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Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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turning to the dark of a cave. The street was a tunnel of gas lamps and beerhouse doors. Too late he remembered the fear expressed by his driver the night before. The man had plainly exaggerated, but there wasn’t a cab in sight.
Mill girls in wool shawls and cotton dresses and carrying food cans rushed by, and the sound of their clogs was deafening. He felt the gin circulating sluggishly in his brain. When he had walked a couple of blocks, however, he realized what Bill Jaxon had said—or not said. When Blair had asked if he had seen Maypole that last day, Jaxon’s answer shouldn’t have been “No”; it should have been “What day was that?”
Though it was a small point and Blair knew he should hurry to meet Leveret, he turned around and made his way back to The Young Prince. When he arrived, he wondered whether he had walked into the wrong pub because the room that had been full was empty. From his pedestal The Young Prince presided stiffly over abandoned chairs, fireplace and counter.
Blair knew that no crowd had passed him. Through the rear door of the pub he heard shouts. He opened it and edged carefully past a hole used as a pissoir to a junction of back alleys. Here, where there were no gas lamps, there was light from lanterns held on poles and clamor from at least two hundred people, including patrons and employees of The Young Prince, other miners, women in skirts, pit girls in pants, families with babes, all of them festive as if at a fair.
It was a scene from Bosch’s
Garden of Earthly Delights
. Or an ancient Olympic contest, Blair thought. Or a nightmare. He stayed in the dark unseen, though he could see Bill Jaxon standing naked in the middle of the crowd. He had a miner’s overly defined body, the pinched waist and stark muscles that were the result of hard labor in extreme heat. His skin, pale as polished marble, contrasted with his dark hair, which now looked ruffled and wild. A second man had also stripped. He was shorter, older, with a barrel chest and bowlegs. His head was shaved and his shoulders bore a backlit nimbus of curls. Behind him waved a green satin banner embroidered with an Irish harp.
Jaxon bent and laced on his clogs tight. Lancashire work clogs were leather uppers on ash soles, irons shaped like horseshoes on the soles for wear. Jaxon’s were tipped with brass studs. He draped his scarf lightly around his neck and paraded like a thoroughbred in a paddock.
Jaxon’s opponent advanced with the intent rolling gait of a bulldog. His shins were crosshatched with scars. His clogs were tipped with brass, too.
It wasn’t human, Blair thought. More like cockfighting between rooster men wearing razors. In California they would have boxed with bare knuckles, which was effete by comparison. The mining-camp behavior was familiar: backbreaking work relieved by blood sport. The wagering was also familiar; now Smallbone’s money pouch made sense.
The bartender from The Young Prince said, “The rules are no high kicking, punching or biting. No wrestling to the ground. When a man goes down or breaks off or calls ‘Quit,’ the match is over.”
The other man was Irish. He told Jaxon, “You’ll look grand with a tin dick.”
“Fuck the rules,” Jaxon told the bartender. The smile released on his face was reckless, nearly gleeful.
The two opponents stepped back for a moment. A brass-tipped clog made a massive club, especially when swung with the full force of a miner’s leg, and particularly against unprotected flesh. A miner could batter down a wooden door with his clogs.
In the lull Blair took in the feverish brightness of the bartenders’ aprons, the whiteness of the two men in the swaying lights of the lanterns. It was a saturnalia, he thought, nothing English about it. It was clear from their faces that Jaxon was the favorite of Flo and the other pit girls and the object now of their anxiety.
The two men placed their hands on each other’sshoulders and touched their
Mill girls in wool shawls and cotton dresses and carrying food cans rushed by, and the sound of their clogs was deafening. He felt the gin circulating sluggishly in his brain. When he had walked a couple of blocks, however, he realized what Bill Jaxon had said—or not said. When Blair had asked if he had seen Maypole that last day, Jaxon’s answer shouldn’t have been “No”; it should have been “What day was that?”
Though it was a small point and Blair knew he should hurry to meet Leveret, he turned around and made his way back to The Young Prince. When he arrived, he wondered whether he had walked into the wrong pub because the room that had been full was empty. From his pedestal The Young Prince presided stiffly over abandoned chairs, fireplace and counter.
Blair knew that no crowd had passed him. Through the rear door of the pub he heard shouts. He opened it and edged carefully past a hole used as a pissoir to a junction of back alleys. Here, where there were no gas lamps, there was light from lanterns held on poles and clamor from at least two hundred people, including patrons and employees of The Young Prince, other miners, women in skirts, pit girls in pants, families with babes, all of them festive as if at a fair.
It was a scene from Bosch’s
Garden of Earthly Delights
. Or an ancient Olympic contest, Blair thought. Or a nightmare. He stayed in the dark unseen, though he could see Bill Jaxon standing naked in the middle of the crowd. He had a miner’s overly defined body, the pinched waist and stark muscles that were the result of hard labor in extreme heat. His skin, pale as polished marble, contrasted with his dark hair, which now looked ruffled and wild. A second man had also stripped. He was shorter, older, with a barrel chest and bowlegs. His head was shaved and his shoulders bore a backlit nimbus of curls. Behind him waved a green satin banner embroidered with an Irish harp.
Jaxon bent and laced on his clogs tight. Lancashire work clogs were leather uppers on ash soles, irons shaped like horseshoes on the soles for wear. Jaxon’s were tipped with brass studs. He draped his scarf lightly around his neck and paraded like a thoroughbred in a paddock.
Jaxon’s opponent advanced with the intent rolling gait of a bulldog. His shins were crosshatched with scars. His clogs were tipped with brass, too.
It wasn’t human, Blair thought. More like cockfighting between rooster men wearing razors. In California they would have boxed with bare knuckles, which was effete by comparison. The mining-camp behavior was familiar: backbreaking work relieved by blood sport. The wagering was also familiar; now Smallbone’s money pouch made sense.
The bartender from The Young Prince said, “The rules are no high kicking, punching or biting. No wrestling to the ground. When a man goes down or breaks off or calls ‘Quit,’ the match is over.”
The other man was Irish. He told Jaxon, “You’ll look grand with a tin dick.”
“Fuck the rules,” Jaxon told the bartender. The smile released on his face was reckless, nearly gleeful.
The two opponents stepped back for a moment. A brass-tipped clog made a massive club, especially when swung with the full force of a miner’s leg, and particularly against unprotected flesh. A miner could batter down a wooden door with his clogs.
In the lull Blair took in the feverish brightness of the bartenders’ aprons, the whiteness of the two men in the swaying lights of the lanterns. It was a saturnalia, he thought, nothing English about it. It was clear from their faces that Jaxon was the favorite of Flo and the other pit girls and the object now of their anxiety.
The two men placed their hands on each other’sshoulders and touched their
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