr. Crocker’s mother and aunt.
As for Bartley, he arrived in the bull-ring at five minutes to nine, met
David beside it and shook hands with him and his father. Rhoda stood
by, clad in a dark stuff dress with short skirt and short sleeves. On
her head was a man’s cap and her bright hair had been coiled small and
tight on her neck. She paid no attention to Mr. Crocker. Then Fogo
appeared and assumed command. With him came the Corinthian contingent,
jovial and jolly, clad in the most showy and stylish sporting costumes
of the ’sixties.’ The colours of both men were generally displayed.
"Throw your castors in the ring," said Shillabeer, and the fighters
dropped their hats over the ropes.
A crowd of above a hundred persons was assembled. The front row sat ten
feet from the ring; others stood behind them and twenty men clustered
along the churchyard wall. Into the beech trees many boys had also
climbed. Rhoda Bowden was the only woman present. Many protested and
shook their heads, but none interfered.
The colours were tied to the stakes and the combatants tossed. Bowden
won, and his father chose the corner with its back to the rising sun.
Red light ranged along the eastern edge of Dartmoor; but it promised
swiftly to perish, for the air was already heavy with coming snow.
Both men now stripped to the waist. They wore flannel drawers, socks
and shoes with sparrow-bill nails in them. Each was clean-shaved and
close-cropped. Fogo and Shillabeer, with bottles, towels and sponges,
entered Bartley’s corner, while his father and sister took their places
in Bowden’s.
As the church clock struck nine the men came to the scratch, listened to
a brief word from the referee and again shook hands. Each in his
different way looked strong and well. David’s white body shone in the
red sunlight and showed a silky texture over the big muscles. He was
shorter in the reach than Bartley Crocker and far sturdier below the
waist. Big thews and sinews held him up; but, as he came on guard, he
shaped rather awkwardly with his hands and his head was somewhat too far
forward. Crocker appeared slighter, taller and more graceful. His
brown body seemed somewhat thin about the ribs, but his face was clean
and hard and his eyes bright. His legs were not so solid as David’s,
but they showed more spring about them. His pose was good: he carried
his head well back, and his hands neither too high nor too low. One man
obviously possessed greater strength; while the other looked likely to
be quicker both on his legs and with his fists. What either had learned
about scientific fighting in the short time of preparation remained to
be seen. Both were nervous and both were eager to begin.
David dashed out at his man and hit with his right but was parried.
Again he tried his right, rather round, and just touched Crocker’s
shoulder; whereupon Bartley, hitting straighter, got his left on the
other’s face and followed it with his right on the throat. The second
blow was heavy and shook David for a moment. They stood apart, then both
began to fight desperately, but with little science. Some tremendous
counters succeeded and each received a few blows in the face; but Bowden
evidently hit harder than the younger man, though he did not get home so
often. The little knowledge either possessed belonged to Crocker. He
guarded to some purpose with his left and avoided one or two strong,
right-handed blows in this manner. Twice Crocker missed his right; then
the best blow of the round was struck by him. It fell fairly and full
on David’s forehead, and he followed it by another, under the eye. Then
Bartley received one on the nose which drew blood. A moment later the
men closed and Crocker threw Bowden with an ordinary cross-buttock and
fell on him. Both walked to their corners and the round ended with
nothing of importance done on either side. First blood was claimed and
allowed for David.
Bartley sat on Mr. Shillabeer’s knee, while Mr. Fogo polished him up and
poured advice into his ear.
"Keep moving more," he said. "Dance ’Jim Crow’ round the man! make him
come after you and blow him a bit. He hits harder than you do; but he’s
not as clever and not as long in the arm. Get on to the right eye
again. If you can shut that at the start, it’s worth half the stakes."
And elsewhere David reposed on Elias Bowden’s knee while Rhoda, white to
the lips, but firm as a rock, sponged his face. He laughed at her.
"It’s all right," he said to his father. "He only hit me once worth
mentioning. I’ll soon find his measure. I’m stronger than him."
"Don’t talk," answered the old man. "And get the fall, if you can, next
round. Better you drop on him than he drop on you."
The half-minute was over and both came instantly to the scratch.
Preliminary nervousness had passed and they were eager to fight. David
panted a little; Hartley appeared quite calm. The second round began
with Bowden leading off; but Crocker easily jerked his head out of
harm’s way and escaped an ugly round hit.
They fell to heavy milling of a scrambling character, with few blows
getting home on either side. Presently they stood apart, panting with
hands down a moment; then, in response to shouts from partisans, they
began to fight again. Crocker now had the best of it until the end of
the round. David seemed unable to use his left and Bartley was learning
to avoid the swinging round-arm blows delivered by his opponent’s right.
Thrice he escaped these attempts and each time countered with his own
right. To Mr. Fogo’s satisfaction one of these blows reached the
damaged eye with great force and instantly raised a big ’mouse’ beneath
it. Then the round ended, almost exactly like the last, by David
landing on the other’s nose and drawing a copious flow of blood. Upon
this they closed and David tried hard for the crook, but Bartley was the
cleverer wrestler and Bowden went down with the other on top of him as
before. Again they walked strongly to their corners and their friends
did all that was necessary in the space of thirty seconds.
"Fight for his eyes, and even take a bit of risk to get there," said Mr.
Fogo. "But, for the love of the Lord, don’t let him land that round-arm
hit on your ear. It won’t do you no good. And use your left more."
Rhoda bathed the curious blue mark that had leapt into existence under
her brother’s eye. His face was puffy round it, but neither she nor her
father guessed at the threatened danger. As for David, he was very
cheerful and only vexed that he had missed so often with his right.
"I’ve got to get nearer to him," he explained. "Out-fighting’s no good
against his long arms. I must go inside ’em and see what I can do
then."
The men smiled and nodded at one another as they came up to time.
Bartley began with his left. David threw it off well with the right
guard and tried to begin in-fighting. But the taller man danced away
before him and hit twice, right and left, on the retreat. Then Bowden,
coming with a rush, caught him, and the finest rally of the battle
followed. The combatants fought all across the ring with both hands
almost entirely at the head. More by good chance than science each
stopped some heavy hits and sparred much above their true skill. Immense
applause greeted the round, and the ’Dumpling’ bellowed a word of
encouragement to his man. Fogo watched every move with his old, keen
eyes. He was not entirely pleased with the result of the round. It
ended in a scrambling fall with no advantage to either. But both,
though blowing heavily, were still strong, and each man rose instantly
and got back to his corner without aid.
The little advantage of the rising sun in his opponent’s eyes was now
lost to Bowden, for grey clouds had swallowed the morning and already a
few stray flakes of snow fell leisurely. Elias, at the end of this
round, complained that Crocker was holding some hard substance within
his fists, but Fogo with disdain showed that they carried paper only.