A Place Called Freedom (1995) Page 13

  AT THE SIGN OF THE PELICAN

  NEAR SHAD-WELL

  GENTLEMEN AND GAMESTERS TAKE NOTE

  A GENERAL DAY OF SPORT

  A MAD BULL TO BE LET LOOSE WITH FIREWORKS ALL

  OVER HIM, AND DOGS AFTER HIM

  A MATCH FOUGHT OUT BETWEEN TWO COCKS

  OF WESTMINSTER,

  AND TWO OF EAST CHEAP, FOR FIVE POUNDS

  A GENERAL COMBAT WITH CUDGELS BETWEEN SEVEN

  WOMEN

  AND

  A FIST FIGHT—FOR TWENTY POUNDS!

  REES PREECE, THE WELSH MOUNTAIN

  VERSUS

  MACK MCASH, THE KILLER COLLIER

  SATURDAY NEXT

  BEGINNING AT THREE A CLOCK

  “What do you think?” she said impatiently. “It must be Malachi McAsh from Heugh, mustn’t it?”

  “So that’s what’s become of him,” said Jay. “He’s a prizefighter. He was better off working in my father’s coal pit.”

  “I’ve never seen a prizefight,” Lizzie said wistfully.

  Jay laughed. “I should think not! It’s no place for a lady.”

  “Nor is a coal mine, but you took me there.”

  “So I did, and you nearly got killed in an explosion.”

  “I thought you’d jump at the chance of taking me on another adventure.”

  Her mother overheard and said: “What’s this? What adventure?”

  “I want Jay to take me to a prizefight,” Lizzie said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said her mother.

  Lizzie was disappointed. Jay’s daring seemed to have deserted him momentarily. However, she would not let that stand in her way. If he would not take her she would go alone.

  Lizzie adjusted her wig and hat and looked in the mirror. A young man looked back at her. The secret lay in the light smear of chimney soot that darkened her cheeks, her throat, her chin and her upper lip, mimicking the look of a man who had shaved.

  The body was easy. A heavy waistcoat flattened her bosom, the tail of her coat concealed the rounded curves of her womanly bottom, and knee boots covered her calves. The hat and wig of male pattern completed the illusion.

  She opened her bedroom door. She and her mother were staying in a small house in the grounds of Sir George’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. Mother was taking an afternoon nap. Lizzie listened for footsteps, in case any of Sir George’s servants were about the house, but she heard nothing. She ran light-footed down the stairs and slipped out the door into the lane at the back of the property.

  It was a cold, sunny day at the end of winter. When she reached the street she reminded herself to walk like a man, taking up a lot of space, swinging her arms and putting on a swagger, as if she owned the pavement and were ready to jostle anyone who disputed her claim.

  She could not swagger all the way to Shadwell, which was across town on the east side of London. She waved down a sedan chair, remembering to hold her arm up in command instead of fluttering her hand beseechingly like a woman. As the chair men stopped and set down the conveyance she cleared her throat, spat in the gutter and said in a deep croak: “Take me to the Pelican tavern, and look sharp about it.”

  They carried her farther east than she had ever been in London, through streets of ever smaller and meaner houses, to a neighborhood of damp lanes and mud beaches, unsteady wharves and ramshackle boathouses, high-fenced timber yards and rickety warehouses with chained doors. They deposited her outside a big waterfront tavern with a crude painting of a pelican daubed on its wooden sign. The courtyard was full of noisy, excited people: workingmen in boots and neckerchiefs, waistcoated gentlemen, low-class women in shawls and clogs, and a few women with painted faces and exposed breasts who, Lizzie presumed, were prostitutes. There were no women of what her mother would have called “quality.”

  Lizzie paid her entrance fee and elbowed her way into the shouting, jeering crowd. There was a powerful smell of sweaty, unwashed people. She felt excited and wicked. The female gladiators were in the middle of their combat. Several women had already retired from the fray: one sitting on a bench holding her head, another trying to stanch a bleeding leg wound, a third flat on her back and unconscious despite the efforts of her friends to revive her. The remaining four milled about in a rope ring, attacking one another with roughly carved wooden clubs three feet long. They were all naked to the waist and barefoot, with ragged skirts. Their faces and bodies were bruised and scarred. The crowd of a hundred or more spectators cheered their favorites, and several men were taking bets on the outcome. The women swung the clubs with all their might, hitting one another bone-crunching blows. Every time one landed a well-aimed buffet the men roared their approval. Lizzie watched with horrid fascination. Soon another woman took a heavy blow to the head and fell unconscious. The sight of her half-naked body lying senseless on the muddy ground sickened Lizzie, and she turned away.

  She went into the tavern, banged on the counter with a fist, and said to the barman: “A pint of strong ale, Jack.” It was wonderful to address the world in such arrogant tones. If she did the same in women’s clothing, every man she spoke to would feel entitled to reprove her, even tavern keepers and sedan chair men. But a pair of breeches was a license to command.

  The bar smelled of tobacco ash and spilled beer. She sat in a corner and sipped her ale, wondering why she had come here. It was a place of violence and cruelty, and she was playing a dangerous game. What would these brutal people do if they realized she was an upper-class lady dressed as a man?

  She was here partly because her curiosity was an irresistible passion. She had always been fascinated by whatever was forbidden, even as a child. The sentence “It’s no place for a lady” was like a red rag to a bull. She could not help opening any door marked “No entry.” Her curiosity was as urgent as her sexuality, and to repress it was as difficult as to stop kissing Jay.

  But the main reason was McAsh. He had always been interesting. Even as a small boy he had been different: independent-minded, disobedient, always questioning what he was told. In adulthood he was fulfilling his promise. He had defied the Jamissons, he had succeeded in escaping from Scotland—something few miners achieved—and he had made it all the way to London. Now he was a prizefighter. What would he do next?

  Sir George had been clever to let him go, she thought. As Jay said, God intended some men to be masters of others, but McAsh would never accept that, and back in the village he would have made trouble for years. There was a magnetism about McAsh that made people follow his lead: the proud way he carried his powerful body, the confident tilt of his head, the intense look in his startling green eyes. She herself felt the attraction: it had drawn her here.

  One of the painted women sat beside her and smiled intimately. Despite her rouge she looked old and tired. How flattering to her disguise it would be, Lizzie thought, if a whore propositioned her. But the woman was not so easily fooled. “I know what you are,” she said.

  Women had sharper eyes than men, Lizzie reflected. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said.

  “You can play the man with me for a shilling,” the woman said.

  Lizzie did not know what she meant.

  “I’ve done it before with your type,” she went on. “Rich girls who like to play the man. I’ve got a fat candle at home that fits just right, do you know what I mean?”

  Lizzie realized what she was getting at. “No, thank you,” she said with a smile. “That’s not what I’m here for.” She reached into her pocket for a coin. “But here’s a shilling for keeping my secret.”

  “God bless Your Ladyship,” the prostitute said, and she went away.

  You could learn a lot in disguise, Lizzie reflected. She would never have guessed that a prostitute would keep a special candle for women who liked to play the man. It was the kind of thing a lady might never find out unless she escaped from respectable society and went exploring the world outside her curtained windows.

  A great cheer went up in the courtyard, and Lizzie guessed
the cudgel fight had produced a victor—the last woman left standing, presumably. She went outside, carrying her beer like a man, her arm straight down at her side and her thumb hooked over the lip of the tankard.

  The women gladiators were staggering away or being carried off, and the main event was about to begin. Lizzie saw McAsh right away. There was no doubt it was he: she could see the striking green eyes. He was no longer black with coal dust, and she saw to her surprise that his hair was quite fair. He stood close to the ring talking to another man. He glanced toward Lizzie several times, but he did not penetrate her disguise. He looked grimly determined.

  His opponent, Rees Preece, deserved his nickname “the Welsh Mountain.” He was the biggest man Lizzie had ever seen, at least a foot taller than Mack, heavy and red faced, with a crooked nose that had been broken more than once. There was a vicious look about the face, and Lizzie marveled at the courage, or foolhardiness, of anyone who would willingly go into a prizefighting ring with such an evil-looking animal. She felt frightened for McAsh. He could be maimed or even killed, she realized with a chill of dread. She did not want to see that. She was tempted to leave, but she could not drag herself away.

  The fight was about to begin when Mack’s friend got into an irate discussion with Preece’s seconds. Voices were raised and Lizzie gathered it had to do with Preece’s boots. Mack’s second was insisting, in an Irish accent, that they fight barefoot. The crowd began a slow hand clap to express their impatience. Lizzie hoped the fight would be called off. But she was disappointed. After much vehement discussion, Preece took off his boots.

  Then, suddenly, the fight was on. Lizzie saw no signal. The two men were at one another like cats, punching and kicking and butting in a frenzy, moving so fast she could hardly see who was doing what. The crowd roared and Lizzie realized she was screaming. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  The initial flurry lasted only a few seconds: it was too energetic to be kept up. The men separated and began to circle one another, fists raised in front of their faces, protecting their bodies with their arms. Mack’s lip was swelling and Preece’s nose was bleeding. Lizzie bit her finger fearfully.

  Preece rushed Mack again, but this time Mack jumped back, dodging, then suddenly stepped in and hit Preece once, very hard, on the side of the head. Lizzie winced to hear the thud of the blow: it sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a rock. The spectators cheered wildly. Preece seemed to hesitate, as if startled by the blow, and Lizzie guessed he was surprised by Mack’s strength. She began to feel hopeful: perhaps Mack could defeat this huge man after all.

  Mack danced back out of reach. Preece shook himself like a dog, then lowered his head and charged, punching wildly. Mack ducked and sidestepped and kicked Preece’s legs with a hard bare foot, but somehow Preece managed to crowd him and land several mighty punches. Then Mack hit him hard on the side of the head again, and once more Preece was stopped in his tracks.

  The same dance was repeated, and Lizzie heard the Irishman yell: “In for the kill, Mack, don’t give him time to get over it!” She realized that after hitting a stopping punch Mack always backed off and let the other man recover. Preece, by contrast, always followed one punch with another and another until Mack fought him off.

  After ten awful minutes someone rang a bell and the fighters took a rest Lizzie felt as grateful as if she had been in the ring herself. The two boxers were given beer as they sat on crude stools on opposite sides of the ring. One of the seconds took an ordinary household needle and thread and began to stitch a rip in Preece’s ear. Lizzie winced and looked away.

  She tried to forget the damage being done to Mack’s splendid body and think of the fight as a mere contest. Mack was more nimble and had the more powerful punch, but he did not possess the mindless savagery, the killer instinct that made one man want to destroy another. He needed to get angry.

  When they began again both were moving more slowly, but the combat followed the same pattern: Preece chased the dancing Mack, crowded him, got in close, landed two or three solid blows, then was stopped by Mack’s tremendous right-hand punch.

  Soon Preece had one eye closed and was limping from Mack’s repeated kicks, but Mack was bleeding from his mouth and from a cut over one eye. As the fight slowed down it became more brutal. Lacking the energy to dodge nimbly, the men seemed to accept the blows in mute suffering. How long could they stand there pounding one another into dead meat? Lizzie wondered why she cared so much about McAsh’s body, and told herself that she would have felt the same about anyone.

  There was another break. The Irishman knelt beside Mack’s stool and spoke urgently to him, emphasizing his words with vigorous gestures of his fist. Lizzie guessed he was telling Mack to go in for the kill. Even she could see that in a crude trial of strength and stamina Preece would win, simply because he was bigger and more hardened to punishment. Could Mack not see that for himself?

  It began again. As she watched them hammering at one another, Lizzie remembered Malachi McAsh as a six-year-old boy, playing on the lawn at High Glen House. She had been his opponent then, she remembered: she had pulled his hair and made him cry. The memory brought tears to her eyes. How sad that the little boy had come to this.

  There was a flurry of activity in the ring. Mack hit Preece once, twice, and a third time, then kicked his thigh, making him stagger. Lizzie was seized by the hope that Preece would collapse and the fight would end. But then Mack backed off, waiting for his opponent to fall. The shouted advice of his seconds and the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd urged him to finish Preece off, but he took no notice.

  To Lizzie’s dismay Preece recovered yet again, rather suddenly, and hit Mack with a low punch in the pit of the belly. Mack involuntarily bent forward and gasped—and then, unexpectedly, Preece butted him, putting all the force of his broad back into it. Their heads met with a sickening crack. Everyone in the crowd drew breath.

  Mack staggered, falling, and Preece kicked him in the side of the head. Mack’s legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Preece kicked him in the head again as he lay prone. Mack did not move. Lizzie heard herself screaming: “Leave him alone!” Preece kicked Mack again and again, until the seconds from both sides jumped into the ring and pulled him away.

  Preece looked dazed, as if he could not understand why the people who had been egging him on and screaming for blood now wanted him to stop; then he regained his senses and raised his hands in a gesture of victory, looking like a dog that has pleased its master.

  Lizzie was afraid Mack might be dead. She pushed through the crowd and stepped into the ring. Mack’s second knelt beside his prone body. Lizzie bent over Mack, her heart in her mouth. His eyes were closed, but she saw that he was breathing. “Thank God he’s alive,” she said.

  The Irishman glanced briefly at her but did not speak. Lizzie prayed Mack was not permanently damaged In the last half hour he had taken more heavy blows to the head than most people suffered in a lifetime. She was terrified that when he returned to consciousness he would be a drooling idiot.

  He opened his eyes.

  “How do you feel?” Lizzie said urgently.

  He closed his eyes again without responding.

  The Irishman stared at her and said: “Who are you, the boy soprano?” She realized she had forgotten to put on a man’s voice.

  “A friend,” she replied. “Let’s carry him inside—he shouldn’t lie on the muddy ground.”

  After a moment’s hesitation the man said: “All right.” He grasped Mack under the arms. Two spectators took his legs and they lifted him.

  Lizzie led the way into the tavern. In her most arrogant male voice she shouted: “Landlord—show me your best room, and quick about it!”

  A woman came from behind the bar. “Who’s paying?” she said guardedly.

  Lizzie gave her a sovereign.

  “This way,” said the woman.

  She led them up the stairs to a bedroom overlooking the courtyard. The room was clean and the four-post
er bed was neatly made with a plain coarse blanket. The men laid Mack on the bed. Lizzie said to the woman: “Light the fire then bring us some French brandy. Do you know of a physician in the neighborhood who could dress this man’s wounds?”

  “I’ll send for Dr. Samuels.”

  Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed. Mack’s face was a mess, swollen and bloody. She undid his shirt and saw that his chest was covered with bruises and abrasions.

  The helpers left. The Irishman said: “I’m Dermot Riley—Mack lodges in my house.”

  “My name is Elizabeth Hallim,” she replied. “I’ve known him since we were children.” She decided not to explain why she was dressed as a man: Riley could think what he liked.

  “I don’t think he’s hurt bad,” Riley said.

  “We should bathe his wounds. Ask for some hot water in a bowl, will you?”

  “All right.” He went out, leaving her alone with the unconscious Mack.

  Lizzie stared at Mack’s still form. He was hardly breathing. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his chest. The skin was warm and the flesh beneath it was hard. She pressed down and felt the thump of his heartbeat, regular and strong.

  She liked touching him. She put her other hand on her own bosom, feeling the difference between her soft breasts and his hard muscles. She touched his nipple, small and soft, and then her own, bigger and protruding.

  He opened his eyes.

  She snatched her hand away, feeling guilty. What in heaven’s name am I doing? she thought.

  He looked at her blankly. “Where am I? Who are you?”

  “You were in a prizefight,” she said. “You lost.”

  He stared at her for several seconds, then at last he grinned. “Lizzie Hallim, dressed as a man again,” he said in a normal voice.