A GREAT FIGHT
"When rugged rungs stand up to fight, stark naked to the buff, Each
taken blow but gives them zest, they cannot have enough, For they
are out to see red blood, to curse and club and clout, And few men
know and no one cares what brings the fuss about."
--From _Hard Knuckles_.
About fifty yards distant from Red Billy's hut a circle of shacks
enclosed a level piece of ground, and this was used as a dumping place
for empty sardine cans, waste tins, scrap iron, and broken bottles. This
was also the favourite spot where all manner of quarrels were settled
with the fists. It had been christened the Ring, and in those days many
a heavy jowl was broken there and many a man was carried out of the
enclosure seeing all kinds of dancing lights in front of his eyes. It
was to this spot that Moleskin and Gahey came to settle their dispute on
the evening of the second day, and I came with them, Joe having
appointed me as his second, whose main duty would consist in looking on
and giving a word of approval to my principal now and again. When we
arrived two fights were already in progress, and my mates had to wait
until one of these was brought to a satisfactory conclusion. Some men
who had come out through sympathy with the combatants were seated on the
ground in one corner, and had transferred their interest from the
quarrels to a game of banker or brag. Moleskin and Gahey evinced not the
slightest interest in the two fights that were taking place; but
grumbled a little because they had to wait their turn so long. For
myself, I could hardly understand my mate's indifference to other
people's quarrels. At that time, as a true Irishman, I could have spent
all day long looking at fights. These men looked upon a fight as they
looked upon a shift. "Hurry up and get it done, and when it is done
trouble no more about it." Another man's shift or another man's fight
was not their business.
I could not take my eyes away from the struggles which were going on
already. A big Irishman, slow of foot, strong and heavy-going, was
engaged in an encounter with a little Pole, who handled his fists
scientifically, and who had battered his opponent's face to an ugly
purple by the time we arrived. However, in the end the Irishman won. He
lifted his opponent bodily, and threw him, naked shoulders and all, into
the middle of a heap of broken bottles and scraggy tins. The Pole would
fight no more. His mates pulled the edged scraps of tin out of his
flesh, while his victor challenged all Poles (there were a fair
sprinkling of them at Kinlochleven) who were yet on the safe side of
hell to deadly battle.
The second fight was more vindictive. A Glasgow craneman had fallen foul
of an English muck-filler, and the struggle had already lasted for the
best part of an hour. Both men were stripped to the buff, and red
splotches of blood and dirt covered their steaming bodies. The craneman
thought that he had finished matters conclusively when he gave his
opponent the knee in the stomach, and knocked him stiff to the ground.
Just as he was on the point of leaving the ring the Englishman suddenly
recovered, rose to his knees and, grabbing his adversary by the legs,
inserted his teeth in the thick of the victor's right calf. Nothing
daunted, however, the craneman bent down and tightened his thumbs under
his enemy's ear, and pressed strongly until the latter let go his hold.
"Our turn now," said Moleskin affably, as he stripped to the waist and
fastened his gallowses around his waist. "It'll give me much pleasure to
blacken your eyes, Gahey."
Joe was a fine figure when stripped. His flesh was pure white below the
brown of his neck, and the long muscles of his arms stood out in clearly
defined ridges. When he stretched his arms his well-developed biceps
rose and fell in graceful unison with every movement of his
perfectly-shaped chest. When on the roads, dressed in every curious
garment which he could beg, borrow, or thieve, Joe looked singularly
unprepossessing; but here, naturally garbed, and standing amidst the
nakedness of nature, he looked like some magnificent piece of sculpture,
gifted with life and fresh from the hands of the genius who fashioned
it.
Gahey was of different build altogether. The profusion of hair that
covered his body resolved itself into a mane almost in the hollow of the
breast bone. His flesh was shrivelled and dried; his limbs looked like
raw pig-iron, which had in some strange manner been transformed into the
semblance of a human being.
"Hell-fire and Moleskin Joe," I heard the gamblers say as they threw
down their cards and scraped the money from the ground. "This will be a
good set-to. Moleskin can handle his mits, and by this and that,
Hell-fire is no slow one!"
Joe stepped into the ring, hitched up his trousers and waited. Gahey
followed, stood for a moment, then swung out for his enemy's head, only
to find his blow intercepted by an upward sweep of the arm of Moleskin,
who followed up his movement of defence by a right feint for the body of
Gahey, and a straight left that went home from the shoulder. Gahey
replied with a heavy smash to the ribs, and Joe looked at him with a
smile.
"See and don't hurt your knuckles on my ribs, Gahey," he said.
"I was only feelin' if yer heart was beatin' just a trifle faster than
the usual," replied Gahey.
Both men smiled, but the smile was a mask, behind which, clear-headed
and cool-eyed, each of them looked for an opening and an opportunity to
drive home a blow. To each belonged the wisdom bred of many weary,
aching fights and desperate gruellings. Gahey was by far the quicker
man; his long brown arms shot out like whiplashes, and his footwork was
very clever. He was a man, untrained in the art, but a natural fighter.
His missing thumb seemed to place him at no disadvantage. Joe was slower
but by far the stronger man. He never lost his head, and his blows had
the impact of a knotted club. When he landed on the flesh of the body,
every knuckle left its own particular mark; when he landed on the face,
there was a general disfigurement.
Gahey broke through the mask of his smile, and struck out with his
right. In his eyes the purpose betrayed itself, and his opponent,
forewarned, caught the blow on his arm. Hell-fire darted in with the
left and took Joe on the stomach. The impact was sharp and sudden; my
mate winced a trifle slightly, but the next moment he forced a smile
into his face.
"You're savin' your knuckles, matey," he said to Gahey. "There's no
danger of you breakin' them on the soft of my belly."
"Well, I'll test them here," Gahey retorted, and came in with a
resounding smack to Moleskin's jaw. Joe received the blow stolidly, and
swung a right for Gahey, but, missing his man, he fell to the ground.
"See! see!" everyone around the ring shouted. "Who'd have thought that a
light rung of a fellow like Gahey would have beat Moleskin Joe?"
"Wait till he's beaten!" I shouted back angrily. "I'll have something to
say to some of you idiots."
"Good, Flynn!" said Moleskin, rising to his feet. "Just put in a word
on my behalf with them lubberly coopers. I'll see to them myself in a
minute or two, when I get this wee job off my hands."
So saying, my mate made for Gahey, who was afraid to come into contact
with Joe when he was on the ground. The men fought to win, and the fight
had no rules. All was fair, clinching, clutching, scraping, kicking,
sarcasm, and repartee. Joe followed Gahey up, coming nearer every moment
and eager to get into grips. When that would happen, Gahey was lost; but
being wary, he avoided Moleskin's clutches, and kept hopping around,
aiming in at intervals one of his lightning blows, and raising a red
mark on Moleskin's white body whenever he struck. Joe kept walking after
his man; nothing deterred him, he would keep at it until he achieved his
purpose. The other man's hope lay in knocking Moleskin unconscious; but
even that would ensure victory only for the moment. Joe once fought a
man twenty-six times, and got knocked out every time. In the
twenty-seventh fight, Joe knocked out his opponent. Joe did not know
when he was beaten, and thus he was never defeated.
Now he kept walking stolidly round and round the ring after Gahey.
Sometimes he struck out; nearly always he missed, and seldom was he
quick enough to avoid the lightning blows of his enemy. Even yet he was
smiling, although the smile had long gone from the face of Gahey, who
was still angry and wanting to inflict punishment. He inflicted
punishment, but it seemed to have no effect; apparently unperturbed, Joe
took it all without wincing.
The crowd watched Gahey wistfully; now they knew instinctively that he
was going to get beaten. Joe was implacable, resistless. He was walking
towards an appointed goal steadily and surely; his pace was merciless,
and it was slow, but in the end it would tell. For myself, I doubted if
Joe could be successful. He was streaming with blood, one eyebrow was
hanging, and the flesh of the breast was red and raw. Gahey was almost
without a scratch; if he finished the fight at that moment, he would
leave the ring nearly as fresh as when he came into it. Joe still
smiled, but the smile looked ghastly, when seen through the blood. Now
and again he passed a joke.
The look of fear came into Gahey's eyes suddenly. It came to him when he
realised that he would be beaten if he did not knock Joe out very soon.
Then he endeavoured at every opportunity to strike fully and heavily,
trying to land on the point, but this Joe kept jealously guarded. Gahey
began to lose confidence in himself; once or twice he blundered and
almost fell into Joe's arms, but saved himself by an effort.
"I'll get you yet, my Irish blanket-grabber!" Joe said each time.
"Get him now and put an end to the fight," I cried to Moleskin. "It's
not worth your while to spend so much time over a little job."
Joe took my advice and rushed. Gahey struck out, but Joe imprisoned the
striking arm, and drawing it towards him, he gripped hold of Gahey's
body. Then, without any perceptible effort, he lifted Gahey over his
head and held him there at arm's length for a few minutes. Afterwards he
took him down as far as his chest.
"For God's sake don't throw me into the tins, Moleskin," cried Gahey.
"I don't want to dirty the tins," answered Joe. "Now I want to ask you a
question. Who was right about the blankets last night?"
Gahey gave no answer. Joe threw him on the ground, went on top of him,
and began knuckling his knees along Gahey's ribs.
"Who was right about the blankets last night?" asked Moleskin again.
"You were," said Gahey sulkily. Joe smiled and rose to his feet.
"That's a wee job finished," he said to me. "You could knock Gahey out,
yourself, Flynn."
"Could ye, bedamned!" roared Gahey, dancing around me and making strange
passes with his fist.
"Go on, Flynn, give it to him same as you did with Carroty in Greenock!"
shouted Joe as he struggled with the shirt which he was pulling over his
head. Gahey's lip was swollen, his left ear had been thickened, but
otherwise he had not received a scratch in the fight with Moleskin, and
he was now undoubtedly eager to try conclusions with me. As I have said,
I was never averse to a stand-up fight, and though the exhibition which
Hell-fire made against Joe filled me with profound respect for the man,
I looked at him squarely between the eyes for a moment, and then with a
few seasonable oaths I stripped to the waist, my blood rushing through
my veins at the thought of the coming battle.
I am not much to look at physically, but am strong-boned, though lacking
muscle and flesh. I can stand any amount of rough treatment; and in
after days men, who knew something about the art of boxing, averred that
I was gifted with a good punch. Though very strong, my bearing is
deceptive; new mates are always disinclined to believe that my strength
is out of keeping with my appearance, until by practical demonstration
they are taught otherwise. While slender of arm my chest measurement is
very good, being over forty-three inches, and height five feet eleven.
In movement inclined to be slow, yet when engaged in a fight I have an
uncommonly quick eye for detail, and can preserve a good sound striking
judgment even when getting the worst of the encounter, and never yet
have I given in to my man until he knocked me unconscious to the
ground.
Gahey stood in the centre of the enclosure, and waited for me with an
air of serene composure, and carried the self-confident look of a man
who is going to win.
Despite the ease with which Moleskin had settled Gahey a few minutes
previously, I felt a bit nervous when I took my way into the open and
glanced at the circle of dirty, animated faces that glared at me from
all comers of the ring. Gahey did not seem a bit afraid, and he laughed
in my face when I raised my hands gingerly in assuming an attitude of
defence. I did not feel angry with the man. I was going to fight in a
cold-blooded manner without reason or excuse. In every previous fight I
had something to annoy me before starting; I saw red before a blow was
given or taken. But now I had no grievance against the man and he had
none against me. We wanted to fight one another--that was all.
Gahey, though apparently confident of victory, was taking no chances. He
swung his right for my head in the first onslaught, and I went slap to
the ground like a falling log.
"Oh, Flynn!" cried Joe in an agonised voice; and I thought that his
words were whispered in my ear where I lay. Up to my feet I jumped, and
with head lowered down and wedged between my shoulder joints, I lunged
forward at Gahey, only to recoil from an upward sweep of his fist, which
sent all sorts of dancing lights into my eyes. My mouth filled with
blood and a red madness of anger came over me. I was conscious no more
of pain, or of the reason for the fight. All that I now wanted was to
overcome the man who stood in front of me. I heard my opponent laugh,
but I could not see him; he struck out at me again and I stumbled once
more to the ground.
"Flynn! Dermod Flynn!" shouted Joe, and there was a world of reproach
in his voice.
Again I stood up, and the blindness had gone from my eyes. My abdomen
heaved frankly, and I gulped down mighty mouthfuls of air. Gahey stood
before me laughing easily. My whole mind was centred on the next move of
the contest; but in some subconscious way I took in every detail of the
surroundings. The gamblers stood about in clusters, and one of them
carried the pack of cards in his hand, the front of it facing me, and I
could see the seven of clubs on top of the pack. Joe was looking tensely
at me, his lips wide apart and his tobacco-stained teeth showing
between. Behind him, and a little distance off, the rest of the crowd,
shouldered together, stood watching; and behind and above the circle of
dirty faces the ring of cabins spread outwards under the shadow of the
hair-poised derricks and firmly-set hills.
A vicious jab from Gahey slipped along the arm with which I parried it.
I hit with my left, and the soft of my enemy's throat jellied inwards
under the stroke. I followed up with two blows to the chest and one to
the face. A stream of blood squirted from Gahey's jowl as my fist took
it; and this filled me with new hopes of victory. Joe had drawn very
little blood from the man, but then, though faster than my mate on my
feet, I was not gifted with his staying power.
Behind me Moleskin clapped his hands excitedly, and urged me afresh with
hearty words of cheer.
"Burst him up!" he yelled.
"Sure," I answered. My anger had subsided, and a feeling of confidence
had taken its place.
"Will ye, be God!" cried Gahey, and he rushed at me like a mad wind,
landing his brown hard fists repeatedly on my face and chest, and
receiving no chastisement in return.
"I'll burst yer ear!" he cried, and did so, smashing the lobe with one
of his lightning blows. The blood from the wound fell on my shoulders
for the rest of the fight. Another blow, a light one on the stomach,
sickened me slightly, and my confidence began to ooze away from me. It
went completely when I endeavoured to trip my opponent, and got tripped
myself instead. My head took the ground, and I felt a little groggy when
I regained my feet; but in rising I got in a sharp jab to Gahey's nose
and drew blood again.
The battle sobered down a little. Both of us circled around, looking for
an opening. Suddenly I drove forward with my right, passed Gahey's
guard, and with a well-directed blow on the chest, I lifted him neatly
off his feet, and left him sitting on the ground. Rising, he rushed at
me furiously, caught me by the legs, raised, and tried to throw me over
his shoulders.
Then the fight turned in my favour. I had once on my wanderings met a
man who had been a wrestler, and he taught me certain tricks of his art.
I had a good opening before me now for one of them. Gahey had hold of me
by the knees, and both his arms were twined tightly around my joints. I
stooped over him, gripped him around the waist, and threw myself
backwards flat to the ground. As I reached the earth I let Gahey go, and
flying clean across my head, he slid along the rough ground on his naked
back. When he regained his feet I was up and ready for him, and I
knocked him down again with a good blow delivered on the fleshy part,
where the lower ribs fork inward to the breast-bone. That settled him
for good. The crowd cheered enthusiastically and went back to their
cards. One or two stopped with Gahey, and it took him half an hour to
recover. When he was well again Moleskin and I escorted him back to the
shack.
We washed our wounds together and talked of everything but the fights
which had just taken place. The result of the quarrels seemed to have
had no effect on the men, but my heart was jumping out of my mouth with
pleasure. I had beaten one of the great fighters of Kinlochleven; I, a
boy of nineteen, who had never shaved yet, had knocked Gahey to the
ground with a good hard punch, and Gahey was a man twice my age and one
who was victor in a thousand battles. Excitement seized hold of me, my
step became alert, and I walked into the shack with the devil-may-care
swagger of a fighting man. The gamblers were sitting at the table and
the bright glitter of silver caught my eye. Big Jim Maloney was banker.
"Come here, ye fightin' men," he cried; "and take a hand at another
game."
The excitement was on me. In my pocket I had three shillings sub., and I
put it down on the board, the whole amount, as befitted a fighting man.
I won once, twice, three times. I called for drinks for the school. I
put Maloney out of the bank, I backed any money, and all the time I won.
The word passed round that Flynn was playing a big game; he would back
any money. More and more men came in from the other shacks and remained.
I could hear the clink of bottles all round me. The men were drinking,
smoking, and swearing, and those who could not get near the table betted
on the result of the game.
My luck continued. The pile of silver beside me grew and grew, and stray
pieces of gold found their way into the pile as well. Every turn-up was
an ace or court-card. My luck was unheard of; and all around me
Kinlochleven stood agape, and played blindly, as if fascinated. Gain was
nothing to me, the game meant all. I called for further drinks; I drank
myself, although I was already drunk with excitement. I had forgotten
all about the good resolutions made on the doorstep of Kinlochleven but
what did it matter? Let my environment mould me, let Nature follow out
its own course, she knows what is best. I was now living large; the game
held me captive, and the pile of glistening silver grew in size.
A man beside made some objection to my turn-up. He was one of the
fiercest men in the shack, and he was known as a fighter of merit. I
looked him between the eyes for a minute and he flinched before my gaze.
"I'll thrash you till you roar for mercy!" I called at him and he became
silent.
The drink went to my head and the cards turned up began to play strange
antics before my eyes. The knaves and queens ran together, they waltzed
over the place, and the lesser cards would persist in eluding my hand
when it went out to grip them. I was terribly drunk, the whisky and the
excitement were overpowering me.
"I'm going to stop, mateys," I said, and I caught a handful of gold and
silver and put it into my pocket, then staggered to my feet. A cry of
indignation and contempt arose. "I was not going to allow any of them to
overtake their luck; I was not a man; I was a mere rogue." I was well
aware of the fact that a winner is always honour bound to be the last to
leave the table.
"I'm going to play no more," I said bluntly.
The crowd burst into a torrent of abuse. My legs were faltering under
me, and I wanted to get into bed. I would go to bed, but how? The
players might not allow it; they wanted their money. Then I would give
it to them. I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out the cash, and flung
it amongst the crowd of players. There was a hurried scramble all round
me, and the men groped in the muck and dirt for the stray coins. I got
into bed with my clothes on and fell asleep. In a vague sort of way I
heard the gamblers talk about my wonderful luck, and some of them
quarrelled about the money lifted from the floor. When morning came I
was still lying, fully-dressed, over the blankets on the centre of the
bed, while Joe and Gahey were under the blankets on each side of me.
I still had two half-sovereigns in my pocket along with a certain amount
of smaller cash, and these coins reminded me of my game. But I did not
treasure them so much as the long scar stretching across my cheek, and
the disfigured eye, which were tokens of the fight in which I thrashed
Hell-fire Gahey. All that day I lived the fight over and over again, and
the victory caused me to place great confidence in myself. From that day
forward I affected a certain indifference towards other fights, thus
pretending that I considered myself to be above such petty scrapes.
By instinct I am a fighter. I never shirk a fight, and the most violent
contest is a tonic to my soul. Sometimes when in a thoughtful mood I
said to myself that fighting was the pastime of a brute or a savage. I
said that because it is fashionable for the majority of people,
spineless and timid as they are, to say the same. But fighting is not
the pastime of a brute; it is the stern reality of a brute's life. Only
by fighting will the fittest survive. But to man, a physical contest is
a pastime and a joy. I love to see a fight with the bare fists, the
combatants stripped naked to the buff, the long arms stretching out, the
hard knuckles showing white under the brown skin of the fists, the
muscles sliding and slipping like live eels under the flesh, the steady
and quick glance of the eye, the soft thud of fist on flesh, the sharp
snap of a blow on the jaw, and the final scene where one man drops to
the ground while the other, bathed in blood and sweat, smiles in
acknowledgment of the congratulations on the victory obtained.
Gambling was another manner of fighting, and brim full of excitement. In
it no man knew his strength until he paid for it, and there was
excitement in waiting for the turn-up. Night after night I sat down to
the cards, sometimes out in the open and sometimes by the deal plank on
the floor of Red Billy's shack. Gambling was rife and unchecked. All
night long the navvies played banker and brag; and those who worked on
the night-shift took up the game that the day labourers left off. One
Sunday evening alone I saw two hundred and fifty banker schools gathered
in a sheltered hollow of the hills. That Sunday I remembered very well,
for I happened to win seven pounds at a single sitting, which lasted
from seven o'clock on a Saturday evening until half-past six on the
Monday morning. I finished the game, went out to my work, and did ten
hours' shift, although I was half asleep on the drill handle for the
best part of the time.
One day a man, a new arrival, came to me and proposed a certain plan
whereby he and I could make a fortune at the gambling school. It was a
kind of swindle, and I do not believe in robbing workers, being neither
a thief nor a capitalist. I lifted the man up in my arms and took him
into the shack, where I disclosed his little plan to the inmates. A
shack some distance off was owned by a Belfast man named Ramsay, and
several Orangemen dwelt in this shack. Moleskin proposed that we should
strip the swindler to the pelt, paint him green, and send him to
Ramsay's shack. Despite the man's entreaties, we painted him a glorious
green, and when the night came on we took him under cover of the
darkness to Ramsay's shack, and tied him to the door. In the morning we
found him, painted orange, outside of ours, and almost dead with cold.
We gave him his clothes and a few kicks, and chased him from the place.
I intended, when I came to Kinlochleven, to earn money and send it home
to my own people, and the intention was nursed in good earnest until I
lifted my first day's pay. Then Moleskin requested the loan of my spare
cash, and I could not refuse him, a pal who shared his very last crumb
of bread with me time and again. On the second evening the gamble
followed the fight as a matter of course; and on the third evening and
every evening after I played--because I was a gambler by nature. My luck
was not the best; I lost most of my wages at the card-table, and the
rest went on drink. I know not whether drink and gambling are evils. I
only know that they cheered many hours of my life, and caused me to
forget the miseries of being. If drunkenness was a vice, I humoured it
as a man might humour sickness or any other evil. But drink might have
killed me, one will say. And sickness might have killed me, I answer.
When a man is dead he knows neither hunger nor cold; he suffers neither
from the cold of the night nor the craving of the belly. The philosophy
is crude, but comforting, and it was mine. To gamble and drink was part
of my nature, and for nature I offer no excuses. She knows what is best.
I could not save money, I hated to carry it about; it burned a hole in
my pocket and slipped out. I was no slave to it; I detested it. How
different now were my thoughts from those which buoyed up my spirit on
first entering Kinlochleven! those illusions, like previous others, had
been dispelled before the hard wind of reality. I looked on life
nakedly, and henceforth I determined to shape my own future in such a
way that neither I, nor wife, nor child, should repent of it. Although
passion ran riot in my blood, as it does in the blood of youth, I
resolved never to marry and bring children into the world to beg and
starve and steal as I myself had done. I saw life as it was, saw it
clearly, standing out stark from its covering of illusions. I looked on
love cynically, unblinded by the fumes off the midden-heap of lust, and
my life lacked the phantom happiness of men who see things as they are
not.
The great proportion of the navvies live very pure lives, and women play
little or no part in their existence. The women of the street seldom
come near a model, even when the navvies come in from some completed job
with money enough and to spare. The purity of their lives is remarkable
when it is considered that they seldom marry. "We cannot bring children
into the world to suffer like ourselves," most of them say. That is one
reason why they remain single. Therefore the navvy is seldom the son of
a navvy; it is the impoverished and the passionate who breed men like
us, and throw us adrift upon the world to wear out our miserable lives.