“'Pon my word!” cries the commissary-general. “Ain't my sign manual good enough?”
“Good enough for 'ee, milord,” says Turvey, “but not for me. Oi doan't know 'ee, do Oi?”
They swore the cash wasn't to be had, in flimsies, it must be a signature to pay.
“Awright,” says the stout yeoman, “show me a name as Oi knows,” and old George Marriott was found, who knew him, and that was fine.
“Set to, and may the best man win!” cries Turvey, flourishing the cheque. “An' here's my paper as says the nigger'll draw first blood!”
So they set up the stage, with an inner ring to enclose the handlers and Swells (and your humble obedient of the Press) with another beyond for the vinegars. The assembly was now thousands strong, so the first ranks lay down, the next knelt, and the rest stood. Beyond them again were the vehicles of every description, and the horsemen, some astride and others, like Dick Christian, standing on their saddles like so many circus acrobats. I never saw a finer turn-out of the Fancy, from the peer of the realm on the box of his four-in-hand to the rustic in his clouted shoes, the Corinthian with his caped coat and eye-glass and the peasant chewing on his straw, the dandy cavalry officer on his bang-up bit of blood and Old Crocky smiling and nodding among the legs as they bawled their prices – that was sporting England, then, and where has it gone today?
A few minutes after noon there was such a roar went up: “Cribb! Cribb! God bless you, Tom! Huzza for Bristol!” and hats were flying and the whole vast arena rose like a wave as the Champion hove in view and jumped to the stage. He bowed to the spectators and bound his blue ribbons round the palings of the ring, and as Dick says “He was in beautiful condition, fine as a star, just like snow aside a black man.” On his heels came Molineaux, vaulting the rails with great spirit, waving and smiling, and getting not a bad greeting, though not so loud as Cribb's. They had weighed before, Cribb at thirteen six, the black at thirteen two, and you should have heard the gasps when the announcement was made, for each was lighter by a stone than in their previous mill.
I was hard beneath the stage, and had the best opportunity for viewing the men and their attendants: big John Gully shedding his coat and talking to Cribb, Joe Ward arranging his bottles – he had been on Molineaux's tour in the spring, but was now returned to his true allegiance; Bill Richmond, frowning and snapping at Gibbons, who bore the bottle for the Moor. “Ah, Pad Jones, where art thou, trainer par excellence and second without peer? Africa has disdained thine aid, or so 'tis said by the Knowing Ones at the Fives Court and the sibyls of Randall's Hole-in-the-Wall and Bob's Chophouse.”
That tidbit is taken from my notes made by the ringside; fine prose, don't ye know, for those fair readers who are wont to hide loose sheets from Life in London inside Paley's Lectures. Where's my old note-book? Ah, here it is, my little reader with impressions from that memorable day. Let's see … “Cribb in prime shape … trim as a lightweight … Barclay withdrawn, thoughtful … has reduction in weight impaired Cribb's stamina? … Molineaux peels well … lighter than expected … rather good-looking for a man of colour … body of a black Hercules … Cribb composed, but M. appears disturbed, walks stage with hasty steps … anxiety of multitude beyond description … Barclay calls up to the stage, Cribb nods … M. shuffles in a little dance, limbering his arms … Richmond and Gully bring their men to the mark … the umpires confer … the white hand and the black clasp in respectful salute … silence, forty thousand eyes gaze on the mighty twain … they see only each other …”
At eighteen minutes after twelve they set to; betting three to one on Cribb, and six to four in his favour for the first knock-down blow.
ROUND 1. Sparring for about a minute, both men wary, when Cribb made play right and left. The right told slightly on the body of Molineaux, who returned lightly on the head. A rally now ensued, but they exchanged their blows at a distance not to do very great execution. Molineaux received a dexterous blow in the throat, which sent him down, but not considered clean.
ROUND 2. The claret was perceived to issue first from the mouth of Cribb, Molineaux planting a flush left on setting to. A most terrible rally now ensued by mutual consent, the Champion planted a severe body hit with his right, which Molineaux returned on the head with his left flush. They both fought at half-arm's length, and about six good hits were exchanged with great force, Cribb fibbing at the body, Molineaux punishing his opponent's nob. They closed, and after a severe trial of strength Molineaux threw the Champion heavily. Odds five to two, then six to four on Cribb.
ROUND 3. On setting to it was seen that in the last rally Cribb's right eye was nearly closed, and now another equally sanguinary and ferocious followed, after sparring for wind, in which essential Molineaux was evidently deficient. Cribb put in a dreadful “doubler” on the body of his opponent who, although hit away, kept his legs and renewed the attack with such ferocity that the backers of the odds looked blue. The science of both men was extraordinary, that of Molineaux being quite equal to that of the Champion; the speed with which they moved and struck was astonishing, the blows and stops almost too rapid for the eye to follow. There was a marked difference in their method of fighting: Cribb hit right and left at the body, while the Moor aimed at the nob alone, and with much judgment planted several dexterous flush hits, that impaired the eyesight of Cribb, and his mouth bled considerably. This rally lasted a minute and a half, milling beyond anything seen in memory, until they closed again, when Molineaux again threw Cribb with astonishing force. The superiority of the Moor's strength was evinced by his grasping the body of Cribb with one hand, and supporting himself by the other resting on the stage, and in this situation threw Cribb completely over upon the stage, by the force of a cross-buttock. To those not flash, the mere appearance of things was in favour of the Moor, odds fell again, but Cribb's tried game still kept him the favourite. Captain Barclay, who had left his carriage after the second round to advise Cribb, now spoke to him again.
ROUND 4. Molineaux's wind could not be depended upon, but the head of Cribb was terrific. Although he was bleeding from every wound, he smiled with confidence, and rallied in the first style of manliness, hitting right and left at the body and head, but Molineaux fought at the head only. He was so successful with the left hand that he planted many flush hits. By this means, both Cribb's eyes were now damaged, the right completely closed and the left nearly so. His face was dreadfully disfigured, and he bled profusely, but Molineaux evidently was in great distress, his chest and sides heaving fearfully. Cribb smiled again at such a favourable omen, and renewed the rally with a heroism perhaps never excelled, and in point of judgment most adroitly timed. Hits in abundance were exchanged with great force and speed, Cribb still fighting at the “mark” and Molineaux at the head. At length Cribb fell, evincing great exhaustion, both eyes now being darkened, which moved his seconds to a terrible expedient. Gully, with a lancet, cut open the great swellings beneath his eyes, the blood issuing forth in floods as a consequence, but with the swellings thus diminished his sight was cleared. Odds seven to four on Cribb.
ROUND 5. Molineaux commenced a spirited rally, and the execution on both sides was truly dreadful. Molineaux had the best of these terrific exchanges, and Cribb fell from a blow, and in falling received another. This excited some murmurs and applause from the partisans of the contending heroes, but on reference to the umpires was declared “fair”, Cribb's hands being at liberty and not having yet touched the floor. Odds of all kinds offered, Cribb showing signs of weakness, but Molineaux sadly distressed for wind.
ROUND 6. Flash side, amateurs, professionals, and Knowing Ones agreed that this round must settle the contest, the pace and punishment of the previous exchanges being beyond the powers of both men to continue; one or other must gain the advantage. Molineaux, from want of wind, lunged right and left but gained little from it. Cribb avoided his hits neatly, and put in a right of great force and swiftness, but Molineaux stopped it exceedingly well. The science of
both men was wonderful in their exhausted state, but now came the blow which it seemed must decide the fight, Cribb feinting and delivering so destructive a hit at the “mark” that it appeared not only to roll the Moor up, but seemed as if it had knocked the wind completely out of him. He, however, returned to begin a rally, seemingly anxious to go in, but still sensible of the ugly consequences. He seemed bewildered as to what manner he should conduct himself, appeared almost frantic, and capered about in an extravagant manner; he hit short and was quite abroad. Cribb followed him round the ring, and after some astonishing execution, floored him by a tremendous hit at full arm's length. Five to one Cribb.
ROUND 7. Molineaux seemed lost in rage. He ran in, and undoubtedly did some execution, but Cribb stood firm and changing his style, put in several straight hits at the head and throat. Molineaux bored in till he fell.
ROUND 8. Molineaux, still desperate, rallied, but his distance was ill-judged. Cribb nobbed him in fine style, got his head under his arm, and fibbed him till he fell.
ROUND 9. The Moor, running in, had his jaw broke from a tremendous left of the Champion, and fell as if dead. He did not come to time by full half a minute, but Cribb, wishing to show his superiority, gave away his chance, dancing a hornpipe about the stage.
ROUND 10. With great difficulty Molineaux got off his second's knee, only for fresh punishment. The Moor, still game, made a desperate though unsuccessful effort, and fell.
ROUND 11. Here ended the combat. Cribb gave away another chance in time, but Molineaux's senses were absolutely hit out of him; he was perfectly unable to stand, and a Scotch reel by Gully and Cribb announced the victory, while the very welkin echoed with applause. Molineaux was taken out of the ring senseless and could not articulate; his jaw-bone and two ribs were fractured, while Cribb scarcely received a body blow, though his head was terribly out of shape.
Remarks on the Fight by H. D. MILES alone
This battle, which lasted only nineteen minutes ten seconds, left no doubt as to the superiority of Cribb. The science of Molineaux was quite equal to that of the Champion, but the condition of Cribb was far better, his temper more under restraint, and although there was no question of Molineaux's courage, which almost amounted to ferocity, Cribb was his superior in steadiness and self-possession.
During the battle the spectators gave applause to both combatants, and many were surprised that Molineaux should have found himself necessitated to relinquish the palm in so short a time, when he so obstinately contested with the same opponent thrice the duration so very recently. It is to be considered, that in the first combat Cribb was full of flesh, and by no means in prime condition; and again, that in this [second] battle, although Molineaux had acquired an increased degree of science, he had by his own conduct impaired his stamina.
Although it has been acknowledged that applause was mutually given, and that Molineaux in every point had fair play shown him, it cannot but be granted that the exulting clamour of congratulation, proceeding from the Champion's friends, when even the slightest advantage seemed to favour him, must have tended to hurt the feelings of the man of colour, and very probably to have cowed him. It should have been considered that Molineaux was a stranger, that he stood indisputably a man of courage; that he came to the contest unprotected and unsupported by friends of note; while his opponent commanded the patronage of the leading men as well as the natural partiality of his countrymen in his favour.
Much has been said of Molineaux's savage denunciations against Cribb; of his vapouring professions of what he should like to do to him; and these were thought sufficiently disgusting to have excited animosity against him. But granting that Molineaux was brutish enough to make use of many of the barbarous expressions imputed to him, we certainly ought to take into consideration the circumstances under which they were uttered. The black could not but be sensible that Cribb was better supported by his many surrounding friends than himself. He knew and felt that Cribb was under the care of the first trainer of the country, while he was left to the government of Tom Belcher and Richmond, who made him an instrument of getting money, by carrying him round the country to exhibit sparring, and, to keep him in good temper and pliable to their wishes, allowing him to drink stout and ale by gallons. It is said that on the morning of the fight he bolted a boiled fowl, an apple pie, and a tankard of porter for his breakfast.
When all these circumstances are considered, by an unprejudiced mind, it cannot be denied, that whatever national pride we may justly feel in our Champion's triumph, and admiration of his pluck and manly prowess, we cannot but admit that the man of colour was a formidable antagonist, and one who, but for his own imprudence, might have won fame and fortune in the pugilistic arena.
I know the question in your mind, sir: if I'd stayed wi' Tom at Bedford, and done my best by him, 'spite of his boozing and whoring, and seconded him at Thistleton – would he ha' won? No, he would not. Cribb was the better man, in the end, if not in the beginning, for Tom fought like a god them first three rounds, left hand, left hand, hammering his nob and closing both his peepers; I never seen cleverer milling, and if Gully hadn't lanced his face, Cribb was done for. But he came again, sir, as Cribb always did, and Tom was bellows to mend, and Cribb punished his midriff 'til he caved – and that was clever milling, too, and won the fight.
If Tom had been in condition – ah, if! Sir, you might as well say “If he'd been white” or “If pigs could fly”! No one could put him in condition – as you know from all I've told you. I've blamed Bill Richmond for being soft wi' him, but the God's truth is Bill could not manage him, either; no one could. Not even Barclay. And d'ye know, sir, if Barclay had had charge of him, and forced him wi' a gun at his black poll to train as Cribb did – aye, if Barclay had trained the pair of 'em in harness, and they'd been set to both in prime twig … well, 'twould ha' been the greatest mill of all – and Cribb would ha' won it. He'd ha' fought no better than my Tom, but he'd ha' fought that moment longer. He had that within him that makes a Champion, you see.
So there it was, and I came away from Thistleton blue-devilled beyond telling. I was so sad, sir, that I went on the mop in Stamford and slept blind bottled in a haystack. Next morning the whole town was agog and cheering, and on a Sunday, too. Boney's gone to roost, thinks I, but what should it be but Cribb and his party driving through in a barouche and four with ribbons flying, barely able to move for the clamour, every window crowded with folk waving, and blow me if the church bells did not ring on past the hour, and the people came out from the services to gaze on the Champion and huzza him with three times three! They toured the villages about, I believe, cheered wherever they went; never was such rejoicing since the Peace.
I knew one place where there'd be precious little celebration, for I'd learned that Tom was lodged in a ken at Grantham. Pad, I thought, you should go to see him; bygones is bygones, and I was curious, too, to see how he did. Grantham was a tidy step for a man with a head like a hive, but I had a lift on a wagon part of the way, with a party of 'prentices who drank Cribb's health at every milestone, and came to the town towards evening. Here again the streets were thronged with merry-makers, and the boozer where Tom lay likewise. I knew where I was the instant I set foot in the tap and heard a cry of “Burn my britches!”, for sure enough there was stout old Bill Gibbons, who'd held Tom's bottle, repelling boarders at the stair foot, with his bulldogs growling assistance. He was a famous fancier of tykes, and those bulldogs grew more like him by the day, being fat and wheezy and leery-eyed, down to all the tricks.
“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 n
ews 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.