Redemption - Leon Uris [172]
Only one thing Chester asked for—a chaplain to referee and hold the bets.
Rory spent half the night in brotherly love, alternating images for Johnny of French birds and the open left side of Baker’s body. Punctuated with a bottle of gin, Johnny fell into a restless sleep, only partially terrorized.
It was a moody day as Rory and Chester and the Catholic chaplain led a semi-paralyzed Johnny Tarbox into the ring, where rules of engagement were gone over. Tarbox would go first and Landers second. A small matter of the bets was discussed. Chester Goodwood put up a hundred and fifteen, which was covered by the Baker bunch’s sixteen hundred and fifty quid.
The mainly Aussie crowd was seething for Kiwi blood and gave their champion a most rousing hurrah.
“Time, lads,” the chaplain said.
There comes a moment to the life of every man when fear locks his every joint into an immovable frozen mass, or sees him go wild and frantic with fright, or the very same man comes to a golden acre on a golden plateau where an eternity of courage is condensed into a single fraction of a second with utter clarity.
Was it the thought of French breasts and nipples and white thighs above black stockings? Was it a life as a roustabout who had felt the whack of a mighty blow and survived? No one will ever really know, but as the referee called “Time, lads,” Johnny Tarbox was immaculately, divinely, focused on the left side of Butcher Boy Baker’s body whereon was tattooed a heart inside a map of Australia undersigned with the single word Mother.
Tarbox had transcended mortal fear and was some higher form of being, as if in a dream state. As Rory lad had predicted, when Serjeant Baker lifted his left heel to slide his foot forward in conjunction with a pawing jab, Mother-Heart-Australia opened up like the golden gates.
The din was so tremendous the whack went unheard. Johnny’s left arm vibrated as though it had been hit by an electric shock. The huge Aussie blinked, confused by the unseemly tactic, then reacted with a wild swing that Johnny was able to duck, giving him another clear view of Baker’s art work. The blow struck right around Perth.
Serjeant Baker, who had found himself in this situation every once in a while, collected himself and moved forward in a stalk. Knowing he had gained a measure of respect, Johnny’s terrible fear vanished and he put on a show of boxmanship by making himself elusive.
However, ButcherBaker knew the art of cutting down the ring size for he spent half his time in there chasing and cornering his opponent. Feeling as if he had conquered Gibraltar now, Johnny leaned in with a head fake and damned if the Aussie didn’t go for it! AUSTRALIA! POW!
“Don’t get reckless!” Rory screamed.
That is the last that Johnny Tarbox remembered until the blurred face of Rory came into focus. The smelling salts whizzed through Johnny’s head and brought him back to where he was.
“You did good,” Rory assured him.
“I never saw it coming. It was like a fourteen-inch artillery shell, but Jaysus, Rory, I heard him wince out loud the last time I hooked him.”
Butcher Boy remained standing in his corner favoring some pain in his side, perhaps only a cracked rib. His erstwhile second and manager came to the center of the ring.
“We’ll settle for fifty quid of theirs. My man is getting indigestion eating all these raw Kiwis. We’ll let the other kid live as a gesture of expeditionary unity.”
“Jaysus!” Rory screamed.
The announcer called for quiet through his loud hailer. “As an act of kindness and mercy, Serjeant Baker will allow the final boxer to be free of his commitment in that he is showing such terrible fear.”
Rory was in the ring and snatched the loud hailer.
“I demand to fight! Baker’s a liar!”
Baker gave a wave of disgust. As he started to climb through the ropes, Rory reached him, pushed him in the face, and walked around the ring with his hands raised in victory. When the confusion was settled, the match commenced.
Rory, the natural left-hander, came dancing out fighting right-handed.