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.
“Any o' you gen'men got a hunnerd guineas says Ah cain't touch Mis' Jackson's upper works?”
That silenced them, until one, a red-faced tulip with a sprigged weskit and striped stockings, swore it was a sham, and the nigger was putting up a bluff.
“Sho' 'nuff,” says Tom, leering like Cousin Corntossle. “But Ah's game. Is you gen'men game? Or cain't you 'fford the hunnerd guineas?” And the grinning scoundrel stroked Weston's immaculate lapel and looked down his nose at the striped stockings.
“Damn your impudence!” cries the tulip, but in the face of Tom's challenge, and the mirth of the crowd, he had no choice but to confer briefly with his cronies and then cry, very well, a hundred guineas you can't plant one on Jackson's head.
Tom gave him a jaunty bow and turned to Jackson who was regarding him with puzzled amusement.
“Be 'bliged if you let me try to touch you, Mis' Jackson,” says Tom, shaping up. Jackson hesitated only a moment before stepping back on to his handkerchief. “No favours, mind,” he warned. “Very good – set to!”
Tom gave a little shuffle, feinted with his right, and out shot the left, missing by a whisker as Jackson ducked. He raised a brow in appreciation, and then he was swaying and shifting and pivoting as Tom rained left hands at him; one of them brushed his hair, but none got home. I took a glance at Cribb and saw him intent, murmuring something to the man at his elbow. Tom tried again, one-two, without success, and the rowdy bucks let out a delighted crowing.
“ 'Tain't the Bristol Man this time, blackee!”
“Ask him to stand still, why don't you?”
“I say, mind Weston's cuffs!”
Tom stepped back, glowering, and I wondered if we were about to see an outburst of temper, but then he bore in again, driving wild blows at Jackson's head which the master slipped with ease.
“Why not kick, like a Frenchman!” bawls the red face.
“You'll have to be sharper than that, nigger!” cries another.
Tom paused, breathing hard, and gave a sudden gasp, clasping a hand over his heart. He swayed, distressed, Jackson started forward in concern – and Tom's left shot out and tapped him ever so gently on the brow. Jackson's mouth dropped open in amazement; he looked down quickly and saw his right foot was still on the handkerchief. A great buzz of astonishment arose, and one of the rowdy bucks yelled “Foul!” Tom, standing straight now, with no sign of unease, asked: “Did Ah touch ye, Mis' Jackson?”
“You touched me,” snaps Jackson, looking dam' grim at being hocussed. He fumbled out a guinea, but Tom shook his head.
“Ah di'nt win yo' guinea fair, Mis' Jackson. Ah cou'nt win it if Ah tried all day, you know that.” He gave a great hoot of laughter, pointing at the rowdies. “But Ah sho' won their hunnert guineas! Ain't that so, gen'men?” He rolled his eyes, looking comical. “An' yo' right! Gotta be real sharp – speshly if youse jus' an iggerent nigguh!” He slapped his thighs, and the whole assembly went into peals of laughter, jeering at the rowdies who, with an ill grace, handed over the shekels – Richmond saw to that. In a twinkling all was changed, fellows exclaiming at the shrewd way the black had fooled his mockers, others clapping Tom on the back, even Jackson smiling and shaking his head. Cribb stood and watched, impassive as ever, until Tom, beaming with mischief, turned towards him and called out:
“Mistah Cribb any mind to stand on hank'chieves?”
There was a roar at that, instantly hushed. Cribb glanced at Tom and then said quietly to Richmond:
“Tell your man there are three or four prime heavyweights wi' their eyes on my title. When he's bested one of 'em, he can talk to me.” He nodded to Tom, pleasantly enough, and went off, to a chorus of approval, and judging it a satisfactory afternoon's work, I beckoned Tom and we went also.
* Pierce Egan (c.1774–1849), was the most famous boxing writer of his day. His Boxiana, a collection of pugilists' biographies and reports of fights, was a bestseller in 1812, but was outstripped by the huge success of Life in London (1820–1), which gave to the world Tom and Jerry – not the cat and mouse of the 1940s cartoons, but their originals, Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian Tom, who, with their friend Bob Logic of Oxford, explored the fashionable, theatrical, sporting, and seamy sides of the metropolis. Egan's success excited considerable jealousy among rival writers, and while his racy, freewheeling prose, heavily laced with slang and cant, delighted his readers, it and Egan's reputation were to suffer at the hands of later critics. For all that, he holds an unchallenged place among reporters and historians of the ring, and Boxiana remains a classic in sporting literature.
BILL RICHMOND,
former slave, retired pugilist,
inn-keeper, manager and fight promoter
Truth to tell, I never cared for Captain Buck Flashman above half. Didn't trust him, neither. Oh, sure, he took up Tom Molineaux where I'd
ha' given him the go-by, but 'twasn't 'cos he saw a champion in him, whatever he says. No, sir, Tom was but a toy, or a pet poodle, to the Captain, something he could show off 'round Town, and cut a figure among the ton: “Here's my black miller, ain't he a caution?” That was Cap'n Buck's style, to be topsides wi' the Fancy, and get noticed at Tatts and the Fives Court and Limmer's Hotel. You see, Cap'n Buck wasn't that much of a swell – oh, he knew the sporting set, and Brummell was his friend (but who wasn't Brummell friend to, he was the amiablest man alive), but I heard for a fact the Cap'n was blackballed at Boodle's club, and wasn't even thought of at White's or Brooks's, where the real Quality gathered. Never could figure how he was received at Almack's; queer start, that was. Course, the ladies liked him, well set-up fellow that he was, the commoner sort 'specially, Sal Douglas and those. He had the name of a real ruttish buck, and the Mayfair mamas wasn't pressing him to call, exactly, 'specially the Pagets, whose gal he married, later on – Gretna Green 'lopement, that was, with old Paget killing his cattle all the way to Scotland to catch 'em, but he came too late. Her brothers would ha' called him out, but Papa wouldn't have that. Said 'twas bad 'nough, losing a daughter, he didn't figure to lose his sons as well. So I heard. You see, Cap'n Buck had killed Lord knows how many who'd called him out; sharps or barkers, 'twas all one, he was the killingest gentleman 'round.
How come an old darkie ale-draper knows all these Society goings-on? Bless you, sir, when you mind a ken like the Horse and Dolphin, you hear it all, high and low, and I mean all.
Anyways, that's why Cap'n Buck took up Tom. He was jealous as sin to cut a dash howsomever he could, and Tom was just a means to that end, as I said. D'ye know, I don't believe the Cap'n cared all that much whether Tom won his mills, even, or what matches we made for him, or how he trained on (or didn't train, more like), just so long's he made a show and set the tongues a-wagging. That was what counted wi' the Cap'n – that and picking up heavy money in side-stakes from the gudgeons. He did right well out o' Tom that way. But he never had feeling for him – not like Pad Jones, f'instance. Pad really cared for Tom. Me? Well, now, sir, I tell ye, I loved him … and I hated him. No, I don't hold hate in my heart for him now. Just can't ever forgive him, is all.
There was a real mean streak in the way Cap'n Buck tret him, though. Oh, he was as nice as pie on top, but he served him some right cruel turns. The business o' them gloves of Cap'n Barclay's, that was just for mischief and malice – I'll tell you o' that presently. And when Tom kicked up shines, and wouldn't rouse himself to train, or mind what Pad and I told him, and would get hisself lushy three days at a time, or gallivant wi' the whores and mollishers – why, a word from Cap'n Buck would ha' brought him to heel, but when Pad and I begged him to say it, he would just laugh and put us by. That ain't no kindness, is it?
My 'pinion is that he looked on Tom as a raree show, and took pleasure in seeing what he would do next, him being a real dense nigger new-come to London and all at sea. It was like baiting a bull, the way he'd push Tom forward so he looked ridiculous; I reckon he wanted to see how Tom would act, and didn't care if it hurt him or no. 'Twas the meanest thing. Poor Tom had no more sense'n a china orange; he was just a great babby, and you know what a babby wants, sir, sure ye do. He wants folks to like him, and Tom figured if he made a name as a miller, why, ev'yone would like and admire him, and when they didn't, or laughed at him, he couldn't think of any way to win their regard but to play the fool. And that he did, and the Cap'n edged him on, I believe – and that's the best reason I don't care for Buck Flashman. He made Tom Molineaux a real comic nigger. Tom Molineaux that was the best and bravest black man that ever toed the scratch, and did what no black man ever did before. He did it all by his own self, sir, with Pad Jones to guide him, and me a little – but no thanks to Cap'n Flashman. No, sir, no thanks at all.
The meanest trick he served Tom was after the fight wi' the Bristol Man, when he had Brummell fig Tom out in Weston's swellest case o' clothes, and paraded him 'round Town and the Fives Court. Well, you know what happened, and how Tom took a rise out o' Gentleman Jackson – lordy, when I think o' the harm that might ha' done, if Jackson hadn't been a gentleman, top to bottom! And putting him in Cribb's way – mister, my heart was in my mouth for fear he'd get sarsy with Cribb, and gall him into a match. Oh, Pad'll tell you he'd ha' held his own, but I say he'd ha' taken such a thrashing from Cribb as might ha' sickened him permanent. He needed 'sperience, sir, he needed pain, he needed to learn to take gruel as well as give it, afore he was ready for Cribb. He needed two-three turn-ups wi' real millers, not hay-gobblin' hicks like Burrows.
Cap'n Buck wouldn't have it, though. When we came back from the Fives Court, he says:
“Well, my boys, that went famously! We'll have our hero in the ring with Cribb before the year's out, or my name's Bonaparte! Didn't ye hear him? ‘When he's bested one prime heavyweight …’ That's as good as to say that if Tom whips the likes of Dutch Sam or Caleb Baldwin, Cribb will meet him. He daren't refuse – nor will he want to! He knows that after today all the buzz will be of the Black Ajax, the Milling Moor, and Cribb ain't the man to shirk a challenge, never fear!”
“Beg pardon, cap'n, but that's what I do fear,” says I. “Tom needs a few good mills behind him first –”
“One, Bill, only one! Now, who shall it be?”
“Well, sir, I say more'n one, but to begin with Pad and I reckon that a match wi' Tom Blake would suit.”
“What, the old sailor? Damme, is he still alive? Come, come, Richmond, we must do better than that! The fellow's older than Buckhorse's grandmother!”
“He's touchin' forty,” says Pad, “but age don't matter wi' him. He's strong, he's clever, he did for Coachman Holmes, and they don't call him Tom Tough for nothing. He stood toe to toe wi' Cribb for a good hour –”
“Well, so did Bill here!” laughs Cap'n Buck.
“No, sir, I did not. I ran away from him as best I could. Blake didn't, and if Tom can take his gruel and floor him, he'll have done right handsomely.”
“Handsomely enough to go against Cribb! Capital!”
“No, cap'n, handsomely enough to go 'gainst some other good man, and then maybe another … and then Cribb.”
“Oh, stuff, Richmond! Why, didn't Jones say he was ready to see Tom go against Cribb now? Ain't that so, Jones?”
“I spoke hasty,” says Pad. “Bill's right – two or three good mills, and he'll be ready for Cribb.”
“What a pair of old women you are, to be sure! Well, he can fight your Tom Tough for all I care – and then Cribb will meet him, you'll see!”
It nettled me to hear him laugh and take it so light. “And if he does, cap'n – and gives Tom a proper hiding 'cos he ain't ready?”
“Luck o' the game!” laughs he. “Win or lose, he'll have had his chance, won't he?”
You mean he'll have served your turn, thinks I, swaggering 'round Town with “your black fighter”. Let him take a good drubbing and you'll drop him like a hot brick. He was no Camelford or Alvanley, to stand by a beaten fighter, or I was mistook. I said as much to Pad, and he smiled, quite serene.
“Tom ain't going to be a beaten fighter, Villem. He's going to be Champion, given time and hard graft. And don't you heed the Cap'n – I mind the training, you make the matches, and if Cap'n Buck don't like it he can go and break wind in Bunhill Cemetery. We'll do very well without him.”
And we might ha' done, sir, if the Cap'n had let Tom alone, but he didn't. Figging him out like a nonpareil once wasn't enough; he had to take him driving in the Park again, and to the races, and the theatre, and parade him 'round Mayfair, and what with all o' that, and late suppers at Bob's Chophouse, and gaming at Fishmonger's Hall, and parties with Cyprians and flash doxies, Tom was in a fair way to being the spoiledest nigger you ever saw – and worse. Nothing kills a miller faster'n lush and strumpet, and thanks to Buck Flashman, Tom was getting his fill of both.
I let it go for a week, and then told the Cap'n plain that it
must stop.
“What?” cries he. “He wins a fight for you, and you'd grudge him a few days' frolic? Shame on you, Richmond, where's the harm in it?” Laughing, as I said.
“The harm is, cap'n, that I've made the match with Blake, four weeks from today, one hundred guineas a side in your name, and unless Tom goes into hard training directly, 'twill be no match!”
“Gammon!” cries he. “Why, he can beat Blake and four like him!”
“No, he can't, cap'n, 'cos I won't let him try. If he ain't in condition to fight, I'll forfeit.”
“Not my money, ye won't! He'll fight, I tell you!”
“Not wi' me in his corner, sir,” says I, and 'fore he could tell me I didn't have the only knee in the world, I told him: “And not wi' Pad Jones, neither. I know Pad, sir. He's a serious man, and he'll wash his hands of Tom 'less you make him give over these high jinks and hooraying 'round the Town.”
“Will he, though? Well, you may tell Master Jones that he ain't the only trainer in the Fancy,” says he, grinning. “Barclay Allardice is to try Tom out, did ye know? Ah, that makes you think! Come, come, Bill, let's have no more of this! Tom's a spry young buck, full of sap! Why, you're a nigger yourself – you know how it is with him. Let him play a little, we'll see he's in prime twig to meet Blake, I promise you!”
“Cap'n, it ain't just the training. Why, Tom is but a child, and the indulging you're giving him'll be his ruin! We got to keep him in hand, sir, don't ye see?”
But “You fret too much, Bill,” was all the change I got, and a sly wink as he told me that he was presenting Tom to Barclay Allardice at Jackson's Rooms next day, and why didn't Pad and I come along to see the fun?
I put no stock in his hints, for I knew Captain Barclay (as Allardice was used to be called) too well to believe that he'd train a pug just to oblige Buckley Flashman – let alone a pug who passed his nights on the mop wi' Charlotte the Harlot. He was a Scotch gentleman, an Army officer, and the best amateur miller and foremost athlete of the day. Walking was his great joy, prodigious distances he covered in record times, wagering on his self, and in those crazy days there was no want of mad gambling men ready to lose their money to him – a thousand miles in a thousand hours for a thousand guineas was one of his bets, and he won it, too. Never was a man in finer trim – or so skilled at putting others in condition; he knew more about training fighters than Pad or Jackson, even, and made a point of trying out every promising chicken.