Black Ajax (22 page)

Our Tom was set at ease, picking his teeth and smiling. “Say, they sho' like that man, don' they? Well, Ah hope he's lissenin', 'cos 'tis the last time. Tomorrow night they goin' be singin' 'bout
me
.'

Richmond, who had been looking middling sour, and had made nothing of his peck, grunted that he'd better not count on it. Tom was used to his blues by this time; he laughed and asked what ailed him, he knew we were sure to win.

“That don't mean they'll be singin' songs about it,” says Bill.

“Why, how you talk!” scoffs Tom. “Ah'll be they new champeen – sho', they'll be singin'! Din't you hear 'em huzza me on the road today? They likes me – say, Ah bet they likes me a sight better'n that dull dog Cribb this minnit –”

“Oh, yeah?” cries Bill. “Well, 'bout the sixth round tomorrow they ain't goin' be likin' you one dam' bit, an' you best know that!”

“What you mean, sixt' round –?”

“By that time,” says Bill, “all them as bet you wouldn't stay the fifteen minutes will have lost their money.” He poured himself another shot o' the red, took a pull, and glowered at Tom. “An' the gashly 'spicion will be sinkin' in that you just 'bout liable to hand Cribb the lickin' o' his life. An', brother, you won't have a friend in the world! 'Cept me, an' Pad here – an' I ain't all that sure 'bout him, either.”

I thanked him for that, and Tom set up a great jeer, but Bill shouted us down. What with worry and waiting, he'd been punishing the pot, and was cut enough to be quarrelsome.

“Don't tell me how pop'lar you are!” says he. “I read Pierce Egan, an' it don't signify two megs! You better get one thing in that thick nob o' yours, Tom Molineaux – you ain't fightin' only Cribb tomorrow. You fightin' England! An' that's a tall order, boy! Go ask Bonaparte – he ain't makin' that much progress at it!”

Tom looked at me with his mouth open, for he could make nothing of it. “England? Bonaparte? Pad, whut he talkin' 'bout?”

“
Nix
,” says I. “
Cheese it
, Bill.” For he was alarming me, sir, troubling Tom that way. It was God's truth what he was saying, and all the more reason for not saying it and upsetting his man. But maybe he was trying to prepare him, for he took another long drain and slapped the table.

“What I'm sayin' is that there ain't a solitary soul in this country that wants you to win!” cries he. “You think 'cos they cheer you, they're
for
you? Oh, they likes you well enough – the way folks like a li'l piccaninny, 'cos he's cute and full o' capers, and makes 'em laugh … and he's harmless!”

“Bill, will you stow that talk?” says I, and laid hold on him, but he shook me off, and went rattling on, while Tom sat bewildered and angry.

“See here, Tom Molineaux, the truth is they don't believe you got a hog in hell's chance of beatin' Cribb! So, sure they'll cheer ye …'til they find out how wrong they were. And then, brother, you'll smell the difference! Remember how they hissed and cat-called when you were whippin' Blake at Margate? Well, that weren't nothin'! Tomorrow it's Cribb, and the title – and they love their fight game, and they invented it, and they think they
own
it! You think they'll admire to see a sassy loudmouth nigger take it away from them – from Cribb, that they think's the finest man alive, over Lawd Wellin'ton, even? A
black man
, Champion of England?”

“Damn your eyes, Bill, will you leave off?” says I, for while 'twas truth, as I told you, 'twas doing Tom no good at all. He heaved up on his feet.

“You mean they try to cross me? Bust in the ring?”

“I ain't sayin' that,” Bill told him. “Jackson's umpire, and he's square. No, they'll give you fair play – and no more. Just don't give 'em a chance to cry ‘foul’ –”

“Bill, ye're God's own bloody fool!” says I. “Is this any talk to a man on the eve of a fight? Don't heed him, Tom, he's three sheets in the wind! Now, come to bed, do, and let's have no more of this foolishness.”

Truth was, I was too mad to stay, sir, and hoped Tom would follow
me to the bed-chamber and leave Richmond to grouse and booze by himself. I might soothe and settle him then. But he did not turn in for a good half-hour, when he seemed well enough, quiet-like, but content seemingly, so whatever else Bill had to say could have done no harm.

BILL RICHMOND,
interpolated

Guess I must ha' been lushed well 'bove par, to talk as I did that night. Truth was, mister, I was played out with the time dragging by, and the Cribb folk belowstairs singing and bragging, and my dark doubts and fears for the morrow, when 'twould be all to play for, and that poor fool Tom would find himself tried beyond anything his ignorance could imagine. He thought he was a fighter, but he didn't know what
real
fighting was, mister, not then. The wiseacres'll tell you one mill is like another, but 'tis not so. There's a breed of men, and Cribb was one of 'em, apart from the rest, and a fight for the Championship is like no other set-to. Tom was trained, 'spite of his devilment, as well as Pad could do, well trained – but he was not
prepared
, mister, and I knew it. That was why I sluiced down the juniper more than I should – me that was never castaway in my life, hardly. My hopes went up and down with the liquor, I guess, and 'twas when they were highest and I could picture him fibbing Cribb to hell and glory, that it came on me to warn him how the Fancy would turn on him when they saw their Champion beat at last. 'Tis a terrible thing for a fighter when the mob turns against him; it can beat him in turn. He'd tasted a little of it, with Blake, and it had scairt him; tomorrow would be ten times worse, and better he should know it now, I reckoned, than in the twentieth round.

'Twas hard hearing for him, on the eve of the fight, and I don't wonder Pad flew up in the trees. But I was glad he
chived
off in a pet, for not in a thousand years would I ha' said in his presence what I told Tom Molineaux that night.

Pad slammed the jigger just as I was telling Tom he'd have fair play enough from Jackson and the other gentlemen, and that Cribb had never fought foul in his life. That calmed him pretty good.

“Then Ah don' need no more'n that,” says he. “Ah beat him, Bill, sho' 'nuff. Ah
knows
Ah goin' beat him.”

“Just so you don't leave no room for argument 'bout it,” I told
him. “Just mind that Cribb'll keep coming, and if you want to win you better put him away cold, so he don't come round 'til New Year's.”

“Colder'n a clam on an ice-cake!” cries Tom, grinning fit to bust … and just the sight of him then, mister, I could ha' wept. To see him so young and eager and rarin' to be at it – I don't know why, but it set me to remembering, and to saying what I'd not ha' said in Pad's hearing – or any other man's, white or black.

“Yassuh, colder'n a fish's ass!” says he.

“Well, you do that, Tom,” I told him, “and you'll have won a whole heap more'n a prize-fight. Or a championship, even.”

“Why, whut you mean, Bill?” asks he, and I could ha' bit out my tongue, for 'twas a deep thing I'd never thought to tell. I said 'twas nothing, but he pestered at me to find out what it was, over and over. “Do tell, Bill! Whut mo' will Ah win? Whut else?” So I reflected, and it seemed maybe 'twas fit and right to tell him, and could do no harm, and might do good.

So I told him … about my own early life, when I was a slave back in Cockold's Town, on Staaten Island, in the old colony times. My mammy and me were owned by a reverend, name o' Charlton, and he sold me, or gave me, I don't rightly know which, to an English general, Earl Percy. It was the time of the revolution, when the British lost the colonies, and General Percy brought me to England when he came home.

“Well, Tom [I told him], that English general was one o' the most important men in England, and in time became Duke o' Northumberland. Yes, sir, he was a big man, but more'n that, he was a
real
man. He gave me my freedom, and an education, and had me taught a trade, 'prenticed to a cabinet-maker up north, in York. He taught me boxing, too, and a whole lot besides. You see, Tom, I'm half-white, what they call dingy Christian, and back in New York they used to say I was half-nigra, half-
human
. That was when I saw that white folks didn't believe black folks were really
people
, or part o' the human race. Well, Earl Percy, he didn't think that way at all.

“The day he gave me my freedom, I told him how grateful I was, and d'ye know what, Tom, he near tore my head off, and cussed me for thanking him. ‘Ye don't owe me a dam’ thing, William!' says he. ‘It is I, and my countrymen, who owe you an apology, for having held
you in bondage! It is a crime for which we will pay dearly, I believe, but what little I can do to right the wrong I have now done, in your case. But don't thank me – don't
dare
to thank me, d'ye hear?’

“Well, I didn't know what to make of him; I was just glad to be a free man, whatever he said. He wasn't alone in England, though, for they took 'gainst the slave trade, and 'bolished it, and I guess some day they'll make others take 'gainst it, too, and that'll be the end on't. But 'twasn't just slavery he hated, it was the way black folks were tret, and looked down on – half-human, you see. ‘It makes my blood boil! You are a man, as I am!’ cries he, and you should ha' seen him, red-faced and raging! ‘But, dammit, you must
prove
it, William – prove it in their very teeth!’ And that was why he trained me to be a miller.”

“Whut's that to do wi' it?” says Tom.

“He wanted me to be Champion of England, Tom, and he told me why. Oh, he'd studied 'bout it, real hard. ‘Your people will not always be slaves, William,’ he told me, ‘but they will always
think
like slaves until one of them wins – not buys, or steals, or has given to him – but
wins
, fair and square, some thing which the white man believes belongs to him alone. The Championship of England is such a thing. You may think it a small thing, a mere prize of sport, and therefore of no account, but believe me, William, I know my race and kind, and I tell you, when a black man wins it, he will have changed the world.’ ”

Tom sat wi' his mouth open, and I don't know what he thought. Maybe 'twas in one ear and out t'other, he was that simple. But I guess maybe he had a small inkling, for he nodded, real slow, and then he frowned, and shook his head.

“But … but you nevah won the champeenship,” says he.

“No, Tom, I didn't,” says I. “But I reckon I found me a black man who can.”

Did I see the set-to between Cribb and Molineaux? I should just think I did. 'Twas the most famous thing! I was twelve, and my two best chums and I had broken bounds the day before, to see the great mill at all costs, “for it will be the fight of the century,” says I, “and worth any number of gatings and floggings.” “The mill of the
century
, which has still nine-tenths to run?” says Jerry. “Oh, that's Bob's
logic
, I suppose. Well, I'm with you, at all events.” Tom cried aye to that, so we cut out on the Monday, and the dickens of a wet odyssey we had of it to Sussex, for the rain fell like stair-rods twenty-four hours together, and unless you were by the outer ring you might (says Tom) as well have been on the sea front at Deal in a Channel gale. The rain
de
scended, and the fog
as
cended, for there was twenty thousand about the ropes, and all steaming like so many bowls of bishop. “Why, this air is as clear as Bob's
logic
,” says Jerry, “you would think they were all blowing clouds together!” “Not a bit of it,” I told him, “for there's nothing
smoky
about this mill, you'll see.”

It was uncommon fun, I can tell you, for we wheedled lodgings with an old dame at Grinstead, having put together five bob from our pocket
dibs
to pay the score, and then hey, for Copthorn! with a breakfast of chops and cucumber and ketchup inside us. It was five miles through mud knee-deep, the whole vast throng ploughing ahead like grenadiers, the road so churned that all the rattlers and gigs and chaises that had brought the sporting men from Town had to take to the fields, and over the ditches and smash through the hedges – Jerry swore he counted fifty rigs fast in the plough, and we were caked with clay to our middles, and still raining to drown Noah.

Oh, if you could have seen it – the swells in their curricles and phaetons, whips cracking like muskets, four-in-hand Corinthians with
more capes than Africa, the chestnut men tending their braziers, the pie-men and pedlars and ballad-mongers with Gregson's latest, the puppet-stalls where Punch beat the baby and was
crapped
by Jack Ketch, farmers on cobs and plough-horses even, yokels and clerks and tradesfolk and a parson trying to hide his collar, and all as merry as mice despite the rain and cold, united towards one glorious goal – the fight! It was like all the great fairs that ever were, with Astley's thrown in – why, there was even a chap on stilts, much admired for he could see over the heads of everyone.

“We must get to the fore if we're to see anything of the mill,” said I. “The
four
?” cries Tom. “Well, we must use our
fives
, Bob, or we'll be at
sixes
and
sevenses
!” This inspired us to pursue our way to the outer ropes with alacrity, and being small and nimble we fetched up among the great circle of vehicles which the bucks had made about the green fairy circle, and there were the vinegars parading with their whips, and the legs and Jews already at work by eleven o'clock, crying their odds, counting their change, and bilking the flats whose blunt was flowing “like the golden stream of Pactolus,” says Jerry. “Oh, hang Ovid!” cries Tom, “but, since you mention it, we
Midas
(might as) well put a couple of bob on Cribb, eh?” But all our pockets were to let by now, which was as well, for the flashmen and leery coves were thick about us. “'Ware priggers, you fellows,” says I. “Secure your ticker, Tom, or the
dummy-hunters
will have it.” “Well said, Bob,” cries Jerry, “Tom had best
watch
out, or he'll lose
time
!” Tom tried to work up a jest about our being “
Cribb
'd, cabin'd and confined”, but we gave him nothing but
black
looks.

A tall swell on a curricle must have overheard us, for he asked where we came from. We said Tonbridge. “Why, you scamps, you've slipped your cables, I'll be bound!” laughs he. “Well, up you jump! I'm an old Rugby boy myself, but I'll be hanged if you don't see the fun in style!” He was a real tip-top blood, with splendid black whiskers and togs bang-up to the nines. We mounted up, you may be sure. “This is a rare spec,” says I. “Why, sir, it is as good as a box for the pantomime!”

Mr Jackson was on hand at twelve precisely, smiling and tipping his tile to the assembly, and had the vinegars marshal the vehicles at the foot of a hill to one side of the ring to shield the gladiators from the elements. Our host was a dab with the ribbons and tooled the
curricle into place to a nicety. The hill was thick with people, more hundreds coming by the minute, crouching together against the rain, but making such a roaring hum of noise, says Jerry, that he could hardly hear himself think!

And now a band struck up on the far side, playing martial airs, and there was a great cry as the scales were carried within the outer ring, a sure sign that the hour of battle drew nigh. Never was such excitement – and now, to a mighty cheer, comes Molineaux, attended by his black pal, Richmond, and the famous Paddington Jones. “My father saw Richmond fight,” says Tom, and our Rugby Corinthian asking against whom, Tom says: “Why, sir, against the London mob, when he defended Lord Camelford the time the people attacked him for not lighting his windows to celebrate peace with Boney.” “Why, that's ten year ago nearly,” says our host. “Aye, Richmond was one of Camelford's knights of the rainbow at that time.” Meaning a black servant in gaudy attire, which was double Dutch to me then, but I didn't care to ask.

Molineaux skipped and danced and beat his arms to keep from shivering in the icy blasts, but presently saluted the crowd to applause, bowing and grinning and blowing kisses before shying his hat into the ring and retiring to peel.

“I say, Buck,” cries one of the swells to our host, “this weather won't suit your darkie one bit.”

“He ain't my darkie,” was the rejoinder.

“Ye don't say? I had not heard. Well, if Cribb don't finish him, the ague will. Why, he'll be chilled
white
.”

“No, he won't,” whispers Jerry. “For you know, Bob, that for all he's
black
, Molineaux is reckoned a regular
green
'un, and his pal Richmond, we're told, is a knight of the
rainbow
, so if Cribb should do his opponent up
brown
and tap his
claret
so that he
yell
-ers, why, I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't end up quite
blue
-devilled.”

I would have pitched him out for this sally, if it had been my curricle, but just then there was a roar to split the heavens and drive the rain back on high – for here came Cribb the Champion, doffing his hat to the crowd before dropping it quietly over the rope and going off in turn. “Cheer, boys, cheer!” cries Jerry. “We must hollo ourselves
dry
in honour of the Bristol Achilles, the famed Black
Diamond, ere he does battle with the dusky Roscius for the honour of Old England – and afterwards we'll
wet
our whistles in celebration!” But nothing exceeded the acclaim which was to follow, the band striking up “Yankee Doodle” and “Heart of Oak” as the two heroes stood forth, stripped for the fray, and approached the scales together, Cribb a half-head taller than his opponent, stalwart and erect, his body white as snow, Molineaux glistening black in the rain, the drops hanging on his woolly head like dew on a hedge – oh, never was there anything so fine, and I thought to myself, let Vicesimus Knox
^*
flog me to death for this lark, or expel me to the moon, I don't care, for I'd not be elsewhere now for all the treasures of Arabia, and never, never shall I forget what these old eyes, that were once a wondering schoolboy's, saw that day, with twenty thousand voices ringing in my ears as the white man and the black stood up together before the finest, noblest, bravest mill of them all …

PADDINGTON JONES,
resumed

My one fear that day, sir, was the weather. It was starvation bitter and the rain lashing, which could not ha' been fouler for Tom. I chafed and rubbed him and clapped on the oil, and muffled him in a greatcoat when they went out to the scales, but even so he was shivering and hissed between his teeth. “Ah's 'bout froze, Pad,” says he, and I set him to skip and slap while they put Cribb on the scale.

“Fourteen stone, three pounds!” cries Jackson, and as he stood up they put the rule on him. “Five feet ten and one half inches!”

“Too heavy by a stone,” mutters Bill Richmond. “And in the wrong place, thank God! Look at his waist, Pad!” And sure enough there was a lip of flesh where he ought to been trim, sure sign that he'd shirked in training. He looked well for all that, easy on his feet and his skin like silk; I never see Cribb stripped but my heart came into my mouth.

Tom took the scale at fourteen stone two, and there was laughter when they measured his height, for there was two inches of black curls on his nob, which made him seem taller than his five foot eight and a quarter. “God, if we could only ha' taken another eight pounds off o' him!” groans Bill, but I didn't mind that, for being shorter he was more compacted than Cribb, and when I gave him a last chafing my heart settled again, for it were like rubbing black marble, and I could feel him quivering to be off.

“Take your corners!” says Jackson. “Four to one Cribb!” yells a leg, “Five to two the Champion within the quarter!” roars another, “God bless ye, Tom!” says Richmond, the mob set up a great blast of noise, and I slipped inside the ropes and knelt to make a knee. Tom sat upon it, staring across the ring, where Joe Ward was doing the like for the Champion. Cribb looked back and gave Tom a little nod, and I felt him start ever so slightly on my knee, but when I touched his pulse 'twas steady.

Jackson had read over the rules to them under shelter, so now he
beckoned 'em up to the mark, and the shouting swelled to a great roar as Cribb stepped forward.

“Tom,” says I, “this is what ye came from America for. Go and take it, lad.” I'd thought hard what to say, sir, what advice would be best at the very last, and them was the words that came out. He came off my knee and stepped to the mark, and Jackson brought 'em face to face. Cribb still looked calm enough, but Tom's face was like a mask. They shook hands, and my innards gave a leap as I saw what no one had given a thought to – that Tom's reach was a good two inches shorter than the Champion's.

“Are you ready, Sir Thomas?” calls Jackson, and Apreece looked at his repeater and cried: “Time!”