Bare-Knuckle Surgeon

Chapter 1

1811

All he could see were blades of wet grass. He struggled to breathe. Men were shouting and jeering. Then Incledon’s face, inches from his, spittle dripping from his mouth, screaming.

“Get up. Now. For God’s sake, don’t let the gypsy beat you. On your feet.”

His whole body ached but Thomas managed to haul himself up. The icy water Incledon splashed over his face stopped his head spinning, bringing the crowd into focus. He could sense their anger and hostility. As the referee called time, Incledon turned him round to face his adversary who was leering at him, goading him to fight. Light from the flares at each corner of the makeshift ring made the man’s gold tooth sparkle. The referee retreated and the crowd grew even louder. Thomas took some deep breaths and raised his fists.

He stepped forward, letting fly a volley of punches. His opponent’s expression had triggered memories of being taunted by his brothers. Until that moment, he’d never understood what people meant by fighters becoming possessed but, as he landed punch after punch, he felt himself taken over. His adversary was reeling, looking scared and had resorted to just defending himself. Time after time Thomas floored him until he finally landed the decisive blow. Immediately he knew his opponent wouldn’t recover in the half minute allowed. The crowd pushed the rope aside and poured forward to congratulate him.

Those who had backed him soon headed into the inn to celebrate their winnings and gloat over those who’d bet on the gypsy. He could hear Incledon claiming it was all down to his coaching. Thomas lowered himself, gingerly, onto a stool, waiting for the last of the crowd to disperse. In the flickering light, the smell of burning pitch filled his nostrils. Looking across the now deserted yard, his opponent was sitting alone on the ground, leaning against an outhouse. He’d even been abandoned by his waterman. Thomas went over and crouched down. The man’s eyes were so swollen Thomas wondered how much he could see. Dark bruises were starting to appear over his bare torso. The man tried smiling but it clearly hurt.

“For a young un, you got a punch on yer.” He pointed a finger at Thomas. “You know what? You can go far.”

“Will you be all right?” asked Thomas.

“Ah, nothing that won’t fix itself. Don’t you go worrying, lad. Fair fight. Go on…get yourself a drink.”

Thomas hesitated. “I don’t drink.”

The man tried to laugh. “Is that so, then? That’s a first.”

Thomas was about to ask him how he’d get to his bed when the man’s head slumped down onto his chest and his eyes closed. A gust of wind made Thomas shiver and he felt the first drops of rain on his bare back. He slowly stood up and went and retrieved his coat. As he was pulling it on, Incledon appeared.

“Wakley. What a fight. Come on, everyone wants to see you.”

Thomas had lived in Incledon’s house for over a year but had never before realised how much the man looked like a terrier. Short and wiry, his deep-set eyes framed by dark hair, wet and bedraggled.

“No. Enough. I’m exhausted.”

Incledon was taken aback, not used to being refused by his young apprentice.

“But they paid for the purse. You’ve got to.”

“They’ve had what they wanted.”

As Thomas was walking away, he stopped and pointed to his defeated opponent, slumped on the ground.

“Reckon he could do with a drink though.”

Incledon sneered and turned away.

*

The grand sounding Chemical & Medical Hall was just a small shop, tucked in between a bakery and an ironmonger in the middle of Taunton. On arriving the previous year, Thomas had been puzzled by the lack of a workshop. How could Incledon be an apothecary? On the first night, when he’d asked, the man he was to be apprenticed to for five years had just smirked.

“Proprietary medicines. Jewels, my boy. Gold nuggets. Hallam’s Anti-bilious pills, Cornwell’s Oriental Cordial, Wessell’s Jesuit Drops. No one else in Taunton is allowed to sell ‘em.”

Pausing only to knock back more whisky, there was a glint in his eye, clearly proud of what he was doing.

“I tell you Wakley, it’s the future. People can rely on what they’re getting. Same every time. Not like these damn apothecaries, compounding their own medicines…you don’t know what you’re getting.”

Thomas had said nothing, needing time to decide what to do. Incledon’s advertisement clearly stated he was an apothecary and druggist but Thomas could see all he’d learn would be how to sell drugs, not the doctoring skills of an apothecary – diagnosing complaints, deciding on treatments, making up medicines. He was stuck. He couldn’t look to his father for more help as when he’d first announced he wanted to be a surgeon, his father had scoffed at the idea. Told him he should get a proper trade or maybe military service. But having been persuaded by his older sister, Anne, to pay for this apprenticeship, Thomas couldn’t possibly abandon it. Incledon would never return the fee his father had paid.

As long as his indenture document at the end of his five years stated he’d completed an apprenticeship with an apothecary, even if it wasn’t true, it would allow him to enrol as a medical pupil in London and go on to fulfil his dream of becoming a surgeon.

Thomas soon discovered another part of Incledon’s advertisement also wasn’t true. It had said the apprentice would be treated as a member of the family. But there was no family, only a kitchen maid.

“Just the way newspapers like to phrase things,” Incledon had said when Thomas questioned him.

Thomas doubted that was true but as he liked his own company, he didn’t mind. Being alone meant there was little to distract him from his other ambition, to build himself up physically. After all he’d endured at home, at school and his time at sea, he was determined to be able to defend himself. So every evening he exercised in the small back yard, building up his stamina and strength. The speed with which his muscles had developed had delighted him, a change not lost on Incledon.

“Big lad like you. Should try bare-knuckle fighting,” Incledon had said after Thomas had been there a year. “A fine sport. Bet you can handle yourself in a fight. You’ve got the height, the reach and, if you don’t mind me saying, the looks. Punters like a good-looking boy – your long golden locks, blue eyes.”

Thomas had been taken aback. He had no desire to fight. He was just determined never to be bullied or intimated again.

“Sport of Kings’!” Incledon had said. “Your aristocracy and nobility indulge. You could end up fighting a lord or duke!” He’d smiled obsequiously. “Make a pretty penny, to boot.”

It was the prospect of no longer being dependent on his father for money that persuaded him to give it a go. And after watching some bouts in the back courtyards of pubs, he reckoned he would do all right. He could see how fighters were often so drunk they could be outwitted. Although he lost the first few fights, always withdrawing to avoid being seriously hurt, he persevered. Now, after a year, he went into the ring expecting to win. It was something he’d discovered. However big or strong an adversary might look, you had to believe you’d win.

The morning after his fight with the gypsy his whole trunk ached from the pummelling it had taken and the bruises on his face had swelled up, partly occluding his left eye. Fortunately, he’d suffered no cuts so hadn’t needed stitches.

“God, you’re a sight,” said Incledon, when Thomas appeared for breakfast. “Best the customers don’t see you. Not a great advertisement for me. I’ll give you some Godfrey’s”. Smirking, he added, “Won’t charge you.”

The maid reappeared with a pot of coffee. As she collected up the dirty plates Thomas asked Incledon for his winnings.

Incledon pulled some bills from his waistcoat pocket. “Here. Two pounds.”

Thomas noticed the maid pause for a second, narrowing her eyes. He took the money and sat turning it over in his hands.

“Was that all? There were so many there, I’d imagined the purse would have been bigger.”

“No. Mean lot that crowd at The George. Four pounds. Half for you, half for me, like we agreed.”

Thomas saw the maid glance at him before leaving. Incledon tipped some snuff into his hand and sniffing it, emitted a satisfied sigh as he breathed out.

“Don’t know what I’d do without this,” he said offering Thomas the snuff box. “Still sure you won’t indulge?”

Thomas shook his head. As for the fight purse, he needed time to decide what to do.

*

Every morning there’d be a trickle of customers, most wanting more of what they’d bought before. Sometimes Incledon tried tempting them to try some new concoction his suppliers had sent from London.

“Thing to do,” he told Thomas, “is tell them the new products are being used by the most fashionable members of society in the capital.”

What galled him most was Incledon’s contempt for his customers. He’d turn on the charm, convincing them he understood and sympathised but once they’d gone, he ridiculed them.

Once it was clear to Thomas he’d learn nothing from Incledon, he’d taken to studying the labels on the products to see what he could teach himself.

“What do you want to do that for?” Incledon had asked when he found Thomas making notes.

“So I know what’s in them and why they work. Some customers ask.”

“You don’t want to be bothering them. Just tell them it’ll work.”

“But when people ask what medicine they should take, I need to know.”

“You know Wakley, you’re going to have to learn to fit in if you want to succeed.”

Gradually, over time, Thomas had worked out which medicines were best for each of the commonest conditions people complained about. That very morning he’d been able to advise a man complaining of indigestion and flatulence to take a medicine that dislodged acrid bile.

*

“Just realised why I recognise you,” the man said as he was about to leave the shop.

Clutching his bottle of Daffy’s Elixir, he came back over to the counter. “You beat that huge gypsy fellow. Wouldn’t put myself through that for ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds?” Thomas blurted out. “I’m sorry sir. Didn’t mean to be rude. But I thought you said ten pounds.”

The man looked puzzled. “I did. Have to say, you deserved every penny of it.”

As he’d suspected, Incledon had lied. For the rest of the day Thomas wrestled with what he should do. If he confronted his master he risked being dismissed and losing all hope of becoming a surgeon. To give himself time, he started turning down fights by feigning injuries. Initially, he enjoyed the power and control this gave him, gaining satisfaction from Incledon becoming angry but unable to do anything.

After a few weeks of refusing to fight, Thomas was missing pitting his wits, strength and stamina against other men. He’d come to love the thrill of winning, the adulation of the crowd, a feeling unlike anything he’d ever experienced. To be the centre of attention, even if it was only for a few minutes, was glorious. He’d developed a range of different stratagems - when to hold back and tire an opponent, how to duck under punches, ways to control his breathing and ensure he could outlast his opponent. The key, he’d discovered, was to think, to be clever. Keen to resume, he decided to confront Incledon about the winnings.

He waited until the end of dinner one evening when Incledon had had plenty to drink. He’d decided to start by winding him up just to annoy him.

“A woman from The Crescent wanted more Dalby’s Carminative for her child,” Thomas said, reporting on the day’s customers.

“Ah! Dalby’s. Turns us a nice profit,” chuckled Incledon.

“She’d run out and couldn’t afford anymore. Told me that without it, her child got a fever, was shaking and not eating. Never wants to run out again.”

“Stupid woman,” he scoffed. “Told her she mustn’t stop giving it.”

“She wanted to know what was in it.”

“Who knows?” laughed Incledon. “Doesn’t matter, does it. That’ll have taught her a lesson.”

Thomas waited till the maid had left the room.

“A gentleman who saw me fight at The George a few weeks ago said the purse had been ten pounds.”

Incledon looked up from his plate, sat back and sniffed.

“What are you suggesting? Do you think I cheated you, is that it?” He refilled his glass. “Yeh, it was ten pounds but I had to pay the inn and to keep the law away. All costs money. Only leaves four for us.”

“This gentleman said the purse is meant entirely for the winner.”

Incledon narrowed his eyes, his cheeks getting redder as he breathed deeply. It reminded Thomas of a bull about a charge.

“I know I agreed to getting only half,” continued Thomas, “but it doesn’t seem fair. I’m the one fighting.”

“Fair? Fair? What do you know about fair?” Incledon shouted as he rose from his seat and stood, looking down at Thomas. “Some of us had to struggle, pull ourselves up without any help. There’s you, son of a rich farmer. Never known what it is to go without food. Sent to grammar school. And you tell me it’s not fair.”

He walked over to the fireplace and took his snuff box off the mantelpiece. Having filled his nostrils, he came and sat down again, his outstretched hands flat on the table.

“My father were a carpenter, small village in Devon. If he had no work, we didn’t eat. As for going to grammar school, no chance. Somehow, he bought me an apprenticeship with a Mr Weeks, a druggist in Barnstaple. He were a good man but there just wasn’t much trade. Not many down there could afford fancy medicines. Couldn’t compete with herbalists. When my time were up, made my way to London, doing odd jobs along the way. Even harder to survive there.”

As he talked, Thomas was relieved Incledon had calmed down.

“But your advertisement said you’d been apprenticed to an eminent practitioner.”

Incledon was toying with the knife lying on the table.

“Come on. Grow up. That’s just newspapers exaggerating. Helps their circulation.”

“So, it’s not true?”

“Who’s to say? I went to lectures in the hospitals. Worked out that if I went in after they’d started, didn’t have to pay.”

“What I don’t understand then,” asked Thomas, “is how you set up the shop.”

“Questions, questions. You never stop do you.”

Incledon sat forward, still playing with the knife.

“London wasn’t a complete waste of time. It’s where I came up with my plan to sell proprietary medicines. Sought out the manufacturers and offered to sell their wares. Pretended I already had a shop, here in Taunton. That there was a huge market waiting to be satisfied. Did deals with lots of them. Had to make them good offers. Once I had enough I headed here and set up.”

Thomas couldn’t stop himself admiring his ingenuity. Incledon drained his glass and sat back. Bleary-eyed he stared at Thomas.

“I’ll level with you. I offered them manufacturers too generous a deal. So, need to find other ways to make money.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Like getting me to fight. That’s what this has all been about, isn’t it?”

They sat in silence. Incledon refilled his glass, staring into it as he swilled the wine around. Eventually he looked up at Thomas.

“All right. Half the purse.”

In the course of his short life, Thomas had seen bad men do unforgiveable things. He didn’t think Incledon was bad, just foolish and struggling to make a life for himself. But what he couldn’t forgive was the way his father had been deceived, hoodwinked into paying for a bogus apprenticeship. He could feel his heart racing as he took a deep breath.

“The whole purse. Otherwise I won’t fight.”

That night, lying in bed, he couldn’t sleep. He kept replaying the conversation, amazed he’d had the courage to stand up for himself. It had been as exhilarating as landing a final blow in a fight. What had surprised him was how Incledon had acquiesced, as if he’d known he’d met his match.

*

With the start of spring, Thomas hired a horse one Saturday and rode to Land Farm. It had been a year since he left home. His mother made such a fuss over him, wanting to know all about his life in Taunton. His father spent most of the weekend in the stables, trying to decide on his mount for the Easter hunt. He barely spoke to Thomas, which was a relief as he’d feared being questioned about Incledon.

After church on Sunday morning, Thomas and his sister, Anne, decided to walk the two miles back to the farm rather than go in the family’s carriage. As a child, Anne had always taken his side when his brothers picked on him. It was only now, at sixteen, he’d come to realise how much he owed her. She’d been like a mother to him, teaching him to read and always ready to listen and protect him.

After climbing the hill out of Membury, they stopped and leant on a gate, looking across the Yarty valley. The Blackdown Hills were dotted with cattle and sheep.

“It’s so calm here,” mused Thomas. “How life is meant to be. And the air. Taunton always smells of coal fires.”

Anne laughed. “I always suspected beneath that serious face lurked a romantic.”

He smiled. Thomas felt so at ease with Anne.