Black Ajax (19 page)

There was one there, though, to give him a bravo and a slap on the back and all smiles, and guess who that was, sir – why, Cap'n Buck Flashman, to be sure! Not so much as the tip o' his whisker had I seen 'til then, when the fight was won and his man cock o' the walk, but now he was full of delight and great action, crying how proud he was, and what fettle, Tom? and bidding Pad and me rub him down 'fore he took cold. 'Twould ha' been a different tale if Tom had tumbled down drunk in the first round, you bet. The Cap'n shook hands wi' Breen and the Corinthians, who were bound to congratulate him, and then led Tom to a tilbury where Lady Manners was set so that she could smile on him and touch his hand wi' the tips o' her dainty fingers, aye, and look him over wi' a lazy smile that I didn't care for 'bove half. Alvanley and Mellish, who were the best o' the bucks, shook Tom's hand also, and Lord Sefton called out to all that would listen: “He's a dam' stout fellow, I say, a damned stout fellow!”

Tom stood, head down and silent, while the Quality praised him, and the commons looked on grinning but liking him no better. Pad and I would ha' had him away to the carriage, but he shook his head, and damned if I knew what to make of him. He wasn't scairt no more, nor sick for what I could see, but his teeth were set hard, and he kept shooting little looks sidelong, at the bucks, and the crowd, and the legs that were paying or collecting, and all the confusion 'round about.

“Gi' me a guinea,” says he, so I gave him the
flimsy
, and he went to where Gully had the hat they'd put 'round for Blake, and dropped the flimsy in it. Now, sir, I thought 'twas just kindness, but I don't think that no longer. It was policy, sir, such as I'd not ha' credited him wi' thinking of. For he had that grinning look, now, and when those closest, who saw what he'd done, cried bravo and well done, he
threw off the blanket round his shoulders, and held up his hands to the crowd.

“What the dooce is he about?” wonders Pad, and Cap'n Buck began to call out to him. Tell truth, sir, I wondered if the drink was still at work in him, for he waited 'til the buzz o' the crowd was stilled, and then he called out:

“Lawds, an' ladies, an gen'men! Ah am Tom Molineaux of Virginny, in th'United States of 'Merica, an' mebbe Ah's the best millin' cove in the hull o' Creation – an' mebbe Ah ain't! Ah got ma own 'pinion on that, an' you got yo's. You seen me fight a real game man today, a real prime miller. You make o' that what you will. Ah's in England to do ma best, to fight fair, an' to stand up to any man who'll come to scratch wi' me. An' whether Ah win or whether Ah lose, you good people goin' to gi' me fair play, 'cos they ain't no people in the whole world as good an' spo'tin' as the people of Ol' England, an' you know yo' good ol' game o' prize-fightin' mus' have the best, an' by golly Ah's goin' see that you gits it! An' the Lawd bless you all, an' you take care! An' God save the King!”

No, sir, he was not drunk, he was not distempered, nor had he gone queer in the attic, though you might ha' thought so if you had seen our phizzes – Pad wi' his mouth wide as a cod's, and Cap'n Buck struck dumb, and the Quality a-stare at this astonishing address from the black figure in his white breeches, alone in the ring. He gave a little bow, and walked back to us, and someone – I guess it might ha' been Sefton – cried “Bravo!”, and the Quality clapped and cried: “Well said, the black!” and in a moment there was a great sighing noise that burst in a storm of cheers, and hats were flying into the air, and handkerchieves waving, and someone struck up “Marlbroug”, and in a moment they were hollering it out, “For he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us!” They were all 'round him, grasping his hands, and slapping his shoulders, and I swear he took more punishment in those few moments than ever he got from Tom Tough. We had to fight our way to the carriage, wi' the vinegars clearing a way, and Cap'n Buck calling for three cheers and a
tiger
.

We got Tom inside and closed the blinds, but the mob tore 'em away and beat on the coach, yelling and cheering. I was all concern for him, for 'twasn't natural or like him at all, sir, to speak as he'd
done, before all those folk, who'd never spoke out in all his life before, not public, I mean. He looked tired to death, lying back 'gainst the cushions, while Pad poured him a tot, and outside the people had unyoked the horses and were dragging the carriage along.

Pad gave him the dram, and he sipped and coughed and waved it away like 'twas nauseous to him, which was no wonder. Then he opened an eye and gave us a sleepy little smile slantendicular.

“Them people likin' me a little bitty mo' now, you reckon?” says he.

Truth to tell, master, I did not rate the black high. Well, there I were mistook. Now that I'm an old 'un, I can confess it. Yet, if I held him over cheap, 'twere natural enough. A man can only judge as he sees.

He'd beat Burrows. Well, who could not? He'd licked Tom Blake, but old Tom at Margate weren't half the man as I'd beat five year afore at Blackheath, when I were but a younker and Blake were in his prime. Ah, he were Tom Tough in them days, I can tell 'ee. Dead on his pins after an hour's stern milling, but still he came back at me. And rattled me all o'er the shop 'fore I put him down.

When he met Molineaux he were older and stouter and slower by far. The spirit were gone out of him, too, I reckon, or he'd ha' stood game longer than he did 'gainst a man who didn't fight well above half. Some said the black had been training on daffy and doxies, and had come to the ring half-soused, and that were the reason he showed so little style. I know naught o' that; he seemed sober enough at the end on't. But whatever o' that, 'twere no great mill. They flogged each other for five rounds, no science, no quarter, and when Blake went in his shell, Black Tom could not pry him out. Strength and youth did it at last. A hammering youngster thrashed a tired oldster. But I saw naught in the black to trouble me.

'Deed, I'd thought better of him when I'd watched him spar wi' Dutch Sam. I see then he could shift right sharp, guard well, and fib hard and fast, but he showed little o' that 'gainst Blake, only slogging. I said to Bill Gibbons: “This chap's one o' them as is champions wi' the mufflers, but half-starters when they come off.” See, master, 'tis one thing to trip about the Fives Court showing off your feints and dodges, wi' naught at stake, but another to stand bare-hand in earnest wi' a sixteen-stone bruiser who aims to smash you, and
everything
depending upon it
. Many a brave man fights wary then, not 'cos he lacks bottom but 'cos o' the burden of knowin' 'tis now or never.

I've felt it. Why, I've sparred wi' big Bob Gregson, him they called the Lancashire Giant, and gone full tilt and fancy free, and if he planted me a melter, what then? It cost me naught, being only a breather 'tween friends. But when I faced that same Bob at Moulsey, an October day cold as January, knowing his weight and strength and that one false step and my title would be o'er the hills and far away, ne'er mind Mr Methuen's stake money and the side-bets, and all them years o' rough milling gone for nothing … ah, that's a different thing, master. But only them as has been there, knows that.

So when I thought Molineaux might be a half-starter, 'twasn't that I doubted his game. I told Gibbons: “He's a likely chicken in practice, but he's raw in the ring. He han't found his feet yet, and p'raps ne'er will. Whether or no, he'll never be a match for me.”

'Twere no boast, master, but my belief, and most o' the Fancy thought likewise. Well, we was wrong. He had more in him than met the eye, of skill and fighting sense – and none was wronger than them as supposed he lacked bottom. I was not one o' those. I'd looked him in the eye.

After the Blake set-to, all the buzz was: when would I meet the nigger? I said naught to that. 'Tweren't my place, as Champion, so I turned a closed listener to the rashers o' wind in my public, and let my chums answer: “What, has Blackee challenged, then?” For that he had not done, and I knew why: Richmond and Pad Jones was unsure o' their man still. “Letting I dare not wait upon I would,” says Pierce Egan. “But come, Tom, what d'ye say to all the talk?” I knew better than to open my gab to that one.

But talk there was, and louder it grew as time went by 'til it seemed all Lunnon could think o' naught but the 'mazin' black, and how would he fare 'gainst me. Buckley Flashman led the chorus, vowing to see his man Champion 'fore the year was out, tho' by all I heard the black were more partial to racketing wi' Cyprians and punishing the lush than putting his self in trim for a mill. It did not damp his conceit, tho', bragging how he'd take me to task. Never to my face, mind you; he steered clear o' the Union Arms, and kept his boasts for the Corinthians and pint-snappers at the Prad and Pilchard.

I ne'er minded it. I'd seen for myself that Molineaux were a jolly cove, full o' fun and antics as the darkies are, and cared not what he said. 'Twere all gammon to make Richmond's customers laugh, and no harm to me. Why, if brags won mills I'd ha' lost every fight afore it begun!

But if I paid no heed to the nigger's swaggers, or the loose patterers, there was them as did. 'Twould be some weeks after the Blake mill that Jackson, with Gully and Gregson, came to my parlour, all mighty sober-faced.

“Tom,” says Jackson, “will ye fight the black?”

I asked him if a Johnny Newcome wi' a mill and a half behind him had the right to bid for my belt before the likes o' Belcher or Gregson himself.

“They ain't bidding,” says Gully. “Besides, ye've beat 'em both. No one's challenged you in two years, nor like to.”

“Well, let the black challenge, then,” says I. “He talks a-plenty, from what I hear, and Richmond, and Buckley Flashman. They know where to find me.”

“True enough,” says Jackson, “but with all the gossip, and Molineaux strutting about Town, and Richmond's sly hints, and you saying ne'er a word … why, the buzz is that Molineaux's itching to fight – but you're not.”

All three on 'em was eyeing me wary-like, to see how I took that.

“Then they's fools and liars that says it,” I told him. “And you know it, John Jackson.”

“Aye, he knaws it,” says Gregson, “but the noodles that gabs i' the cloobs dawn't knaw it. They're sayin' ye're
blate
, man.”

“Are you saying it, Bob?”

“No such thing!” says Jackson, mighty sharp. “But you know Richmond. He ain't your best friend, and if he can drop a word against you, he'll do it, and twist it to his advantage – the louder the buzz, the more profit to him and the legs when the match comes off. Why, 'twill be the biggest thing the Fancy's ever seen!”

“And not only the Fancy,” says Gully. “Tom, I'll be plain with you: 'tis the talk of the nation. They think more of this fight than of the war in Spain – this match that is not made, and they want to know why. I was by the House today, and heard ten mentions of Cribb and Molineaux for every one of Boney. Not a Member or a lord but asks
when the fight is to be. ‘What's Cribb about? Is he shy o' the black, or what?’ D'ye know who spoke those words, Tom?” He tapped me on the chest. “Aye, as reported to me by a peer o' the realm? The King, no less.”

“Aye, even Owd Nobbs is askin', 'alf-daft an' a' as he is!” growls Gregson. “Tha's boond to meet him, Tom lad.”

I said here was a great pother over one black Yankee.

“That's the point!” cries Jackson. “A black Yankee – that's why folk are in a fever that ne'er gave boxing a thought before. Deuce take it, there are school-teachers in Newcastle, and doctors in Aberdeen, and misses in parsonages – aye, and dowagers in Almack's, all wi' their heads together whispering: ‘A foreigner … a black man … Champion of England?’ That's the question, Tom, and there's soldiers in Spain and jacks in the Channel Fleet asking it, too! And but one man on earth can answer it, or prevent it!”

I'd never known Jackson, that was so genteel and soft-spoke, to be that warm afore. Bob and Gully was nodding to every word.

“I'm Champion,” says I. “'Tain't for me to challenge no upstart.”

“Right you are,” says Jackson, “but if I put it to Richmond, in public, that he must give over all his gas, and the darkie's, and write a proper challenge, or be published all o'er Town, the pair of 'em, for braggarts and hang-backs (Egan'd see to that!), and if Richmond writes such a challenge … will ye take it up, Tom? Aye or no?”

Put plain that way, 'twere food for thoughts, and I'll tell ye what they was. I'd no fear o' the black … nor much wish to meet him. I hadn't milled in two year, my parlour were giving me a goodish living, I had my name and fame, and had put on flesh and were comfortable. There'd been talk o' retirement and benefit, and I did not care if I ne'er did more scrimmaging than were needful to pitch rowdies into the street. I had no inclination to defend my title 'gainst a swaggering black pug. But, master, ye can see how 'twould ha' been for my credit and good name had I refused. So I made no bones of it.

“Two hundred guineas a side, and a purse of a hundred,” says I. “Twenty-four-foot ring, grass or stage, yourself to stand umpire, and Buckley Flashman may put up his man any day 'twixt now and the year end. I'll meet him.”

“Thank God!” cries Jackson, and wrung my hand. “But 'twill be
Richmond, not Flashman. He's given over the black, I believe.”

“I heard that,” says Gully. “What's to do?”

“Some falling-out or other, it makes no matter. Tom, this is famous! Why, this match will be the greatest – aye, and the richest! – that ever was!”

“Four to one Cribb, or longer,” says Gully. “But, Tom, no need of an early match, once 'tis made. Take time to train up.”

They was eyeing me again. Jackson said he was right, two years was a long time idle. “The black's in training, and has fought two mills this summer. Best breathe yourself for a few weeks.”

“In training, is he?” says I. “In the flesh-market, from what I hear.”

“Even so, he's got five years on you, Tom, and raw or not, he's nimble and strong,” says Jackson. “Oh, if I'm a judge he's not up to your mark, nor ever will be, but … well, you know better than to take any man lightly. What d'ye scale now … sixteen or over? I'd give yourself a month … or more. Eh, John?”

Well, master, 'twere good advice, but it irked me, I tell ye. I guess I'd had my fill o' this wonderful nigger, as if he were Jack Slack and Mendoza all in one skin, and I must sweat like any novice to be up to him. I'm a patient, easy cove, but to have Gully and Jackson, of all men, as solemn as old wives o'er my condition, put me out of all liking. I'd ha' given 'em a short word, but for big Bob.

“Mak' it December!” cries he. “An' nivver glower at me, Tom Cribb! Tha's fatter'n a Christmas goose, ye owd booger! See noo, man – I'll be layin' a hoondred pun tha puts the darkie doon inside ten roonds, an' I dawn't want to lose me brass 'cos tha's got a belly like a poisoned pup an' it takes thee twenty! So nivver glower, I say, but get thasel' oot on't road!”

What could I do but laugh wi' him, and all the heartier 'cos I knew he made sense. For all that, I thought little o' the black.