The mill was set for Copthorn Common, which lay about thirty miles from Town, hard by East Grinstead in Sussex. Gully and Richmond had chosen it as being close to both Kent and Surrey, so that if the magistrates got wind there would be two counties to bolt to, but it was labour lost. He'd have been a bold beak that sought to queer that fight, with the whole world agog; they'd have tarred and feathered him, I dare say. Lord lu'mme, we could have set up the ropes in Hanover Square! But Copthorn suited me, for it meant an easy coach the day before, and a quiet night in new quarters, which keeps your man occupied and free of care.
But quiet it was not, sir, for the inn was packed to the eaves, like every house for miles around, and seemed to be uncommon full of Bristol men, bawling five to one Cribb, ten to one the black would fall within fifteen minutes, hundred to one he would not last the hour. Oh, come, Pad, thinks I, have you not the game to back a man of your training to stand up a quarter hour? And a hundred to one is too good to lose any day. So while we were at supper in our chamber I slipped down and sought out Abe Moss, one of Jew King's legs, a known file that would not dare welsh, and laid ten on each count. I felt the better for it, as backing my own man, and told Tom what I'd done. He laughed and thanked me, with his ear cocked to the Bristol boys singing below. You know the air, sir, course you do, “Down in the Valley Where She Followed Me”, but these were the words:
Oh, say have you heard
Of the handsome young coal-heaver
Who down at Hungerford
Used for to ply?
His daddles he used
With great skill and dexterity,
Winning each mill, sir,
And blacking each eye!
(Omnes)
A true Briton from Bristol,
A rum 'un to fib,
He's the Champion of England,
His name is TOM CRIBB!
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 kee
p 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.”
BOB LOGIC, Esq.,
student, sportsman,
and former pupil of Tonbridge School, Kent
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 descended, and the fog ascended, 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.