The Power of One

by Bryce Courtenay

  The eighth round saw another change in the fight. Jackhammer Smit had chased Hoppie too hard and too long. The gorilla’s great strength had been sapped by the heat and he was down to barely a shuffle, both eyes nearly closed. Hoppie was hitting him almost at will and Jackhammer pulled the smaller man into a clinch whenever he could, causing the referee to stand on the tips of his toes and pull at his massive arms, yelling “Break!” at the top of his voice.

  The ninth and the tenth rounds were much of the same but Hoppie didn’t seem to have the punch to put Jackhammer away. Early in the eleventh Smit managed to get Hoppie into yet another clinch, leaning heavily on the smaller man. As the referee moved in to break them up, Jackhammer Smit stepped backward into him, sending the ref arse over tip to the floor. Still holding Hoppie, Smit head-butted him viciously. On the railway side of the ring we saw the incident clearly, but all the miners, like the ref, saw was Hoppie’s legs buckling and the welterweight crashing to the floor as Jackhammer broke out of the clinch.

  This time Smit moved quickly to the neutral corner and the referee, bouncing to his feet like a rubber ball, started to count Hoppie out.

  Pandemonium broke loose. The railwaymen, shouting “Foul!”, began to come down from the stands shaking their fists. At the count of six the bell went for the end of the round and Bokkie and Nels rushed into the ring to help a dazed and wobbly Hoppie to his corner.

  A score of railwaymen had reached the ring and were shouting abuse at Jackhammer. The miners were yelling and coming down from their stands and, I’m telling you, the whole scene was a proper kerfuffle.

  Jackhammer was vomiting into a bucket and Bokkie and Nels were frantically trying to bring Hoppie round, holding a small bottle under his nose. I had begun to cry and Big Hettie drew me into her bosom while hurling abuse at Jackhammer Smit. “You dirty bastard!” she screamed. I could hear her heart going boom, boom, boom.

  Several fights had started around the base of the ring and the judges’ table had been overturned. The referee stood in the center of the ring, his hand raised. He didn’t move and this seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd. Others rushed in to stop the ringside brawling, pulling their mates away. Not until there was complete silence did the referee indicate that both fighters should come to the center of the ring. Hoppie, meanwhile, seemed fully recovered, while Jackhammer, huge chest still heaving and both eyes puffed-up slits, looked a mess. The referee took Hoppie’s arm and raised it as high as he was able. “Kid Louis on a foul in the eleventh,” he shouted.

  The railway men went wild with excitement, while the miners started to come down from their stands again. “Shit, it’s going to be on for one and all!” Big Hettie screamed.

  Hoppie jerked his arm away and started an animated argument with the referee, pointing his glove at the near-blind Jackhammer. Finally the referee held his hands up for silence. “The fight goes on!” he shouted, and both boxers moved back to their corners. The bell began to clang repeatedly and in a short while the ringside fighting stopped and the men, still shaking their fists at each other, returned to their seats.

  “That Hoppie Groenewald is mad as a meat-ax,” Big Hettie declared. “He had the blerrie fight won and he wants to start all over again!” She wiped away a tear with the dishcloth.

  Ten minutes passed before the bell went for round twelve, by which time Hoppie was good as gold and Jackhammer’s seconds, in between his bouts of vomiting, had managed to half-open his left eye. The closed lids of his right eye extended beyond his brow so that he was forced to hunt Hoppie with only half a left eye.

  It was no contest. Hoppie darted in and slammed two quick left jabs straight into the left eye and closed it again. The rest of the round was a shambles, with Jackhammer simply covering his face with his gloves and Hoppie boring into his body. Jackhammer Smit simply leaned on the ropes and took everything Hoppie could throw at him. He grunted as Hoppie ripped a blow under his heart and opened his gloves in a reflex action. Hoppie saw the opening and moved in with a perfect left uppercut that landed flush on Jackhammer’s jaw. The big man sank to the canvas just as the bell went for the end of the round.

  Hoppie’s shoulders sagged as he walked back to his corner. It was clear he was exhausted. Jackhammer’s seconds helped him to his feet, leading him to his corner.

  “They gotta throw in the towel!” Big Hettie said in elation. “Hoppie’s got it on a TKO.” My heart was pounding fiercely. It seemed certain now that small could beat big. All it took was brains and skill and heart and a perfect plan.

  But we were wrong. The bell went for the thirteenth and Jackhammer Smit rose slowly to his feet, half-dragging himself into the center of the ring. Hoppie, too exhausted to gain much from the rest between rounds, was also clearly spent. He hadn’t expected Jackhammer to come out for the thirteenth. It was as though each moved toward the other in a dream. Hoppie landed a straight left into Jackhammer’s face, starting his nose bleeding again. He followed this with several more blows to the head but his punches lacked strength. Jackhammer, his pride keeping him on his feet, managed to get Hoppie into a clinch, in an attempt to sap what strength the smaller man had left. When the referee shouted at the two men to break, Jackhammer pushed at Hoppie and at the same time hit him with a round-arm blow to the head that carried absolutely no authority as a punch. To our consternation and the tremendous surprise of the miners, Hoppie went down. He rose instantly to one knee, his right hand on the deck to steady him. Jackhammer, sensing from the roar of the crowd that his opponent was down, dropped his gloves and moved forward. Through his bloodied fog he may not have seen the punch coming at him. The left from Hoppie came all the way from the deck with the full weight of his body to drive the blow straight to the point of Jackhammer Smit’s jaw. The giant crashed unconscious to the canvas.

  “Timber!” Big Hettie screamed as the crowd went berserk. I had just witnessed the final move in a perfectly wrought plan where small defeats big. First with the head and then with the heart. To the very end Hoppie had been thinking. I had learned the most important rule in winning … keep thinking.

  For a moment Hoppie stood over the unconscious body of his opponent; then he brought his glove up in an unmistakable salute to Jackhammer Smit. He moved slowly to a neutral corner and the referee commenced to count. At the count of ten Jackhammer still hadn’t moved. Hoppie moved over to his corner and then, turning to us, he held his arms up in victory.

  In my excitement I was jumping up and down and yelling my head off. It was the greatest moment of my life. I had hope. I had witnessed small triumph over big. I was not powerless. Big Hettie grabbed me and held me high above her head. In the bright moonlight we must have stood out clearly. Hoppie stood up unsteadily and, grinning, he waved one glove in our direction.

  Jackhammer had been helped to his feet by his seconds and was standing in the center of the ring supported by them as the referee called Hoppie over. Holding Hoppie’s hand up in victory, he shouted, “The good book tells the truth, little David has done it again! The winner by a knockout in the thirteenth round, Kid Louis!” The railwaymen cheered their heads off and the miners clapped sportingly and people started to leave the stands.

  As the boxers left, Gert, the waiter who took bets in the dining car on the train, entered the ring and began to settle bets. It had been a tremendous fight and even the miners seemed happy enough and would stay for the braaivleis and tiekiedraai afterward.

  Big Hettie and I walked over to the ringside where the men were lining up to be paid. She moved imperiously to the head of the queue, where Gert took five one-pound notes from his satchel and handed them down to her.

  “Thank you for your business, Hettie,” he said politely.

  Hoppie came out of the tent just as we reached it and was immediately surrounded by railwaymen. He looked perfect, except for a large piece of sticking plaster over his left eye where Jackhammer Smit had butted him. Well, not absolutely perfect: in the light you could see that his right eye was swollen
and turning a deep purple.

  Bokkie and Nels were with him. Neither could stop talking and throwing punches in the air and replaying the fight. More and more railwaymen crowded around Hoppie. Big Hettie lifted me into the air. “Make way for the next contender,” I heard Hoppie shout. Hands grabbed hold of me and carried me over the heads of the men to where he stood.

  Hoppie pulled me close to him. “We showed the big gorilla, heh, Peekay?”

  “Ja, Hoppie.” I was suddenly a bit tearful. “Small can beat big if you have a plan.”

  Hoppie laughed. “I’m telling you, man, I nearly thought the plan wasn’t going to work tonight.”

  “I’ll never forget, first with the head and then with the heart.” Hoppie rubbed his hand through my hair. The last time someone had done this, it was to rub shit into my head. Now it felt warm and safe.

  It was almost three hours before the train was due to leave and most of the crowd had stayed behind to meet their wives at the tiekiedraai. Miners and railwaymen, as well as the passengers traveling on, all mixed together, the animosity during the fight forgotten. Only the Africans went home because they wouldn’t have been allowed to stay anyway.

  With a slice of Big Hettie’s chocolate cake already in me I could scarcely manage two sausages and a chop. I even left some meat on the chop, which I gave to a passing dog, who must have thought it was Christmas because, from then on, she stayed with me. It had been a long day and I was beginning to feel tired. I’d never been up this late when I was happy. Hoppie found me and the dog sitting against a big gum tree nodding off. Picking me up, he carried me to the bakkie and put me into the back of the little truck.

  SEVEN

  I woke at dawn to the familiar lickity-clack of the carriage wheels. From the color of the light coming through the compartment window I could see it was the time Granpa Chook would come to the dormitory and crow his silly old neck off.

  The light that fled past the compartment window was still soft, with a grayish tint; soon the sun would come and polish it until it shone. Yesterday’s rolling grassland was now broken by an occasional koppie, a rocky outcrop with clumps of dark green bush. Flat-topped fever trees were more frequent and in the far distance a sharp line of mountains brushed the horizon in a wet, watercolor purple. We were coming into the true lowveld.

  I sat up and became aware of a note pinned to the front of my shirt. I undid the safety pin to find a piece of paper with a ten-shilling note attached to it. I was a bit stunned. I’d never handled a banknote and it was difficult to imagine it belonged to me. If one sucker cost a penny, I could buy one hundred and twenty suckers with this ten shillings. On the paper was a carefully printed note from Hoppie.

  Dear Peekay,

  Here is the money you won. We sure showed that big gorilla who was the boss. Small can beat big. But remember, you have to have a plan—like when I hit Jackhammer Smit the knockout punch when he thought I was down for the count. Ha, ha. Remember always, first with the head and then with the heart. Without both, I’m telling you, plans are useless!

  Remember, you are the next contender. Good luck, little boetie.

  Your friend in boxing and always,

  Hoppie Groenewald

  PS Say always to yourself, First with the head and then with the heart, that’s how a man stays ahead from the start. H.G.

  I was distressed at having left the best friend after Granpa Chook and Nanny that I had ever had, without so much as a goodbye. Hoppie had passed briefly through my life, I had known him a little over twenty-four hours, yet he had managed to change my life. He had given me the power of one, one idea, one heart, one mind, one plan, one determination. Hoppie had sensed my need to grow, my need to be assured that the world around me had not been specially arranged to bring about my undoing. He gave me a defense system and with it he gave me hope.

  In the early morning the lickity-clack of the carriage wheels sounded sharper and louder as though racing toward the light. I swung down from my bunk and stood at the window watching the early morning folding back. I became aware that the lickity-clack of the carriage wheels was talking to me: Mix-the-head with-the-heart you’re-ahead from-the-start. Mix-the-head with-the-heart you’re-ahead from-the-start, the wheels chanted until my head began to pound with the rhythm. It was becoming the plan I would follow for the remainder of my life; it was to become the secret ingredient in the power of one.

  Now the sun was coming up over the distant Lebombo mountains and the African veld sparkled as though it were contained in a crystal goblet.

  There was a sudden rattle at the door and a single sharp word, “Conductor!” Whereupon the door slid open to reveal a slight man in a navy serge uniform just like Hoppie’s. Only this man looked very neat and his boots shone like a mirror. Around the edge of the blue and white enamel badge on his cap it read South African Railways—Suid Afrikaanse Spoorweë—but unlike Hoppie’s, which had the word Guard across the center, this badge read Conductor.

  The man wore a thin black mustache that looked as though it had been drawn on with a crayon. His bleak expression suggested someone already soured by the burdens of life.

  “Where’s your ticket? Give it here, boy,” he said.

  “I have it here, meneer.” I hurriedly fumbled with the safety pin where Hoppie had pinned my ticket to the clean shirt I had changed into for the fight.

  “This ticket is not clipped,” he said accusingly. “You got on this train who knows where? I’m not a mind reader, man.”

  “I didn’t know I had to give it to be clipped, meneer,” I said, suddenly fearful.

  “It’s that verdomde Hoppie Groenewald! He did this on purpose to make work for me. Not clipping tickets is an offense. Just because he is going into the army he thinks he can go around not clipping tickets. Who does he think he is, man? What do you think would happen if we all went around not clipping tickets?”

  “Please, meneer, Hoppie clipped everybody’s ticket. He only forgot mine, that’s the honest truth!” I pleaded, frantic that Hoppie would get into trouble on my behalf.

  “Humph! First I lose one pound ten shilling betting on that big ape from the mines and now that one who calls himself after a nigger boxer goes around not clipping people’s tickets.” He paused. “I’m afraid it is my duty to report this,” he said, his lips drawn thinly so that his crayon mustache stretched in a dead straight line across his upper lip.

  “Please, meneer, he hates kaffirs just like you do. Please don’t report him.”

  “It’s all right for you. You’re his friend, you’ll say anything.” He paused as though thinking. “Orright, I’m a fair man, you can ask anybody about that. But mark my word. Next time that Hoppie Groenewald is going to be in a lot of trouble or my name is not Pik Botha.” He withdrew a pair of clippers from his waistcoat pocket and clipped my ticket.

  “Thank you, Meneer Botha, you are a very kind man.”

  “Too kind for my own good! But I am a born-again Christian, a member of the Apostolic Faith Mission, and not a vengeful type. Come, boy, I will take you to breakfast, your ticket says you get breakfast.”

  Breakfast was another feast of bacon and eggs with toast, jam and coffee. It was too early for the other passengers, and a waiter called Hennie Venter served us. He was pleased as punch because he had won five pounds on the fight. Forgetting what he had said to me about losing one pound ten, Pik Botha proceeded to give him a long lecture on the sin of fighting and the even greater evil of gambling. He ended by asking Hennie if he was ashamed and ready to repent.

  Hennie put down a plate of toast covered with a napkin to keep it warm. “No, Meneer Botha, gambling is only a sin if you lose because you didn’t back your own kind, but bet on the other side.” He lifted the silver coffeepot and commenced to fill the conductor’s cup.

  “Humph! He’s only a grade-two railwayman and look how cheeky he is already. Young people don’t know their place anymore,” Pik Botha grumbled.

  Outside the compartment window the bushveld
baked in the hot sun. The sunlight flattened the country in the foreground and smudged the horizon in a haze of heat. Noon is a time when the cicadas fill the flat, hot space with a sound so constant it sings like silence in the brain. While I couldn’t hear them for the lickity-clack of the carriage wheels, I knew they were out there, brushing the heat into their green membraned wings, energizing after the long sleep when their pupae lay buried in the dark earth, sometimes for years, until a conjunction of the moon and the right soil temperature creates the moment to emerge and once again fill the noon space.

  In the heat the compartment seemed to float, lifting off the silver rails and moving through time and space.

  Hoppie had explained to me that from Kaapmuiden I would have to take the branch line to Barberton, a further three hours’ journey “in a real little coffeepot,” he had said. He had told me the story of a washerwoman with a huge pile of freshly ironed washing on her head who was walking along the railway line when the Barberton train drew up beside her. The driver had leaned out of the train and invited her to jump aboard into the kaffir carriage. “No thank you, baas,” she had replied, “today I am in a terrible big hurry.” It was a funny story when Hoppie told it, but I knew it wasn’t true because no white train driver would ever think to offer a kaffir woman a ride in his train.

  It was nearly four o’clock when we arrived in Kaapmuiden. The train to Barberton left at six o’clock. The train pulled into the busy junction. Kaapmuiden served as the rail link between the Northern and Southern Transvaal and the Mozambique seaport of Lourenço Marques.

  The station was all huff and puff, busier even than Gravelotte, with engines shunting, trucks banging, clanging and coupling on lines crisscrossing everywhere like neatly arranged spaghetti. Our train drew slowly into the main platform and, with a final screech of metal on metal, came to a standstill.