by Y. S. Lee
Thus far, Mr Ching’s idea was far from original. What set him apart, however, was his unapologetic use of Chinese fighting techniques, and – the truly reckless aspect that made James nervous – his deliberate stoking of habitual English racism in the current political climate, in order to drum up a crowd. If he fought well, he would soon be the most famous prizefighter in London. Either that or a dead man.
The benches, packed tight with squirming bodies, were already the site of several disputes about space and spillage. Navigating with his elbows, James found a suggestion of standing room behind a cluster of serious-sounding men who looked like experienced boxers themselves. The unheated room stank of sweat, but it was also warm, a rarity during this wintry autumn. James bought two overpriced tankards of ale and handed one to Mary, who smiled briefly up at him. It was much too loud for conversation so he scanned the crowd as he swigged the beer, plotting a couple of possible swift exits should the crowd turn too bloodthirsty for even Mary’s curiosity to endure.
After some time, there came an ear-splitting blast from a cracked cornet, and the big doorman announced, “Last call for bets! All bets to be made now!” A final flurry of activity – a handful of boys ran about, ferrying money from bettor to bookie – and then that infernal horn again.
“Gentlemen, working men, citizens of London!” announced a new man in a greasy top hat. “Tonight you are privileged to witness a truly unique spectacle: a boxing match unlike any other! Our foreign pugilist, the Chinaman Ching, makes an outrageous claim. He believes that Chinese hands and fists are superior to English ones! He claims that he can best any English challenger in an unarmed fight! Tonight, we shall put that to the test!” The man held out his hands for silence against the cheers and howls. “There will be three matches this evening, all against the same Chinaman. He asks a prize of only one pound for each victory, and promises to pay the same to any who beat him. The fighters will be unarmed, of course; we are Englishmen. But to allow the savage Chinaman a fair chance, to meet him halfway in his foreign ways, and to avoid what would otherwise be an execution – we will allow him to use not just fists, but feet!”
The crowd erupted into roars, half-approving, half-outraged.
“Men of London, the hour is come. We have our judges! We have our mighty, beef-fed, English prizefighters! Let us now see … the Chinaman!”
At this, there began a deep, feral sort of baying that seemed, literally, to shake the room. James felt the noise as much as he heard it, and the beer tankard vibrated in his palm. He noticed Mary craning her neck, her view blocked by a bobbing sea of heads and shoulders. He was just regretting that there was no step on which she could perch when she swiftly tipped out her drink, upended the tankard and stood on it for a better sightline. He hid a smile. He was a fool to worry about her so incessantly, a greater fool to accompany her here. He seemed doomed to foolishness where she was concerned.
It was difficult to see where Mr Ching might be coming from, for the room was so tightly packed that it was nearly impossible to budge. Finally, however, he spotted a ripple of movement begin at the far corner of the room: men turning, their wide-open mouths contorting in a nightmare display of dental neglect. Slowly, unhurriedly even, a black head bobbed through the crowd, picking its way towards the centre of the room – with resistance, James noted. Mr Ching stood a little below average height and he was being prodded and shoved and goaded by the feverish crowd.
At long last, he arrived in the relative safety of the ring, and James released a breath of relief he’d not known he was holding. Mr Ching was not thin, precisely, but lacked the squat, heavy musculature one expected of a pugilist. He looked steadily downwards, ignoring the hundred or so men screaming filth at him. He was dressed in ordinary worker’s fustian. James felt oddly disappointed; he’d expected the loose, silken Chinese costume of the illustration.
“Mr Ching!” boomed the impresario.
The Chinese man raised his chin. In that moment, James felt Mary tense beside him. He couldn’t see her face – she stood slightly further forward than he – but it was obvious from the curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders, that she was struggling with strong emotion. He suppressed the impulse to stroke her back, pull her close. Instead, he forced himself to look at Mr Ching.
The prizefighter’s face was a clean-shaven oval, with prominent cheekbones and slightly wide-set eyes. He wore his hair cut severely short, like a sailor. His expression was difficult to read: calm, certainly, and somewhat disdainful as well. Or perhaps it was an excellent mask, and inside he was quaking.
“Lordy, he’s a runt,” said one of the men in front of them. “If I’d of known he was only the size of a dog’s fart, I’d of fought him myself, for an extra pound.”
“You’re better saving yourself for tomorrow night’s fight,” his friend advised him. “I seen some Chinamen fight, once. He may be little, but he’ll have some sneaky tricks up his sleeve.”
James hoped they were right.
The room was a cesspit of aggression – verbal, physical, emotional – all of it directed at Ching. He gave no sign of awareness, merely gazed into the middle distance, acknowledging no one. Only when the announcer bawled did he seem to hear, turning towards the man with mild-mannered politesse.
“Mr Ching, you claim to have great skill as a fighter! Is that so?”
A small, formal nod.
“And you are here tonight to challenge this great nation of England?”
Another nod.
“You have agreed to fight three matches, one after the other! Is that correct?”
Nod.
“And you swear to fight unarmed?”
Nod.
“Mr Ching, I must ask you this: ARE YOU MAD?” roared the announcer, throwing his arms open for the audience to reply, too.
The faintest of smiles, followed by a shake of the head.
“Blimey, if he ain’t mad, he’s a fool,” muttered someone behind James.
“Very well, then!” crowed the announcer. “Let us make history!” He gestured towards a corner of the room again. “Mr Ching, meet your first challenger: the pride of Dagenham, a heavyweight fighter from the age of fifteen, a man who’d sooner knock out his father as shake his hand, Mr Jem Hoskins!”
The crowd bellowed and hooted its approval, parting to make a path for the tall, fair-haired young man who stalked towards the ring. He had a thick neck, a face that had clearly suffered many beatings in the past and an ugly scowl. He, too, wore the everyday clothes of a labourer, but on him they seemed part of his skin, his natural covering. He made Ching’s very similar shirt and trousers look like a fancy-dress costume.
As he came into the ring, Jem Hoskins stripped off his shirt and raised both fists high, acknowledging the crowd’s support. Then, slowly, he turned to take stock of his opponent: once up, once down, and then he spat (a high, arcing globule that landed on a couple of spectators) to show what he thought of the Chinese man. The audience roared its approval of this piece of theatre, threatening to surge into the ring to give Hoskins a hand in beating this upstart foreigner to a pulp.
The announcer stepped forward. His voice was unexpectedly hushed, and the crowd quieted to hear him. “Here are the rules, then: no biting. No stopping. And we’ll know when we have a winner.”
As the men about him erupted into paroxysms of joyous aggression, James surveyed the room. All these happy, hate-filled men. He’d heard more racial vitriol in the last quarter-hour than he had in the rest of his life, and that included his brief sojourn amongst the Anglo-Indians in Calcutta. Had England changed? Was this heightened racism new, a result of the current bloodshed in China? Or had it always lurked behind otherwise unremarkable façades?
His reflections were interrupted by movement in the ring: an advance from Hoskins to the centre, bare fists raised, at the ready. Ching merely stood where he was, hands by his side, seeming to regard Hoskins as an object of only minor interest. This lack of response seemed to enrage the young
boxer. He smacked his hands together and swore, foully, colourfully, of course racially, at Ching. After a few more seconds of inaction, he lost his temper and charged at Ching, who reached out a casual arm and neatly flipped Hoskins onto his back.
The room fell silent. James heard Hoskins gasp as he struggled for wind. Ching looked down at him, expressionless and perfectly still, and James realized that Ching had yet to move his feet. As Hoskins clambered shakily to standing, the men in front of him murmured encouragement and curses, and one said, “He must of slipped, that’s all,” in a tone that sounded utterly unconvinced.
Hoskins’s approach was warier this time. He circled Ching tentatively, fists poised, searching for an entry point. When he was firmly to Ching’s left, his right arm flashed out, in a low jab, and half a moment later Hoskins landed on his back again. The crowd moaned. By the time Hoskins lay sprawled on the sawdust a third time, the audience was restive. There were muttered complaints (“I paid good money to see proper fighting, not some gull falling on his arse!”) and the odd cry of “Cheat!”, but it was significant that the abuse was evenly directed towards both fighters, not just Ching.
Finally, Hoskins threw his arms out, an open appeal. As though this was the invitation he’d been awaiting, Ching finally consented to move. And when he did, it was a revelation. This slight man didn’t care enough for English fighting even to remove his shirt, but he moved like a dancer, or an acrobat, or a snake. Ching circled Hoskins, gliding around him with sinuous steps as though performing an incantation. Finally, with Hoskins – and the audience – reduced to passive confusion, he launched an extraordinary series of blows using both hands and feet, raining down upon the larger man with such speed it seemed that he had eight limbs instead of four.
A dozen heartbeats later, Hoskins lay sprawled on the sawdust, motionless.
A hoarse cry rang through the pub, echoing James’s own alarm. Surely Hoskins was not… But even as horror swelled, he saw the boxer twitch, then open puzzled eyes. He had been unconscious for only a moment. It was enough, however. He hauled himself clumsily to sitting, signalled to the announcer and muttered something.
The man’s eyes glittered, and he nodded. “Gentlemen of London, we are making history indeed. In the first match of the evening, Jem Hoskins concedes defeat.” Jem Hoskins, the pride of Dagenham, had been in the ring for less than five minutes. He had failed to land a punch.
There followed an interval during which betting resumed, feverish and panicked. What to do? Might Hoskins have thrown the match? Or ought they to trust the evidence of their eyes and bet – heavily – on Ching? The bookies looked tense, recalculating their odds by the moment and swatting away their errand boys’ attentions.
Even those who weren’t gambling – that trio in front of James and Mary, for example – were perplexed. Those men were now having an animated conversation about what they had just seen, trying to work out what Ching had done, and how. For a few minutes, at least, technical admiration outweighed rabid nationalism.
The second contender was Robert “the Master” Bates, a heavyweight with a known history of boxing victories at the Cambrian Stores, and thus a much worthier challenger than Jem Hoskins. Once his name was announced, the atmosphere tipped once again towards the buoyantly bloodthirsty. One of the boxers near James nodded comfortably. “Aye, he’s a proper fighter, I reckon. Got some speed, long arms and heavy fists at the end of them. It’ll take more than a bit of prancing about to beat him, anyway.”
The man was correct. The boxer who entered the ring to resounding cheers of “Bate-sy! Bate-sy!” was very tall and heavily muscular, with knuckles dangling to mid-thigh. The effect was distinctly simian. This resemblance was underscored by his dark hair, cut straight in a fringe across his forehead, and a scowl of concentration. He didn’t bother to show off for the crowd; Robert Bates was here to collect his prize money.
Yet once the match began, Bates struggled to land a blow. He swung mightily, of course. But Ching dodged and ducked, slipping around the larger man’s fists with a fluid ease that left James mute with admiration. Mr Ching was more than a fighter; he was an artist. He was also, unexpectedly, a master showman. He’d designed the first match to show off the speed and strength of his blows. This second was intended to reveal his uncanny ability to read an opponent, to anticipate not merely strategy but individual movements.
Minutes elapsed, during which Bates grew visibly tired. It was hard work, swinging to knock a man out yet making only the air whistle. He panted, he spat, he cursed. The dour discipline that had been his initial trademark gave way to eagerness, desperation and, finally, frustration. Ching, in comparison, seemed to grow lighter and quicker as the match unfolded, and he began to add small acrobatic flourishes to his evasions. As Bates launched a flurry of what should have been short, sharp punches to the head, Ching skipped lightly away and performed a back handspring that landed him at the edge of the boxing ring.
Bates could bear no more. With a roar of fury – the words were unintelligible, the sentiment perfectly clear – he charged, putting his considerable weight and speed into a punch that couldn’t fail to knock a man out. If it connected. At the last possible moment, Ching twisted to one side and Bates’s fist drove full-force into the six-inch wooden post behind Ching’s head.
The crunch of bone against wood was gruesome to hear, but Bates’s scream of agony was much worse. James forced himself to look: Bates’s fist was a mangled pulp, resembling nothing so much as a bundle of butcher’s scraps awaiting the dogs.
There was perfect silence for ten seconds.
Somebody was noisily sick.
Finally, the announcer re-entered the ring, looking rather queasy himself. He bent, had a word with Bates, sent an errand boy shooting off for a surgeon. The outcome of the match hardly needed confirmation, but for the sake of the bookmakers, he said soberly, “Mr Bates concedes this match to Mr Ching.”
The silence grew monstrous after Bates was led from the ring, with all attention riveted upon Ching. He stood calmly, breathing deeply from his exertions, apparently oblivious to all about him. However, they knew better now. Mary climbed down from her tankard. She glanced up at James, read the question in his eyes and nodded.
They began to pick their way towards the door, through a crowd that was eerily subdued. The proprietor, who despaired of seeing his drinks sales drop off, made an announcement. “As a mark of respect for Mr Bates, we will have a short interval to drink to his quick recovery.” His words struck the wrong note – there would be no such thing as a “quick recovery” for Bates, and every person in the room knew it – but the act of speech itself was a much-needed release valve. Men began to murmur and look about them as though waking from a deep sleep.
James couldn’t get outside fast enough. Assuming that Robert Bates didn’t die from infection and blood poisoning, he would certainly never fight again. He might never work again, either. Although prizefighters deliberately risked their bodies for money and glory, that seemed too severe a punishment for what amounted to losing one’s temper in the ring. As for Ching’s extraordinary skill, the way he’d choreographed both fights – for those things, he had James’s reluctant admiration. Yet James was, at core, thoroughly English. He’d been taught to value fair play and good sportsmanship. While Ching had technically observed the rules, it still seemed unsporting to toy for so long with hopelessly unequal opponents, to shame them so extravagantly. Perhaps that was the way they did things in China: all glory to the strongest and to hell with the others. But James couldn’t help thinking it was an attitude that would land a man in keen difficulty in London.
This evening’s escapade had been an error. It would be well if they never heard of Mr Ching again.
Four
Mary kept close behind James, focusing on his broad shoulders as he carved a path for them through the jammed room. They nearly fell out of the door into the welcome cold, drawing deep breaths of the thick, almost liquid air. By common consent, they d
id not pause but turned northwards and began to walk, side by side. She wished she could take James’s arm; that was impossible while in boys’ clothing, so she shoved her hands deep into her trouser pockets instead. It wasn’t until they were well clear of Leicester Square that she spoke, and then the words tumbled from her mouth. “Do you think Mr Ching will be blamed for Robert Bates’s injury?”
“Legally, it would be impossible to prove. He literally didn’t lay a finger upon Bates.”
“I didn’t mean legally. I was thinking of mob logic. Or the lack thereof.”
“Yes. It was foolish of Ching utterly to humiliate both his opponents. He could have offered them softer, more marginal losses.”
“Isn’t bloodthirsty spectacle the whole idea? The more savage, the better?”
“You’re asking me as a spokesman for all males? I haven’t the faintest idea. For some, I suppose.” James paused. “I think Ching will find that he’s created a large number of enemies. Bates, especially, will have friends who will take his destruction personally. It’s one thing to lose a fight, another thing entirely to lose a hand and possibly the ability to support oneself.”
“You think they may attempt revenge? Gang up on Ching?”
“It’s not unheard of.”
She was silent for a moment, her head spinning. “Then we need to warn him.”
James spun to look at her. “What did you say?”
She stopped and met his gaze. “Mr Ching. He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t know the rules, the history. If you think it’s likely that he’ll be attacked, then he deserves to know.”
He looked baffled. “Mary, he’s a prizefighter. Risks like these are inherent in his sort of work.”
