J. E. MacDonnell - 025

by The Blind Eye(lit)

  He came up to Floss and now his mind was clear, his judgment and his intention glacially cold Every night for the past fortnight he had worked out his tactics, and he put them into operation at once.

  His left hand flashed out and before it had gone half the way towards Floss's already ducking head Bentley dropped it at Floss's belly. The big man crouched and his left hand came down protectively; Bentley's waiting right curved round in a lightning hook and exploded against the side of his chin.

  In that divisible instant after the first blow had landed, while the crowd roared, Bentley knew that he was the better boxer. His punch had been faster than Floss's countering reflexes.

  Floss's head jerked sideways and Bentley slid in with a feral grace that had its end and purpose in a bunched glove and struck viciously at his enemy's solar plexus. He saw the returning blow and only the quickness of his right hand lifting prevented his mouth from acting as the bumper. As it was Floss's fist jarred his head, and then Bentley knew something else-his opponent owned a hard body and an extremely strong punch.

  He went in, punching like a piston.

  He punched, and ducked, and punched again, and while the trained part of his brain saw an opening, and struck, saw a glove, and ducked, another section was conscious of one over-riding fact- deep down in his brutal character, Floss was a dingo; and there was only one way with a dingo-get on top of him at once and stay there, batter the weakness in his psychology as well as his body, wear down the overlay of his skill and confidence until you came to the naked cowardice of the man. And he had to do it in three rounds.

  It was doubtful if any man watching the dynamos In that ring had ever seen a first round of a major fight proceed at such a furious pace.

  Taken at first by surprise, Floss fought back with instinctive fierceness. Bentley was hitting him continually, but his own punches were coming back and rattling the Australian's head. Normally Bentley would have slipped most of them, but his attack was so fiercely forced that he had to take return punishment.

  He had struck with a fast left and right at Floss's face when from somewhere a hard glove exploded a pocket earthquake under his chin. It was a beautifully timed and judged punch, and it knocked Bentley sideways to the canvas.

  A collective gasp escaped from ten thousand throats. The P.T.O. jumped forward, his hand upraised to begin the count. On his knees, Bentley squinted up-that punch had hurt like hell, but his eyes were clear, and plainly he saw the brutal, mocking twist to Floss's mouth. Just as plainly he knew he had to wipe out that early psychological advantage the seaman had gained. Normally he would have taken a count of seven or eight. Now, before the P.T.O. had reached three, Bentley was on his feet and boring in.

  This time as he punched he was more wary than hurtful-he had to have time to clear the fuzziness in his head. At the same time he had to impress on Floss, and impress it with indelible starkness, that he was up against a killer.

  He had the big man hard up against the ropes, flailing at his heart and midriff, when the bell clanged.

  Bentley broke at once and danced back to his corner. Gellatly was ready with the stool and sponge. Bentley spat out the mouth protector and laid his head back and felt the cooling water run down his heated body.

  "Nice work, sir," Gellatly said quickly; "you hurt him against the ropes there."

  "He's tough," Bentley muttered.

  "You're faster." Gellatly stopped, conscious as he worked of his inadequacy in advising a boxer so much superior to himself. He went on, subduing his diffidence:

  "I'd stick to your tactics. If you can soften him this round, he'll be ready in the next."

  "I hope you're right," Bentley grinned nervously, and the bell rang.

  Bentley came out and he knew Gellatly's advice had to be followed. It had been a savage first round, the hardest he had ever fought-he had put into it a third of the effort he would have used in a normal 15-round bout.

  He led a left and Floss skipped back. Another left, a snaking jab that Floss avoided in the same way. Bentley followed him, and vindicated what he had guessed from the first punch-Floss was aware of his strategy: Floss had realised that his opponent, only recently a contender, had had less than a fortnight in which to train. He intended taking advantage of Bentley's relative lack of stamina, he would keep away from him and wear him down. Then he would move in for the kill.

  Bentley was shockingly out of training for this major fight, but he had been boxing a long time Floss skipped back again and instead of following him Bentley stood perfectly still and lowered his hands.

  He waited, while Floss stared at him in puzzlement. Then it came, what years of experience had known would come. The voice was well back in the crowd, but in the watching silence it was as sharp as a pistol-shot.

  "What's up with yer, Fairy? Got the wind up? He can't stop yer leave!"

  That lone sneer was a signal. Ten thousand throats took it up in a multiple roar in which words could not be distinguished, only the general tenor of their anger and contempt. Bentley leaned on one leg and with his right glove scratched at his ear.

  Floss was coming in anyway, but that knowing and contemptuous gesture from the representative of a class he hated quickened his approach to a rush. Bentley's casualness swept from him in a breath and he met Floss with a barrage of blows that had everything in his shoulders behind them.

  Floss hit him and the crowd grunted. Bentley landed and they yelled. He hit him again, with the same effect. Their preference was unmistakable. Then Bentley, who if he had not trained for this fight, had meticulously planned it, clinched with Floss and muttered in his ear:

  "They're against you, Floss. Every man. They hate your guts."

  Bentley had no qualms whatever about his tactics-the other's extensive and superior training completely waived them. And the Australian was not fighting for a title.

  Floss snarled and thrust him clear. He followed up with a viciously low punch that Bentley knocked down and countered with a left jab that found the twisted mouth.

  Floss jumped in and the bell clanged.

  Bentley saw the punch, saw it start after the bell had rung. He leaned his head aside and the glove scraped hurtlessly against the side of his face Bentley went down on one knee, his gloves up even in that inviolate position. The P.T.O. jumped in front of Floss and Bentley got up and moved to his corner. Gellatly squeezed the sponge over his head.

  "That punch didn't hurt you," he said, his face puzzled.

  "That's right," Bentley panted, "but it hurt Floss. Listen to them. I think he's ready now."

  My God! Gellatly thought, and wondered to himself at his own inexperience.

  The bell rang.

  Bentley came out of his corner still panting He knew that Floss would see it, but he could not avoid the heaving of his chest. This was totally different to his punching against Hooky's unresisting weight-Floss had hit him many times, and the punches had hurt.

  He shaped-up and punched, the spittle forcing from his mouth with the effort of his blows, and he knew that if he did not take the snarling Floss in this round, he was in for the beating of his life.

  So convinced was he of his own physical state that he took many blows that normally he would have slipped with ease. The whole object of his strategy was to attack, to hit and keep on hitting, to confront Floss with a typhoon of energy and hurtfulness, to wear down into that layer of weakness.

  Floss took a straight left on his glove and came back with a blow that burst in a shock of pain and gasping breathlessness against Bentley's solar plexus. He went down on one knee, helplessly this time, and as he fought for breath and listened dazedly to the referee's inexorable counting he wondered if he could do it after all.

  Uncertainty was there, but it was the result of an honest and experienced appraisal of his chances against this brute of a man. His will had not weakened a fraction, and fear of an opponent had no part in the man's nature.

  "Seven... eight..." counted the referee, and Bentley forced
himself up.

  Eight seconds of relief to a trained fighter can be helpfully effective in his recovery. Bentley's head was perfectly clear, and as be traded punches he completed the recovery of his breathing.

  There could be only two minutes left. But this was no time to execute the final stage of his plan. Floss now was triumphant. With all the cunning of his skill and experience and flashing hands Bentley proceeded to do something about lowering Floss's confidence.

  It was a magnificent effort. The most unskilled observer amongst those thousands could appreciate the whirling savagery of his attack. He bored in at Floss with his hands twin snaking pistons capped with smashing hurt. He forgot his body. He slashed at the ugly face, clear-minded and determined, even through the exhaustive effort it cost him, that he would mark this bully for all men to see.

  When at last he got Floss in the position he wanted, against the ropes in a clinch, he was so near to the end of his strength and will that he could barely speak. He leaned on the bloodied body and he gasped in Floss's ear:

  "Dingo! You're a coward, Floss! Dingo!"

  Then Bentley stepped back, forcing his body not to stagger, and he stared into Floss's eyes. And knew, for good or evil to his own exhausted body, that his last play had succeeded.

  Floss's eyes glared at him sightlessly, without a remnant of reason or humanity in them. There was nothing in those squinted pin-points of red rage but the insensate glory of a barbaric, primeval vengefulness and hate; the raving reaction of a boastfully strong man who has seen his psychological weakness stripped bare.

  Floss thrust himself off the ropes and stumbled across the ring. His fists clenched in the gloves but his arms were held out in front of his body in a careless, brutal claw.

  Bentley did not wait. He was acutely conscious of his danger. Floss would not fight-he would maim. Hard anger rowelled at Bentley's exhausted will and body. While Floss was still lumbering for him he leaped forward. He bent, his body leaning to the left. Not a single sound escaped on the suspended breaths of the crowd. Then Bentley's left hand whipped up from near the canvas in a bludgeon blow.

  The fist smacked crisply against Floss's chin with a force that jolted all the way down Bentley's arm and jerked the ugly head back. Floss tottered on his toes, his body arched backwards, beginning to fall forward. As the muscled mass leaned towards the canvas Bentley stepped to one side and chopped down at the side of his chin with a vicious right hook. Floss slewed sideways and thumped forcefully on the canvas.

  The referee pushed needlessly with his hand to keep Bentley off and the Australian performed the hardest act of that killing nine minutes: he walked unaided back to his corner.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE LARGE LOBBY OUTSIDE the admiral's cabin was full, and of all that gold-braided assemblage Commander Bentley was the junior officer. On the morning following the tournament the admiral had called for his captains. The time of the conference was ten o'clock. It was ten minutes to the hour, but the cruiser and destroyer captains were all assembled, waiting, talking quietly. Apart from a few captains of his own flotilla the Australian knew none of them; he stood a little apart, not wishing to take part in the general talk, and now and again a covert glance would be directed at his bruised face. Every officer there had seen the fight.

  The mahogany door to the admiral's cabin opened and the talk ceased. They looked at the flag-lietenant, who looked for, and found, Bentley,

  "The admiral would like to see you sir."

  Hiding his surprise, Bentley moved forward through the press of khaki uniforms. He stepped in through the door, and not all the glances which followed him were friendly. To take on an able-seaman was questionable enough, though they knew he must have had the admiral's permission, but for senior four-ringed captains to be kept waiting for a junior destroyer commander was not at all to certain likings.

  Bentley was quite unworried about his selection. There were a few other Australian destroyers operating in the area, though none in his flotilla, and the careers of their captains and his own lay not with these strangers but with the familiar authorities in Melbourne. He guessed the admiral wished to discuss the time and place of the next test of McQueen's weapon.

  "Ah, Bentley. Sit down. I presume your backside is untouched?"

  "Yes, sir-at least I think so."

  "M'mm. You don't look a good risk for an insurance policy. But our man is worse. Considerably worse."

  "Sorry about that, sir."

  "Are you?"

  He had heard that crack of tone before, but coming from the cherubic face it still surprised him.

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "I said `Are you sorry?' I will enlarge. It was obvious that your attack against Floss was particularly savage."

  The intent eyes were magnetised to his face, Bentley felt the vague stirrings of anger, and he crushed them back. He thought carefully for a moment before he spoke, and then he said:

  "I'd like to ask a question, sir."

  "Certainly."

  Even then Bentley hesitated. This was a full admiral, the master of a Fleet. He was also waiting... Bentley wet his sore lips.

  "Am I to understand that you are censoring my method of boxing Able-Seaman Floss, sir?"

  "Great Scott, no!" the admiral said testily. "How you fellows go about it is your own affair. I am merely curious. Perhaps now you will satisfy that curiosity?"

  The ways of women, and admirals, are beyond understanding, Bentley thought briefly. He said:

  "Of course, sir." Again, as before, he revealed only half the truth; but that part was sincere. "Floss had had much more training than I had-now I think of it, I realise I was foolish to have entered with only a fortnight's preparation. But that disadvantage dictated my tactics. I gave myself three rounds, no more. If I hadn't taken him in that time I knew he could do what he wanted with me. Therefore I had to make every second of those nine minutes count. The attack may have looked... savage, sir, but it was justified by my relative inferiority."

  "I see. And that last punch as Floss was falling? The right hook to the side of the face?"

  "That may have been unnecessary, sir," Bentley admitted, "but I had no way of knowing he was down for the full count. No boxer can assume that he has knocked a man out while he is still on his feet. And, as I said, I had to be doubly sure. Another round would have finished me."

  His eyes as he spoke were on the admiral's face, trying to read the chubby features. But the man watching him had hidden his feelings from a shrewder glance than this junior officer's.

  "Barbaric, but, I suppose, necessary," Granville commented. He leaned forward on the table. "One more query."

  "Yes, sir?"

  For the life of him Bentley could not subdue his anxiety. He knew that his face mirrored it, and he hoped that the admiral would put his expression down to the fact that he was a junior commander being questioned by one of the most senior officers in the Service.

  "When you had Floss against the ropes, just before you knocked him out," Granville said, "it seemed to me that you said something to him. Am I right?"

  Bentley hesitated. The gimlet eyes bored into him.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Something happened to Floss when you said that. I would have said he went stark staring mad. Now-what did you say?"

  The tournament had been organized, the fight was over. Bentley had provided excellent entertainment for thousands of this officer's men, and now he ached from his stomach northward. He had trained, he had won the fight, there had been no protest from Floss or the referee, and now he was badgered with these high-level questions. What the hell more do you want? he thought bitterly.

  Normally he would have paused before making his answer to that last question, but dull anger rode over his caution.

  "Do I have to answer that, sir?"

  Slowly the admiral brought his hands together and entwined his fingers in front of his face. Bentley saw the knuckles whitening. It would have been a long, long time since this
officer had been asked that question in answer to one of his own. But Bentley was not thinking of that-his troubled mind was On the ramifications of the situation which he would be caught in if he had to admit that Gellatly had fought with a junior rating, and that he, the commanding-officer, aware of the position, had done nothing about it-except to exact his punishment of a brutal bully by engaging with him in personal and physical combat. In the cold judgment of an enquiry Gellatly would be seen as a petty-officer, Floss as an able-seaman. No outside personal influences would be allowed to sway that outlook.