Flight of the Earls (31 page)

Seamus and Pierce wrestled their way to where Clare and Patrick were standing at ringside, and both were displaying strains of concern.

“What's the matter with him?” Seamus said to Patrick.

“Don't worry.” Patrick handed each of them a cigar after lighting them from his own. “We've got to entertain them first.”

Clare watched as John became more frustrated and his swings grew wilder. It seemed certain no one had told him the fight was fixed. Billy mesmerized him with a flair of mockery, like a bullfighter waving a cape before impaling the bull. This only inflamed the Irishman further.

Soon a trickle of blood streamed from the corner of John's mouth. Staggering back after a blow by his opponent, John glanced briefly at Clare, and in that flash of a moment, her heart sank with the shame and fear expressed in his eyes. She felt helpless.

Billy's taunting dance gave way to a seriousness, and sensing an opening he began to pound more furiously. Already winded and abused, John clung to the Southerner in desperation as the crowd booed.

“Can't they stop it?” Clare asked Patrick, whose confidence had begun to wane.

“Stop it? It hasn't started.” He pulled out his cigar and cupped his mouth with his hand. “Let's go, lads!”

Discontent in the audience grew. The insults were hurled by those who wagered their earnings on John, and even those who favored Billy seemed disappointed by the lack of suspense.

Clare glared from face to face to try to answer the vitriol being fired at John, but she was invisible to them and was jostled as they compacted toward the ring. She could only think of one thing to do in the midst of the maelstrom. “Please, God, protect him.”

She must have uttered it loudly because it drew a response from Patrick. “He better start fighting, or he will need God's protection.”

Somehow through the beating, John gathered his courage and remained determined. Whether through his resolve or through Billy's lapse of focus, an errant fist met its mark and for the first time, fate shifted in the fight. The Southerner stumbled back and tripped and nearly lost his feet.

John lunged and began to throw whatever last efforts of his arsenal remained. Out of a dozen punches, only two hit, but with enough vehemence it riveted through the room and the audience responded.

Patrick elbowed Seamus. “I told you, lad. Here it is now. C'mon, Johnny.”

Billy staggered and John placed his arm on the fighter's neck and swung with his free arm. Clare felt sick as she found herself urging John to finish him off, but she just wanted it to be over. Bottles were thrown and shattered on the floor.

In an expression of pure agility, Billy slipped out of John's grip and danced back as first a gasp of surprise and then exultation came from the gathering. His brow was split, and crimson flowed freely. He wiped it with the back of his hand and examined it, and anger rose in his demeanor.

As John pressed inside, Billy responded with a flurry of blows, executed with skill and force. The Irishman stumbled backward and his knees wobbled.

“No. No. No.” Patrick threw his cigar to the floor and he spun and raised an arm to someone in the back of the room.

John regained his balance, yet Clare could now see his face was bloodied, eyes puffed and his lip swollen. He was dazed yet leaned forward into the fight.

Without hesitation, Billy threw a combination of swings and the third one, an uppercut, sent John backward to the floor in a defenseless flop, his head bouncing violently on the hard floor.

Almost simultaneously, dozens of whistles sounded and Clare looked back to see scores of policemen flowing into the crowd from the main entrance with batons raised and rage in their eyes.

“What's all this?” she shouted to Patrick.

“Insurance.”

A few scuffles broke out, but most of the onlookers streamed out of whatever doors they could find. Even Billy Tunnel was being whisked away by his manager.

In the cover of the mayhem, Clare fought her way to John and slid down beside the fallen warrior. His eyes were open and staring vacantly at the ceiling.

“Is he gone?” Seamus asked.

“Is there a doctor?” Clare said.

“If there was, they are running away from the law,” her brother responded. “We've got to get him out.” Seamus barked at a couple of men standing near. “You there. Give us a lift. Quickly.”

They lifted up the battered fighter and carried him between them.

“I know a way,” said one of the men. “Follow me.”

Seamus glanced back at Patrick and Pierce who were being hounded by gamblers seeking their payout.

“The fight was ended, without resolution,” Patrick hollered, but he hardly quelled the venom.

“I've got to stay back,” Seamus shouted.

“Be careful,” Clare said to her brother.

The men were dragging John Barden away and Clare scampered out after them.

Chapter 30

The Fallen

When is the doctor going to arrive?

Clare found herself alone with John and regretful she had allowed the men who carried him to her bedroom to abandon them. They promised they would fetch a physician, but now she suspected help was never summoned.

She was terrified to leave John's side for even a moment but was weighing this fear against the dire need to muster assistance.

But who would come? And who could she trust not to give away John's location? Surely the police would be searching for him as well as the hundreds who had lost money on the Irishman.

Clare was comforted by the rising and falling of his chest, but could see little life in the bludgeoned face of the fighter. Dipping a rag into a tin bowl of water, she stroked away the blood and sweat from his disfigured face. It was hard to imagine this was the same man who, only an hour before, stood before her as if he were carved from granite.

The front door snapped open in the other room and Clare was overjoyed. But this emotion subsided as she heard Pierce's loud and drunken voice.

“There's a stink in the house,” he slurred.

“Mind your temper,” Seamus pleaded.

“It's been minded long enough.” Pierce stumbled into the bedroom.

Clare stood to face them as they entered the candle-lit room, her instinct of protection rising. “Keep him out of here, Seamus.”

Seamus playfully put his arm around the redhead, but it was swatted away.

“Hands off me, Seamus. I need a word with the great fighter. Mr. John Barden.”

“Pierce, I'm warning you.”

“Just a few words, I'll have, love.” Pierce pushed his way past her.

“Seamus!”

Pierce turned and waved his arms downward. “Don't worry. I'll speak kindly to him.” He glared at Clare. “I know what he means to you.”

Clare looked to Seamus with concern, but he nodded to calm her.

“What a fine display it was tonight.” Pierce leaned over John.

“Please, Pierce,” Clare pleaded. “Leave him be. He's nearly dead.”

“Yes, but not nearly dead enough. Ha! The great John Barden. The defender of Irish pride. Champion of the Five Points. Look at you now.”

“That's enough there,” Seamus said. “Come with me.”

“Come with you.” Pierce spat on the floor. “We lost it all. Everything we earned since we got here. We leave with nothing.”

It was an awkward thought to come to Clare, but she felt relief that Seamus had given her his money the other day. She had it posted with a letter today at the Irish Society.

Clare noticed John was starting to stir. “Step back from him.” She could almost see the life filling back in his eyes, which were buried deep inside his swollen face.

“John, can you hear me?”

“Can you hear me?” Pierce said, trying to hold his ground. “Thought you would die from shame.” He pulled a knife out from his pocket and with a snap it glistened before John's face. “See here. Maybe I should just finish the job for you.”

Anger crept into John's bloated expression, and he started to prop himself up in the bed.

“Pierce! Put that down.” Clare couldn't believe what she was seeing. “Do something, Seamus.”

John painfully started to lift his torso up with his arms. But just as he did, Pierce shoved him back down.

Seamus grabbed Pierce's arms from behind, pinned them, and pulled him away from John. As he did, John rose from the bed and swung his legs to the floor. With a sudden lurch he was upon Pierce, his hand digging into the redhead's neck and shoving him against the wall, and the knife fell to the ground.

Clare was stunned by John's manic assault, and after a moment of indecision, she tugged on his muscled forearm. When this found no reprieve, she started to lash at him with her fists.

“Stop! Please, John.”

Seamus had reversed his role and was now trying to pry away John's death grip on Pierce, whose face burst into redness. The boy's eyeballs protruded grotesquely and he flopped helplessly.

Despite the violence committed on him by Pierce's would-be rescuers, the intensity of John's dark pursuit was unyielding and seemed to be urged on further as his victim gasped toward final submission.

“You're going to kill him, John,” Clare shrieked. “Enough!”

She could do no more as the lanterns of Pierce's life dimmed, and his body wearied of the battle.

“No!” she shouted.

Then Seamus somehow got leverage on the big man and yanked him back from Pierce. But he tripped in the process and then John was upon him, punching him, and then his arms gripped Seamus's neck in a fit.

“John, no!” Clare was appalled by the hunger for vengeance in the fighter. How could she even have fallen for such a violent man? “Stop!”

Just as the word escaped her mouth, Clare heard a hideous animal cry from John Barden. He staggered up to his feet and put his hand to his abdomen, looking down in disbelief. He raised his palm toward the glow of candlelight, and the moist crimson glistened. With murderous intent, he glared at Pierce, but only for a moment.

John succumbed to his debilitating wound and collapsed to the floor, crawling in serpentine agony. A dull, steady groan emanated from his quivering lips.

Numb, Clare looked to Pierce, where she saw the slender, wet knife slip from his grip, plunging to the floor where it echoed in a metallic dance.

“What . . . have you done?” Clare began to sob and felt her knees buckling.

With a rasp in his throat, Pierce began to slowly unfurl his crumpled body along the wall, and Clare dropped to her knees beside him, grateful he was yet living.

“Go get Patrick,” she said to a dazed Seamus.

Her brother nodded mutely and then stepped over John's body and exited the bedroom.

Before long, Tressa filled the room with her matronly presence with Seamus trailing her in silence.

“Oh, my poor dear boy.” She bent down to John's blood-splattered body writhing on the ground. “Help me lift him to the bed.”

With Seamus bearing the weight, they lumbered John's body onto the bed and somewhere between the floor and the bed, the fighter lost consciousness.

There was a pounding on the front door and they exchanged disquieted expressions.

“Patrick wouldn't have knocked,” Tressa said. “Leave it be. It might be the girls hearing the commotion from downstairs, or it could be someone meddling. Cops maybe.”

“They know we're in here. I'm going to find out for myself,” Seamus said.

When her brother left the room, Clare held her breath and she listened for trouble. The door clicked open, there was an exchange of voices, and Seamus returned with a gray-haired man, whose blue suspenders barely held up a large pair of trousers. The man waddled toward the bed with a black leather case in tote.

“More light,” he said as he rolled up his sleeves. “Boil me some water.”

They backed up in submission to his authority and sense of urgency.

“I'll gather some lanterns from my house,” Tressa said. “But Doc. You haven't been tipping it heavy tonight, have you?”

“Nothing more than usual,” he said nonchalantly and began working on his patient.

After they brought all that was requested, the portly physician didn't want them loitering about, and they cleared the room. Once in the living area, Seamus brought the fireplace to full frame.

Not much later, they heard the front door handle rattle, and following a curse and before they could answer it, a key sounded in the lock and it sprung open. Patrick Feagles stood before them wearing a snow-speckled coat and wool cap.

“Is it true? John Barden got pricked?”

“I'm afraid it 'tis.” Tressa nodded to the bedroom door.

Patrick's face reddened and he entered the bedroom, with the others hovering near the door, hoping to catch an update on John's condition.

“In the name of Mary!” Patrick exclaimed. “Is he going to die, Doc?”

“It's likely.” The physician continued to work the wound.