To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [94]
The Brits raised their glasses, and Lufbery flinched, his shoulders curling up tightly. He looked at the Americans, scattered throughout the room, could see the surprised anger rising in all of them. The Brits began to repeat the toast now, a scattering of insults pouring out toward Wilson, toward America in general. DeLaage stopped playing, stood up beside Lufbery now, and Lufbery said quietly, “Lieutenant, it’s about to blow. . . .”
The first fist was launched close to the bar, and Lufbery paid little attention to the participants, knew it was just the start. The response was immediate; another man punched, falling back, shattering a small table. DeLaage shouted something, and Lufbery ignored him, felt suddenly protective of the Frenchman, had never thought of DeLaage as fragile until now. The fists were swirling all around him, most of them hitting nothing but air, drunken staggers and lunges by men who could barely stand. But not all of them were ineffective, and he saw the British captain launch a thundering blow into the chest of a man, saw it was Parsons, crumpling to the floor. Lufbery felt the rage now, had seen too many bullies in his day, the big men who went first for the weak opponent. He put a hand on DeLaage’s chest, said, “Get behind the piano!”
He didn’t wait for DeLaage to respond, moved toward the captain, saw the big man scanning the room, seeking another target. Lufbery was close to him now, said, “There is no purpose to this!”
The captain turned to him, the hardness in the man’s eyes focused, his hands curled into massive fists. “Well, the hero! I have something for your president. Give him this. . . .”
Lufbery saw the man’s right hand begin to move, leaned instinctively to the left, the fist whistling past his jaw. Lufbery felt the hair rising on his neck, the tight animal instinct engulfing him. He waited for the big man to regain his balance, saw the dark fury in the man’s eyes again. The captain pulled his fist back, words coming again, “You little . . .”
But Lufbery didn’t wait, dropped his left shoulder slightly, his own right hand shooting out, a hard chopping blow squarely on the side of the big man’s chin. He heard a crack, the dark eyes suddenly staring past him. The large man seemed to tilt forward, and Lufbery backed up, stepped to the side, the man falling facedown, the floor bouncing beneath Lufbery’s feet. Lufbery was shaking, turned, bracing for another attack, expected the Brits to swarm over him. He saw their faces now, could feel the fights around him burning themselves out with alcoholic exhaustion. One of the Brits said, “You put out the captain. How the hell . . . ? Nobody’s ever done that.”
The man moved closer, and Lufbery cocked the shoulder again, but there was no menace in the man’s eyes. He wobbled slightly in front of Lufbery, smiled, said, “I’ll be damned! Hey, chaps! Will you look at this little bloke?”
The other Brits were gathering, and Lufbery looked for allies, saw most of the Americans trying to pick their way off the floor. He was still expecting a punch, but the man was suddenly down on his knees, bending over the captain, prodding the big man’s shoulder.
“Jesus. He’s out like a herring!” The man pulled himself upright, looked at Lufbery with bleary eyes, said, “Mr. Looberry, I should like to offer you a drink!”
Men were finding glasses now, sorting through the chaos on the floor for bottles that still contained wine. The Americans were finding their feet now, each as confused as Lufbery was. A full glass appeared, pushed at Lufbery, who took it. The man raised his own glass, spilling wine on the fallen captain, said, “To our comrades in arms!”
The others responded as well, the startled Americans joining in. The debris from the fight was