The Bareknuckle Groom: The Thompsons of Locust Street

by Bush, Holly

  “Thirty seconds!” Chambliss shouted.

  MacAvoy grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Change in corner men, Chambliss.”

  An older man helping James’s opponent shouted his displeasure.

  “Shit on you, Bergman! I run the match. You can change corner men in my fights.”

  Men were exchanging money all around her, and she looked at Mr. Pendergast, who had moved her in on the bench and sat down on the end. He pulled her tight against him.

  “What is going on? Is the fight over?”

  “No. The fight isn’t over. MacAvoy is going to run James’s corner and maybe try and talk some sense into him.”

  James’s chest was heaving with each breath, and his arms hung at his sides. MacAvoy pulled something from his mouth and another man held a jar of water to it. MacAvoy shoved the bloody thing back in his mouth and held James’s head still, speaking to him, their foreheads touching. James straightened, rolled his neck, and turned back to the ring when the bell rang.

  Both men seemed to benefit from the few moments away from the ring, but both began to slow down quickly. MacAvoy was shouting for James to take a knee as Mr. Pendergast looked at his watch.

  “Twenty-six minutes,” he said.

  James landed a punch to the other man’s stomach that doubled him over. Jackson, she’d heard the name over and again and knew it must be James’s opponent, came up swinging while James’s arms hung by his sides, surely trying to catch his breath. She heard the crunch of bone and watched as James’s head snapped back. He dropped to his knees and the bell rang.

  MacAvoy picked him up and carried James to his corner, grabbing a length of toweling to wipe his face. Mr. Pendergast stood beside her, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Thirty minutes.”

  MacAvoy held James’s limp face in his hands while the other man gave him water. She could hear MacAvoy screaming at James. “Take a knee before you’re hurt worse.”

  James shook his head and turned out of MacAvoy’s embrace when the bell rang, lurching to the center of the ring. His opponent did not look much better. MacAvoy hurried in front of their row of benches until he caught Chambliss by the arm. She could not hear what he was saying, but she sensed MacAvoy’s panic. She knew he would not be in such a state unless he was very worried for his friend’s health. She touched Mr. Pendergast’s arm.

  “What is happening?”

  “I think MacAvoy is trying to talk Chambliss into calling the fight a draw.”

  “A draw?”

  “No winner, but no loser either. He’s got to get James out of that ring.”

  She looked back at the fighters as Chambliss made his way to the other corner. James was still swinging, barely on his feet, sweat dripping from his hair when he shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. She felt tears burn at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t take much more of this torture!

  James swung his arm, barely touching Jackson’s chin but whirling the man in a circle as James’s knees buckled. Both men went down as Chambliss rang the bell and shouted, “Draw! All bets hold until the rematch!”

  “A rematch?” Lucinda said but then focused on MacAvoy kneeling beside James, tapping his cheek and calling his name.

  She stood then, shaking free of Mr. Pendergast’s hand on her elbow, pushing her way through the men crowding the ring. She bent down and stepped through the ropes, dragging her skirts behind her, nearly tripping on her petticoats. She dropped to her knees beside James.

  MacAvoy was shaking his shoulders lightly and pressing a cloth to a long cut over his eye, trying to stem the flow of blood. James coughed and started to choke, but his eyes still did not open. MacAvoy reached into his mouth and pulled out a large bloody wad of fabric and then rolled him on his side.

  “If he vomits, I don’t want him choking on it if he hasn’t woken up.”

  “How long? How long until he wakes up?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. I don’t know if he can hear me.”

  “Perhaps he can hear me,” Lucinda said and looked down at him, so still and bloody. She leaned over his ear. “James. James, it’s Lucinda. You must wake up now. We must get your injuries tended, and we can’t do it here. James? Do you hear me?”

  She grabbed his hand and realized his little finger was dangling unnaturally. She took a deep breath and gripped the rest of his hand in both of hers. “James. Won’t you please open your eyes?” She kissed his knuckles, dirty and bleeding, and realized she was trembling.

  James coughed and then spit onto the floor. “Must be dreaming,” he mumbled.

  MacAvoy heaved a breath and wiped his eyes. “Why’s that, you stubborn man?”

  “Heard . . . Lucinda.”

  “You did,” she cried and leaned over him. “You must never do anything this foolish ever again. Do you hear me? I will not stand for it.”

  His eyes fluttered. “Must be dreaming.”

  MacAvoy stood and motioned to Mr. Pendergast and his father. He looked at the son. “You and I are going to carry him out of here. I don’t think he can walk. We’re going to cross our hands and make a seat. Your father and your uncle are going to have to get him up and in our arms.”

  Mr. Pendergast helped her to her feet and then turned to their task. James moaned as the elder Pendergasts pulled him up by his arms.

  “Pettigrew!” MacAvoy shouted. “Where’s his coat?”

  The man shrugged and hurried to the door. Lucinda pulled her cloak from her shoulders and wrapped it around James’s body. The two men picked him up under his arms and moved him back toward where Mr. Pendergast and MacAvoy knelt and crossed their hands.

  The two men got to their feet with James between them and Mr. Pendergast’s father at James’s back, holding him in place. She turned when the other man, Mr. Pendergast’s uncle, put his hand on her elbow.

  “Miss Vermeal, take my coat,” he said, working to shrug out of his.

  “No. No, thank you,” she said, glancing at the men making slow progress out of the ring where Chambliss’s men had let loose the ropes.

  “Then at least take my arm. How did you arrive?”

  “I have a reliable man waiting for me with a carriage, Mr. Pendergast.”

  “I was just getting ready to come inside for you, miss,” Michael said to Lucinda as she stepped out the door.

  “I’m fine, Michael. Thank you so much for waiting for me. I don’t wish to go home just yet, though. I’d like to go to the Thompson home.” She looked at Mr. Pendergast. “What is his address? Do you know it?”

  “Number 75 Locust Street,” he said after some hesitation.

  “I know the area, miss,” Michael said and helped her climb into the carriage. He pulled a blanket out from under the seat and handed it to her.

  Chapter 11

  Lucinda stepped out of the carriage near the Thompson home and turned to Michael. “Will you wait again?”

  “Of course. My cousin would never speak to me again if I did not make sure you arrived home safely.”

  She walked down the street to the steps of 75 Locust Street, the light from inside the house flooding the stoop and the gas streetlights shining on several women in the doorway and carriages in front of the house. Muireall, the eldest, was directing everyone. Elspeth, Mr. Pendergast’s wife, was wringing her hands and calling to her husband.

  “I will tell you the whole story, but please come outside and escort Miss Vermeal into the house. She must be freezing.”

  “Miss Vermeal?” Mrs. Pendergast searched the street. “There you are,” she said and hurried past the men. “Come inside out of the weather. Where is your coat?”

  “What is this around him, MacAvoy?” Lucinda heard the old aunt say. “It looks like a woman’s cape.”

  “It is, Aunt Murdoch,” Mr. Pendergast said. “I’ll tell you everything, but James needs attention now.”

  The aunt hurried away from the door, shouting to someone in the hall to bring toweling, hot water, and her medicine box.
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  Lucinda climbed the steps holding onto Mrs. Pendergast’s arm. She was led into a large well-furnished room where one young man carried in a tea tray and the other, James’s brother, carried in a tray of sandwiches and cake. He walked over to her when he realized who she was.

  “Were you there, Miss Vermeal? What happened?”

  She swallowed and looked away, suddenly overcome with emotion and chilled to the bone. The younger sister, Kirsty, hurried to her.

  “You’ve had a fright, haven’t you? Sit down. I will pour you tea. Payden, get Muireall’s shawl laying there by the bookshelf.”

  “It was awful,” she said and looked up at them. “They wouldn’t stop fighting. It went over thirty minutes.”

  “Thirty minutes?” the brother whispered. “That’s not possible.”

  “Do you think she’s making this up?” Miss Thompson said and smacked her brother on the arm. “Look at her. Her face is pure white.”

  Lucinda took the cup and saucer, the china rattling in her hands. She managed a sip and sighed. She turned when she heard her name.

  “You must come with me, Miss Vermeal,” MacAvoy said from the doorway.

  “Come where?”

  “James will not settle down. He wants to see you.”

  “Oh.” She quickly stood, setting her tea on a side table and hurrying to the door. “Oh. I must go, then.”

  She followed MacAvoy up the staircase, down a wide hallway, and past closed doors to one standing open. Those already inside backed away when she entered. James was shouting, although it was unintelligible as she hurried to the four-poster bed.

  “James,” she said and picked up his hand. “James. It’s me. Lucinda.”

  He took a breath and smiled as much as he could with one side of his face. “Can smell you.”

  She pulled a chair close to his bed. “You must allow your aunt and sisters to tend you, James. You must stop fighting. You are home in your own room.”

  He turned his head and faced her, though his eyes were nearly swollen shut. “Lucinda.”

  “Yes. I am here. Now let the ladies do their work.”

  He nodded and accepted the liquid his aunt gave to him from a small cup. She laid his head back on the pillow and began giving brisk orders. “You must leave, Miss Vermeal. MacAvoy and I are going to peel off his pants. Out. Muireall and Elspeth too. It’s unseemly to see your brother in his drawers.”

  Everyone left but MacAvoy, Lucinda, and the aunt. “I’m not leaving, Mrs. Murdoch. I’ll turn my head, but I’m not leaving until you’ve made him comfortable.”

  Mrs. Murdoch eyed her. “Is that so? You’re a society miss. What’s your interest in my nephew?”

  Lucinda tilted her chin. “My interest . . . my interest is none of your concern.”

  The aunt harrumphed and shook her head. “I always knew he would fall hard when he fell.”

  Once James had been stripped of his pants and covered with a sheet from his waist down, Lucinda reseated herself beside him.

  “May I use this water to clean off the blood, Mrs. Murdoch?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’ll get more when its dirtied. There are towels beside the basin. Here, MacAvoy. Hold this needle.” She looked up at Lucinda after snipping off a length of thread. “You’d best call me Aunt Murdoch, girl.”

  “That would be far too familiar,” Lucinda said. “I wouldn’t wish to insult you.”

  “Insult me? You’re daft! Call me Aunt Murdoch, or you will insult me.” She chuckled to herself.

  Aunt Murdoch threaded the needle and knotted the end. Lucinda was not sure if she could watch the woman stitch his skin, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to glance occasionally to where she pulled the cut together and pierced each side with a needle, taking her time and making the stitches small and even.

  “Don’t hum while you’re stitching him,” MacAvoy said. “It reminds of when Mrs. McClintok sews up the stuffing in the goose for Christmas dinner.”

  “Does he need a doctor?” Lucinda asked.

  “He might,” Aunt Murdoch said. “Depends how many of his ribs are broken and if his brain is rattled beyond repair.”

  “Christ, Murdoch,” MacAvoy said as she worked her way down James’s side, feeling his ribs and eliciting startled cries from him.

  “Tell Muireall to get the doctor,” she said.

  MacAvoy opened the door and found Payden Thompson and the other young man leaning against the wall opposite James’s room. “Tell Muireall to get the doctor.”

  Lucinda could hear the young men jump up and clatter down the steps. A few moments later, Muireall Thompson came into the room. “I’ve already checked. Dr. Maxwell is delivering twins on the other side of town. He could not be here until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”

  Lucinda rose. “May I have paper and pen?”

  Muireall went to the desk in the corner of James’s room, opened a drawer, and pulled down the front of the desk. “Here,” she said and laid paper and a pencil on the felt.

  Lucinda sat down and wrote a note, folded it, and handed it to Muireall. “I need to get this note to Dr. Clay Gibson at the Medical School. He is our family physician.”

  “You’ve just moved here from Virginia. How long have you known him that he will climb out of his bed near midnight and see a patient he’s never seen before?” Muireall asked as she eyed the paper.

  “My father agreed to finance a new surgical ward at the hospital. The doctor’s address is on the front. He will come.”

  Muireall lifted one eyebrow and turned to the doorway. “Boys, find me a cab or a carriage. I’ll go right away.”

  “At this time of night, Muireall? Let me go,” MacAvoy said.

  “I’ve got a carriage I hired out front in the street. He is reliable. Let me see if he will go,” Lucinda said.

  “Michael Laurent?” Muireall asked. “He’s in the kitchen, having just finished a meal. It was too cold to let him stand outside.”

  “Oh dear! I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you,” she said.

  “Payden, show Miss Vermeal to the kitchen so she may speak to her driver.”

  Lucinda gave Michael the note after he said he would convey the doctor to Locust Street if the man wished. Lucinda thanked him and was talked into sitting down at the kitchen table and having a sweet roll, fresh from the oven, by the Thompson housekeeper, Mrs. McClintok. She drank tea and ate, all the while listening to the lilting talk of the woman about inconsequential things. She’d never eaten in a kitchen before and decided she may like it. She liked the big, scarred tabletop where she sat and where Mrs. McClintok was cutting vegetables at the other end and then dropping them into a large pot on a modern stove.

  “He’s going to need broth when he wakes up. He always does, especially if he’s loosened a tooth. He loves my chicken soup.” She smiled as she stirred.

  Lucinda climbed the steps to James’s room and opened the door. He was thrashing on the bed, and MacAvoy and the eldest Miss Thompson were trying, unsuccessfully, to hold him still while Aunt Murdoch applied an ointment to cuts on his hand. She hurried to his bedside.

  “James,” she said and ran her fingers over his forehead. “James. Lie still so your aunt can help you.”

  “Lucinda?” he whispered.

  “I’m here, James.” She sat down beside his bed. “Lie still. You’ll injure yourself more than you already are.” He reached out blindly for her, and she took his hand. “I’m here.”

  “Dr. Gibson is here, Muireall,” Elspeth said after opening the door.

  “Bring him up, please.”

  Dr. Gibson entered the room, looking a bit rumpled and somewhat confused. “Miss Vermeal?”

  She stood and went straight to him. “Doctor, thank you so much for coming.”

  He glanced over her shoulder. “This is the patient, I take it?”

  “Lucinda?” James said and moaned.

  She hurried to his bed. “James. The doctor is here. You must allow him to examine you.”


  He moved his head from side to side. His breathing shallow. “Lucinda.”

  “Dr. Gibson? Can you help him?”

  The doctor eyed her for a long moment and then went to the other side of the bed. “This is James Thompson? The bareknuckle fighter?” He bent down and examined the stitches over James’s eye. “Who’s responsible for these stitches?”

  “Mrs. Murdoch beside you, Doctor. She is the one who thought we’d best call a doctor. She is concerned about his ribs.”

  The doctor turned to Aunt Murdoch. “That’s fine stitching, ma’am. Perhaps you’d like to come and teach some of my students.”

  Aunt Murdoch harrumphed and then reached around to touch James’s side. “I think he’s got several broken ribs, but I’m worried about this one.” She touched the spot. “I’m worried he’s punctured his lung.”

  The doctor glanced down at her. “What else have you observed?”

  “I dosed him with some brandy laced with just a bit of the poppy. I didn’t want to give too much because I’m worried his head, although as hard as a hundred-year-old brick, has been beaten so much his brain is scrambled. For the cuts on his hands and lips, I’ve used an aloe salve I make especially for him. The little finger on his left hand is broken in several places. I was just thinking about what I could use for a splint.”

  “I’m going to examine his ribs, and he’s not going to like it,” the doctor said. “I’d like to wash my hands.”

  The doctor was back shortly and had MacAvoy lift James to a sitting position while he listened to his chest with an instrument that fit in his ears at one end with a tube attached that ended with a funnel-shaped piece of rubber. He asked everyone to be quiet while he listened to James’s chest.

  “What do you think?” Aunt Murdoch asked.

  “I don’t think it is punctured, but it is severely irritated. His heart sounds strong, although I think he’s lost a good bit of blood. I don’t believe in the antiquated practice of bloodletting. We’ll need to restore blood, which his body will produce. He needs considerable rest.”