Fighting Alaska (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  “Ah.”

  “A month later, I saw him fighting again. I didn’t stick around for the whole fight. I didn’t want to see him after.” Jean stared at Billy. “I don’t care to end up in a horse stall leaving bloody hay behind me the next morning.”

  “I never met another knuckle buster who talked or thought quite the way you do,” Billy said. “But no one wants to end his days in a horse stall, Johnny.”

  Jean picked up his fork. His fingers and knuckles hurt, his hands were stiff. “I’m going to finish this fine meal, then I’m heading back to bed.”

  Billy nodded acceptance, started for the door. “I’ll go to the bank.”

  Jean gazed at his plate. At the red juices puddled around the remains of his steak. At the fork that slowly slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor.

  ROUND 3

  Even before he was seated in the dining room of San Francisco’s Hotel Carlton, Jean felt out of place, as if he were being stared at and identified as an intruder into a setting beyond his station. The entire establishment displayed the finest décor of the Gilded Age, and Jean’s best suit of clothes hardly matched the custom-tailored outfits worn by the other diners. But as he glanced around, he saw no one giving him any more attention than any other person in the establishment.

  He moved with fluid grace into his seat. The pains that had shrouded him the day after his fight with the kid had evaporated by the time he arrived in San Francisco. Likewise, the bruises that had blossomed across his torso and arms had faded to pale brown and yellow like flowers in the autumn. He felt himself again.

  Within moments Pete Lally had joined Jean. He sat across the table and its expanse of white linen.

  Jean had known Pete for years. He was three years older than Jean, and his crooked nose and drooping eyelid gave testimony to his own time in the fight game. Pete had mentored Jean in the early days. In the beginning the younger battler known as Johnny Pow knew little science and technique and relied on slashing powerhouse blows to overwhelm his opponents.

  Pete had spotted him during a bout and had seen potential. He taught Jean footwork and finesse, explained breathing and timing. The two had partnered, and Pete – acknowledging Jean’s growing skills – gave up the physical role of the business and became the promoter and money man for the younger fighter.

  “Jean, it’s grand to see ya.” Pete was the only person who called him by his true name instead of John or Johnny.

  Jean gestured at their surroundings. “Posh.”

  Pete leaned back. “A wager paid off handsomely a few days ago. I took it for a great sign, and this seemed the right setting for us to finally leave the fight game.”

  Jean’s heart skipped a beat. He could feel his face turn stony. “No foolishness, Pete.”

  “None intended. Where did Billy finally track you down with my message?”

  Jean looked down at his napkin. “The Texas panhandle. I was bouncing rowdies in a bar.”

  Pete nodded. “That’s a way out of boxing, but it’s hardly a way of living easy.”

  Jean said nothing. This conversation brought back to him the fight he’d described to Billy Basham. As he’d recounted the experience, he hadn’t told Billy some of what he’d witnessed that night: The crowd’s yammering mixed with the wavering light and the dust kicked up by the fighters’ feet had formed some sort of sensory bubble – fragile and suspended in time – that enclosed Jean’s awareness. Even now, thinking back, he really couldn’t explain everything he’d seen and felt during that bout.

  What had looked like a grudge match became, for Jean, a vision of two men trying to find something – each trying to pound out from the other some essential thing he was missing.

  And they both were missing the same thing.

  Jean had felt a cold shock clutch the back of his neck. Years before their births, these men had been cut loose from their own history by the slave trade. Their lives had been chained to other men’s destinies. Despite Emancipation, they still were cut adrift from what they were or thought they should be, from where they wanted to belong.

  Every thumping blow that knocked sweat into the air was meant to attack the rage each man saw on the other’s face – the rage each knew reflected his own. Every swing of a knotted arm was an attempt to break the past. Each blocked fist hammering slick, muscled flesh was a mallet trying to reshape the present against the anvil of history into something different.

  The bubble in Jean’s consciousness had burst as a great shout jumped from the throats of the crowd. Jean had watched a few moments more, then turned away.

  Later, when he had discovered the boxer in the stable, Jean’s lifted lamp showed the results of the battle: great bruises and swellings across the man’s tight, corded torso. The light playing over the fighter’s purpled and reddened skin had put an image of rushing storm clouds in Jean’s mind. Storms that matched the rage he’d seen in the freedmen’s faces during the bout.

  It was a rage Jean recognized, for he knew a similar anger whose violet threads ran through his own blood. He knew well how it could poison his mood for days or make his heart rush with sudden desperation.

  Pete spoke again, “Are you sure you want to leave the fight, Jean? It’s all you’ve done for years.”

  The fighter blew air through his lips in a gust. “I’m too old for this, Pete. We both know men who died by the time they were forty. I’m closing in on that. And all the fighters now are younger.”

  “You’re better than all or most of those young rascals. You’re like forged steel – each trip to the fire and hammer makes you harder.”

  Jean scowled. “Are you trying to talk me out of what you say you called me here to celebrate?”

  “No, no.” Pete raised his hands, a conciliatory gesture, and smiled.

  “We both want out of this bruising world, Jean. But the way we’ve been going, we’ll never end up like that fellow.” He pointed across the room. Sitting alone at a corner table was a man with wavy hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, both silver in color. His attire was faultless.

  Jean compared the man to the other diners. Most people in the room exhibited the well-fed stoutness of prosperity. But the man Pete singled out had a bearing different from these others. Perhaps he had a military background, for his back was straight and his movements crisp. The expression on his ruggedly handsome face suggested this fellow had been – and might still be – a man of action.

  “Yes?” Jean asked.

  “The owner of this extravagant establishment. He lives here at the Carlton. And he’s known to live well.”

  Jean watched a wizened Chinaman flit about the hotelier’s table, delivering newspapers and telegrams. He brought his gaze back to Pete as his companion tamped the linen surface of the table with his index fingers. “We have the opportunity to get out of the game, Jean. We might end up supping fine wines every meal, squiring lovely young ladies to the opera, or owning a majestic hotel. But if we pass it up, we’ll never look as satisfied as that man in the corner.”

  Jean noticed a passion in Pete’s voice he’d rarely heard. “What is it?”

  “Gold.”

  Jean frowned. “Stealing it?”

  “No, no, boyo. The Yukon. The big strike in Alaska.”

  Jean’s frown didn’t go away. There was a flare of excitement in his chest, but he distrusted it. He knew from stories he’d heard that following gold fever could be as disappointing as being taken in by a shell game.

  “The rush has already been going on a few years. There can’t be any claims left.”

  “There’s gold still to be had. The gold fields have expanded beyond the first strikes. Besides, we can take over a proven claim, work hard, and come home rich.”

  “You make this sound like a sure thing, Pete. We’re gamblers. We know there’s no sure thing.”

  Pete showed Jean his palms in a placating gesture. “A man I know – Tim Barlowe – known him from before I met you. He’s been plucking nuggets from his
claim like a farmer collecting eggs. He’s had enough. He’s back home, let me know his claim’s for sale.”

  “He’s tired of picking up gold? I don’t know any prospector who gets tired of getting rich.”

  “It’s his wife. Bad sick. He came home for – well, the end, I guess. I’ll admit I’ve not met many who value love over gold.”

  That hushed Jean for a moment. He stared at Pete. Pete stared back.

  Jean sighed. “This is a real, honest-to-God claim with real, wake-up-in-the-morning-and-it’s-still-there gold?”

  “It is.”

  “You really trust this man?”

  Pete’s mouth set in a particular way Jean had seen only a few times. “Like I trust you. With my life.”

  Jean was hushed again. He considered. He tried to consider – mostly his mind was blank, shocked by the sort of scheme he was actually thinking might be a possibility. He’d always earned money through the pain in his hands. Thinking of mining gold seemed as senseless to him as trying to fight smoke with his fists. Yet here he sat, listening to his oldest friend, weighing whether chasing a fool’s dream could be a reasonable decision.

  Jean rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He moved his hands and squeezed his temples. Then he picked up his glass and took a drink of the wine. The battle in his mind kept him from tasting it.

  Finally he turned his attention back to his companion. He stared at Pete for a minute or more. Then he said, “All right. You and I know fights. We know nothing about gold mining. But let’s say I’m willing to entertain this foolishness. What do we say to this Barlowe about buying his claim?”

  Pete’s mouth moved in a funny little way. He looked down at his hands on the table. His lips moved, but nothing came out at first. Then he said, “I’ve already bought it.”

  “What!”

  ROUND 4

  The next day, Jean was brooding aboard the Alaska Commercial Company’s steamship Excelsior.

  His head pounded from lack of sleep and from the ship’s swaying. He was used to moving quickly in the ring, but he couldn’t get accustomed to the way the deck rolled beneath his feet. He didn’t trust it. For a man who made his living by depending on his feet to move him in shifting directions without a moment’s notice, the ship’s motions underfoot didn’t feel natural.

  He had not slept because, as his head lay on a pillow, his mind had battled his decision to go along with Pete’s ridiculous plan, despite the little sense it made to Jean. Perhaps earning one’s wages by fighting other men while journeying about the country was not the wisest way to travel through one’s adult life, but it fit Jean’s circumstances. Tossing aside the anchor to one’s life – as dissatisfying as it might be – to follow such a foolish pipe dream simply didn’t fit within the lines Jean understood as the map that marked his life’s journey.

  He had made that point quite clearly – and loudly – to Pete once his partner confirmed he had, indeed, invested a great amount of money in a gold claim in far Alaska. Both men had grown quite vigorous in their arguments until a third party joined their table – the owner of the Hotel Carlton.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Pete and Jean had turned to see the stern visage glaring down at them. Neither had been aware of the man’s approach.

  “Sir,” Jean said. From professional habit, he had sized up the man standing by their table. He had a long, thick nose set among rough, but not coarse features. His broad shoulders and straight back matched the glint of steel in his gaze. The man’s posture, his poise, and his deliberate gestures suggested the hotelier could be a formidable opponent despite his age.

  The smile on the man’s face was icy. “I can appreciate a spirited discussion. But the vigor with which you are pursuing the points of your disagreement is disturbing your fellow diners. And when my customers are unhappy, my appreciation diminishes. Precipitously.”

  Jean had nodded. “I ask your pardon, sir.”

  Pete had agreed. “Yes, we do apologize. We do your fine establishment and this lovely meal a disservice.”

  The hotelier’s bushy eyebrows had risen from their knitted scowl as if the man weren’t sure whether to take Pete’s comments as sincere or as blarney, but left his thoughts unspoken. Instead, he turned his attention to Jean.

  “You, sir,” he’d said, “have the look of a pugilist.”

  His fists hidden by the draped apron of the table cloth, Jean had knotted his napkin. “Yes, I am.”

  “It is a fine sport,” the man had said. “A difficult, at times brutal profession. But an honorable endeavor for some men. I have enjoyed my own occasions to exercise lessons I learned both before and after the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules became common.” The hotelier had then tapped the end of his right index finger firmly on the tabletop. “I prefer not to see a demonstration of those skills within the confines of my dining room.” His smile lifted one pointed wing of his mustache. “Particularly between friends.”

  Jean had been surprised to feel a smile on his own face. “You have no need to worry, sir.”

  “Fine.” The man had taken a step back from the table, but he didn’t leave. “Forgive me for intruding into your discussion, but as I am, in an arguable fashion, your host, and a host’s expected role is to participate in his guests’ entertainments, please allow me this. I have heard – everyone in the room has heard – your complaints regarding your current situations.

  “The brutalities of the Alaskan gold fields can be the equal of those you encounter as a pugilist. I can safely say they may also be greater. But the rewards may be remarkable, and may far outstrip your payouts from a boxing match in a hay barn or social club. I have my own investments in Alaskan prospecting ventures, and I have been handsomely rewarded. Allow me to suggest your options for seeking a profitable exit from your current career may be few. But a change of path and some hard work may prove…beneficial.”

  He had bowed. “Gentlemen, please enjoy your meal. Quietly.” With that, the hotelier had left the room.

  The sounds of dining had slowly resumed around Jean and Pete. The two had glared at one another for several moments. Then Pete had smiled and refilled their glasses from the wine bottle. “Jean, I have known you many years. You are my friend like no other man alive. I make these plans not just to please some fancy of my own. I’m doing this for both of us.”

  Jean had felt the scowl release his face from its grip. But his expression didn’t turn into a smile. He had considered Pete’s words, then finally nodded. “All right.”

  They had finished their meal and the wine. And had followed the meal by sharing another bottle of wine for good measure.

  So Jean’s head had another reason for pounding today.

  Adding to his irritation was the lurch in his belly he’d felt when the Excelsior had loosed the lines holding her connected to the wharf. Those shifting moments separating the steamship’s attachment to the land and its engines exerting directive force upon the water – the brief span of time the ship had been at the mercy of what Jean perceived as the capricious wallowing of the bay’s waters – had shocked the fighter’s mind with a sudden, unexpected, and visceral bolt of fear.

  Once his rational mind realized the Excelsior was underway, its engines pushing against the waves to the open sea, he recovered from the momentary dizziness that made him reach for the rail enclosing the deck. He considered and then understood what had happened in those seconds.

  Those moments the ship was adrift sparked the flash of unreasoning fear that left Jean’s knees weak. Adrift, unmoored, unanchored. In that state Jean was struck by the weight of his own history – a haymaker that left him vulnerable to his own memories.

  Memories of his mother’s stories. The tales of his family’s history – of his grandfather, a high-born chevalier driven from France in 1790, his birthright turned to ashes by the revolution. Of his attempts to rebuild his standing in the American frontier, founding a village in southern Ohio, seeking influence in New Orleans, and relocat
ing to Missouri to settle along the banks of the Mississippi River, and from there to attract other uprooted French citizens in a community named Nouvelle Bourbon. And there, the birthplace of a son, Jacques.

  The son, nourished by the flowing waters of the Mississippi, inherited his father’s wandering ways. After a time, Jacques settled in St. Louis. He took a wife. And there, in 1865, Jean was born.

  When the male heir to the St. Vrain misfortunes left home, he put his hand to this and that depending on where he found himself. He tried ranch work with the Wells Brothers on Beaver River in northeastern Kansas, until Joel Wells, in his kind way, told him, “Johnny, you’re a fine fellow, but you’re just not cut out to be a cowman. Your heart’s not in it.”

  And so he drifted, and his rambling took him to a job as a stage driver for a time, and then as an express agent. Jean had perched over a locked express box while a coach rumbled and swayed through blasting heat, tumultuous thunderstorms, and bitter snowfalls. Through the days and nights he clutched a Greener shotgun and watched, squinting against the dust or mud thrown up by the horses or mules in their traces.

  Ever moving, Jean had swamped saloons, mucked stalls, hauled freight – never in the same town, and never for very long. Like his grandfather, the chevalier he’d never met, Jean sought a place that would serve as an anchor and allow him to find a new history to replace the one his family had lost.

  Like the chevalier, Jean landed for a time in New Orleans. In the worst part of town, where the sailors caroused after stampeding from their floating homes, Jean worked as a bouncer in the saloon of a less-than-genteel brothel. One night, after man-handling a particularly raucous customer out the back door, Jean was approached by another patron. This man, named Bunyan, said he made his living on dry land, not the river. He further said he saw possibilities in Jean that would allow him more opportunities than wringing the necks of drunken sailors and wharf rats.

  And so began Jean’s career as a boxer.