Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“I think you go now. We talk another time. Perhaps.”

“But …” I felt quite baffled, knowing not what to say or do. “At least tell me his name?”

“Why you want to know?”

“Well … I have seen him since. I would like to know … so I may greet him by name should I see him on the street again.”

“Ha! You leam to lie better, or you tell the truth. Here …”

And with that, she dove her hand down into her bosom and found my shilling, or one just like it.

“Take this,” she resumed. “No more talk. Don’ come back unless you pay two shillings and come with me. Now go!

Indeed I went, but I left her holding the shilling. I could not take it from her, of course. In my fantasies, at least, I was her rescuer. How could one who pretended to such a role take back money freely given?

I stumbled on, attempting to master what I had just learned, forgetting for a bit that I had a specific destination — yet perhaps not forgetting entirely, for somehow I made the proper turn up Drury Lane and continued along the route I had been given by Constable Perkins to reach his place of lodging.

Mr. Perkins lived atop one of the stables in the stable yard at the foot of Little Russell Street, just behind Blooms-bury Square. He held it to be a favorable location for a man such as he, who lived alone. He had told me he had two rooms there, good and spacious, and did not mind the smell of the horses, for he grew up among them on a farm in Kent. (“They’re cleaner than us,” he had once confided.) Best of all he liked the space afforded him by the stable yard for the pursuit of his favorite pastime, which he declared to be “keepin’ fit.” He was most regular at it, devoting an hour each day to the maintenance of his astonishing strength. (I myself had seen him use his only arm to lift a man of ten stone or more off the floor.) His hour for “keepin’ fit” was the one directly preceding his departure for duty as a member of Sir John’s Bow Street constabulary. He had invited me to come by that I might begin a course of instruction in methods of defense, for he thought me ill-prepared to traverse certain low precincts of London, “where they’d as soon cut you as not.” It so happened that that very day was the one appointed for my first lesson. I knew not what to expect from it and was therefore in some manner uneasy.

Though not tardy, I found him already hard at work, perspiring freely, banging away with his fist at a great bag of sailcloth about the size of a man’s trunk which swung free from a tree in one comer of the yard. It seemed to be filled with sand or dirt, for its weight was substantial.

He happened to turn as I crossed the stable yard, which was empty but for two grooms lounging indifferently about. I was glad he spied me coming, for it seemed a risky matter to tap him on the shoulder when he was so engaged.

“Ah, Jeremy,” said he, “glad I am to see you. I took an early start, seeing I’ll be doing more teaching than working. I do like to get up a sweat each day, you see. Seem better for it, somehow.”

“I’ll remember that,” said I.

“Aye, you’d do well to keep it in mind.”

He was panting a bit. I wondered if he had not already put in a full hour.

“Now,” he continued, “where might we start? First of all, doff that hat and pull off your coat. Though it’s a bit cool today, you’ll soon warm up.”

I did as he told me, then rolled up my sleeves as well, as he had also done.

For a good five minutes he put me through a most strenuous series of stretches and pushes which quite exhausted me. But then I learned that all of it was mere preparation for what was to follow. And that was a period of hard work beating upon that heavy bag which hung from the tree. I could not make it swing freely as he had, yet that did not trouble him. Mr. Perkins was far more particular that I delivered my blows in the correct manner, leaning forward with each one, or as he put it, “throwing the body behind it.” When I got the knack of that, I was able to make the bag swing a bit, and very proud I was. Yet just as I began to enjoy myself a bit (in spite of the rawness in my hands), he stopped me, saying that would do for now.

“But we’re not through for the day,” said he. “Ah no. For you must understand there’s more to defendin’ yourself than fisticuffs. As a matter of pure fact, you’ll meet with few troublemakers willing to stand up and meet you man to man. If they’re bigger than you, they’ll try to wrestle you down and gouge out an eye or throttle you dead. If they’re your size or smaller, then you must watch out for a knife.”

“What then?” said I.

“Then, well … Take a look at me, Jeremy. If we were of the same strength and had the same skill with our fists, you’d have an advantage, now wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would.”

“Because you have two hands, and I have but one, ain’t that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But look sharp now.” He stood close. “I have a knee to cause you great pain in your privates.” And with that he pumped his leg so that his knee touched my groin yet without the force of a blow. “And I have a head to butt with.” He grabbed my shirt and pulled me even closer, and then he touched my forehead with his own.

“Now,” he continued, “some of your blackguards are quite adept at kneein’ and buttin’, but few of them — I’ve yet to meet one — who could manage this or defend proper against it.”

He left me and went to the big bag hanging from the tree and put on a remarkable demonstration. He whirled about the bag, delivering kicks at it from one side and then another. He would feint with one foot, then hit with another — and then perhaps a double feint before striking. He kept constantly in motion, moving with the grace and speed of a dancer. But the kicks were delivered sharply and from every angle; some of them, it seemed, were sent home with deadly force. I had never seen, nor even imagined, the like.

Then, of a sudden, he stopped, turned, and walked to me. Again he panted slightly, yet he was nowhere near exhausted, as it seemed to me he should have been.

“Your kick is your best weapon,” said he with a wink. “And that is because your legs are stronger than your arms. You can deliver it from your arse and break a bone. At the shin is good, for even if you don’t break a leg, you can cause great pain. At the knee is better, for the kneecap is not well set, and if you dislodge it or crack it, you’ve crippled him absolutely. Best of all is the kick in the ribs, for if you break one of them — and they’re not terrible strong — you may damage his inwards.”

“But Mr. Perkins,” said I, “is it fair to fight so?”

“Are you daft, Jeremy? You’re no bully. You’ll not go out looking for trouble. But trouble may find you just any day or night. When some villain seeks you out, you must defend yourself. He will not fight fair. You shouldn’t neither.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Now let me see some kicks from you. You needn’t keep moving as I did — not for now — just give me a few.”

I let fly two, shifted my position, then hit the heavy bag twice more.

“Good,” said he, “but put more snap into it. Snap it from the knee.”

I went at it hard, trying to do as he had instructed.

“Better,” said he, “but hit higher. Aim for the ribs.”

More kicks, then:

“Put your arse into it. This time I want you to kick with the left, and feint with the right. The only defense he has is to grab your foot and set you hopping. If he shows you he intends that, then you let him have a fist in the face. His guard will be down most certain. So let’s see a kick, a feint, and a blow to the face. Go on, Jeremy, you’re doin’ fine. You’re a right good scholar, you are.”