5

June 1877

When Armando Mattos Silveira de Costa was a mere child in his native country of Angola, he was by far the largest child his age in the district, if not in the entire country. His mother, as proud of him as she could be even though his birth had been such that she could have no other children, used to pinch his fat cheeks, leaving large red blotches, and say to the neighbors, “Have you ever seen such a child? And you should see how he eats! He’ll grow up to be a giant!”

And as Armando grew up he did, indeed, appear to be headed for gianthood. His appetite also seemed to increase. His father, a poor planter with a poor farm in the Benguela district on the Cubango River, was hard put to furnish the food his son consumed. It was true that as Armando grew he was also becoming more useful on the farm, since at the age of fourteen he could easily replace an ox in pulling a plow, but on the balance, as far as his father was concerned, it appeared that Armando was going to eat more than the extra output the farm would gain from his strength. It was a problem! his father thought with his usual bitterness, and one seemingly without solution, since the boy was the apple of his mother’s eye—which was one more reason his father had grown to hate his son. What boy of fourteen still slept with his mother, thus depriving his father of his marital rights? And the woman apparently could not understand the simple fact that, in addition to robbing his father of the normal love any man should expect from a wife, her monstrous son was going to eat them out of house and home, especially as he grew bigger and—supposedly—even hungrier.

Until one day when Armando’s father took the boy—then eighteen years old and huge—into Nova Lisboa with him to help him unload the ox wagon containing what little of the farm’s produce was left for sale in the market square. It was not that Armando’s father was not strong enough to unload the wagon himself—he was also a large man, although not Armando’s size—but his growing hatred for his son was equaled only by his own laziness. Besides, he saw no reason why the overgrown lout should not earn at least a small portion of his board.

Their small stock was soon disposed of, and the two started off to pick up the necessities they had been instructed to return with by the planter’s wife—a fifty-kilo bag of flour for baking, fifty kilos of sugar to last the coming season, and some salt and thread. Armando had easily lifted each fifty-kilo sack, one in each hand, placing them in the wagon with their other purchases, when his father jerked a thumb at him.

“You wait here, and I mean here!” he said brusquely, pointing his thumb downward, and headed across the square to a bar, walking inside. Armando waited where he was, and then he noticed something he had never seen before. Across the square from him, almost next to the bar his father had gone into, a man was nailing some colorful posters onto a wall. Armando walked over to see what they were all about. They were apparently advertising a circo, whatever that was, that was being held in a large tent in a different square. Armando didn’t know what the posters were all about, but he did like the colors of them, and there was a girl’s picture on one of them which portrayed her in a costume that left her as close to being nude as Armando had ever seen a girl other, of course, than the natives his mother kept sending to his bed to keep him—she said—from touching himself and going crazy. Armando was still admiring the colorful sheets when his father came out of the bar, smelling of whiskey. He frowned direly to see his son had not remained at the wagon where he had been told to stay.

“What are you doing here? I thought I told you—”

“Papa, what is a circo?”

“Foolishness is what it is,” his father said sourly. “Some acrobats, maybe a clown—a silly man with paint on his face—a woman with a beard, possibly a girl that rides a horse standing up, and some worn-out animals. As if we don’t see enough animals—may they rot in hell!—without going to a circus to see more! Come on!” He took Armando painfully by the ear and pulled; it had been his method of controlling the boy since childhood. This time, however, Armando resisted.

“I would like to see this circus,” he said.

“What you would really like is a touch of the whip!” his father said viciously, and started to unwind the sjambok from his belt; a little liquor had a tendency to make Armando’s father recall all the injustices to which his life had been subjected, not the least of which had been this monstrous son. But he had barely drawn the sjambok back, prepared to let it whistle across his son’s back as an outlet for all his frustrations, when Armando reached out and plucked the whip from his father’s hand. As people stopped to stare, Armando wound one end of the whip about one large hand, and holding the other end tightly, he gave one jerk and broke the sjambok in two. There were gasps from the people watching. The whip had been made from a thin strip of rhinoceros skin and no one had ever seen a sjambok broken before; supposedly they could not be broken. Armando tossed the broken whip aside and then picked his father up. He lifted him over his head and threw him a good fifteen feet, to land heavily against the wheel of a nearby ox wagon. Armando then walked over, dragged his father back from the wheel, and raised him by his ankles, upending him and shaking him until some loose change fell free from his pockets. Armando then dropped his unconscious father, picked up the loose silver coins, and started to walk away. He had finally done what he had wanted to do since he was ten years old, when his father had taken him by the ear and pushed him temporarily from his mother’s side to take his place in that warm, comfortable refuge. It was obvious to Armando that returning home was now impossible, but before he made any definite plans for the future, he intended to see this circo and find out what it was all about. And to determine if, indeed, the girl in the poster was that close to being nude, or if, indeed, she worked for the circo at all.

But he had only taken a step or two when he was confronted. It was the man who had been nailing up the posters; he was still holding the hammer. Armando frowned. He was in no mood to be further threatened that day, but before he could take the hammer from the man’s hand and either break it in two or thrust it down the man’s throat, the man had stepped back and dropped the hammer, evidently realizing the possible misinterpretation that could be put upon the tool.

“Wait!” the man said hastily, holding up an apologetic hand. “How would you like a job?”

Armando let his huge arms fall, relaxing his fists. Here he was leaving home for the first time in his life, and two minutes after the decision had been made, he was being offered a job! Well, with his size and strength, it was not surprising. There were undoubtedly many jobs to be had—loading wagons, unloading wagons. This man probably wanted him to finish nailing up the posters. Well, he could do that, too. It took little brains that he could see.

“What’s the job?” he asked.

“Working in the circus. As the strong man,” the man said.

He could get into the circus without paying! Then Armando stopped to think. “What’s a strong man in the circus supposed to do?” he asked suspiciously, and then shook his head at himself for being so stupid. Undoubtedly to put up the tent. Well, he could do that, too.

“Just lift things,” the man said, and eyed Armando’s size and the muscles in the big arms. He didn’t know how the next statement might be taken, so he made his voice conversational, making it all seem quite innocuous. “Maybe sometimes fight people, too.”

“Fight people?” Normally Armando did not like to fight people; his mother was opposed to his fighting. Still, he had fought all the boys in his school, many of them older—although not bigger—and he had never lost. And he had been taught that when one took a job one did what one was told. “All right,” he said. “How much would the job pay?”

The man wet his lips. He would have liked to say just room and board, but there was always the possibility that the boy was not as stupid as he looked. He didn’t look particularly bright, but why take a chance with a boy that size? With those monstrous muscles? “You come along with me,” the man said confidently. “We’ll come to some arrangement, I’m sure.”

And that was how Armando Mattos Silveira de Costa became known as the Man Mountain of Angola, the Angolan Ape, the Benguela Beast; as well as being billed as the Strongest Man in the World! That was also how the posters that advised the world thereafter of Armando’s talents all stated that he would fight any man in the audience for a period of six rounds by any rules the challenger might prefer, the challenger, should he defeat Armando, to receive Five Pounds! On the other hand, should the challenger lose—which had never failed to occur—the challenger was guaranteed the best medical aid the town where the bout took place could offer. To Armando it meant a few minutes of minimum effort, for the local champions that fell before his lethal fists it meant momentary glory and often the soothing hand of some fair maiden afterward, and to the owner of the circus, of course, it meant a performance for which all tickets never failed to be sold. Everyone was happy.

Except Armando’s mother, even though her pride in her son now came close to bursting the heart in her more than ample breast as she heard of triumph after triumph for the fruit of her loins. She would lean over and cuff her husband’s ears.

“The money could have been ours, idiota!” she would say viciously, and swing the heavy arms that were Armando’s legacy. “Burro! Bêsta! Estúpido!” And Armando’s father would sadly know that he would sleep alone one more night …

The money that had been earned in the almost three years since Barney and Harry Isaacs’ two nephews had arrived in Kimberley had not been bad money; in the East End of London it would have been untold wealth. But the East End was not Kimberley, and the ambitions Barney Isaacs had had in the East End were not the ambitions Barney Isaacs had in Kimberley in southern Africa. For one thing, there had been no Fay Bees—beautiful, desirable Fay Bees—in the East End. Although Barney would have been the first to admit that any attempt at matchmaking on his part had been a total failure.

“Barney,” Harry had said one day with narrowed eyes to indicate he was running short of patience, a thing quite unlike Barney’s normally calm brother, “are you trying to push your girl friend off onto me?”

Barney had instantly flared. “What d’you mean?”

“What I say. Now, look,” Harry had said in a more normal tone, “I like Fay. She’s a great girl, and a beautiful girl. But she’s simply not for me. Or me for her, as far as that goes. I told you before that I have a girl waiting for me back in London that I’m going back to as soon as we build up our stake a little more.”

“You’re crazy,” Barney said but without conviction, and somehow felt happy about it.

“I’m crazy,” Harry had agreed evenly, and had looked at his brother a long moment. “Anyway,” he added quietly, “one of us is crazy.” And he had gone about his business.

True, Barney Isaacs was now the top kopje walloper in the Kimberley area. The best stones—those that were offered to wallopers and not dealers in the first place—were offered to him. And for the stones he bought, he received the best prices when he resold them. He had established a reputation for honesty and integrity, as well as one for his detailed knowledge of diamonds, and it all helped. But he was still only a kopje walloper and no more, and he knew it. And it galled him. He wasn’t a diamond trader, a dealer, and that was the bitter fact. He worked out of his hat, so to speak—or, rather, out of old Rhodes’ oat bag, which was more like it. He had no stock, nor any office in which to display large quantities of stones to the buyers from London or Paris; that was the way to make money! Not buying and selling one or two decent stones a day, together with a dozen or so inferior ones. They had made some money, he didn’t deny that; but they hadn’t made what he called money! What he meant was, he didn’t have capital. He had his daily profits, plus what Jack Joel and Solly Loeb took from the two claims he had bought as part of their general partnership, but they weren’t great claims. They lay near the reef, rather than in the center of the mine; but unfortunately, those in the center of the mine cost real money.

Oh, yes, things had changed in the four years since Barney had become a kopje walloper; but he didn’t know if they had changed for the better or not, or at least had changed as he would have wished. His two nephews were there, it was true, and they had both turned out to be hardworking, intelligent boys, who didn’t seem to mind the long hours down in the mine, or the boring but vital work at the sorting table. It was also true that the diamond market had improved and decent stones that could be cut to a carat or more could now easily bring as much as four pounds a carat. More diggers had formed partnerships to work the mines more efficiently; fewer were leaving. Kimberley was beginning to take on the appearance of an organized town. Barney’s few books, the ones he had rented out until they had fallen to pieces, would have been a joke now. Someone had raised subscriptions and had started a free library, which had its own building and everything, even a full-time librarian. Tents were now by far in the minority, and the Miner’s Committee had strict rules as to the killing of animals and the disposal of wastes.

Yes, Kimberley and the diamond business had changed, but not Fay. She still seemed to remain the same. She still seemed unable to find someone to settle down with, and she had to be approaching twenty now, and certainly more than old enough to get married. And she still remained with her father, who in addition to getting older seemed to be getting more and more odd with each passing day. And, Barney thought, Fay seemed to get more and more beautiful as time passed. And still as distant and unattainable for him as the moon.

It was a sad thought but one that remained with him constantly, and as he led old Rhodes to the stable and then walked over to the Paris Hotel, where he and Harry now shared a room, he wondered at the rut into which he seemed to have fallen. As far as Harry was concerned, Barney knew, it was a comfortable rut and one that gave a very decent profit to add to their relatively large and growing account in the Kimberley Bank; but then Harry was planning on taking his share of the money and going to London very soon, intending to settle down and get married. But that was not at all what Barney wanted. He didn’t know exactly what he did want, but he knew it was different from what he had.

He paused to scrape the mud from his boots before entering the hotel, and noticed a poster nailed to one side of the door. It was advertising a circus. Barney smiled faintly. At one time, as a boy in Petticoat Lane, he had hoped to join a circus, use his acrobatic talents there; he wondered where he would have been now had he done so instead of taking off to join Harry in Africa. It was a pointless thought, he knew. For one thing he would never have met Fay, although in all honesty that probably would have been better. Had he not met her he might have been happily married to someone else, although he could not picture any other girl he would have wanted. He put the thought away almost forcibly and was about to abandon the poster when he noticed an additional statement at the bottom of the printed sheet. It stated that the Man Mountain of Angola, the Strongest Man in the World, would take on any challenger in the world for six rounds of boxing, the challenger to receive the sum of Five Pounds should he best the champion. Barney grinned broadly at the ridiculous thought that anyone in Kimberley would chance getting his head beat off for the paltry sum of five pounds, the price of a few meals in that highly inflationary area. And then he suddenly stopped short as an idea struck him. It was so simple, as all truly great ideas always are, that he wondered it had taken him all of several seconds to have thought of it! Five pounds, of course, was absurd. It was even completely inconsequential. There was real money to be gained, enough money, in fact, to allow him to realize his ambitions! And the more he examined his idea, standing staring at the poster, the better he liked it. He checked the data on the colorful poster once again, and saw the circus would remain in Kimberley a full week. More than ample time to put his scheme in operation!

With his idea bubbling in his head like champagne, Barney walked into the hotel and went to the bar, looking for Harry. His brother was at the far end of the bar, surrounded by a group as he told them a story. There was a burst of laughter as Harry ended. He noticed Barney and waved him over, but Barney motioned to his brother to come to him instead. The two made their way into the dining area and sat at a table that allowed privacy for their conversation. Barney waved away a waitress as Harry studied his brother’s face, noting the inner excitement. He frowned slightly. He hadn’t seen Barney in this mood for a very long time.

“All right, Barney,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

Barney was barely able to hold back a grin. “Harry, how much money do we have in the Kimberley Bank?”

Harry held up a hand. “Hold it! Whatever brainstorm you have, remember that half of that money is mine. And the boys also each have a share; they’ve contributed.”

Barney waved that aside as being totally unimportant. “How much do we have there?”

Harry considered him for several seconds before answering. “A little more than four thousand pounds.”

“Fine!” Barney said with evident satisfaction. “We’re going to multiply that by ten to twenty times. Inside of a week!”

“Oh? And just how do we perform this miracle? Rob the bank? Or buy a printing press and print our own?”

“No. We’re going to let people give it to us. Force it on us, practically.” Barney leaned forward, unconsciously dropping his voice although there was nobody near them. “Harry, when you came in, did you see that poster outside advertisin’ a circus?”

“I know all about it. They’re staying at the Queen’s Hotel and I saw them there when I went to lunch. So what does the circus have to do with us? What do we do to get rich—open a fish-and-chips stand next to them? Or cotton candy?”

Barney paid no attention to the sarcasm, waving it away impatiently. “Did you see where they have someone they call the Man Mountain of Angola, or somethin’ like that? Who will fight anyone six rounds any rules, and if the challenger wins, he gets five quid?”

“So? Who in his right mind is going to fight some giant for a mere five pounds?”

“Me,” Barney said quietly, and leaned back in triumph.

“You?” Harry stared across the table. “You’ve been out in the sun too much! Among other things, I saw the man they call the Man Mountain at the Queen’s this noon, and that’s just what he is. He’s roughly—not roughly, more than—twice as big as you are. And he has to weigh a good ten stone more than you. His fist is bigger than your head, and that’s even when your head is swelled, like now.”

“All the better, his size. I figured on him being twice me size.”

Harry shook his head. “What do you mean, all the better? And did you figure on a trip to the hospital when you figured he was twice your size? Anyway,” Harry added, frowning, “how will your being battered to death by this monster make us rich?”

“I ain’t goin’ to be battered,” Barney said half angrily. “And we’re goin’ to get rich real simple.” He leaned forward again. “Harry, when they see the size o’ this bloke, and then they think o’ me—with me specs and me toff clothes—which I’ll wear this week”—Barney had automatically gone back to his East End accent in his excitement—“what odds you think any bloke in the street’ll give I don’t even walk out o’ the ring, but they gotta carry me?”

“Same odds I’d give,” Harry said coldly. “A hundred to one.”

“You see?” Barney shrugged happily. “There you are. I was thinkin’ you could get ten or twenty to one as easy as falling down the reef. If you can get more, all the better.”

Harry was staring at him almost in shock. “Are you serious?”

“O’ course I’m serious!”

“You honestly expect me to put our money on a dumb wager like that? Against a man who could break you in two with one finger?”

“He’s gotta get that one finger on me first,” Barney said confidently. “Look, Harry, you and me’s been sparrin’ almost every mornin’ just to keep in shape, ain’t we? And yer bigger and stronger than me, ain’t you? Well, how many times you been able to floor me?”

“Enough times,” Harry said evenly. “And I’m not this Angolan monster. He floors you once, you’ll probably never get up. And I haven’t the slightest intention of chancing—not even chancing, losing—our money on a proposition like that!”

He started to rise to indicate the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. Barney reached over and pushed him back into his chair. His blue eyes were icy.

“Harry,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to say nothin’, and you and me’s been partners share and share alike since I got here, and that’s the way I always wanted it to be; but yer forcin’ me to remind you who put in ninety per cent o’ the money in that bank account. Yer screw at yer job’d just about feed you, and we both know it. Now, I say ninety per cent of the money in that bank is mine, and we both know it; but if you want to split the brass fifty-fifty right down the middle and go yer way, writin’ an end to Barnato Brothers, all you gotta do is say so, and we’ll go down to the bank tomorrow mornin’ and settle it. And I’ll have one o’ the boys set up the bets with me share o’ the money, or I’ll do it meself.” He leaned over the table. “But I’ll tell you this: I can take that cove! I ain’t never seen him, but I seen big guys before, and I don’t care how big he is. The bigger the better. Them big guys can’t hardly lift their arms, and they’re so slow I could have a cuppa while they’re standin’ up.”

Harry was listening, white-faced. Barney wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went on.

“And I’ll tell you somethin’ else, too. I ain’t goin’ to be no kopje walloper all me bloody life! I’m goin’ to be a dealer, a trader, and I need more money to do that proper than I can get bummin’ me way from sortin’ shed to sortin’ shed every bloody day o’ me life, practically beggin’ to be given a bone, like some pariah dog! And I want some decent claims, in the center o’ the bloody mine, not under the bloody reef where you gotta keep lookin’ up every five minutes to see if half the edge is goin’ to fall in on you! And where yer lucky to pick up wages for all the work that goes into the bloody business!”

He almost sneered at his silent brother across the table.

“Yer worried about yer bloody money! So’s you can go home and get married, with just enough brass to set yerself up in some shack in the East End and raise kids and end up like Pa or old man Feldman, wonderin’ how yer goin’ to feed them! Yer so bloody thick you can’t see this is a real chance to go home in style and open a office there to sell the stones direct that I can buy here in Kimberley as a dealer. It would be a branch office of Barnato Brothers, because that’s what we’d call it.” There was a missionary’s zeal in his voice; then it disappeared as he stared at his brother. “But you can’t see it. That’s how bloody thick you are.” He came to his feet. “Well, make up yer mind. In or out. Me half o’ the four thousand quid goes, anyway. But it’s in or out for you, and for keeps.”

He waited while Harry took a deep breath. He had never seen Barney like that; it was as if he had taken a dressing-down from his father. He swallowed and, mentally asking forgiveness of his girl in London, he said, quietly, “In.”

“Good,” Barney said expressionlessly, and looked at the clock over the bar. “Well, you can start figuring out the best way to push the odds up as high as you can. I’m on my way to the Queen’s Hotel to give that big man of yours a challenge.”

His accent had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

The word of the fight swept the town, from word of mouth, mostly with delighted grins on faces—since it had to be assumed that little Barney Isaacs would simply try to clown his way through the fight and thus gain admirers for his nerve or future customers for his walloping, since he had no chance of winning—to articles in both J. B. Robinson’s Independent and the more established Diamond News. The Independent, in line with its owner’s racial prejudices, treated the matter as a joke, and exhibited a cartoon showing a big-nosed David opposing a handsome Goliath, with the exception that Goliath, calmly picking his teeth, was pictured with one large foot on the neck of a sprawling, squalling David. The Diamond News, in its more staid fashion, reported the coming fistic bout as a straight news item. It mentioned the fight as bringing together a well-known personality of Kimberley, known in the past for his performances at the Paris Hotel; and a visiting circus performer. It mentioned that interest in the fight was running exceptionally high, stated that since the Miner’s Committee frowned on fighting for money in the town, the fight would not take place at the circus but at the Eagle’s Nest, six miles out of town. (It did not mention that the circus owner had pleaded with the committee for hours, and in the end had wanted to drop the fight altogether, except for the inordinate interest the town had seemed to take in it.) The article continued by stating that the wagering on the outcome of the fight seemed to overwhelmingly favor the circus performer. The circus performer, the article further mentioned, was also the strong man in the circus, and had had over thirty bouts in the previous six months, winning them all quite easily. The article then concluded the man’s success was undoubtedly due to his size and weight, which they gave.

Fay, reading the article, was angry. She reached for her shawl, said, “Pa, I’ll be right back,” and hurried from the tent, leaving her father, as always, talking softly to himself. She walked as quickly as she could the two miles from Bultfontein to the Harris shop in the central portion of Kimberley, glanced in and saw that Harry Isaacs was busy, and waited impatiently until he was free. Then she hurried inside.

“What’s this about Barney fighting a man over twice his size?” she demanded.

Harry shrugged apologetically. It was difficult for him to give a proper explanation when he agreed with the girl completely. “It’s his decision,” he said weakly. “If you know Barney …” He left the balance of the statement unfinished as being understood.

“But he’ll be hurt!”

“Maybe not. Barney’s pretty good.” Since wagering their entire bank account of over four thousand pounds at exceedingly high odds, Harry had forced himself to try to believe that Barney might have a chance of winning. Any other consideration was simply too terrible to contemplate.

“Well,” Fay said suddenly. “I’m going to the fight.”

“You can’t!” Harry was scandalized and tried to explain. “Fay, women don’t go to fights. A lot of the men there—most of the men, most probably—will be drunk, and there are usually more fights in the audience than there are in the ring. It could be dangerous for you to go, and Barney would be dead set against it.”

“Barney doesn’t need to know,” Fay said stubbornly.

Harry tried to get the girl to be realistic. “How would he not know? The only woman at a fight! Men would be around you like flies, and Barney would be out in the crowd pounding someone!” Another thought came, a horrible thought. “Or else it would take Barney’s mind from the fight, and that’s the last thing we need!”

“Barney won’t know. Nobody will know. I’ll go dressed as a man.”

Harry looked at the girl as if she were mad. “You wouldn’t fool anyone for an instant! After all …” He let the words trail to silence. Fay had developed into quite a full-busted woman. Harry changed the subject. “Anyway, how would you get there?”

“With you.”

“But I’m going with Barney!”

“Let Barney go with someone else. I’m going with you.”

Fay turned to go, marching from the shop, her mind made up. Behind her she left Harry almost tearing his hair. Of course he could plead some last-minute excuse to Barney, some sudden business that would hold him at the shop that would not allow him to get to the fight early; but he had to get there in time to be in Barney’s corner. Barney could go with Solly and Jack, but they couldn’t second him. They had no experience. And just how would he be able to get Fay home afterward without Barney’s knowing? Damn! Well, he still had until Sunday to discover a means of doing everything. He just wished the bloody circus had never come to town.

As she walked home, Fay pictured the steps she would have to take to handle her disguise. A pair of her father’s old corduroys would do for trousers; although she would have liked to cut them to fit, she knew they could not afford the wasting of a pair of pants that could be used. Still, by tucking them into a pair of his boots, she could get away with it. The boots would be large and uncomfortable, but that was better than having to wear a pair that were too small. A slouch hat, her father’s, the one he had worn on the trek, would be fine to hide her hair, done up in a tight bun. She could band her full breasts tightly, and a decent-sized shirt and jacket would properly complete the disguise. She could get away with it, she was sure. Of course there was always the chance she might be recognized as a woman, but it was a chance she was more than willing to take. If Barney might be hurt, she wanted to be there.

As she trudged back to Bultfontein she tried to analyze just why, suddenly, she was having this extraordinary concern as to Barney’s safety. He had always been self-reliant, self-confident, the most self-confident person she had ever known. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be hurt, and it was being afraid for him on that score that surprised her. They had known each other, now, for more than four years, and in all the many times they had seen each other—times she realized a bit sadly that had been growing more and more infrequent—in all the times they had gone on picnics, walked and talked, Barney had never said or done anything to indicate he might want her to commit herself to anything. True, once he had bent to kiss one of her hands, but that had been after staying away from her for six months, and she had practically forced him to that action as a compensation for his previous neglect. No, in all the time she had known him he had never made the slightest move to indicate she could mean any more to him than as a friend. Of course, to be perfectly honest with herself, she had to admit that Barney had once said something about love, and she had been the one to turn the subject to friendship, but that had been a long time ago when they were both very young. Why hadn’t he ever said anything about it since? Obviously because friendship was what he wanted, all he had ever really wanted. There were men who, she suspected, while fearing little else had a deadly fear of love. Barney must have been relieved the subject had never been raised again.

Well, Fay thought defiantly as she marched steadily along, maybe we’ll have to do something about that. If the fool doesn’t get himself killed in that stupid fight of his!

Dr. Josiah Mathews, one of the more respected members of the Kimberley community, had agreed to act as ringmaster for the boxing match for several reasons. One, he was a man whose probity would never be doubted by the crowd, no matter how partisan; and secondly, the doctor had a strong feeling his medical accomplishments might well be required by young Mr. Isaacs. Dr. Mathews had requested Charles Rudd, as a man with some prior boxing experience, to act as referee. Mr. Rudd’s partner had declined to even attend the match for several reasons: while Cecil John Rhodes would have enjoyed witnessing the almost assured defeat of the Jew, Barney Isaacs—for he had heard some time before that Isaacs had had the temerity to name his horse Rhodes—there was the possibility, almost the assurance, that blood would be spilled, and even though it would be the blood of the Jew, Cecil John Rhodes had no desire to get sick before a crowd that included many of his friends.

The area at the foot of Eagle’s Nest—the “nest” itself was a kopje a mere fifteen feet higher than the surrounding territory, but it served as a sort of stadium allowing the spectators to look down at the ring—had been pounded flat and the ring posts well set in the hard soil. The circus worker assigned to string the ropes finished putting the final one in place; he crawled beneath the bottom rope, came to his feet, and launched himself against the triple strands, bouncing back satisfactorily. He nodded to the waiting Dr. Mathews and climbed from the ring. Dr. Mathews, in turn, nodded to the waiting contestants, who stepped through the ropes and took the corners assigned to them by the good doctor, who had been standing in the middle of the ring watching the ropes being put in place. The doctor, satisfied his charges were in place, turned to face the growing crowd.

“Gentlemen!” he cried, raising his voice to be heard. He waited patiently as the noise slowly abated. In their corners Barney and the Angolan Giant eyed each other with no expression at all. Each was stripped to the waist and was wearing rubber-soled running shoes and boxing trunks. He’s really a big ’un! Barney was thinking, and no mistake! Hits me once, good-bye, Charlie! But he’s probably slower than treacle in January. And that belly of his looks like he likes his grub more than anythin’ else! A couple there ought to make him know he didn’t come here for no maypole dance! Across from him the huge Angolan stared at him, wondering at the nerve of a little man like that climbing into the ring against him. Ah, well, he thought, it’s all in a day’s work—or a few minutes’ work, rather, and it’s a living.

Dr. Mathews had waited long enough. “Gentlemen! Please!”

At last a partial silence fell, broken only by the sound of bottles being rattled and the slurping of drinking sounds. Somewhere someone was getting sick. The doctor accepted this as normal and raised his voice.

“Gentlemen, this boxing match shall be held under the rules of Mr. John Chambers and the London Amateur Athletic Club as promulgated in the year eighteen sixty-five. As you can see, the contestants are wearing padded gloves. Each round shall consist of three minutes of fighting followed by a minute of rest. A fighter who is downed must get up unaided within ten seconds, or forfeit the match. There shall be six rounds to this match.” The doctor looked first at the giant and then at Barney, mentally wondering what on earth young Isaacs could have been thinking to get himself involved in anything like this. Ah, well, the doctor had plenty of collodion and bandage should they be needed, and he had a feeling a good part of the items in his bag might be needed before the afternoon was over. He continued his speech. “I shall blow a whistle to signal the start and end of each round. Mr. Charles Rudd has consented to referee this match. Mr. Rudd?”

The doctor climbed through the ropes and took his place at the side of the ring where he could have an unobstructed view of the action without interfering with the view of the spectators crowded on the Nest. His place in the ring was taken by the stocky Charles Rudd, who wasted no more time in calling the two fighters to the middle of the ring.

“No wrestling,” he said sternly. “When I slap you on the back, step away and then resume fighting. No blows beneath the belt. No kicking or slapping. Stop instantly when you hear Dr. Mathews whistle. That’s it.” He suddenly glanced at the large Armando. “Did you understand what I just said?”

Armando shrugged. He hadn’t understood a word, but he had heard the same thing in the same tone so often he was fairly sure he knew what the instructions had been. “Okay,” he said, exhausting his English.

“Fine,” Rudd said. “That’s it, then. Now go back to your corners and be ready to start.”

Rudd watched the two return to their respective corners and nodded to Mathews. The doctor consulted his pocket watch, waited until the second hand had come around to twelve. The crowd waited in drunken expectation, holding their breath. The doctor’s whistle shrilled. The bout was on.

Barney advanced cautiously, his gloved hands out, aware of the other’s far greater reach, watching his opponent’s eyes as well as his gloves. Armando held one arm straight before him like a battering ram on a ship; his other fist was cocked at his side, ready for a roundhouse swing that would end the fight and allow him to return to the Queen’s Hotel for supper. Armando had to admire the courage of the little man, but in view of his having to fight that afternoon he had forgone dessert at lunch, and was in a hurry to get back to some food. Had the fight been held in the circus tent, and admissions charged, Armando might have considered drawing the fight out for three or even four rounds, to give the customers something for their money, but this crowd was seeing the fight free, and Armando felt no responsibility toward them. So better to get it over with and go home.

The big Angolan made a pawing motion with his outstretched glove, inviting some response, an attempt to entice the smaller man to counter and thus come within reach of his other, cocked fist. He pawed the air invitingly again, and then was surprised to receive a sharp blow to his unprotected stomach. For a moment he did not resent having missed the dessert and even wondered if all that much lunch had been necessary, but he put the thought away at once. Food was the thing that made his job interesting; besides, the blow hadn’t bothered him at all, and how had the little man gotten close enough to him to strike the blow without having been seen? He lowered his outstretched arm a bit to protect the huge and bulging expanse of his stomach and in response received a sharp and painful rap on his nose. And there, in front of him, dancing about lightly and looking as if he hadn’t moved from that spot, was his opponent.

Well, Armando thought, his feelings hurt as much as, if not more than, his nose, we can’t have much of that, can we? One good solid punch should teach the little man some respect. He moved in more determinedly, resolved to get the final blow in before the round ended; he pulled back his arm and let go with all his might at the face that was just before him, but suddenly the face wasn’t there and the big man almost lost his balance with the force of the blow. And then there was a painful blow to the side of his face followed at once by a punch in his kidneys while he was straightening up.

Armando stepped back, a bit puzzled by this unexpected style of fighting. Usually everyone he fought was of a decent size and tried to knock his head off, but only the head; and with his greater reach and greater strength he always got to the other’s head first, and that was that. But here was a little man who kept pecking away at his belly and his kidneys. We’ll have to watch that, Armando said to himself, and then heard the doctor’s whistle. He walked to his corner and sat down on the stool his second had hastily thrust into the ring. His second was the owner of the circus and he didn’t like the way the first round had gone. He didn’t like the fact that there were no admission prices going into the circus till, as well.

“I know he’s small,” he said to Armando in Portuguese, “and I know you’re soft-hearted. But enough of this nonsense! Take him this round!” The circus owner had made his own wager, after seeing Barney, that the fight would not go two rounds. He figured he had at least one round’s security in that bet; now that security was gone. It was bad enough the fight was not earning him a penny in admissions; he had no intention of losing the bet, especially since he had given extremely high odds, and to the brother of the other fighter, yet! “This round!” he repeated direly, and took the stool from beneath Armando as his fighter stood up.

“Sim,” Armando said equably, and nodded. Whatever the boss said was all right with him. It seemed a pity, though, to hurt the game little man, but without hurting him in some way how could he end the fight in that round? Still, Armando thought philosophically, that was what happened to challengers. It was the way of life. He glanced across the ring, waiting for the whistle. In the opposite corner Barney was leaning back against the ropes, completely relaxed, staring out over the crowd, apparently either unaware or unafraid of the beating he was about to take. A pity! Armando thought, and glanced about. The crowd was buzzing loudly; money was being exchanged. Apparently some had bet that the little man wouldn’t even last the single round. Armando was not sorry for them; the little man deserved to last at least one round, even with him. He bit back a slight yawn, remembering that he had not had his usual nap after his large lunch, and then straightened up as the whistle blew for the start of the second round.

Barney moved from his corner, his face still expressionless, his narrowed blue eyes steady on Armando’s big, round, peasant face. Armando wondered just how he could put the little man out of action the least painful way and still earn his boss’s approval. But he was concentrating on the matter too much. There was a quick movement on Barney’s part and Armando felt his nose sting again, this time even more painfully than the last, followed almost instantly by a hard blow to the soft, unprotected belly. And then—amazing!—the little man was away and moving again, gloves up, ready, waiting for the next opportunity.

Armando was puzzled. He was also a bit irked by this constant attention to his lower body, which was beginning to hurt. If this kept up, he might not even enjoy his supper! How did the little man move so quickly? He was like a gato, a cat! Still, other than the blows to the stomach, none of the others had bothered him overly, and if that was the hardest the little man could hit, then it was merely a matter of time. The thing to do was to crowd the little man into a corner where he couldn’t escape so quickly from one of his attacks, and then simply end the match with one blow.

Armando brought his gloved fists up into a closer approximation of his opponent’s stance and shuffled forward, bending his elbows as Barney had his bent, to partially protect that huge stomach while his large hands covered his face. So intent was the large Armando on placing his arms and fists in the best position for maximum defense that Barney had ample opportunity to catch him a stiff jab to the kidneys, followed at once by a swift cross to the stomach, before stepping smartly away. Armando could not help but grimace, but he continued to keep pressing forward, his original plan of herding Barney into a corner in no way changed. Over Barney’s shoulder the big Armando could see Dr. Mathews, the whistle in one hand, alternately consulting the action in the ring and the watch in his other hand. Then, completely to Armando’s surprise, he thought he heard the whistle sound, although from experience he felt the round could not be over as yet. Besides, the whistle remained in the doctor’s fingers, far from his lips. An echo inside his head, Armando decided; the little man had hit him harder the last time than he had supposed. He went back to his job and then saw, to his surprise, that the little man had somehow dropped his guard and was actually turning away. A mistake, Armando thought, sorry for his opponent, and his huge fist, automatically taking advantage of the unexpected opening, crashed into the side of Barney’s head. Barney dropped.

Around the ring the spectators were screaming in furious anger. Dr. Mathews was staring at the culprit, his face red with anger. “Mr. Cohen, sir! You are drunk! You blew that whistle! You will hand it over at once, sir, do you hear me?”

Some of the crowd were trying to reach the culprit, eager to avenge the unsportsmanlike conduct they had witnessed; the rest were trying in their drunken stupor to discover what had happened, what the fuss was all about. Lou Cohen, now suddenly sober, had managed to get to the doctor’s side for protection. He turned to the doctor, relieved but furious, the normal reaction of one who has managed to reach safety after a dire threat.

“It was a joke is all, damm it!”

The doctor glared at him. “Louis Cohen, sir, you are unconscionable!” The crowd was getting ugly, having come this far on their one day off work all week, and having done without the other diversions Kimberley was capable of furnishing. And not to see their fight? Dr. Mathews pulled the whistle from Cohen’s hand and dropped it into his pocket. He then blew his own whistle repeatedly until he had attention. “Gentlemen!”

“Bastard ought to be horse-whipped, if you ask me,” someone said in a loud voice into the quieting noise.

“Well, nobody asked you!” Cohen snapped. He was regaining his courage since it was apparent the crowd was too drunk to really get out of hand. “It was a bloody joke, I tell you! I thought both of them would stop fighting and I thought that would be funny!” He looked up at the Nest and the angry faces there. “Look, if you want to call off any bets I made…”

“What!” someone cried. The voice was scandalized. “Did you pull a dirty stunt like that because your fighter was losing?”

“Who was losing! Oh, for God’s sake! No, I didn’t do it because of anything except it was a bloody joke! Anyone I have bets with can call them off or leave them stand, whatever they want! Good God! Nobody has a sense of humor anymore!”

Someone in a slouch hat pulled low over his face and with ill-fitting clothes was trying to fight his way closer to the ring. Harry, his face white with shock, was starting to step through the ropes to help Barney back to his stool, but Rudd shoved him away. There was enough confusion going on at the moment without having people, even seconds, crowding into the ring. Rudd bent over Barney. Barney had come to one knee, dazed, and was shaking his head to clear it. Rudd frowned. “Are you all right, Isaacs?”

Armando was also standing over the shaken Barney, looking both confused and terribly repentant.

“Senhor! Eu sinto muito! Mas eu sabia que no era o silvo, estava olhando o médico!”

The circus owner was leaning over the ropes, translating at the top of his voice to be heard. “He says it was an accident. He knew it wasn’t the whistle because he was watching the doctor!” The owner understood enough of Englishmen to know that in their present mood the blame could just as easily be put upon Armando as upon the bôbo who had blown the whistle, and in that mood the crowd could easily take it into their minds to go back to Kimberley and destroy his circus. Barney waved the translation away as being unimportant. He was sure the big Angolan had not hit him on purpose; had their roles been reversed he might also have automatically struck his opponent if he saw that Mathews was not blowing his whistle. He raised his voice to be heard by the owner.

“Tell him it doesn’t matter. I’m not blaming him.” He shook his aching head and put a hand to it. “Also tell him he’s got a punch like a steamroller.”

The circus owner burst into rapid Portuguese, translating Barney’s message. Armando beamed, proud of the compliment. He would have liked to return it, because the small man deserved it, but he didn’t want to ask his boss to translate. Barney came to his feet, looking at Rudd.

“Let’s get on with it.”

Rudd frowned. “Are you sure you’re able?”

“Never felt better in me life,” Barney said, and walked back to his corner, knowing he was moving more slowly than before. He sat on his stool while the circus owner conferred with his fighter. Armando paused in the discussion every now and then to glance apologetically across the ring at Barney, but in the end he shrugged and nodded to his boss as he sat down on his stool. Barney could almost read the big man’s mind. He doesn’t want to bust me into little pieces, Barney thought, but unfortunately he has to to keep his job and keep on eating. Which merely means I’ll have to make it fast if I hope to make it at all. The blow he had taken had been as powerful a punch as he had ever taken in any fight in his life, and he knew it would take its toll quickly if the fight went on very long.

Harry had heard the discussion in the ring. He looked at Barney as if he were crazy.

“Look, we can call the whole thing off—cancel the bets and be back where we were. Maybe you had a chance before—you were quick—but you’re not steady on your feet! He can kill you! Drop it and cancel the bets! Nobody is going to argue about that!”

“I’ll argue about it.” Barney looked at Harry. “Harry,” he said earnestly, “do you remember what I said a few days ago? I meant it! We leave here with the brass! We walk away rich!”

“If we walk away,” Harry said direly. “Your ears’ll be ringing from that whack you took for the next week.”

“Maybe,” Barney said laconically. “But I’ll have the money!”

Rudd had been conferring with Dr. Mathews at ringside; now Mathews climbed into the ring and blew his whistle with all his strength. This time the crowd quietened quickly, although there were still some loud mutterings and baleful glances in Lou Cohen’s direction.

“Gentlemen!” Mathews said in a loud voice. “The fight will continue. At the sound of the whistle, we shall be coming out for the third round. That is all.” He climbed from the ring, studied his watch a few seconds, and then gave a loud blast on his whistle. The fight was on again.

Barney came out of his corner, hesitated a moment as a brief wave of dizziness caused him to stumble slightly, and then came on. Armando was awaiting him in the middle of the ring, a look of sympathy on his large features. He looked almost Neanderthal, his long arms held before him loosely in a pawing position. Barney decided there was no time to waste. He stepped in quickly while Armando was still raising his fists, and sank his glove almost to the wrist in the soft belly of the giant Angolan. Barney stepped back, but this time Armando was in no positon to counter quickly. That blow hurt the big man, Barney said to himself with the little satisfaction he could feel, and watched the pain cross the other man’s face. Armando’s large gloved hands had dropped to protect that vulnerable spot of his, and Barney now came in to settle the matter with a few swift and powerful blows to the unprotected chin. But Armando automatically brought up one loglike arm to block the blow and at the same time swept the other arm about, catching Barney on the side of the head where he had been struck before. Barney found himself on his knees while he could hear Rudd beginning to count over him. The crowd was screaming wildly; Harry, white-faced, was leaning through the ropes, yelling something, and Barney could only assume his brother was imploring him to either quit or get to his feet. There seemed to be someone in a slouch hat beside Harry with his hands over his face. Bloody fool shouldn’t come to fights if he can’t take them, Barney thought with one small portion of his mind, while the rest of his mind commanded him to come to his feet at the count of eight. Rudd wiped the mud from the gloves and stepped away.

Armando now moved in, anxious to finish this very unpleasant fight, one he knew he would never be proud of. Actually, Armando was proud of no fight he had been in, all of which he had won. Armando had never liked to fight particularly, and it always seemed to him quite unfair to put his great size, weight, and strength against a smaller man and then to claim any form of victory from the obvious results. And that was especially true of this bout with the tough little opponent Armando had come to respect. Until the blow he had struck by accident—almost an unfair one—Armando knew in his heart he had actually been losing the fight. The poor man must need the five pounds desperately! Still, Armando needed his job with the circus if he wanted to continue eating, and while he felt sorry for the little man he was fighting, he also felt the best thing to do would be to end it as quickly as possible.

He watched his opponent come to his feet, wait while his gloves were cleaned, and then bring the fists up to position; then Armando moved in. He slashed at the little man, praying he would go down and stay down; the blow caught Barney on the cheek, staggering him, but he maintained his balance. Armando frowned in surprise to see the little man still erect. What did it take to put him down and keep him down? Unless he was losing his strength, which Armando doubted, that last blow should have ended the fight. He glanced over to his corner for some idea from his second, his boss, as to how to eliminate this tenacious little tsetse fly that seemed intent upon buzzing around his ears forever. His boss was screaming something over the noise of the crowd; Armando tilted his head a bit to hear better. It was a mistake. Barney, putting all his effort, all his strength, and with the full weight of his body behind the blow and not even thinking about it, hit the big man flush on the chin with all the force he had. It was the hardest punch he had ever thrown in his life, and he felt the bones of his hand give way with the crushing power of the blow; but he also saw Armando, a look of total surprise frozen on his face, collapse as if struck by a runaway ox, and lie unconscious on the floor while Charles Rudd counted him out.

The crowd was standing, screaming, cheering, yelling, whistling, even those whose lost bets at that moment reposed in the Paris Hotel safe. Barney stood swaying on his feet while Rudd completed his count over the large Angolan and raised Barney’s arm in victory; then he staggered to his corner and fainted at Harry’s feet.

He came to consciousness slowly, with the swaying of the Scotch cart lulling him gently, his eyes remaining closed as he tried to understand where he was and how he had gotten there. Then the pain in his right hand reminded him of the events of the afternoon and he allowed himself to drift off again under the sedative the doctor had injected into his arm. Dr. Mathews had managed a crude splint to support the hand on the trip to his office in town, where he had the materials for a plaster cast.

Barney was aware he was lying down, his back protected by cloth of some sort, his head resting on something soft. For a frightening moment he forgot his victory, wondering if he had imagined it after having been knocked out, but then he remembered that last blow and looking down, stupefied, to see Armando stretched out, cold. No, he had won. But he would never forget that fight, and he would never tackle anyone that big again. He was lucky Armando hadn’t broken his neck.

He awoke a second time and attempted to sit up, only to have his head pressed down gently. He opened his eyes, looking up. Fay was looking down at him, a worried look on her face, and he became aware that his head was in her lap. Barney turned his head; it ached with the effort. Harry, with Jack Joel and Solly Loeb seated next to him at the front of the cart, was handling the reins of old Rhodes: their jackets, it was obvious, had been used to make him as comfortable as possible on the hard boards of the cart. He turned back to Fay.

“Fay—”

“Shhh,” she said softly, but relieved that he was awake.

“Fay—how did you get here?”

“I’ll tell you about it later, darling.”

Barney tried to sit up again; again she pressed him down. He was staring at her unbelievingly. “Darling? Did you call me darling?”

“Darling,” she said firmly. She smiled at him, but it was a nervous smile. If she were wrong, she would never see him again, and she knew it. But she had to chance it; it was now or never. “Barney,” she said, “tomorrow we’re going to get married.”

Barney’s disbelief grew. “Married?”

“Unless you don’t want to.”

“Fay! I never thought—”

“I think I know what you thought, darling. I thought the same thing. And then I thought how foolish we both were, if we were in love with each other and never said anything …”

Barney closed his eyes. He had to be dreaming; out of his mind. That big Armando had hit him harder than he had thought. His brains were scrambled. What would Fay be doing at a fight? And saying she loved him! It was a dream he had often had, imagining a scene just exactly like that one, with her saying she loved him. But it would never happen. He apparently had gotten a concussion. He only hoped Dr. Mathews knew how to fix him up; with the money he had won he had too much to do without wasting time recovering.

But when he opened his eyes again, there was Fay, still looking down at him with an odd combination of worry and pride. Barney swallowed and pressed his broken hand against the floorboards of the cart; the pain made him realize he wasn’t dreaming. He swallowed. “Did you say you loved me?”

“I think I have since I first met you on the trail,” she said simply.

“Oh, Fay!” He felt tears sting his eyes. “Don’t make fun of me!”

“Oh, Barney,” she said, “you’re such a fool! I love you.”

He reached for her hand with his good hand, squeezing it. “I’ve loved you so long, Fay!” He suddenly realized that Harry and the boys were keeping their eyes rigidly to the front, although they obviously were listening. “Harry!”

Harry turned, a big grin on his face. “What?”

“We’re getting married tomorrow!” Barney couldn’t keep the pride from his voice, or his total surprise and absolute joy.

“I knew you two would one day,” Harry said, still grinning. “As soon as you got some sense.”

Barney turned back. A problem had just occurred to him. “Fay …”

“Yes, darling?”

“Would you mind—becoming Jewish?”

“No, darling. I’ve already spoken to the rabbi about getting instruction.”

Barney stared. “I didn’t even know we had a rabbi in town!”

“There’s even a synagogue. Which you should attend.”

Barney grinned. “You’re not even a convert yet, and already you’re a better Jew than I am.” He thought a moment. “Someday,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand all the more tightly, “we’ll go to London and get married again, just for my folks. Would you mind?”

“I’ll marry you as often as you like, wherever you like,” she said, smiling. “Now try to get some rest.”

He closed his eyes, still holding tightly to Fay’s hand as if to hold on to the good fortune that had come to him, marveling that Fay could possibly love him. He could almost thank Armando, the Angolan Giant, for giving him the beating he had taken, since it seemed to have triggered Fay’s action. Bless the big man! A thought came; he opened his eyes again and turned his head.

“Harry!”

Harry’s head came around. “Yes, Barney?”

“That big man, that Armando—”

“What about him?”

“He’d make quite a diamond miner, don’t you think?”

Harry smiled. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think he would. I’ll go talk to him after we get you taken care of at the doctor’s.”

“It might keep him from killing somebody someday,” Barney said with a smile, and kept his eyes open, staring up at Fay’s lovely face, still trying to believe that everything he had ever wanted had come to him in that single day …