The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Now, he and Albert stood along the sides of the roped-off area of the field designated as the ring. People had been arriving for the past hour and crowded around the ring. Four wooden stakes held the rope in place. The bag with the prize money dangled from one corner.

  Jonah nodded at the bag. “That’s going to be mine come the end of the day.”

  Albert eyed Jonah’s opponent. The Bull stood with his legs planted apart, his arms folded, at one end of the ring. “You may have a good fight before it’s yours.”

  Jonah scoffed. “More fat than brawn is what I see.”

  Albert shook his head. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  The sack of prize money hung heavy on its rope. “I’m sure.”

  The crowd spread out across the field. There were few women present, none of whom looked any too respectable. Jonah could see side bets being negotiated by individuals standing at the edges of the ring.

  A few carriages had driven across the fields and parked behind the multitude, bringing fashionable young nobs to view the fight. Jonah watched a gentleman jump off his high-perched phaeton and throw the reins to his tiger. He hailed an acquaintance across the yard and the two met up with a slap on the back. A silver flask was passed from one to the other.

  There’d be more drinking before the matches were through, Jonah knew, as he surveyed the crowd.

  The referee stepped to the center of the ring and clanged his bell, signaling the beginning of the challenge. “Who will face our champion, Bill “The Bull” Elliston? Who is daring enough to stand up to this giant weighing fourteen stone?”

  Elliston swaggered to the center of the ring and took in everyone with an insolent look. Murmurs of awe rippled through the gathering.

  Jonah sized him up once more. The referee was right to call him a giant. His fists were the size of hams in a butcher’s window, his biceps and chest rippled. He topped Jonah by a few inches and was broader all around.

  Albert’s low tone reached his ear. “You know there are other ways to get twenty guineas, if it’s the prize money you’re after.”

  “With that girth, he’s probably slower than a cow in pattens.”

  Albert chuckled. “I hope you’re right.” The older man sobered. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Jonah lifted his fists up to his face and jabbed the air. “I’m ready to take him on.”

  A couple of other men had stepped up by then. They looked scrawny against the champion.

  “I’ll let The Bull dispatch them before I go in,” he decided.

  After agreeing to the few rules, the first fighter stripped off his coat, waistcoat and shirt. The referee bent down and made a long mark with chalk in the middle of the ring, dividing it in half. The two contenders positioned themselves toe-to-toe at the line.

  The crowd hooted and whistled.

  As Jonah had predicted, the fight didn’t last long. After only three rounds, the champion had knocked the first fighter down, and the man was unable to get back on his feet before the count of thirty was up. He was dragged off the field by his two seconds.

  The next fighter lasted only one round. Bruised, his lips bleeding, he limped off the ring, supported on either side by his men.

  “All right. Anyone else taking on The Bull? Or is he to remain our champion?” The referee shouted to the crowd.

  “This is it,” Jonah muttered in an aside to Albert. “Send up a prayer for me,” he added with a wink.

  “That I shall…never you fear.”

  Jonah stepped up to the ring. “I’ll challenge The Bull,” he said quietly to the referee, his eye traveling to the champion, who sneered back. He was missing one of his front teeth.

  “Knock him flat, Bull! One round will finish him!” came the jeers.

  The referee ignored them. “All right, who are your seconds?”

  Jonah introduced them. Albert had brought along a friend.

  “All right, strip and step into the ring,” the referee instructed Jonah, eyeing him. “How much do you weigh?”

  “Twelve stone, last time I knew,” he replied.

  “Ye’ll need every bit of it against The Bull!” a man near the ropes shouted and everyone laughed.

  Albert helped him off with his good coat and waistcoat. Jonah grimaced, thinking what Miss Hathaway would say if she could see the garments now. Never fear, he would take care the clothes she and her brother had paid for didn’t get soiled. He untied his cravat and pulled the fine lawn shirt over his head and handed them to Albert.

  Despite the sun, the air felt cool on his bare skin. He’d soon be wiping the sweat off his brow, he knew. If he lasted that long, he reminded himself, with another look at his opponent.

  He’d just have to be quicker and nimbler. If the man succeeded in wrestling him to the ground, he’d be overpowered. Jonah drew in a deep breath and walked toward the center of the ring. The Bull loomed before him like a brick tower. Jonah came to a standstill, the toe of his shoe lined up with the chalk in the dirt. His opponent placed his dusty shoe opposite his.

  At the referee’s word, the two men brought their fists high in the air in front of them. At the clang of the bell the first round began.

  Jonah felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that he hadn’t experienced in some time. It was the excitement of being in control of a situation—not knowing how it would turn out, whether for or against him, but having a good shot at victory if he kept his head.

  He danced around The Bull, feinting and retreating, then blocked a left jab with his arm and immediately brought his right fist up to the man’s stomach. His fist hit a wall of iron. The man recovered and swung his fist up to Jonah’s face. Jonah stepped back just in time.

  The two continued circling and jabbing at each other but no hit was made.

  “What’s the matter, Bull,” a voice shouted, “Kendall too quick for you?”

  The Bull roared and charged at Jonah, who swerved away just in time, sending his opponent running all the way into the ropes. The crowd hooted and whistled.

  The Bull bounced back and righted himself. When he turned around, Jonah read hatred and a desire for revenge in his bloodshot eyes. If the man’s temper was hot, it could work to Jonah’s advantage, as long as he himself remained cool and in control. He knew he’d have to wear his opponent out—and stay out of his way until he succeeded.

  Once more, they danced around each other, jabbing, sometimes connecting, more often not. Jonah landed a punch to the man’s jaw. He felt the impact all the way up to his elbow. The Bull staggered backward but didn’t fall. He brought his right fist and struck Jonah in the ribs. Jonah bent over double, the breath knocked out of him.

  Before Jonah could right himself, The Bull grabbed him around the waist with his two arms and squeezed. Jonah locked his arms around The Bull’s thick neck, remaining in their clinch for what seemed forever.

  The crowd chanted their names in a fever pitch of excitement. “Throw him down! Throw Kendall down!” they yelled.

  Jonah could feel his hold weakening against the other man’s superior strength. He had to find a way to break loose and not fall. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his head hard upward. He heard the “ooph” of the man’s expelled breath as his head connected with The Bull’s chin. Jonah took advantage of his loosened hold to break away. He brought a hard right to the man’s temple, then a rapid left hook to his jaw. Giving the man no time to recover, Jonah swung another punch into his neck. The Bull staggered backward.

  Jonah put his hands together and brought his arms down hard against the man’s neck again, felling him completely.

  Deafening roars exploded from the crowd. “The Bull is down!”

  The referee stood over him. “One!…two!…three!”

  The large man gripped the dusty ground and slowly lifted himself to his hands and knees.

  “Seven!…eight!…nine!”

  Jonah didn’t wait to see more as Albert hu
stled him over to his side of the ring. The two men sponged him off and gave him an orange to suck on for energy.

  “You’re doing good. Just keep it up. You were right, the man’s slower than a three-legged troll,” Albert told him.

  Jonah grunted, saving his breath for the ring.

  “Twenty-two!…twenty-three!…” the referee’s count echoed in the air.

  “You’d better get back up to the mark,” Albert advised him.

  He nodded and returned to the center of the ring.

  The second-round bell clanged. Jonah noticed a distinct slowing in The Bull’s movements but knew he could be tricking him. They jabbed at each other some more, each one managing to land a punch here and there. Once again his opponent locked his arms around Jonah, knocking the wind out of him. This time giving Jonah no chance to butt his head into him, The Bull swung him down to the ground. Jonah landed with a heavy thud, his bare back scraping the dirt.

  He heard the counting begin above him. He had to stand although every bone in his back felt jolted. He twisted himself around and managed to get on all fours.

  “He’s down! Kendall’s down!” came all around him.

  They thought he was finished. With a deep, shuddering breath, Jonah stood to his knees.

  “Come on, William!” Albert shouted from behind him. “Come on, you can do it! Stand up, man!”

  He finally dragged himself up. He could feel blood running down one side of his face. Once again, Albert led him off to his corner to sponge him off quickly.

  “Up to the mark!” the referee shouted, pointing to the new line he’d drawn in the dirt.

  The two men squared off once again. “Had enough, little man?” The Bull jeered at him, his broad face mottled with dirt and sweat.

  Jonah bared his teeth. “Come on and find out, unless you’re as slow-witted as you are slow-footed.”

  “You’re finished,” The Bull spit.

  “We’ll see about that.” Jonah brought his fists up to his face in preparation for the next round.

  Florence looked up from her sewing as Mrs. Nichols approached her chair. “Yes?” she said with a smile.

  The older woman knotted her hands in her apron.

  Florence laid her mending on her lap. “Elizabeth, is something the matter?”

  “No, miss. Not precisely, that is. I just…well, I thought you should know, that is, before Betsy and I left, you see.”

  “Leave? Where are you going?”

  “Oh, I’ve left everything tidy in the kitchen. I’ll be back before supper.”

  “That’s all right.” Florence smiled. “Is there something special you’ve arranged, an outing on this fine day?”

  “Not precisely,” she repeated. “You see, Albert has taken Mr. Kendall…to the fields yonder…by the Basin.” Her voice ended in a mumble.

  Florence began to feel a twinge of alarm. “What are you talking about? I thought they were going to the market over in Wembley.”

  Mrs. Nichols looked down at her hands, visibly uncomfortable. “I told Albert to tell you the truth.”

  Florence set aside her sewing on the table beside her and sat straight. “You’d better tell me all.” Quinn must be at the bottom of some mischief, she was sure of it.

  “It’s the fight, you see. Mr. Nichols has agreed to be Mr. Kendall’s second today on the field…” Her voice dwindled off.

  “A fight?” She thought back, trying to remember when she’d heard of a fight.

  The other woman bit her lip and nodded. “Oh, dear, I knew it was wrong to keep it from you.”

  Florence waited, her lips pinched.

  Mrs. Nichols wrung her hands harder in her apron. “I told Albert he should be no part of it. But he thought he’d better accompany Mr. Kendall, keep an eye on him, you know, rather than have him go off on his own. He was determined to go, you see…Anyway, I was getting ready to go, Betsy and me both, to see how things have turned out.” She shook her head. “I sure hope he hasn’t hurt himself.”

  “What sort of a fight?” She couldn’t believe how steady her voice sounded when inwardly she was seething.

  “A boxing match,” she said, looking down and speaking in a low tone as if saying the words quietly would soften their significance.

  “A prizefight.” She felt her anger grow into a cold, hard knot in her chest. “You’d better come with me to Mr. Damien and tell him everything.”

  “Well, I would, but I’m afraid we haven’t much time…if we’re to see the match.”

  She stood, her alarm growing. What if Quinn were recognized? “Let us inform Damien and then be on our way. You said the Basin? That’s about a mile up the road. You can explain on the way.”

  She knocked on the door to her brother’s workshop. At his voice, she entered. “I believe Mr. Kendall has decided to oppose a champion in a prizefight this afternoon.”

  Damien looked up from the dismantled clock in front of him. “What’s that?”

  She spread out the wrinkled notice Mrs. Nichols had taken out of her apron pocket. “Albert is acting as his second.”

  Damien frowned. “It looks dangerous.”

  She nodded. “In more ways than one,” she added with a significant look. If Quinn had his hide beaten, it would serve him right. If someone among the riffraff recognized him, he’d get more than his hide beaten. She’d wring his neck before he’d ever have a chance to have the noose do it for him.

  Damien rose from the table. “We’d better see what it’s all about. Thankfully, it’s in a field just up the road.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Florence could hear the shouts of the crowd long before they arrived at the wide field. She picked up her skirts to quicken her pace, then glanced at her brother, hoping he was able to keep up with them.

  As if reading her mind, he shook his head and continued on, using his walking stick to maneuver through the trampled grass.

  “Do you think he’ll win?” Betsy asked her mother. “William’s so strong. I can’t imagine he’ll get knocked down once.”

  Florence stared at her. William? The chit was calling Quinn by his first name? The news deepened her exasperation at the man.

  Damien turned to the girl. “He’s up against a pretty fierce opponent if the poster is to be believed. The Bull sounds like an undefeated champion.”

  “Oh, I hope he’s not hurt, not our William. He’s so jolly and nice.”

  Jolly and nice? Florence had seen precious little of that side of Quinn. But she remembered the times she’d come upon the foursome, laughing and talking. Those were the only times she’d been made to feel out of place in her own kitchen. She’d always felt completely at ease with Mr. and Mrs. Nichols, even Betsy, whom she’d taken in hand and taught many things, including reading and sewing. Just because she was hopeless at finer embroidery, it hadn’t been for lack of teaching.

  When had she started to feel unsure of herself each time Quinn sat with the Nicholses in the kitchen?

  Florence forgot her annoyance at Betsy as soon as they reached the fringes of the noisy crowd. She craned her neck but could see nothing over the people’s heads. A sudden chorus of shouts told her something had just happened in the ring.

  Without waiting for Damien to make a way for her, she began squeezing through the wall of bodies in front of her. “Excuse me, please. Make way, please.”

  A burly man glared at her. “Hey, what d’ye think ye’r doin’, pushin’ yer way through, like ye own the place!” His breath reeked of liquor, his cheeks were covered with thick stubble.

  She stared right back at him. “I’m with a clergyman. If you don’t want us to summon the constable, you’d better make way for us.”

  With an oath, he moved enough to let her pass. She elbowed and pushed her way through the press. Angry looks and words followed in their wake, until people, seeing Damien’s wooden leg, grudgingly let them through.

  Florence was gasping for air when they f
inally emerged at the edge of the roped-off ring, the smell of unwashed bodies almost as bad as those at Newgate.

  At the sight in front of her, everything else faded. How could one of these men be Quinn? Rivulets of blood and sweat ran down their battered faces and chests.

  Florence had never before witnessed a boxing match. The reality was more gruesome than she’d imagined. She covered her mouth with her hands as the man called The Bull, who looked half a head taller than Quinn and broader in the shoulder, landed a punch to Quinn’s jaw. The thud resounded over the cheers. Florence bit her lip to keep from crying out as Quinn staggered backward a few paces but she could see he was barely standing.

  How long had they been at it?

  By now, both men looked like bloodied beasts as they lunged at each other with incoherent grunts. They held their fists up high, their knuckles visibly raw.

  “What round are they on?” Damien had the presence of mind to ask a bystander.

  The man turned incredulous eyes on them. “It’s the eighth round! Can you believe it?”

  “Impossible!” her brother said, the concern in his eyes deepening.

  The man chortled. “They’re as stubborn as bears. Neither one wants to give in though they’ve both fallen to the ground so we thought they’d never be up again.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But they keep getting up.”

  Florence could hardly bear to watch yet was helpless to look away. She sucked in her breath each time a fist connected with flesh. How could men do something so barbaric? They roared like animals on a charge, and Florence was reminded of Quinn as the defiant prisoner on the gallows. Had he learned nothing of more civilized behavior while living with them?

  Tearing her gaze from Quinn, she scanned the area until she spotted Albert at the opposite end of the ring. He didn’t see them, too intent on encouraging Quinn with his shouts. How could dear Albert have agreed to this madness?

  At the gasp from the crowd, her attention swung back to the center of the ring. The Bull had knocked Quinn flat. She wanted to cover her eyes. Quinn looked lifeless. Had the other man killed him? Oh, Lord, no! Would his life be ended this day? Her heart seemed to stop as she waited to see if he would rise.