Redemption - Leon Uris [170]
“A Canadian Expeditionary Force of forty thousand has reached England.”
“Light Horse and other Cavalry will receive their horses in England or in Ireland or ARABIA.”
And variations thereof.
A camp town sprang up around the racetrack, along with sports and other recreation encouraged to alleviate boredom and the tension that always follows boredom. A string of new pubs was well attended. The Kiwis and Aussies faced off in mostly friendly competitions.
Kiwis had their go at boxing the Aussies’ pet kangaroos, and a fair few rugby matches kicked up clouds of dust on the grassless fields.
The best attended were the daily boxing matches, competitions to determine the champions of each weight class of the Expeditionary Force.
There was no doubt who was the heavyweight champion. Serjeant Baker, affectionately named Butcher Boy Baker, a tattooed giant weighing over seventeen stone and standing a bit over six feet and five inches. He had accrued every title through the Pacific and Asian commands to which his artillery unit was attached. There were no known or willing survivors to challenge him in this entire gathering.
Serjeant Baker and his entourage, therefore, put on daily challenge exhibitions, wagering on how long someone might last. His backers had to give enormous odds to find fresh fodder, but they were a greedy lot, and even laying fifteen to win one on their man, Baker never let them down.
At those odds there was a man or two a day willing to get into the ring to make his fortune, but they all met with uniform failure.
Rory and Johnny Tarbox were drawn inevitably to the delicious odds the Baker followers were giving. Each day they huddled ringside to study the man, but generally his victim was dispatched before the Butcher Boy gave away very many of his secrets.
Rory and Johnny observed closely to see if foul means were employed. Chester was sent up to him to shake his hands when his gloves were off in the event they had been dipped in plaster. Johnny snatched one of his gloves, but it was not sliced or nicked nor did it contain any metal objects. Rory got a taste of his water, straight gin, but no enhancing drugs. They all watched Baker’s corner men to see if they were slipping pepper on his gloves or any other foreign substance to temporarily blind an opponent.
No, Butcher Baker had no need to fight too dirty.
He was slow and cumbersome, but no punch to his face fazed him. He’d stalk, corner, and wrap one arm around his opponent—then, good night, Clarinda. He could sink a destroyer with either hand. If, indeed, an opponent seemed troublesome, the Butcher Boy could become wicked and employ liberal use of elbows, forearms, head butts, low blows.
Neither Rory nor Johnny Tarbox even considered stepping in the ring with the big fellow until the Seventh New Zealand Light Horse Battalion was taken off the old coal burner that had brought them to Australia and transferred to a newly converted troopship, the Wagga Wagga. Rumor had it that they were not long for Port Albany.
Butcher Boy Baker was taking on three Kiwis on this day. After the first of them went out in the first round, the Serjeant Major and his cobber repaired to one of the pubs and left Chester to witness the rest.
Johnny was bemoaning the fact that they only got to stay in Melbourne for a quick visit. He had met his true love, it seemed, and would have pretty much jumped ship for one more night in paradise. After all these years, it was the real thing!
Chester wiggled his way to the bar.
“What happened?” Johnny asked.
“The three of them together lasted five rounds.”
“What a foul brute,” Johnny said.
“What were the odds?” Rory asked.
“Baker’s bookmaker had to give fourteen to make one.”
“Jaysus,” Rory moaned, “we’ll never live to see odds like that again.”
The three were silent in an otherwise very noisy room.
“How much money you got, Johnny?” Rory asked at last.
“I know what you’re thinking, Rory, and the answer is no.”
“I’m asking for other reasons,” Rory said.
“Maybe seven, eight quid.”
“Chester?”
A shrug was