Black Ajax

by George MacDonald Fraser

  TOM CRIBB,

  former heavyweight Champion of England,

  retired publican

  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.

  JOHN DOE,

  alias Richard Roe,

  footman to Belinda, Lady Manners,

  wife of Sir John Manners, Bt

  Let us speak low, sir, if you please. Walls, you know, has ears. Now, sir, do you pledge me your solemn hoath, your bounden word as a man of honner, that my hidentity will remain forever hanonymous? Not the least 'int to a living creeter as I 'ave spoke to you? I must hinsist on your haffy-davy, sir, or it is no go at all! Not a word shall pass my lips hotherwise, nary so much as a syllable! Why, if 'twas to be known as I 'ad blowed – confided, like –'twould be my perfesshnl ruin, no less. Loyalty and trust, sir, is the sacred hemblems of our vo-cation, and 'im as breaks that trust, sir, disgraced 'e is, cast into houter darkness, and not a bloody 'ope of a sittywation thereafter. And I tell you, sir, not one word would I dye-vulge, hunder torcher, heven, if conscience did not compel me. That is the fact, sir; 'tis conscience alone as does it. The blunt would not tempt me, sir, not hif 'twas ten times the sum you hoffer – and very generous and 'ighly hacceptable, to be sure, but conscience is the thing.

  It 'as cost me dear, believe me. I 'ave wrestled with my very soul, sir. But when I think of the trust as she broke, the betrayal of the 'usband she swore to love, honner, hobey, and all of that, I can keep silence no longer. Not that 'e was a whit better, but that's by the way. For 'tis a wife's sacred dooty, is it not, more'n an 'usband's? But 'er, what did she know of dooty, for all 'er fine hairs, and treated us in the servants' 'all like muck, she did, and 'ad no more dooty in 'er than a halley-cat! And with a nasty, low nigger and all!

  You do give your word, sir, on your honner? Very good. You'll keep the same, I know, being a gentleman, a real hout-and-houter, as I seen soon's I set heyes on you, if you will forgive my a-saying so. We learn, sir, in the perfesshn, to tell Quality from common, do we not? I should say we do!

  Well, then, in your ear … it – is – true … what you been told. Lady Manners was the paramour of the black pugilist Molineaux! There, now! 'E was not the first or honly, I can tell you, but the honly black man, you hunderstand, and 'ow she came to lower 'erself that far, well, sir, it fair leaves me speechless. Oh, there is many a fine lady of the ton as gives 'er wedded lord a pair of hantlers, as the saying is (and I could tell you, aha! but that is not in our bargain, so mum), but none I ever 'eard tell of as would stoop to de-grade 'erself with the likes of that … that sooty monster! It passes thinking of, sir. But Lady Bel, she did, more shame to 'er. It is gospel; I seen 'em at it, an 'orrible sight, and fair turned my stummick.

  I blame Sir John, partly. Very loose, 'e was, a right rake, and let 'er go 'er own ways so long as she gave no cause for scandal. Why, she'd been hon and hoff with more gentlemen than I'd care to count, and all the Town knew when she took up with that Mad Buck Flash-man, but that was not hout of the way in Society in them days, I grieve to say. Sir John did not deign to let on, 'im being proper bred, and 'aving 'is own muslins to mind, but I say 'e did wrong, sir, wrong as could be, to turn a blind heye to the blackamoor – and hif, as some said, 'e did not twig, well, 'e hought to 'ave done.

  It was this way, sir. Lady Bel, being young and topsides with all that was fast and fashionable, always 'ad a heye to the gladiators, and was seen at the mills a sight more often than was becoming, to my mind. Low ruffians is what they are, sir, and hought to 'ave been beneath the notice of 'er and hother young Quality females. Bad enough, you may say, when the pugs is white, but when I seen her at Margate, after Molineaux 'ad beat that Blake creeter, and was presented to 'er by Captain Flashman (as should 'ave known better, 'im being a hofficer), and 'ad the himpidence to kiss 'er 'and with them great lolloping lips, and the glowing look she give 'im – well, sir, I tell you I thought shame for 'er sex! To see 'er, that was so finickal and dainty, a-smiling on that black reeking savvidge, more like a hanimal than an 'uman 'e was … well, sir, you may picter my feelings.

  I feared the worst, then. Did I not say to Mister Jessup, our butler: “She'll 'ave 'im, Mr Jessup, or I'm mistook.” “What, the black?” says he. “Never! A lady of 'er sensibilities – himpossible! Besides, she is a-lashing the laundry with Captain Flashman, is she not?” “Even so,” says I, “you mark my words, Mr Jessup,” and I was proved right, sir.

  This I will grant 'er, that she 'ad that much discretion, or cunning you might say, to 'old off until Sir John was gone down to Northamptonshire for the 'unting, and she could pursue 'er clandestine hamours hunremarked, by 'im leastways. By that time the black was all the crack, 'aving been matched to meet the Champion, and was feted and petted something sickening by all the sporting ton, and not them halone. Mr Carlisle, a professor gentleman, hemployed 'im as a model for teaching hanatomy, 'im being a specimen of the nigger breed, I dare say, and they 'ad 'im a-posing among them Greek statues of my Lord Helgin's and all – stark naked disgusting at a guinea a time for all the gentlemen to view, and would you believe it, sir, they exhibited 'im special to ladies also, and 'im in a britch-clout as would not 'ave made a pocket 'andkercher!

  I never saw nothing so vile 'orrid, sir, not in all my days, as that beastly creeter, all shiny black and a-bulging, rolling 'is heyes and grinning, and the ladies letting on as they was comparing him to the statues – I knew what they was comparing, and it was not no lump of Greek marble, neither! I was that mortified I could not think where to look, and me misfortunate to be the honly man there hamong Lady Bel and 'er fine friends, all a-quizzing of 'im and whispering behind their muffs.

  “Do you know, my dear Georgina,” says Lady Bel, “that for the first time I believe I understand Desdemona's partiality.”


  “Oh, fie, Bel!” cries 'er friend. “Do you not recollect how the play ends?”

  “I was thinking of the earlier acts,” says Lady Bel, sly-like, and at that they all burst out a-tittering, and vowed she was the wickedest thing. Desdemona was a lady wedded on a man of colour in a play, you see, Mister Jessup told me.

  Lady Bel beckoned the hattendant that was there, and spoke with 'im sotter votchey, and tipped 'im a flimsy, and then – it is the shameful truth, sir, I tell no lie – he bade the black go in behind a screen, and Lady Bel and the Honnerable Georgina went round about it, and after a moment come out again, Lady Bel with 'er lazy smile like a tabby that 'as been at the cream, and t'other one blushing and in whoops. You never saw nothing so brazen, sir, the pair of 'em.

  Need I tell you what followed, sir? I must on haccount o' conscience, though it makes my 'ead swim to think on it. 'Twould be a week after, my being hindisposed by some crab meat at supper, that I harose about one of the morning and caught young Halbert, the junior footman, and the boot-boy, on the backstairs in their night-shirts. I hasked what was the meaning of it, but dubbed close they was until I took a cane to the boy, and 'e sang loud enough then, that Lady Bel 'ad the Hafrican habovestairs in 'er chamber, and Halbert and 'im was habout to spy on 'em from 'er ladyship's boodwar, as they 'ad done many nights past.

  “You lying tyke!” cries I. “'Ow dare you slander your mistress, you young 'ound, you? I'll not leave a hinch of skin on your breech for this!”

  But my 'eart misgive me, sir, that true it was, and young Halbert swore to it, 'ow 'er ladyship's habigail – one of them French 'ussies, all paint and hinsolence – was used to leave the area door hunlatched of a night, and that coloured scoundrel was hupstairs by one and hout by six, reg'lar as clockwork, “and Lady Bel and the habigail both a-playing ballum-rankum for 'im, ain't it so, 'Erbert, we seen 'em ever so often, didn't we?” 'Im and that scamp 'Erbert was grinning and sniggering, sir, they thought it the primest gig, filthy little brocks.