The Gallant (22 page)

A second low blow, delivered deliberately, almost floored him, but somehow Michael kept his feet, both arms locked about Train’s massive shoulders to hold himself upright. Saliva trickled down his cheek as his opponent spat at him, but he avoided the big man’s lifted knee as Superintendent Delaney roared at them to break.

The bell sounded before they could obey, and Train sneered, as Michael relinquished his hold.

“I’ll take you next round! And by Gawd I’ll finish you!”

Jemmy said reproachfully, when Michael shakily regained his corner, “You let “im trick you, Michael! George Wittington told you ‘e was mean. You should’ve watched the swine.”

“He hit me low twice, Jem.” Michael gasped. His head back, he attempted to draw air into his lungs, waves of nausea sweeping over him. “What’s he in for, do you know?”

Wittington answered him. “Robbery with violence, Michael. They say as he just about killed a settler and his wife. They couldn’t prove rape ‘cause the poor woman wasn’t able to give evidence against him, but he got life, all the same. Don’t let him lick you, lad, for Lord’s sake-we don’t want his kind lording it here.” He held a water bottle to Michael’s parched lips.

“Just

William Stuart Long

try and hold him off next round, till you get your strength back.”

But Michael was in no mood for delay.

A slow anger was building up inside him, fueled by the tactics Train had employed. In none of his previous fights had he felt animosity toward an opponent; he had fought because he had been ordered to fight and, confident in his own physical strength and skill, had never done more than was necessary to win, without inflicting serious injury. Suddenly he was conscious of a savage determination to make Tobias Train pay, not only for the low blows and the spittle drying on his cheek, but also for what the lumbering giant had done to a nameless settler’s wife, who had been too sorely injured to testify against him.

He let the cool water trickle from his mouth and drew a long, deep breath, no longer caring what victory might cost him. Joshua Simmons’s high-pitched voice, screeching a derisive “Come on, Big Toby-let ‘im have it!” still further fired his smoldering rage. Let them find Ensign Bernard’s hidden pistol; even if Train’s fists were to cripple him and force him to postpone his escape attempt for days or even weeks, he did not care. Nothing mattered, save that he must beat the blackbrowed rapist into cowed, humiliating submission.

As he had done before, Train delayed his entry into the ring for several seconds after the bell had sounded, an ugly, contemptuous leer on his face and his great fists lowered in mocking invitation.

“Bloody Irish

gentleman

they say you are!” he taunted. “Bloody Irish traitor! Come on, Yer so.in” Honor-I’m goin’ to take you apart!”

Michael ignored the taunt and the invitation. He stepped back and then sideways, knowing instinctively how much leeway his ankle chain allowed him and affecting a reluctance to come to grips. Another backward step had Train yelling at him.

“Yellow, are you? Stand an’ fight, damn your eyes!”

Michael laughed and deftly sidestepped again.

His opponent lurched after him, to be brought to a staggering halt by his ankle chain, and two quick punches to the face almost brought him to his knees.

Now he, too, was angry, and for the next four rounds the battle became a savage one that had the spectators in

a frenzy, with even Delaney on his feet, shouting unintelligible encouragement.

Michael used all the skill at his

command, but he was taking cruel punishment, not only from the bigger man’s fists but from his knees and his bullet head, both of which were used to advantage whenever a chance presented itself. But Train had not yet managed to master the restriction imposed by his fetters, and more than once his rage overcame his caution. Twice he went down in the ninth round, but picked himself up, snarling like an animal, wild-eyed and spitting blood, to go in with his head and punching low. He continued punching after the bell sounded, and only Superintendent Delaney’s intervention sent him shambling back to his corner.

In his own, with Jemmy Roberts anxiously bending over him, Michael knew that his strength was failing. A red mist of pain floated in front of his eyes, and his legs seemed no longer under his control or, indeed, capable of sustaining his weight.

But he shook his head stubbornly to George Wittington’s suggestion that he throw in the towel.

“He has the beating of you, Michael,” Jemmy warned. “And Delaney ain’t goin’ to pull “im up for hittin” low-not when he’s got “is money on ‘im. You know he ain’t.”

He did know, Michael told himself grimly, but again he shook his head.

“I’m going on, Jem,” he insisted hoarsely.

“He’ll have to knock me out before I’ll quit.”

The fight continued, less savagely now, for both antagonists were nearing exhaustion, and Train sought to avoid punishment during the next four rounds, reverting to his initial defensive tactics but mindful of the restraining fetters. In the fifteenth round, Michael got through his guard and landed several punches-one a good right to the jaw-but the blows lacked power, and Train shrugged them off. He was breathing heavily, no longer wasting energy in muttered insults, and clearly losing heart.

In the last minute of the round, he stumbled and fell to his knees, staying there for as long as he could, while Michael stood back, as thankful as his opponent for the respite. But it was short-lived. The big man lumbered to his feet at the count of eight and came for him in a bull-like rush. As they closed, his left fist unclenched and opened, and a handful of dust, gathered from the ground, spread over Michael’s face in a blinding cloud.

Instinctively he raised both hands to his face and eyes, and Train hit him in a flurry of punches, which he felt painfully but could not see.

He went down heavily just as the bell sounded, and his opponent’s foot descended hard on his outstretched left arm. Then Train turned, grinning, and in obedience to the bell went back to his corner.

It had to be the end, Michael thought dully, as George Wittington mopped at his swollen, bloodshot eyes with a wet towel. He could take no more, if even a remote chance of putting his escape plan into action remained. Delaney would send him to the quarry gang if he lost-probably as soon as the loading of the government steamer Hastings

was completed-and he must either run within the next forty-eight hours or abandon any attempt to do so in the foreseeable future. And he had to recover the Adams pistol. He-

“Well, the bell just saved you, Wexford.” It was Delaney’s voice, and Michael squinted up at him, his vision still blurred. “You fought well, but Train has the beating of you. Best throw in the towel-there’s nothing to be gained by going on, is there?”

Had George Wittington or old Jemmy made the same suggestion, he would have agreed to it, Michael thought wearily. Indeed, a moment earlier he had been on the point of telling them that he had had enough, but … Delaney’s round red face floated indistinctly in front of his half-closed eyes, wearing a smirk of satisfaction because the outcome was obviously the one he wanted. He was not by any means the worst of the Port Arthur prison officials, Michael reminded himself. He could not hold a candle to Commandant Price, but, devil take him, Delaney had permitted Train to break all the rules so that he might rake in a sizable profit from his wager!

“No!” Michael swore softly and got to his feet. For all his legs had turned to jelly and he was swaying dangerously, he still towered over the stocky superintendent, and Delaney backed away from him in alarm.

“What in hell d’you mean? You-was

“I’m not throwing in the towel, Mr. Delaney,”

Michael rasped. “If it had been a fair fight and I’d been beaten by a better man, I would have given him best. But it wasn’t a fair fight, and you know it wasn’t. I’m going on!”

Anger was rekindled and it gave him strength. The bell sounded, and he went in like a madman, careless of what his opponent might do. His left arm was almost useless, but he punched and pounded with his right, taking the tiring Train by surprise. The big man retreated, stumbled over his leg chain, and Michael’s right caught him squarely on the point of the jaw.

He went down like a log and lay spread-eagled on the dusty ground, incapable of rising, his big body limp and his eyes closed. The spectators cheered themselves hoarse, clustering about Michael to offer their congratulations, even Haines and the unpleasant little Simmons among them, and Jemmy Roberts was beside himself, swearing and his eyes filled with emotional tears. At length, Tobias Train picked himself up and came shuffling over, to extend a grudging hand, and Superintendent Delaney followed after him, his smile one of genuine, if surprised, admiration.

“Well done, Big Michael,” he said

gruffly. “I didn’t think you could do it, but, darn it, you won! I’ll know better than to bet against you next time.”

The overseers were herding the convicts back to their barracks, and the kerosene lamps went out, one by one, leaving the er/while battleground in darkness, save for the table at which the clerks were still paying out on the wagers.

“Best call it a day, Michael,” George Wittington advised. He offered Michael his arm, slipping a towel over his shoulders. “I’ll give you a rubdown before you turn in-you’ll be stiff if I don’t.” He grinned at Jemmy, who was beside him. “I wonder if the commandant knows what goes on here? Let’s hope he don’t, for it was a great evening, and that was the best I ever saw you fight. You earned me a tidy fifteen shillings, but even if you hadn’t, I’d be pleased you beat that rogue Train.

You’ve got what it takes, Big Michael, and for all you’re wearing chains and I’m not anymore, I-damn it, I envy you!”

William Stuart Long

Would the younger-man still envy him, Michael wondered dully, when the arms of the semaphore were spelling out the news that he had absconded and when he was heading for Eaglehawk Neck, in felon’s garb, armed with a stolen pistol? Always supposing, of course, that his aching body could throw off the ill effects of the punishment he had taken at Train’s hands. It would take several days, he knew, but … the feeling had returned to his left arm, and propped up on his bunk was a water pitcher, which he knew from past experience would contain not water but rum. The reward from Delaney for his victory … He passed the pitcher to Wittington and said, smiling, “We’ll share this, after you’ve given me a rubdown, Mr. Wittington. It’s just one more little thing the commandant doesn’t know about, and by heaven, it’s a lot better than the fare they treat you to in solitary!”

It took two days to load the steamer Hastings.

Work started at 5:30 a.m. and continued until 6

p.m., with an hour’s break for dinner at midday.

Ordered light duties by Superintendent Delaney, Michael found himself detailed to check the timber as it was loaded onto the wheeled freight wagons that ran on the tramway from the lumberyard to the jetty.

Once a wagon had been loaded and the labor gang started to push it down the tracks, he was free and unsupervised until the next empty wagon was returned, for the process to be repeated. It seemed as good an opportunity as any to repossess himself of Ensign Bernard’s Adams pistol, since the men who normally worked in the yard were transferred to the task of loading and only the two who operated the steam engine-both old, good-conduct

prisoners-remained on the premises. And both, in the manner of old men, had seized on the chance to curl up beside their temporarily silent engine and sleep, paying him no heed.

Michael waited until he had seen three heavily laden wagons on their way, and then, careful to keep to the shadows lest one of the engineers should waken, he moved silently to the far end of the yard.

He had chosen his hiding place with much thought, wrapping the oiled handgun in a roll of sailcloth and placing it comst loaded-in the recess between two loosened bricks in the foundation of the outer wall. The lumberyard was seldom swept, and piles of sawdust littered the ground and rose in haphazard heaps along the full length of the wall. For this reason, it

William Stuart Long

was unlikely in the extreme that anyone would suspect the presence of the stolen weapon, unless they had seen him concealing it initially.

Confident in this knowledge, Michael dropped to his knees, searching for the loosened bricks behind their barrier of dust and dirt. He found them without difficulty, and after a swift glance over his shoulder to make sure that he was unobserved, he started to pry the bricks out of their setting. They came out easily enough, but the space behind them was empty-the precious Adams pistol, the key to his escape, was no longer there. Only a strip of sailcloth remained, evidently torn away by whoever had taken the weapon in order to make a less bulky package-a convict, then, Michael reasoned, sick with disappointment. Certainly a man faced with the necessity to conceal the pistol on his person …

He expelled his breath in a frustrated sigh, seeking to identify the man or men who had so unexpectedly thwarted his carefully laid escape plan. Haines and Simmons had been working with the lumberyard gang when he had hidden the pistol, but then so had fifty others, any one of whom might have watched him prying the loose bricks from the wall.

But … Michael frowned, remembering. Only Haines and Simmons had, with himself, been given a week’s solitary confinement. Only that pair of unprincipled rogues had returned to the Cascades at the same time as he had, the previous day … and Joshua Simmons was a sneak thief, who had been suspected, both here and on Norfolk Island, of stealing from his fellow prisoners. The chances were that he and Haines now had the precious pistol, and if they had, there was little doubt that they would use it. They-The rumble of wheels on the track heralded the return of the empty freight wagon, and swearing under his breath, Michael went to meet it. Inquiry of the men preparing to reload the wagon elicited the fact that Haines and Simmons were with the jetty gang, working in the