Black Ajax (28 page)

“Vhy can't ye let the man be?” Bill was saying, and I saw he was holding the press-gang at bay. “'E don't vant to see ye, nor does Richmond, nor do I! Write votever comes to mind – ye alvays do.”

“Will he challenge Cribb a third time?” asks one.

“I'll challenge
you
, Smart-boots, if ye don't
pike
!” cries Bill, flourishing. “Vill you brush, or must I draw your corks?” He would not let them by, but I caught his eye, and asked him what news of Tom and Richmond.

“Come avay from these earvigs,” says Bill, and drew me a little up the stairs. “An' if any loose fish wentures to follow,” he told the scribblers, “Nero an' Nelson 'ere vill see 'im
put to bed vith a shovel
.” The bulldogs sat like Gog and Magog on the bottom step, ugly as sin, and the press-gang shied off.

“I'd keep clear, Pad, if I vas you,” says Bill, looking glum. “There's naught to be done vith either of 'em. The black's bad in body an' wuss in sperrit. The sawbones 'as 'ocussed 'im, an' I dare say done 'im more 'arm than vot Cribb done, but 'e's been flappin' 'is trap like a fish-vife, an' Bill's been answerin' back, not as you'd vish to 'ear 'em.”

He told me that Tom and Richmond had fallen out bitterly, and spent half the night blackguarding each other. “Molineaux begun it,
vunce they'd set 'is jaw-bone, cryin' as Bill 'adn't paid proper 'eed to 'is trainin', an' should 'ave kep' 'im up to the collar, like vot Barclay done vith Cribb. ‘If I'd 'ad a breather like Barclay, I'd 'ave fibbed Cribb foolish,’ sez 'e. Vell, Bill 'ad been patient, but he vosn't 'avin' that. ‘Vhy, you could 'ave been Champion, you black blubberhead, but you 'ad to bake yourself with sluts an' flip!’ Vould you believe it, Pad, Molineaux said Bill should 'ave
made
him train right! 'Ow vos that for himpiddence, eh? An' Bill yelled, couldn't 'e do
nothin
' for 'is self, no, 'cos 'e vos still a bloody
slave
, an' 'e'd done vith 'im, an' 'e could go to 'ell in a 'ansom!

“Arter that, Molineaux said Bill could give 'im 'is money an' go to 'ell 'is self. ‘Vot money?’ cries Richmond. ‘You lost your stake, I lost every meg I 'ad, ve ain't got nuthin’ but
browns an' vhistlers
, an' ve owes Tom Belcher a 'undred quid trainin' expenses – an' you can pay your whack o' that, an' all, you baked-up barstid!' Then Richmond flung off, an' drunk 'is self castaway, an' ain't stirred out 'is bed since, and Molineaux's mopin' abovestairs, suckin' gruel through a straw. An' I'm a-keepin' the pen-vipers away, more fool me,” says Gibbons.

I asked, were they scorched altogether, and Gibbons said, all but fifty pounds that Gentleman Jackson had taken up as a subscription for Tom. “But vot vith the sawbones, an' vot Richmond's drinkin', an' the score for their room, an' settlin' of their side-bets, they von't 'ave as much change as'd buy a workus supper in Lent,” says Bill, shaking his wattles. “They owes
me
vages, four pound ten, but I reckon I shall 'ave to look elsewhere for my inwestment in the Funds.” He was a cheery cove, Gibbons, and a good 'un to stand by Tom and guard his door from the press-gang, who'd have pestered him to death with their questions.

Another he turned away was a foreign chap, a French refugee, I think, who told us he was a painter, and wished to take a study of Tom's head for a picture he was making of the fight. Jericho, his name was, very polite and graceful, but Gibbons put him off quite humorous.

“Mister Molineaux ain't in 'is best looks today,” says he. Jericho showed us a sketch he'd made of the mill, with Tom and Cribb squaring up, nothing like the thing, course it wasn't, and to crown all, he'd put trousers on 'em. He had to, he said, 'cos when the painting was shown it would never do for ladies to see 'em in tights. We told him 'twas
a bang-up piece of work, and that he'd hit the likenesses to admiration, and he went off well pleased.
^*

Hearing how he'd fallen out with Richmond, I wondered if I might not do some good by looking in to see Tom. Gibbons was doubtful, but took me up, and as we came to the door we heard a mighty cheer from the street, and shouting and confusion in the tap below. We thought nothing of it, but went in, and there was Tom, lying in an armchair with his ribs strapped and his jaw in a sling and his clock that swole it looked like a dumpling in a clout. The curtains were drawn, and only a solitary glim on the board. “Who dat?” he croaks, and 'twas as if he spoke through a blanket.

“Vot cheer, Tommy!” cries Gibbons. “'Ere's a old pal come to wisit on you, Pad Jones as ever vos!” He lit another brace of glims, rubbing his fat paws. “All's bowmon, eh, boys?”

Tom blinked, and glowered at me. “Wha's he want? Din' ask for no vis'tors. Ah's sick! Lemme be!”

I said I'd come to see how he did, and he gave me his surliest scowl. “How Ah does? How you
think
Ah does? Ah got a bust jaw an' busted ribs – that's how Ah does! That whut you come to see?” He gagged with the pain of his jaw, and groaned. “Come to see me now Ah's beat – that why you come?”

“Vhy, Tommy, that ain't civil!” says Gibbons. “Vot, vhen Pad's come to inkvire arter you, friendly-like!”

“Oh, sho', Pad come
now
! Din't come befo', when Ah need him! Lef ' me to that scut Richm'nd, as blames me 'cos Ah gits beat!” All in a moment, sir, he began to snuffle and sob like a kid. “Ah cudn't help it, damn him! Done best Ah cud – best Ah knowed how! An' wha' did
he
do, bastud Richm'nd wi' his trade'n his eddication, dam' white nigguh! Wha' did Pad do? They was goin' make me champeen – me, the iggerant
black
nigguh! Why'nt they do it
right
, they so smart!”

Sir, what could I say? How could I reproach him with all the times I'd pled and warned him, or tell him 'twas only his self to blame, and him a-laying there broke and crying? I stood mum, while Gibbons tried to soothe him.

“Now, don't take on so, Tommy boy! Ye'll on'y pain y'rself an' do your peck-box a mischief! Vot's the use o' that, eh? You rest easy, an' if you ain't inclined for conwersation, vhy, Pad von't mind, vill ye, Pad?”

Tom sniffed, wiping the blubbers from his cheeks, and let out a wail. “Oh, Ah's po'ly sick! Oh, Pad, why'd ye leave me? Nevah did befo'! Why'd ye be-tray me thataway?” He was a hellish sight, sir, ever so miserable, mumbling at me. “Ah cud ha' beat Cribb! You know dat, Pad! Beat him fu'st time, at Copthorn, cud ha' beat him yes'day, if on'y …” From whimpering he fell a-raging again. “An' Ah will! Ah fight him when Ah's rested an' better! Lick him good, an' Ah do it ma own self, 'thout Richm'nd or nobody!”

It would ha' sickened you to hear him, sir, blaming all but himself, bragging what he knew was a lie, mortified to bits at the truth he could not stomach – that he might ha' been Champion but for his own folly. He lay back in the chair with his eyes closed, breathing heavy but quiet now, and I was uncertain whether to go or bide when I heard a heavy step on the stairs and then on the threshold, and when I turned I saw what all the shouts and cheers had been for belowstairs a moment since, for the man in the doorway was Tom Cribb.

He gave a nod to Gibbons and me and stepped into the light, and lord! he was a prize study! His phiz was like a ploughed field, all swole and rainbow colours about his eyes, stitches in the great gashes where Gully had lanced his cheeks, his nether lip split in two places, the whole right side of his head flayed red, and the ear twice its size. He was a proper handsome cove as a rule, but that day he was fit to scare crows.

He came into the room, and Tom gave a croak, staring as at a ghost, and neither said a word. Tom was that startled he made as though to rise, but Cribb stayed him and held out his hand.

“How are ye?” says he, short as ever, and Tom blinked open-mouthed, and took his hand. He was taken flat aback, but after a moment he braced up in his chair, wincing, but his own man again.

“Tol'able well, thank'ee,” says he, mighty proper. “Kin'ly to set down?”

Cribb drew up a chair and sat by him, and they took stock of each other in silence. Their figureheads were so put out o' shape 'twas hard to guess what they thought, but Tom had thrown off his vapours altogether, putting on his best airs for the Champion, while Cribb looked damned grim, but unsettled, as though doubtful how to go on, now that he was here. At last he spoke, still short:

“Well, ye could look wuss, I rackon!”

Tom sat a spell, considering how to reply. “Them's turr'ble welts 'neath yo' ogles,” says he.

“Slept wi' four pun' o' prime rump on 'em,” says Cribb. “Us cuts up easier'n you black chaps do, seemin'ly. How's the jaw, then?”

“Oh, doctor say it be fine … thank'ee.”

“Do 'e, now? Ha! Half they country sawbones should be mendin' roads! Best let Doctor Craig o' Mount Street see to it, when ye're back in Town. He'll set ye to rights.”

“'Bliged to ye,” says Tom, and there was silence until Cribb spoke again, sharp as a sojer at drill:

“Ye won't be relishin' your vittles for a while, I'll lay. Bread an' milk, mostly?”

“Ah ain't hungry.”

“Likely not. A bellyful o' my own blood han't given me much appetite, neither. Damme if I ever felt less
gut-foundered
!”

They fell silent again, and Gibbons and I looked at each other thinking that this was uncommon talkative for Cribb, when he was sober, leastways, but he was making heavy work of it. Having come to ask after Tom, paying his respects like, he was at a loss what to say for the best, and Tom being on his dignity again, blowed if they didn't 'mind me of two old dowagers gabbing genteel across the tea-cups. Cribb frowned and shifted his stampers, and at last Tom asked if he'd take a dram, but Cribb said, no, he was kindly obliged but his mouth was too raw for spirits. He asked where Richmond was, and at this Tom grunted and glared like a 'vangelist.

“Don' ask me 'bout Richmond! He ain't mindin' me no mo'! Sunna-bitch done lef ' me, on 'count o' … o' yes'day!”

“Jimminy!” cries Cribb. “Ye don't say! Well, damme if that ain't like a nigger! Turn your back an' he's off, an' granfer's watch wi' him …” He stopped short, confused, and made haste to ask Tom what he would do now.

“Don't know, yet. See when Ah's mended.”

“That won't be tomorrow!” snaps Cribb. “No, nor next month, wi' they ribs an' jaw.” He was looking vexed. “An' Richmond's hopped the wag.” I could read his thoughts, sir, plain as print, and twice he made to speak, and twice thought better on't. He glanced at Gibbons and me, and then asked Tom, mighty offhand, if he had lost much on the fight. Tom said pretty cool that there was no trouble thataway. “Gen'man Jackson took up a 'scription fo' me.”

“Fifty guineas won't go far!” says Cribb, not thinking – and I wondered, sir, how many o' those guineas had been Cribb's. Tom shot him a look, and then asked, with great composure, I thought, if Cribb had backed himself, and how much had he won?

“Four hundred quid. Cap'n Barclay cleared ten thou'.”

Tom smiled for the first time. “Guess we in the wrong business. Ought to git ou'sel's a couple o' prime chickens.”

“Aye, p'raps,” says Cribb, and I saw he had something on the tip of his tongue, and was studying how to put it, but after a moment he rose with it unsaid.

“Best be away, I rackon,” says he. “Glad to see ye ain't took too much harm.”

“You likewise.” Tom held out his hand. “Mighty 'bliged to ye fo' stoppin' by.”

They shook hands, and Cribb hesitated a second, frowning, before he went to the door. He stopped there, chin on chest, and then turned again.

“When ye're well again, an' so be ye're inclined, give us a look in at my parlour, the Union Arms in Panton Street.” He clapped on his hat, head high, and touched the brim to Tom. “There'll always be a pint an' a chair by the fire for the best bloody miller I ever did see!”

He gave a quick nod to Gibbons and me and went off downstairs, and we heard them huzzaing him into the street.

Why was there never a third mill? Bless you, because neither of 'em had the stomach for it, that's why! Cribb, remember, had been retired in all but name for two years, taking his ease in comfort until fellows like me and the sporting public bullyragged him back to the ring to thwart the Black Peril; he reckoned he'd done his duty, and saw no sense to being knocked about to prove again what he'd proved twice already. Besides, oxen and wainropes wouldn't have got him back 'neath Barclay's wing a second time; why, he told me he'd sooner fight Molineaux any day than go through another training from our energetic captain. No, London had turned out by tens of thousands to cheer him home from Leicester, given him a dinner to live in song and story, presented him with a silver cup and oceans of eulogy, and honest Tom Cribb was well content to call it a day.

As for Molineaux, it's my belief he met his fate at Thistleton Gap. Having swaggered into two mills puffed up with conceit, he'd come face to face with the awful truth that he never could beat Cribb. He knew he was as good, as clever and quick and strong and brave, but that Cribb was still too much for him – if only because Cribb would train and he would not. Oh, he put out challenges enough, and pretended the Champion never answered; Cribb, for his part, swore that he had, but had heard no more from the Moor – you've read all about it in the
Leicester Mercury
, I dare say, and felt none the wiser. The truth was that Molineaux was glad to strut and pose and bask in his glory, but for all his big talk and challenges he was no more eager than Cribb to endure another such hiding as they'd given each other at Copthorn and Thistleton.

Nor was anyone else. Not a soul, out of all the good millers of the day, was willing to challenge either of 'em! Those two titanic battles had set 'em aloft and apart; it was a case of Cribb first, Molineaux second, and the rest nowhere. That suited White Tom, with his championship
laurels safe upon him, and it suited Black Tom, too, for even in defeat his name and fame were a passport to easy pickings, and he could jaunt about the provinces again, raking in the rhino from rustics who were all agog to see the fabled nigger who'd fought the Champion twice. That was nuts in paradise to Molineaux; he could preen and brag to heart's content, indulge his taste in high living and coats of many colours, spar a little here, wrestle a little there, and riot to excess among the fleshpots, vinous and Venus, ha-ha! with no Paddington Jones to hound him – and, better still, no Richmond to share the booty.