Episode 7: A Boxing Match in Covent Garden

Season 1: The World Unseen

London

February 1900

Herbert Draper left the changing room reek of sweat and liniments behind, and followed his trainer along the dark corridor and into the brightly lit hall, panting like a horse before the off. He had been told there were more than a thousand seats in this amphitheatre, and as he looked around its four sides, he could see that most of them were occupied. But this was unlike any arena he had fought in before. The gentlemen of the National Sporting Club sat in evening dress, many of them puffing on cigars, all of them a little red-faced and merry after dinner, none of them cheering or jeering the fighters.

The place was an oven, a windowless basement heated by radiators and the emanations of hundreds of well-fed bodies. Herbert wiped the sweat from his face onto the towel round his shoulders, and glanced up at the ring, where his opponent was waiting.

A seventeen-year-old Jew, Isaac Silver, the new Daniel Mendoza, they said. He was pale, fearsome, immense. The paleness not of fear, but of a finely tuned athlete. Herbert noticed a blue Star of David sewn into his breeches. He knew the lad had six inches and ten pounds on him. Well, Bertie boy, he said to himself, you’re twelve years older than him, so use your brain and your experience. And if this is the one that knocks you down so you don’t get up again, so be it. No shame in that.

Yes, this venue was different alright. Since his return from army service in India, Herbert had fought in East End backrooms, country fairgrounds, and gypsy encampments. Bare-knuckle fights, where the Marquess of Queensbury’s rules didn’t apply, and you had to wrestle and box. Some punters might get irate if a fighter was especially dirty, but most of them enjoyed a bit of gouging and head butting. It was all part of the game.

But not here in the National Sporting Club, England’s premier boxing institution, housed in a grand building on King Street, patronized by aristocrats, tycoons, and other gentlemen. These fellows expected a fair fight, Queensbury and all, and treated the spectacle with the discernment they applied to the concert hall or theatre. They told themselves they were aesthetes as well as sportsmen.

It was Tommy Sutton, the trainer who spotted Herbert fighting for shillings at Barnet fair and realized he was Doughty Draper, once the British army’s all-India champion, who had told him there were more lucrative ways to earn a living as a fighter. No more boxing for shillings, lad, you’ll do it for guineas now. There followed a few bouts at reputable venues around London and the Home Counties, from which Herbert emerged undefeated and with a new nickname, the Shropshire Scourge.

And now he was fighting at the National Sporting Club. Herbert drew some pride from this. Though boxing, for him, was about more than pride. It was a means to earn a living and a way, via the brutal punishment of the ring, to suffer for his sins. And perhaps one day to fully atone. For he had sinned, there was no escaping it.

Most of the fighters he had met so far on his return to England were brawlers or workhorses, too stupid or too clumsy to practise the true art and science of boxing. Any self-respecting boxer wants a proper contest, and so do the punters. It was a balancing act. He welcomed their fists and the pain they brought, but he wouldn’t let them knock him down. They weren’t worthy of it. Let them cut and bruise me, let them split my lip and blacken my eye, but let me remain standing for another bout. The point was the pain, and he hadn’t suffered nearly enough of it yet.

‘Remember what I said,’ Tommy murmured into his ear at the ringside. ‘Go easy at first. Don’t punch yourself out in the first two rounds. He won’t start with any fireworks. He’ll probe you first, feel you out, stalk you like a big cat. But don’t drop your guard. If he sees an opening, he’ll take it.’

Tommy slapped him on the back. Herbert handed him his towel and ducked through the ropes into the ring. He looked around the amphitheatre again and saw rows of faces, expectant and excited. Boxing for this crowd was an after-dinner entertainment and many of them would have wagers on the outcome.

The MC, a rotund man in evening dress, came into the ring to announce the fighters. The conversational murmur heightened, then fell away.

‘Welcome my lords and gentlemen. Tonight’s bout features Isaac Silver, also known as the Whitechapel Whirlwind, the undefeated champion boxer of London and the South in the red corner. And in the blue corner, Herbert Draper, onetime all-India champion, and undefeated since his return to England, also known as the Shropshire Scourge. The contest will comprise eight rounds, each of three minutes, and will be conducted under the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules. Enjoy the bout, gentlemen.’

The spectators’ murmuring swelled again, and there were a few cries of ‘Good luck, lads’.

The referee, a pinched-looking man as thin as a pipe cleaner, called the fighters together in the middle of the ring.

Herbert looked up into the soulful eyes of Isaac Silver. Everyone said he was a fair fighter, a real sportsman, a man of placid temperament outside the ring, who liked nothing more than playing Yiddish folk tunes on his violin when he wasn’t boxing. No mercy, Herbert thought. Show me no mercy, young Isaac.

‘Now, lads,’ said the referee. ‘You know the rules. No butting, no biting, no gouging, nothing below the belt, or any of the other coward’s stuff. I want a good clean fight and may the best man win.’

Hebert and Silver nodded and touched gloves.

‘Now’ said the referee. ‘Back to your corners and wait for the bell.’

Tommy was waiting with a water bottle and a jar of petroleum jelly. Herbert took a mouthful of water, spat it into the bucket, and then let Tommy touch up the grease on his face.

The bell rang for the first round. The murmur in the amphitheatre intensified. Isaac Silver made three big strides and took command of the centre of the ring. Herbert, slower off the mark, came forward and circled him warily.

After a minute or two of cautious jabbing and feinting between the two, Herbert went in closer. He was impatient to land a punch on the other man. Too impatient. Too slow. He felt a crunching blow on the side of his head. Dazed but still standing, he clinched Silver. He could smell the other man’s sour sweat, the horseradish on his breath, the pomade in his tight black curls. But his grip was loose, enabling Silver to launch a series of body blows that winded him so much that he felt he was drowning.

The bell sounded, and Herbert returned to his corner. Tommy’s face was taut with concern, though he busied himself with towelling Herbert, reapplying petroleum jelly, and giving him water.

‘Patience now, Bertie. The big man will tire, but not yet. Be clever, don’t be reckless,’ Tommy said hopefully.

The bell rang for the second round. Silver was moving more now, quicker on his feet, quicker with his hands, as if he had sized up his opponent and had no fear of him. He landed three quick punches on Herbert’s face, almost knocking him over. They clinched and exchanged body blows. Herbert’s seemed to bounce off Silver like peas from a peashooter. Silver’s were like great wrecking balls, shaking him to his core.

Herbert was grateful for the bell. He did his best to walk back to his corner with his head high. His legs felt as weak as water, and there was a distinct pain in one of his kidneys. Even though he welcomed the punishment, he never actually enjoyed the pain. Herbert Draper was no masochist. And he had yet to land a clean punch on Silver, so strong were the big man’s defences, speed, and counter-punching.

Tommy was telling him something while he smeared more grease on his face, but Herbert rarely listened to his trainer during a fight. Instead, he did what he usually did between rounds, which was to look around the crowd to see if anyone reminded him of Martha or little Wilf. This deliberate courting of painful memories was part of the punishment, a psychological torture comparable to the physical torture of the ring.

Then he remembered that this was a gentlemen’s club. There would be no lookalikes or reminders in this audience. And then Herbert glanced down to the ringside seats by his corner, and saw a man sitting twenty yards away, looking straight back at him.

Herbert would have known that cool, appraising look anywhere. He certainly knew it here. Well, I’ll be blowed, he thought, it’s the Major. Fitting when you think about it. If it wasn’t for him, then…

He recalled the bitterness — no, the hatred — he had nursed towards Major Arthur Lock. Had it gone? He was sure only that most of it was turned in on himself now. After all, the major hadn’t made him volunteer for that Tibet expedition — he had gone of his own free will. He had passed up the chance to spend his leave with his wife and child, and gone off gallivanting to Tibet instead, for the adventure of it. And so his wife and child gone off on another kind of adventure. He had received the letter from his sister, informing him that Martha and Wilf were dead of typhus, when the expedition returned to Assam.

I suppose the major’s come to see what I’ve made of myself since I left the army, Herbert thought. Well, let him look. I don’t care.

The bell rang.

‘Wake up, Bertie, I don’t know what gets into you between rounds. Look lively now,’ Tommy said, pushing him towards the centre of the ring.

Silver was there waiting for him and started even quicker this time, hunting Herbert down wherever he went, however much he backed off. Silver got him onto the ropes each time and landed more of the body blows that sent great tremors through Herbert’s internal organs.

And then, near the end of the round, Herbert saw an opening. He sent a right hook at Silver, failing to connect cleanly. Silver’s response was an uppercut, which landed directly on Herbert’s chin and almost lifted him off the canvas. Then a left hook, which sent him flailing onto the deck.

The referee’s count had reached five when the bell rang. Herbert was back on his feet at eight and returned to his corner. He could feel his left eye closing and could taste blood in his mouth. He looked down and saw his chest was smeared with crimson.

Dazed and barely able to think, he leaned on the ropes. Tommy examined his face with the expression of a surgeon about to deliver some devastating news.

Then he said, ‘Next time he hits you in the head, go down and stay down. This is a mismatch.’

Herbert shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I can’t chuck it in after four rounds. You know as well as I do, I’ll never get another fight here if I do.’

He wanted to take as much punishment as he could before the inevitable knock-out.

Tommy said nothing, but did his best to stem the flow of blood above that left eye.

Herbert gestured for a swig from the water bottle. He had heard men say they wanted to die to be with their loved ones. But Herbert didn’t want to die yet. This is for you, Martha, and you, little Wilf, he thought. The more punishment I get in this world, the more likely it is I’ll join you in the next. Herbert had no idea whether his theology was sound. He had never discussed it with a clergyman. But it made sense to him and he was sure that it made sense to the big man upstairs. It’s between me and you, God, and that’s all that matters.

‘What the devil are you smiling at, Bertie?’ Tommy said.

The bell rang for the fourth round. Herbert Draper, the Shropshire Scourge, dazed, bleeding, hurting all over, and glad of it, stepped out to take whatever the Whitechapel Whirlwind could dish out to him.

Silver caught him early and often, blows to the head and the body which had him clinching when he could and leaning on the ropes when he couldn’t. Somehow, he kept upright. He wasn’t going to make it easy for the big lad.

‘Go on, you big Jewish bastard, put me down if you can,’ he said, wheezing, desperately gulping in air.

But Isaac Silver took a step back and said to the referee. ‘The man’s gone. Aren’t you going to stop it? This isn’t a fight anymore, it’s a beating.’

There was such concern in his fellow fighter’s voice that Herbert, if he had been that sort of man, would have kissed him there and then.

Instead he said, ‘What are you afraid of, you great big jessie?’

‘Come on, Issac. Finish him off,’ the referee said. ‘The gentlemen won’t be happy if I stop the fight now. They want to see a knock-out.’

Herbert lowered his guard and snarled at Silver. ‘You heard him. Finish me —’

He saw the punch coming and was glad of it. He blacked out just before he hit the canvas.

* * *

Herbert came to. His head was throbbing and he could still taste blood in his mouth. In a moment, he was conscious of the pains in the rest of him — every muscle in his upper body was screaming or groaning. He reminded himself this was what he wanted. Pain and punishment. His left eye had closed to a slit. He opened the other eye and tried to focus on his surroundings. There was light, then a white wall, and several dark figures standing over him.

‘Where am I?’ he said, hearing the words uttered in a croak he assumed was his.

‘You’re in the changing room, Bertie. We had to carry you out.’

Herbert recognized the voice. Tommy.

‘You lost. You got knocked out,’ Tommy added needlessly.

Herbert closed his good eye. He heard another voice.

‘Will he be alright?’

‘Yes, son. He’ll be alright,’ Tommy said.

‘Who’s that?’ Herbert said.

‘It’s Isaac Silver, Bertie. He’s come to check he hasn’t killed you.’ Tommy laughed his wheezy laugh.

Herbert opened his eye again. Isaac must have been the biggest of what he could see now were three men standing by him. He lifted his right arm with difficulty.

‘Shake hands, lad. No hard feelings. You beat me fair and square. And I’m sorry I called you a big Jewish bastard. No offence intended towards your ancestry.’

Isaac Silver gripped Herbert’s hand and shook it so vigorously that streaks of pain shot up his arm.

‘None taken, Mr Draper,’ he said.

He’s a good lad, Herbert thought, before falling back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Herbert felt someone gently shaking his shoulder, though not gently enough to prevent little eruptions of agony in the vicinity.

‘Bertie, wake up, my boy. We have to go now.’

Herbert opened his eye. There was Tommy again, and someone else behind him.

‘Here, take a nip or two of brandy, and then we’ll scarper. Your old comrade is going to help me get you back to your lodgings. And he’s going to get a doctor in to take a proper look at you.’

Old comrade? Herbert looked towards the other man. Oh, it was him. Major Arthur Lock, formerly of the King's Shropshire Light Infantry. As was Sergeant Herbert Draper. He was too tired and in too much pain to consider his feelings towards Lock at that moment.

It wasn’t until later, much later, back at his lodgings, after they had fed him with buttered toast, tea, and more brandy, after Tommy had left them, that Lock spoke to him.

‘I expect you’re surprised to see me, Sergeant Draper,’ Lock said.

Herbert looked at the tall man seated at his bedside from out of his good eye. He had the same lean features, the same impassive look. Coolness under fire, that was what they all said about Major Arthur Lock.

Have I really stopped hating him? Herbert wondered.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to check on your welfare. After all that happened, I thought you might need a friend.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But in recent weeks, my motivation has altered somewhat. Of course, I’m still concerned about your welfare, especially after what I saw tonight. But there’s something else. I need your help, Draper. I need a man I can rely on and I thought of you immediately.’

’Sir?’

What on earth is this about? Draper wondered woozily.

‘I must let you rest now. I’ll come back tomorrow. The doctor wants to see you again before he goes.’

’Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘You said you need my help?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can I help a man like you?’

‘We’ll talk tomorrow, Draper, I promise.’

Herbert, with a burst of energy that surprised him and, judging by his expression, surprised Lock too, grabbed the other man’s wrist.

‘You’ve always been straight with me, Major. Don’t beat about the bush now.’

Lock frowned. ‘Very well, then. The long and the short of it is that I want you to help me break into a house in Mayfair.

Herbert wondered if this was all a hallucination. Would Lock now suddenly turn into a clown, make a gurning face, and then tumble around the room? He began to laugh at the image, quietly at first, and then with such force that it made the pains in his body much, much worse.

Then Lock, after frowning in puzzlement, began to laugh too.