Black Ajax (15 page)

I couldn't think what was troubling the brute, but seeing he'd make few friends in his present dumps, I put him aboard again and made for Piccadilly. He continued blue as ever, even when we passed Old Q's house and saw a sight which I was sure must gladden the heart of a
lickerish
nigger: two of the prettiest little
angelics
, dressed as Corinthians, hats on blonde curls, sporting their shapes in tail-coats, tight breeches, boots and all, tripping down the steps flourishing their canes and giggling. I remarked on them to Tom, explaining that Old Q was notorious for peculiar debauchery, and the two little
winkers
had undoubtedly been putting him over the jumps that morning; the surly oaf didn't even look at 'em, so I wheeled into Half-Moon Street and pulled up, out of all patience.

“What the devil's the matter? Confound it, I fig you out to the nines, drive you through the Park, show you the sights, and ye're as lively as a dead trout. What's wrong, man?”

“Nuthin',” says he. “Wan' to go home.”

“What the dooce for? Look here – what's cast you down? Out with it, rot you! What's amiss?”

He sat hunched in his magnificent coat, clenching his fists, and suddenly burst out in a furious growl:

“They's laffin' at me! Damn 'em, why's they laffin'? 'Cos Ah's a black man all dressed up? Ah seen 'em, in the Park, an' 'mong the hosses yonder! They's all a-laffin', makin' mock o' Tom Molineaux!” I'll swear there were red sparks in his eyes. “Say – that why you had me decked out in these fancy duds, Mistah Brummell an' all, so they make game o' me? That yo' joke, Cap'n Buck?”

Vent your heat on me, and you get it back with interest. “Damn your eyes, don't dare take that tone to me! Laughing, were they? And who the hell are you, curse your impudence, that your betters can't laugh if they choose? Count yourself lucky they
do
, d'ye hear? What d'ye expect, when they see a nigger decked out like the Prince Regent, scowling his black head off? See here, my boy,” says I, “I gave you
a swell case to be noticed, to be talked about, because a fighter who ain't in the public eye is nobody, d'ye understand? And I haven't lodged and fed and trained you and brought you on so that you can have the vapours when I show you to the Town!”

“Whut call they got to laff?” roars he, turning on me. “Ah ain't a … a scarecrow! Nor a dwarf, like in a show!”

“Ain't you, now? Well, I'm damned! No, you ain't a scarecrow or a dwarf, you're a black pug too big for your blasted breeches! And you're
my
pug, d'ye hear? Now, Mister Tom Molineaux,” says I, drawing breath and temper, “I've been dam' good to you, because I thought you had something in you, and might make a show in the ring – but if you don't care for it, and are so almighty proud that no one can even look at you, and
smile
, bigod! – why, then, you can get back to the gutter where you belong! Well?”

Would you believe it, he wasn't done yet. “Ah ain't goin' be laffed at!” cries he. “They wasn't laffin' yes'day, when Ah mollocated that big lummox! 'Cos o' this, ain't it?” He seized the skirt of his coat and shook it.

“Tear that, and so help me God I'll take this whip to you!” I was near speechless with fury. “Let it go, d'ye hear? Jesus, man, d'ye know what it cost?” It was past belief, a nigger pup with sensibilities, and I at my wits' end to put sense and reason into him. If I'd not had an interest in his future, I'd have kicked him on to the pavement, shiny buttons, Brummell's cravat and all. I tried a line that I thought might serve.

“If folk laugh at you, laugh straight back at 'em, blast you! Aye, consider, when they laugh, how you'd serve 'em in a mill! Think of that, hey? Damn my blood if I ever knew such a fellow! Now, look alive, for I'm taking you to a place where I swear you will
not
be laughed at – not by anyone who signifies, leastways. Sit up, can't ye, and look as pleasant as you know. Smile, you black fool!”

He stared at me a long moment, mutiny and murder in his eyes, and they did not change as his thick lips twisted in a grin fit to frighten the French. He nodded, and I whipped up, and presently we rolled into Berkeley Square, where I made the circuit twice to test his conduct. The saunterers and promenading ladies stopped to quiz him through their glasses and stare sidelong, and true enough, there was as much
disdainful amusement as curiosity in their looks, but the delicate bloom by my side must have taken my words to heart, for he bore it with the lordliest air, reclining at ease and only glancing to right or left, ugly but serene with Brummell's creation billowing beneath his chin. You're hatching something, you bastard, thinks I, but at least his sullens had passed for the moment. I turned the curricle east and we came by the quieter streets to our destination, not far from the Nag and Blower.

You've seen Blake's famous picture of the Fives Court? It's a nonsense, to be sure, for it shows every great miller and name of the Fancy that ever was, all assembled together (which they never were – why, they even have Molineaux himself, posed and peeled for a bout, and elsewhere Hen Pearce, the Game Chicken, and Bill Warr, who were dead and buried side by side at St Pancras years before Tom came to London), but the general view is right enough. The Fives Court was to boxing what Tattersall's was to horse society: the hub of the universe. Here the Fancy would congregate in the great barn of a building with its galleries and boxes overlooking the roped stages; here the challenges were given and the matches made, the wagers laid and taken, the disputes settled and the benefits held; here you might see the Prince of Wales in hearty discussion with Gentleman Jackson or Bill Richmond; Dutch Sam or Mendoza sparring on the stage while Paddington Jones or John Gully explained the finer points to young Lord Palmerston; Big Bob Gregson, who fancied himself a poet, having his verses conned by Byron himself; Egan in warm dispute with Hazlitt; and everywhere the great buzz of form and weight and training, and who was coming forward among the younger men, or declining among the older, and fight, fight, fight! All gone now, most of 'em leastways, into the shades and Blake's picture.

As soon as we entered the Court Tom's behaviour was put to the test. Every head turned, and while for the most part the pugs regarded him with shrewd appraisal, there was no denying the looks of the Quality. Amusement, disbelief, contempt, and even disgust were written on every lordly face as they surveyed the nigger in his finery, so outlandish with that grotesque black phiz and woolly pate; there were stifled guffaws, and an outraged whisper of “Weston, bigad, or I'm a Dutchman!” Oh, aye, they were a damned ill-bred lot, the Georgian
bucks, beneath their polish – no consideration at all for me, you'll notice, whose man they were sneering at. Much I cared – and neither, seemingly, did Tom, for he kept the indifferent countenance he'd shown in Berkeley Square until Gentleman Jackson (who hadn't earned the name for nothing), came forward to take his hand and bid him smiling welcome, reminding him that he'd umpired the fight the day before, and leading him off to make him known to the millers.

I looked about for Richmond and Pad Jones, whom I had warned to be on hand. Bill was scowling like a Moor at Communion.

“That's Mister Brummell's handiwork, I guess! Well, cap'n, pardon the liberty, but I don't like it. That's one nigger who's blowed up high enough already. Cribb's here, did ye know?”

Sure enough, he was, cracking with his Bristol cronies.

“What of it, Bill? Are you afraid Tom will challenge him?”

“I'd not put it by him!” cries Bill. “What I'm 'fraid of is that Cribb'd accept!”

“It might suit if he did,” says Jones, thoughtful-like. “He ain't fought in a while, an' Tom's in prime condition.”

“Prime condition?” scoffs Bill. “Your arse in a bandbox! He's beat one third-rater, a bloody farmer wi' two left feet, an' you say it might suit! Talk sense, Pad! Cribb'd swallow him whole!” He glared in Tom's direction. “What for you had him figged out thataway, cap'n? He looks downright foolish!”

I told him I had heard already on that subject from Tom himself, and had put him in place.

“Yeah?” says Bill doubtfully. “By your leave, cap'n, I'll bear up yonder 'fore he does any mischief!” And off he went to take Tom's elbow as our novice was borne by Jackson to Cribb's circle and the momentous presentation took place. I drew near, all eyes and ears, in tune with the rest of the company, for Tom's avowed intent in coming to England had been well advertised by Egan, and I didn't doubt that his bragging had reached Cribb's ears.

D'ye know, 'twas the oddest thing: I believe they liked each other from the first. They made a grand pair, face to face, Cribb the taller by a couple of inches, florid and handsome in his sober broadcloth, Tom with his vast shoulders and trim waist set off by Weston's coat, the long legs muscled like whipcord in the dandy pants. If he'd been
impassive before, he was bobbish enough now, paying no heed to the covert smiles about him.

“How-de-do, Mistah Cribb,” says he, grinning.

“Glad to know ye, Mister Molineaux,” says Cribb soberly, and they shook hands, lightly enough, no crushing.

“Come a right long way to …” Tom paused “… to shake yo' hand.”

Cribb inclined his curly head. “Obliged to ye, I'm sure.”

“Mister Cribb was second to the Bristol Man yesterday,” says Jackson.

“Ah know that, suh,” says Tom, beaming at Cribb wider than ever. “You did right well to keep him at scratch so long.”

Cribb, ever a man of few words, said: “He's game.”

“He sho'ly is,” says Tom. “Jus' kept a-comin'.”

Cribb nodded, quite deliberate, and smiled. “Thaat's the way,” says he, in that deep West Country burr, and you could have heard a pin drop as they stood eye to eye, measuring each other, calm and steady. In that long moment, I'll swear, they were away in some place of their own, the Fives Court and the company forgotten, and at last Tom began to chuckle, a gentle bubble of darkie laughter, and Cribb, who wasn't given to mirth as a rule, grinned back at him – and that was when I knew that each liked what he saw, for as one they shook hands again as easy as could be, and now Jackson was steering Tom to another group, with Richmond hovering like a nervous hen, and Pad Jones let out a long breath.

“Bli'me, cap'n, I'd not ha' been surprised if Tom had planted him a facer! If ye'd heard him last night, swearin' how he'd beat the blood out o' Cribb's carcase when they met, an' see him now, civil as you please. Tell ye what, cap'n, ye never know wi' a nigger, do ye?”

Indeed you don't, thinks I. Within an hour I'd seen him in so many moods: cock-a-hoop with his new duds, in black fury at being laughed at, silent and thoughtful after I'd dressed him down, and now cheery and at ease with Cribb of all people, when I'd half expected him to challenge the Champion on the spot, and be set down for his pains, but he could not have borne himself better. But I still had the uneasy notion that he was reining in, remembering the sidelong sneers and mocking glances, and biding his time to show 'em that Tom Molineaux
was more than a ludicrous black clothes-horse. His opportunity came in an unexpected way.

In case you don't know about Gentleman John Jackson, I'll tell you – in return for another shove in the mouth … thank'ee. He was no ordinary pug, but decently born and educated, and since he'd resigned the title won from Mendoza fifteen years before he'd done more to raise boxing from the gutter than any man before or since. The noblest in the land frequented his academy in Old Bond Street to learn the Noble Art at his hands, and he was on terms with them all; he was boxing's arbiter and authority, respected for his genteel style as much as for his ringwork – and at that he was still formidable, at the age of forty-two. He'd downed Mendoza in ten minutes, was a lightning hitter, but renowned above all for his defence, of which he gave occasional demonstrations with his famous “handkerchief trick”.

This was worth going to see. He would put his right foot on a handkerchief, stand with his hands down, and offer a guinea to anyone who could plant a hit on his unguarded head; they mustn't strike his body, and he mustn't move his foot from the kerchief. No one had ever taken a guinea off him.

Well, this day one of the Corinthians begged him to show the trick; Jackson laughed and shook his head, saying he was too old, but they pressed him, and at last he dropped his handkerchief, took his stand, and invited the young millers to try their hand.

It was laughable, and wonderful. Man after man stepped forward, squaring up and setting themselves, while Jackson stood with his thumbs in his pockets, and at each sudden blow he would duck or sway aside or pivot on that fixed right foot, and the fists would strike nothing but empty air. Straight lefts,
muzzlers
, crosses, half-arm digs, down-cuts or upper-cuts, the smiling face would avoid them all, and the pugs sweated and swore and thrashed away while the company roared delighted applause.

None of the leading men took part, of course, and when some fool called on Cribb to try his luck he didn't trouble even to shake his head. Then some mischievous ass cried for the blackamoor to show his paces, at which Richmond shouted angrily that he'd do no such thing, and Tom grinned and said (with a glance at Cribb, which the Champion ignored) that he'd come to England to
fight
, not spar. That
had them clamouring louder than ever for him to essay a blow at Jackson – hoping the dressy nigger would make a fool of himself.

“Come on, blackee! Jackson won't hit back, you know!”

“He ain't as big as the Bristol Man, neither!”

“A sight harder to fib, though – maybe blackee don't care for that!”

“Can't bear to crease Weston's coat, is that it?”

Some rascal cried out that these black fellows had no game at all, and another shouted “Swell togs, but no
bottom
to his breeches, what?” which provoked roars of mirth. Richmond rounded on them, begging them to let the man alone, and Jackson, frowning, called out: “That will do, gentlemen!” which drew murmurs of agreement from the better sort. The swell rowdies wouldn't leave off, though, and Richmond appealed to me to step in, which I might have done if I hadn't been curious to see what Tom would make of their taunts and sallies – would he hang his head or bang theirs together? He did neither, but only grinned his most innocent darkie grin and turned to the group who were loudest in baiting him.