S TOR Y

D~TH OF THE PUGILIST_ Or, The Famous Battle of

Jacob Burke & Blindman McGrawBy Daniel Mason

, Who was Burke? His beginnings.Born a caulbearer in the Bristol

slums, in the quays ide heap knownonly as "the Rat," Jacob Burke, whowould battle the great McGraw on thatfateful day in 1824, was awinter child of the steve-dore Isaac Burke and theseamstress Anne Murphy.He of Bristol, son of James,son ofT om, son of Zebedee,lifters all. She of Dublin andthe cursed Gemini ofPoverty and Fertility: Jacobwas the twelfth of eighteenchildren, the third of theeight who survived.It was a typical quays ide

childhood, of odd jobs andshoe-shining and sporadicbouts of schooling: quinsy,croup, and the irresistibletemptation of diving fromthe piers. In the summer heran with the flocks of chil-dren terrorizing the streetswith their play.He grew up quickly.

Thick-necked, thick-shouldered, steel-fisted,tight-lipped, heavy-on-the-brow, the boy knewneither a letter nor the taste sweetuntil his tenth year, when in thecourse of a single moon, he learnedto lip out the rune on the shingle atMulloy's Arms and stole an apple

from a costermonger on the road toBath. Two brothers, thinking theywere bona fide Dick Turpins, hadtreaded into a life of brigandage,but by the grace of his mother's

The ascent of Burke, including: the Riots.Also: his early career and its vicissitudes.At age nineteen, Burke became

known.On the quay was a man named Sam

Jones, and Sam Jones was astevedore too, lifting withBurke from dark hour todark hour. Sam Jones wasan old man of forty whenone morning his footpunched a rotted board onthe dock and he went downbeneath a load of flounder,one hundred and fiftypounds of fish in an oak-slatted crate that snappedhis neck against the railingbefore he slumped, slipped,limp into the sea.Sam Jones had a month's

wages coming, but theCompany didn't pay hiswidow, and on the docksthe stevedores sat down andnot a boat could move.Then the owners sent outtheir thugs, who fell on themen with clubs and ironpokers, and from the meleeexploded the QuaysideRiots, of fame.

It was a newspaperman from Lon-don who first saw Burke throw apunch. When the riots were over(and Jones's wages still not paid)the newspaperman found the boyback at work, resigned, murmuringa sad, low lifter's song as he thread-ed the pier.On that day (gray, preternaturally

Daniel Mason is the author of the novelsThe Piano Tuner (Vintage) and A FarCountry (Knopf) .

82 HARPER'S MAGAZINE I JULY 2007

daily prayers and father's belt, JacobBurke turned from the taste of ap-ples and back to the straight andnarrow of his bloodline, joiningBurke pere on the docks.On the docks he remained, lifting

barrels of fish and slabs of iron coldfrom the sea air, until his back broad-ened and his forearms broke his cuffs.

Blue Horizon, by Alex Kanevsky.Courtesy the artist and A. Freed/]. Cacciola Gallery, New York City

August cold, seagulls hopping on thejetty-rail) Burke stood on the dock, aninety-pound bag of wheat throwncorpse-like over his shoulder. Thenewspaperman talked a streak. Jacob,not accustomed to long converses,didn't set down the bag, said, Yes sir,like he was taught to speak to suitsand elders, and occasionally reposi-tioned the weight over his back. Atlong last the fellow drew out a callingcard. Well? What do you think? Everfought? asked the man, and Burke askedback: There's a man's never fought?

On the card was the name of a ware-house on the harbor, where over thefollowing week Burke sent three mento the floor. They were hard affairs,fighters showing up on the minute asif it were nothing but a shakebag cock-fight. No seconds, no ropes, no purse.If the Fancy went, it was only to scout.On the third night came a man, Cairn,who made an offer.

How Muscular became known.There are five fights that first year.

Five fights and Jacob Burke wins four.They are hush matches, dueled in ware-houses or country inns or levees east ofthe city. Broughton's rules. Bare knuck-les. Twenty-four-foot ring. Round endswhen a man goes down. Thirty sec-onds of rest, and the fight doesn't enduntil a man can't get back to thescratch. No gouging, no biting, noblows below the belt. No faking downto win a rest.

Cairn is his second. Also in his cor-ner, holding his bottle, is an associateof Cairn's, a Yankee who'd once beenchampion in New Orleans. Yankeemust have a Christian name, but hechanges the subject when Jacob asks.He has a crab like way of moving, offacing you, of rising to his tiptoes whenhe is about to speak, and Jacob thinksthese are habits from the ring.

They are good to Jacob Burke, treathim like a son. Give him breeches andspiked shoes, read him the fighters'correspondence in the Weekly Dis-patch, get him victuals when victualsare dear. Take him to the pushingschool, where they put up the socketfee and tell the girls he will be Cham-pion of All England. There, amidstthe crepe and taffeta, he is humiliatedby the men's attention, feels like he'sback in the ring, half-thinks Cairn and

Yankee will follow him and the girl towatch. When that winter his father islaid out with cough, they advance himmoney against his purses, and Jacobfinds himself buying gifts for his moth-er and his brothers and his sisters. Hiswinnings are small, five, ten pounds.He spends it all and borrows more.

Before each fight, Cairn takes himaside and tells him what scum the oth-er is, makes it sound like he's someavenging angel, meting out justice to aline of murderers and thieves andvirgin-defilers. But Jacob Burke doesn'tmuch care. He likes the chance to hitand watch his man fall. A ha'pennyBristol rag, with a full page on thefistic, covers his fights but can't seemto settle on a moniker, calling himthe Quayside Brawler, then Steve-dore Burke, Bruise Burke, then "Mus-cular," which Cairn picks up for theirpromotions. It's elegant, thinks Ja-cob. He buys a copy of the rag andbrings it home, shows his motherwhich word on the page says "Mus-cular." He writes it out for her in bigletters on a piece of butcher paper,which she folds and tucks into thepocket where she keeps her lice comb.To prove the magnitude of hisstrength, he grabs two of his youngestbrothers, one in each hand, and liftsthem squealing high above his head.

He begins oiling his hair back in slickrows, which does little for his looks ex-cept emphasize the weight of his brow.He listens to tales of the professionalfighters. He wants to be like Gully, sohe buys a scarf for an ascot. Purse rises,fifteen and twenty. Buys a stovepipe ofthe first and wears it at a rake. LikeCairn wears his. Like Cairn, who in hisday, he learns, was a bruiser too.

His days of cutting a swell arenumbered. In his fourth fight, hismatch comes kicking and flapping athim like a bird out of a cage. Hetakes a thumb to the eye and has tospend a week taped up with brownpaper and vinegar. Spikes a fever,but Cairn gets a surgeon to bleedhim and he's cured.

In his fifth fight, Burke defeatsBristol's Beloved. It wasn't supposedto happen; the fight was an exhibi-tion, a setup conceived to make thechampion look good taking down aspecimen like Muscular, but Muscu-lar is triumphant.

How it came about that Burke foughtBlindman.

This is how it came about thatBurke fought the Blindman:

In Lincolnshire, Broken Head Galllost to the Moor, and in Liverpool,Will Skeggs beat Tom Johnson, whohad no less than the great Peter Craw-ley in his corner, the butcher's sonknown in his day as the "Young RumpSteak." But Skeggs wouldn't fight Bro-ken Head, and at Moulsey Hurst, TomTate lost to "Le Petit." So Brokenfought Tate, but the fight was a cross,the Weekly Dispatch breaking the sto-ry that both men had met a fortnightbefore to fix. Then they went to TedShannon the Vainglorious, but Vain-glorious knew Blindman, and Vain-glorious said that if he was going toget killed, he needed a bigger purse forhis widow. This left the Fancy lookingfor a man, and this left Burke.

The match was scheduled for Feb-ruary, but no one would post a farthingon Burke. So they called again onVainglorious, but Vainglorious wasgone, convicted of thieving and trans-ported. They found a miller in Mel-chior Brown, from Manchester, who'dbeen breaking gobs on the tavern cir-cuit under the nickname Sparrow. ButBrown went down in just four rounds,and the next pick, Frank Smith thePicturesque, refused to fight Blind-man's murderous fists. So again theycame looking for Burke. They decidedBurke's mum's blood would get theIrish out, and Blindman would drawthe Scots, and if there was a riot, thenall the better. Besides, everyone knewthe best fighters wore the Bristol yel-low, and by then Burke had movedout of the quay, showing his mettle ina pair of battles at Egan's Abbey.

Who is Blindman?This is Blindman: Methuselah of

thirty-five, icon of Scottish national-ists, hero of boys' magazines, where hewas drawn in monstrous proportions,sweeping Lilliputian armies down asif clearing a table for a game of cards.A dexterous hitter of steam-enginepower. Won eighteen, lost two. Bap-tized Benjamin McGraw, he got hisnickname in a fight in '14, in the forty-third round, with eyes so swollen by thepunches that he couldn't see. Refusedto have his lids lanced, saying he could

STORY 83

beat his boy blind, and then leveledhim, hard, as soon as they hit thescratch. After the fight, they askedhow he'd done it and he answered, I hitwhere the breathing was. He had a pa-tron in the Earl of Balcarres, who wassaid to slum with McGraw in Glas-gow's most notorious. He liked to tellhow he'd even been asked to be Yeo-man of the Guard, but with all the sto-ries of cursing and rough living andall the girls he'd pollinated, the offerwas rescinded. In '16 he'd knockeddown the champion Simon Beale intwo rounds, and Simon Beale neverrose again. In the famous cartoon pub-lished in the Gazette, McGraw wasdrawn shaking his fists over a grave-

. stone, on which was written:

HERE IN THE SHADE LIES SIMON BEALE

JAW OF IRON, FISTS OF STEEL

WON TWENTY-FOUR FIGHTS WITH NERVE

AND ZEAL

AT TWENTY-FIVE SHOWED HIS ACHILLES

HEEL

TOOK JUST TWO ROUNDS FOR FATE TO

SEAL

THAT NO SOUL'S SPARED BY FORTUNE'S

WHEEL.

Of course, there wasn't a manamong the Fancy who didn't doubt Ja-cob Burke was going to get lathered.And Burke knew the rumors, but Cairnand the Yankee said he stood a chance,that Blindman was growing old, andBurke was improving daily in strengthand science.

Truth was Burke didn't need to betold. And Cairn knew, for Cairn hadbeen organizing fights for thirteenyears, and knew there wasn't anythingso proud as a twenty-three-year-old,except maybe a sixteen-year-old, buttry to find a neck like Muscular's on akid. Only problem with Burke, he toldhim, finger pressed against his pec-torals, only problem with you, is thatBurke was too good and polite and heneeded a little more meanness in him.Burke spent a good deal of time won-dering about this, how a hitter could bea good man, wondering if he was goodonly because he was on the bottomand he couldn't be anything else, thatif conditions were different and he hadsomething going, he wouldn't be so.Once in a pub he'd heard, There's nosuch thing as a sin man only a sin world,

84 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / JULY 2007

which he was told meant that the Dev-il was in everyone and it was a rarefellow who could keep him down.Then later, he started thinking thatmaybe he'd heard it wrong, and itshould have been, There's no such thingas a good man only a good world, and hestarted repeating it enough that hecouldn't remember if the basic situa-tion was sin or good. Cairn said he wastoogood, but he knew inside that he hitbecause he liked the feeling of hittingthe other fellow, which seemed at firstlike sin, but then he started thinkingthat if the other fellow was just likehim, then the other fellow liked hittingtoo, and that meant he, Burke, wasbeating a sinner, and so he, Burke, wasgood, except when he looked at it an-other way, then the other fellow wasalso clobbering a fellow who liked hit-ting (him, Burke), this meant the oth-er fellow was good, and Burke was asinner for milling an upright man.

The reasoning went round andround like one of those impossiblesongs that never stopped, until Mus-cular decided that what he liked aboutthe fight was that he didn't have towonder about such questions, only hit,because if you didn't hit, you got hit.That was the answer!

The day approaches.So Burke takes to training: docks in

the day, dumbbells at dusk. Cairn hashim running his dogs in the hills. Hitsthe bags of sand. Bans drink and theamorous.

The word spreads fast around Bris-tol. He hears a hush follow him wherehe walks. In the streets he's besieged bythe shoe-shiners, who beg to see stand-ing flips and then set on one anotherfor the title of "Muscular." The girlslower their bonnets and lift their eyeswhen he rooster-swaggers past.

One night, on the docks, an oldlifter called Booth approaches Burke ashe makes his way home. Stepping infront of the boy, he grabs his forearmin a steel grip, says, This is a fool thing,and Jacob Burke says, Yes sir.

The posters go up, with sketches ofthe two men facing off as if they hadposed together, shirtless, in ankle-boots and breeches, tied close withsashes. They say the fight will be heldat Moulsey Hurst, southwest of Lon-don, but all know this is a sham to

throw off the magistrates. The paperstake to calling the fight Blindman'sBrag, as if it were not a fight but ashowcase for McGraw. As if Burkeweren't even fighting.

One night, his mother is waiting forhim when he comes home. They sayyou're going to get killed, she says. Whosays that? asks Jacob. They all say that,she says. I've been to the market. Theysay: Make sure they promise you thepurse, Annie, 'cause your boy isn't com-inghome.

Unspoken, but hidden in her words,is his father, who is coughing himselfto bones and hasn't been down to thedocks in months. But she doesn't sayJacob should walk away. Had she, thenhe would have squared his jaw andproclaimed he had his honor to pro-tect. It is because she says nothingmore that the doubts begin to eel theirway in.

Except he knows he can't get outeven if he wants to. He owes Cairn,for the scarf, fOfthe stovepipe, the food.Cairn says that with the purse from thefight with McGraw, he'll be paid offand then some. He decides "then some"means even more if he wagers on him-self. Then he will stop.

They find a patron.Two weeks before the fight, Cairn

quarries a Patron in a Corinthiannamed Cavendish; the rest of the purseis put up by the Pugilistic Club.

Cavendish meets Burke and Cairnat Ned Landon's public house. He's adandy: curls, perfume, talking proudand fast and high. Wants to be calledCav, but Jacob calls him MisterCavendish, and he smiles. He madehis blunt during the Regency, andflaunts it, bums a bill before Burke'seyes. Recites a fight poem that he hadpublished in Bell's Life, full ofletterywords Burke has trouble getting hisears around. Cavendish tells a storyabout a fighter, laughing, says, PoorTom had his eyes knocked from his head.]ustlike that. Plop. Plop. Couldn't findwork and suicided. Drank prussic. Plop.He laughs. Burke hates him immedi-ately, feels his whole body tense whenhe hears him talk. He knowsCavendish is trying to look big bymaking him look small, but he can'tthink of fast words to answer. Anyother man, and he would hit him so

hard he'd lose more than his eyes. Helooks to his trainer, and Cairn tiltshis head, just a little, as if to say, Easy,swallow the toad, Cavendish is putting upthe purse.

Soaked, Cavendish begins to slur.Calls a wagtail over and throws an armaround her waist. Tells Jacob to re-move his shirt. Says, Look at the sym-metry, look at the strength. Says, Yourmum's Irish, Burke? Calls him My littleboy. Touches his arms and says, Look,this is pretty. Drinks his blue ruin un-til it runs down his chin. Says he wasa boxer, but he holds his fists with histhumbs inside.

They travel to the scene of the fight,where Burke meets a man who impartshis Philosophy.

The fight is set in Hertfordshire, ina field south of St. Albans called DeadRabbit Heath. In St. Albans, theyspend the night at a coaching inn.Cairn and the Yankee drink untilthey're reeling, but Muscular is toonervous to keep anything down. ThePublican is an aficionado of the fistic,the walls are decorated with sketchesand mezzotints of the great fighters,and Burke recognizes Broughton andPainter, and the Jews Mendoza andDutch Sam, and Gasman and GameChicken. He wants to be like the por-traits, still and quiet and distant on awatercolor patch all alone and glorious.But among the rabble that's crowdingthe tavern, Muscular is cornered by afarrier, a fat, spectacled man who seemsto have some reading behind him. Sayshe was a priest, once, which explainshis fine diction, though he won't saywhy they stripped his soutane. You'll beone of the greats, he tells Jacob. Justlook at you. Maybe you'll lose tomor-row, but it doesn't matter. Just hold yourown, and soon you'll be Champion. Heasks if Burke knows of the battle be-tween Achilles and Hector, but Burkehas never heard of these two fighters.The farrier shrugs it off. You ever seenMcGraw? he asks. Burke hasn't,sketches only. Goliath, says the farrier.Like someone pressed two men into one.Misshapen like that too . You'll see. Cau-liflower ears. Ears? No! Cauliflower face.

He presses on. You want to hear myPhilosophy? How are you going to win?Think, my boy. You want to win or youwant to hurt him? Those are different

things. Pastor Browne's theory of thefight-you can tell the rest-is that angeronly takes a man so far. That's what allyou poor boys start with: anger, needingit like a horse needs a rider. But soon thatgets in the way. You boys go out and thinkyou are fighting a boxer, but really you'refighting the world. But a good fighter, yousee, like Blindman, he knows that the manhe's fighting is fighting first to hurt andnext to win. And he'll use it. Use your hat-ing to get you. That's the difference. Menwho fight to hurt will get it in their time.Gladiator in arena consilium capit.He'll finish you. Mill you to a jelly. Getyour head up in chancery and then wherewill you find yourself?

Burke doesn't have an answer. Hestares at the man, who's got whiskersthick as string. The man's going onabout anger, and Burke's tempted tosay, There's no such thing as a sin manonly a sin world. I'm just hitting. Hedoesn't want to talk anymore. But hewon't leave, won't go to sleep either.A tavern chant swells. Then let us bemerry /while drinking our sherry ...

He has a sick feeling and thinksmaybe he is scared.

They gather at Dead Rabbit Heath.The fight is to take place another

two leagues from the inn, on a fieldnot far from the road, in a soft depres-sion between a pair of hills.

Soon after sunrise, they take acoach. They pass crowds coming upthe road, on horseback or foot. It isa cold morning, the light hesitant,the fields wet with dew. There aretents set up for peck and booze. Thetraffic's slow, thick with broughamsand horses. It takes Burke a longtime to realize that the crowd isthere, in part, for him. They parktheir carriage at a small clearinghalfway up the hill. Burke gets out,followed by Cairn and Yankee. Al-most immediately he is set upon bythe tag-rag, who jostle him for noreason but to try to get close. Theysing, Gotta get the Blindman, or theBlindman gets you. Muscular wearshis stovepipe low over his eyes, hisseconds flank him, leading him up along path through the wet grass,over a rise and then down towardthe ring. Both men hold him by hiselbow. He knows it's supposed tocomfort him, but there is no comfort

there. He thinks, Where do theyflank men like this? and the answeris the gallows.

As they approach, there's a massivecrowd already gathered at the ropes,and he can hear a hushing in the near.They've got two stands set up by thering for the paying, but the crowd over-flows up the hills. He looks for his op-ponent, but Blindman is nowhere to beseen. He wants.Blindman to be there,as if Blindman's the only one whocould know what he is feeling.

The ground is turned up like a packof pigs came rooting through, but thering is clean, neat, covered with sand,like nothing he's ever fought in.They've strung two lines of paintedrope, the scratch is already chalked.He keeps his greatcoat on as Cairngoes and speaks to the judge. He feelsthe eyes of the crowd on him, tries toignore them, looks down, and keepsclenching his hands again and again.Finally, he lifts his face and looks out.The hill is all men, far as the eye canreach. There's a pair of swells nearhim, ascots blooming, suits of bom-bazine, capes, and pearl buttons. Hey,Muscle, says one and then laughs. I'vegot money on you, Muscle, says the oth-er. They're talking funny, and then herealizes they're mocking a brogue. Helooks away.

Cairn comes back. This's big, boy, hesays. Ten thousand men, and not a sta-ble free for a sleepy nag. Half the coun-try wants to see our boy fell the Blindman.

Cheers and jeers as his opponentapproaches.

Late in the morning, McGraw ar-rives. Burke hears the murmurs thrum-ming through the crowds, then shoutsgoing up, the hillside parting for a darkfigure to come through, surrounded byan entourage. They are far off, de-scending the opposite slope. For an in-stant it is as if he is watching a shadowat sundown, the dark hulk lumberingover his seconds. A fight song materi-alizes out of the noise, but he can't hearthe words. Then suddenly, with Me-Graw halfway to the ring, somethingugly must have been said, for the go-liath lunges into the crowd. Then tu-mult, the black suits turning over as ifthey were dominoes. Burke can't tell ifMcGraw is swinging: it's all men com-ing up and falling back and shouting

STORY 85

and flailing like some giant sea animalthrashing in the surf. Then his secondsmust have gotten hold of him, for he'spulled back, and the crowd ripples andis still. Murmurs now: McGraw isout of control, He's an animal, theyshouldn't let him fight, but Burke knowshis man did it for show, though hedoesn't know if the show is for him orfor the crowd that's come.

There are no more incidents. AsMcGraw gets closer, a quiet descends.At the edge of the ring, McGrawhands his greatcoat and hat to his sec-ond and steps inside. From his cor-ner, Burke watches Blindman strip tohis colors. .

Jacob Burke has prepared himselffor a giant, but he doesn't think hehas ever seen such a human as this.McGraw must be eighteen stone. Sixfoot six at least, but the illusion ofheight is increased by the size of hischest and belly, which set his headback like some faraway peak. Arms asthick as Muscular's hams. Fists slunglow. Skin pale blotched red. To call hisears "cauliflower" would be a compli-ment. Tuber is more like it, thinksBurke. Raw tuber that could break aknuckle. His nose is a gray-yellow col-or that makes it look like a dead man'snose. There is so much of him that itis difficult for Burke to see where theman's muscles begin: he looks likesomeone has taken a massive sculp-ture of a strong man and kept throw-ing clay on it in lumps, until the clayran out. Burke doesn't even knowwhere he is going to land his fists. Itseems like certain rules, like rulesagainst grabbing the throat, don't mat-ter when it comes to Blindrnan, forBurke is uncertain where the neck endsand the head begins. He feels as if hewere told to lift an awkward stonewithout a place to set his hands.

He knows now that he has been se-duced by the promotion posters, whichshow the men facing off, as if theywere two men fighting. This isn't twomen fighting. He thinks of the gamesof speculation he played as a child: Ifa lion fought a bear, if a turtle fought abuck, if a shark fought a giant fox. If aneagle fought a man of fire. Who wouldwin? Who would kill whom?

If Muscular Burke fought the monsterMcGraw.

It is then that Jacob realizes he has

86 HARPER'S MAGAZINE I JULY 2007

been set up to lose, that Cairn and theYankee could never have expected himto stand a chance against Blindman.

His pulse skitters, mad like a waterbead in a hot pan.

He looks back out at the crowds.Now they stretch all the way to thecrest of the hillside. The sound of theirchanting is deafening. But he hearsonly Blindman, they are there to watchBlindman win or Blindman lose. Curseand praise but only Blindman's name.The crowd doesn't even seem to ac-knowledge Burke. Thinks Jacob: Whocheers the fox, when you've come towatch the hound?

The fight begins.The Padders are at the ropes.

There are six of them, a quintet ofLondon coalmen and an ostler whois retired from the fistic. Their jack-ets are off, their cuffs rolled, fightingto keep the crowds back. Muscularrealizes that while he has been lostin thought, his arms loose at hissides, his seconds have stripped himto his breeches.

He stands in a daze. He realizeshe's staring into the crowd, lookingfor someone he knows, another lifterfrom the docks or-thinking franticnow-a brother, or even his mother,when Cairn whispers something inhis ear. He has almost forgotten hissecond, but now Cairn is behindhim, his hands on Burke's shoulders,massaging the massive deltoids ofwhich he is so proud. Jacob shivershim off. Is he in on this? he wonders.How much is he being paid to haveme get killed? He shakes his head asif there's poison in his ear.

Behind him, he hears Cairn's voice.Show 'em, Muscular. He coaxes Burke'sarms into the air, and Burke flexes.That's right, Muscular, saysCairn. Showthe old man.

What are the oelds?whispers Jacobthrough his teeth. What am I at?

Cairn rubs his shoulders. Don't wor-ry, boy. You do the milling and I'll dothe betting and we'll both go home richmen. He laughs, but Jacob doesn't joinhim. No matter how hard he tries tothrow his anger back toward the gi-ant in the ring, he feels only betrayal,fury at his handlers for what is about tohappen. The thought that Cairn andYankee want him to lose vanishes, but

what remains is somehow worse, thathe is inconsequential. The idea thatthey could have cared for him anymore than a trainer cares for a dancingbear seems now like an absurd fantasy.He was a fool to believe. He shouldsit, lay it down, get back to "the Rat,"to the quayside, to home.

They are called to the scratch.The judge joins the Padders in theouter ring. Burke sees Cavendish inthe front row, toppered in a whitestovepipe that is immaculately, im-possibly clean. Beside him: thejostling bettors, the flit-fluttering fin-gers of a tic-rae man.

The two fighters shake. McGraw'spaws are like the rest of him, geolog-ic, and while Jacob has a grip that canshatter a bottle, he cannot even get apurchase on the Scotsman's hand.

Time is kept by a Lord from Essex.The judge launches his cant, promis-ing strength and speed and stamina, abattle of brawn, a beautiful combat, amost severe contest for the benefit of Hon-orary Gentlemen. The crowd erupts.

May the best man win, says the judge.

Fists up.Fists up and in the crouch, Burke

can't hear the bell for all the shout-ing. Before him, McGraw holds hispose, shoulders squared, his face amask, waiting for the boy to come.Burke wants to strike, but he can'tmove, can't see a line through thegiant's arms. Blindman makes a kiss-ing motion and the crowd roars.Muscle muscle, comes a taunt, andout of the corner of his eye, Burkesees the two swells laughing, and be-side them Cavendish doing nothingto fight off a smile. Off the scratch,he strikes Blindman's jaw. McGrawdoesn't budge. Again Burke strikes,and Blindman stops it with his left.His forearm barely gives. Blindmanmakes a face of mock surprise, brush-es his arm as if brushing off a fly.Flourishes his fists. It's a show for thecrowd, and they reward it withlaughter. Burke rushes again, left toBlindman's jaw, feeling at the sametime as if a brick has come downagainst his head.

Muscular down.Cairn takes him back in the cor-

ner, sits him, whispers, Tire him, Mus-cular, feet, Muscular, quick on the pins,

dance like Mendoza, but Burke pusheshim away, is back to the scratch beforethe Lord says thirty. Throws the in-stant Blindman gets up from his cor-ner. Foul! he hears, but before theycan pull him back, he's down again,unaware of what happened. He tastesdirt this time, hears the judge call,First blood, and feels his cheek is wet.Hears numbers. Can't distinguish thecrowd's shouting from the roaring inhis ear.Back to the scratch and Muscular

down.Back to the scratch. Blindman

charges. Muscular turns, plants a fistin McGraw's neck and the gianttumbles. The hillside roars like ar-tillery fire. Then McGraw is up, hisflesh shifting and shimmering, andBurke advances. He can't think now;he can only move.

The fight continues.The rounds seem to roll through

him. Hook to Blindrnan's ear. BUrketothe mouth. One-two. One-two. Blood,tooth, and Muscular down. Jab to noseand Blindman down. Back to thescratch and Muscular pounds to thepudding bag, to the ear, to the ear, andthe ear seems to crumple, break like apotato beneath a heel. Blindmandown. Back to the scratch and Blind-man rushes. Breadbasket, breadbasket,Muscular down. Topper in the ear andMuscular down. Pirouette, tum, andBlindman rushes. Muscular back,catches a heel and both men down.Back to the scratch. Fast in the eye,Muscular down. Again in the peeper,Muscular down. Blindman muzzledand Muscular down. Blindman coughs,spits out a grinder. Chop and chop andMuscular down. Back to the scratchand Muscular down. Blindman Blind-man, Muscular down.Eyelidsswollen, tasting blood on his

tongue, his knuckles wet with gore,Burke sits in the comer, letting Cairn'shands caress his chest, Yankee spongehis face. He feels as if his men aren'tthere. He's being touched by bird'swings. He wants at McGraw, needs tohit. It hurts to breathe, he doesn'tknow how much lung he's got in him,but something in him says that he'staken the worst. That Blindman's notgoing to hit any harder than he's hitbut that Burke's still got it, still could

heave a load. He murmurs a lifters'song: Still lift the barrel still lift the bar-rel still lift the barrel, Hey! /Twelve kittensin the kitchen and another an the way. Hislips, swollen, blubber. He rinses hismouth with Old Tom, rises before thethirty, and is at the scratch beforeBlindman stands.By now the crowd is thundering,

pressing up against the rope, throw-ing punches at the Padders, cursesflying. Again Burke rushes. McGrawcatches his wrist this time, turnswith the force and throws him, com-ing down with his knee in Burke'sgut. Muscular's mouth fills with bile,pants go wet. He hears hissing and acry of foul, but McGraw, snortingthrough his broken nose, doesn'tcare, he cradles Burke's head, whis-pers something rasped into his ear,kicks Muscular in the flanks as he'sstanding up. Again, Foul! but this iscoming from the crowds, closer, andBurke sees a man breach the outerring, hurling ugly curses at the Scot,followed by another and another,and Burke, up on his knees, thinks,Here we go, and he isn't even stand-ing when the punches start flying.

Pandemonium in the ring: the twofightersjoin forces to restore order.A gasman hits a liveryman hits a

brewer hits a baker. Two swellspoundeach other as if to send each to hismaker. An ostler lands a muzzlerwhile his best man lands a quaker.The Padders overwhelmed, the

ropes broken, the crowd implodesinto the ring. They don't seem to beafter the pugilists but one another,though Muscular, spinning, can'tseem to make heads or tails of what'shappening. There's a mob comedown cursing the Scot. There arecanes swinging and stones thrownand someone heaving a rope, andthe air's filled with curses, all kindsof animal and things that are goingto be done and a liberal use of theMonosyllable.Then Muscular and Blindman

have joined the Padders, poundingto clear the ring, because both arehungry for the fight. Blindman isred-faced and breathing heavy. Rest-ed, Muscular feels the strength inhim returning.By the time the riot is cleared, a

STORY 87

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dozen men have been carried off.Then the ropes are restaked, thecolors returned. A quiet settles, butthe judge is still shouting, threaten-ing to end the fight unless order iscompletely restored.

But what has become of Muscular's eyes?Time has played Blindman's ally:

by now, Muscular can barely see, bothof his eyes are weeping, swollen shut,crusting over. With the stage re-claimed and the Padders back at theropes, the boxers repair to their sec-onds. In the corner, Cairn runs histhumbs over Muscular's lids. You'reout, he says. You're out or I cut them,and Jacob just nods. Cairn pushes hishead back, grabs the lancet, grabs hisface, and the relief is immediate. Hisface streams with the claret, his cheeksfeel as if he is crying.

Back to the scratch, and McGrawis fighting dirty, but the judge lets itfly. He's angry, thinks Burke, heknows it shouldn't have gone on thislong. It was supposed to be easy, done.Face contorted, McGraw rushes, getsa hand on Muscular's neck, driveshim into the rope. Muscular down.Cairn calls Foul! but Burke's back tothe scratch.

Now it's Burke who leads. Forwardnow, and Blindrnan back. Fists up andMcGraw circles, spits, coughs, scratch-es the ground. Blindman back, Burkeforward, watching, waiting, watching,and then he sees it, sees his channel in.Not now, but two moves from now,like a game of checkers. Feels thewarmth in his arms, feels joys, thinks,This is glorious. Feints high and Me-Graw goes high and then Jacob Burkeis inside. Left to the jaw, left, andBlindman ducks. Straight into Burke'sright and rising.

Jacob Burke knows then that thefight is over. Hears it, something slack-en. Something soft, something bro-ken in the jaw or in the face, some-thing creaking in the temple. He'sworked shipbreaking at times, andthere's a feeling when a sledgeham-mer comes against a beam and noth-ing breaks, but you know the nexttime you swing it's going to give. Thefight's over. Blindman is standing, butBurke has only to wait and Blindmanwill fall. An expression comes overBlindman's face, a puzzled expression,

88 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / JULY 2007

like he's hearing a song he's neverheard before.

At which point Burke has a verycomplicated thought.

Jacob Burke's thought takes the form ofa memory.

In his childhood on the docks, likeall boys, Jacob and his friends spentdays in games of earnest battle, clash-ing sticks and throwing stones longinto the dark, chasing and fighting andraising hell. They played by the uni-versal rules of cruelty and chivalry andthrill, thrill to strike and throw and bethrown at, and throwing and chasingone day Jacob and three friends hadcornered an enemy knight and weretaunting him before delivering the coupde grace, which in such a situation,with such easy prey, typically consist-ed of touching him with the stone ortossing it lightly, as the boy was trappedagainst a wall and had no way to escape.But that afternoon the boy, who was abit younger than the rest, went scaredon them and started to cry, and, sur-rounding him, the others began tolaugh and throw, and then the boy wascrying louder, which only made theothers laugh louder and throw harder,and then the boy was slobbering forhis mother, and they all went grabbingmore stones and throwing, and Burkereached down and felt his fist closearound a stone he knew was too bigfor that game, but the crying had re-moved from him any restraint, and,laughing, he took hard aim at the headof the boy and he threw.

The end.Watching from the crowds, amidst

the cheers and curses, there's not asoul that day at Dead Rabbit Heaththat knows what Jacob Burke knows,that the fight is already over. ForBlindman's standing and Blindman'sfists are still up, and if he's slack inthe lip no one can see from whatMuscular Jacob Burke has done tohis face. They'll know, in breathsthey'll know and for years they'll talkabout it, but in this half-second be-tween Muscular's knowing and thecrowd's knowing, it's as if Muscularhas been left alone with a knowledgeand an omnipotence only Godshould have.

There is a moment when a lifter

takes a load and heaves it onto hisshoulder, when the massive weight,the sack or the crate or the barrel at thetop of its heave, becomes brieflyweightless, and the lifter, no matterhow tired he may be, poised betweenhis action and the consequences of hisaction, feels both an incredible light-ness and the power of the weight atthe same time. It is as if he is master ofthe weight, not struggling below it,and Jacob Burke has learned over theyears to seek this joy, cling to this joy,knows secretly that in the misery of

- everything else, there is one momentwhen he is king.

Maybe he thinks this or maybe hefeels it in the movement of his arms, fornow there is no difference betweenthinking and feeling and hitting.

Blindman's fists are down and Mus-cular comes in on his man. He is feel-ing for the break, the hole, the soft,searching again for that seam, hitting,hitting, that half-second gone, andnow there's no turning back, hitting,knowing that when he'd told himselfhe hit so he wouldn't be hit he waslying, because beneath it, the reasonhe hit was that there was joy in hurt-ing, real joy in the simplicity and thefreedom and the astounding numberof 'answers in a single movement ofhis arms. Later he'll have pity, butnot now, now there is no pity, not be-cause he is cruel but because there isno more Ben McGraw. For Muscularis alone, mind clear of all but such joyand beauty as he moves in, strikinghis man, searching, knowing there isonly one way that he wants this toend, only one ecstatic way for it toend, only one, and hitting he thinks,Blindman I'm hitting Blindman I'm hit-ting Cairn I am hitting Cairn I'm hittingCav I'm killing Cairn I'm hitting CavI'm hitting Blindman I'm hitting Cav,and then feeling the soft thinks, I'min the break thinks in the crown thinksin -theline thinks into McGraw

thinks there is a line into McGrawinto the soft into McGraw into thecrown of Ben McGraw into the templeof McGraw the broken temple ofMcGraw

The broken temple of McGraw.thinks there is no such thing as a fast

man only a slow worldthinks break breakBlindman down. _