Black Ajax

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Their battles, and Jackson's setting up his pugilistic academy, raised boxing to the heights and made it the first sport in England, patronised by royalty, talked of in every club and ken and cottage and great house from John o' Groats to the Land's End. The world of fashion took it to its bosom, why, even the Almack's tabbies murmured the odds on Maddox and Dutch Sam behind their fans, and admired the prints of Gregson, the Lancashire Giant, although only the faster Quality females attended the mills. No one could call himself a Corinthian who hadn't taken Jackson's lessons or sparred with the leading pugs, the noblest in the land sponsored the top men and backed 'em with fortunes, whenever a good mill was mooted the whole Town would be agog over the two men, their weights, their conditions, their records, who was training 'em, what were the odds, when would the office be given – for it was outside the law, you know – damme, I even heard Pearce and Gully coupled with David and Goliath in a sermon at St Margaret's. The whole nation was united in the Fancy, and took pride in it as showing the best and bravest of Old England.

  The war had much to do with that, you know. Well, 'twas natural enough to compare the mills with the sterner battles abroad and see in the pugs the stuff that had held the French at bay so many years. I remember Clarence, our late king, holding forth for the hundredth time about the set-to between Gully and Pearce, which fell in the same month as Trafalgar.

  “Was not one an echo of t'other?” says he. “Damme, I say it was! Could anyone doubt, who saw those two noble fellows at blows, that we were better men than the French or the Spaniards or the dam' Danes an' the rest o' that continental rabble? No, sir! Why, sir? 'Cos we learn from our cradles to fight like men, not like back-stabbin' dagoes or throat-slittin' Frogs. They have their stilettoes, we have our fists. We fight clean, sir, an' hard, an' don't cry quits while we can stand on our feet! Why, sir? 'Cos we're Englishmen, an' boxin's our game, an' makes us what we are, an' be damned to 'em!”

  They cheered him to the echo, which encouraged the dear old muffin to recollections of his own pugilistic prowess.

  “Man ain't a man till he's put his fists up, what? Why, I was a midshipman of fourteen, damned if I wasn't, an' this marine, fellow Moody, says: ‘King's letter-boy, are ye? Papa's little letter-boy, more like’. Did I sport me rank, hide behind me blood? No such thing. Would ha' thought shame. ‘Put 'em up,’ says I, an' off came our jackets, an' bigad, didn't we fib each other, just! Blacked his eye, an' he tapped m'claret, shook hands, best o' friends after. That's our way, damme – an' why we'll beat the beggars out o' sight! 'Cos o' the good old game, gives us bottom, makes us men, damned if it don't!”

  Blowhard stuff, you'll say, in the vein of scribblers like Egan and Hazlitt and the rest who liken our pugs to Achilles and Hector and Nelson, and compare a mill for the Championship to Waterloo or the Nile – but strip away the bombast and you'll find a grain of truth. The schoolboy who feels bound to face up to the bully for his manhood's sake, and puts up his little fists when he knows he's beat and all hope's gone – well, when he sees the French bearskins coming over the hill, he remembers, and finds in himself something that holds him steady for longer than those Frenchmen. I know I did, and I wasn't alone.

  You may laugh when I say that the spirit that brought Cribb to his feet, half-dead and blind with his own blood, was the same spirit that kept men at their guns at Trafalgar and held the gate at Hougoumont … well, wait till you've faced the likes of Cribb, and been in a battle, and then laugh all you've a mind to.

  Speaking of Cribb brings me to Molineaux, for each was the making of the other. At the time I speak of, early in '10, a year had passed since Cribb had beaten Jem Belcher for the second time, and was undoubted Champion. There was no lack of first-class men, but he'd thrashed the best of 'em – Maddox, Belcher, Gregson, Bill Richmond the black, as well as second-raters like Tom Tough and Ikey Pigg – and the question was: where was a challenger to be found? There were those who thought Cribb invincible, not without cause, for even the wisest heads could not remember a fighter so designed by nature for his work, or blessed with so many virtues. Close on six feet and fourteen stone, strong as a bull, he could shift like an opera-dancer when he chose, and to see him in the ring was to understand why boxing is called the Art of Self-defence, for his style was to mill on the retreat, letting his man come to him – and then out would flash those terrible fists, so fast you could barely see 'em move. No one ever hit so hard, they said, but what endeared him to the Fancy, above all his speed and science and cleverness, was that he never knew when he was beat. Only one man, George Nicholls, had ever licked him, over fifty-two rounds when Cribb was younger, and even Nicholls himself could never tell how.

  So Cribb was king, and like to remain so, on that spring evening when I toddled down to the old Nag and Fish for cricket and a heavy wet with some of the sporting men – Sefton and Craven were there, I remember, and Goddy Webster, Lady Holland's boy, who was Caro Lamb's prime favourite, and Moore the poet, and Monk Lewis, I think, and of course Bill Richmond himself. He'd been a slave in America, brought to England by some general or other, and a tip-top lightweight in his day, though near fifty when he met Cribb, who was stones heavier and stronger, and Bill had spent an hour and a half running away from him; now he was well retired, and ale-draper at the Nag and Fish, but was to the fore in all the Fancy's doings.

  I was looking out near the wicket where Goddy Webster was batting when he said: “Man Friday, what?” and I saw this rum-looking cove at the edge of the field, apart from the other spectators. He was black as the ace o' spades, dressed like a scarecrow, with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder. After the game, Richmond, being a man of his own colour, went and spoke with him, and presently came into the tap, grinning all over his face. We asked him what was up and he burst out laughing.

  “See that black boy yonder? Come all the way f'm America, jes' to see me. Ye want to guess why, gen'men? He's a millin' cove, seemin'ly, wants I should make him a match.”

  “Why don't ye?” says Craven. “He looked a likely chap enough.”

  Bill rolled his eyes in wonder. He was a droll, well-mannered fellow, pale brown of skin and long in the head, as different from the other nigger as could be. “Oh, he's likely, sho' 'nuff. Big, strong boy. Thing is, he knows the match he wants made, an' ain't 'bout to take any other. You want to guess who he wants to fight … Cribb!” He slapped his thighs, crowing, and we shouted with laughter. Sefton said we should have him in, and take a rise out of him, but Richmond shook his head.

  “Be 'bliged if you leave him be, my lord, 'Tain't but a simpleton, don't know the time o' day, shouldn't make game of him. Ain't got a penny in his puss or a thought in his head. Ain't et in a while, neither, an's gettin' outside a rump steak in my kitchen this minute. Guess I'll give him a shakedown, maybe take him to the Garden tomorrow, get him porterin' work.” That was Richmond all over, and why he was so well-liked.

  Monk asked the fellow's name, and Richmond spluttered and gave a comical look at Sefton.

  “Kind o' familiar, seemed to me. Why, it's Tom Molineaux!”

  “What?” cries Sefton, whose name was Molyneux. “Why, damn his impudence, where the devil did he come by it?”

  At this everyone roasted Sefton, wondering what dusky charmer he had favoured, and wouldn't he visit the kitchen to greet his American child? Moore offered to write a poem, “The Black Prodigal's Return”, and there was great merriment. When the company dispersed I chanced to glance in at the kitchen door, and there was the cause of their mirth, hunched over the table shovelling grub into his ugly black phiz and swilling it down from a pint-pot, grunting and gulping as though he hadn't seen peck for a month. Must get this one a voucher to Almack's, thinks I.

  There was a fly buzzing about his plate, and he flapped at it once or twice with hands which were uncommon small and neat for a man of his size. I was about to pass on when he muttered a curse at the fly's persistence, and as it shot past his head his hand whipped up and caught it … and I stop
ped where I was. As he wiped it off on his threadbare coat, he spied me, and dropped his eyes, glowering.

  “Catch another one, my boy, can you?” says I, and he looked blank, with his great blubber lips hanging open, but as another fly buzzed above his head he made a snatch – and there it was, crushed in his pink palm. Well, well, thinks I, and sauntered in, seating myself on the edge of the table. He shot me a wary glance of his bloodshot ogles and dropped his gaze.

  “I hear you're a milling cove, Tom Molineaux,” says I. “Now then, how many men have you fought in the United States?”

  His reply was a mumbling growl I could hardly make out. “Ah whupped fo'teen, fifteen, mebbe.”

  “All niggers, I'll be bound. Who was the best of 'em?”

  He licked his lips. “Black Ghost, Ah reckon. He kilt fo', five men, they sayin'.” He shot me another leery look. “He busted ma hand. Ah busted his neck.” He looked a likely enough murderer, and I believed him.

  “And you have come to England to fight Tom Cribb. Why?”

  He kept his gaze on the table. “They sayin' he the bestest. Cham-peen, whupped ev'y millin' cove in Englan'. Ah whupped ev'y nigra fighter in 'Merica.” And now he lifted that woolly bullet head and looked me in the eye. “Guess Ah whup Tom Cribb now.” No brag or bounce, you understand. He said it plain, and then put down his head again.

  “Well now, Tom,” says I, pretty mild, for I guessed he would dub his mummer if I laughed or took a high tone, “that's as may be. Many good men have tried and failed, you know. Why d'ye suppose you're better than they?”

  He wriggled in his seat, and scowled, like a stubborn child. “Ah's the bes' millin' cove they is. Better'n Tom Cribb or anybody.”

  Bill Richmond came in just then, and cried out to see Molineaux seated. “Why, you lubber! Git your ass out that chair when cap'n talks to you, ye hear? Who you think you are, to set before a gen'man? Git up, damn your black hide!”

  Molineaux got up, with no good grace, and I winked at Richmond.

  “Why, mind your manners, Bill! This is the fellow who means to floor Cribb, you know. We must show him respect … and see what he's made of, eh?”

  “Why, cap'n, he ain't but a dummy!” cries Bill, and then, seeing what I was about, he grinned and nodded. “Oh, yeah! We sho'ly must! Now, then, boy, shuck off your coat. Lively now – an' put your hands behind your head!”

  Tom glowered, but did as he was bid. Richmond took a pot from the table, as though to drink, and dashed it all of a sudden over his cracked boots. Tom jumped back, too late.

  “You ain't too quick!” scoffs Bill, and threw the pot at him. Tom dropped it. “No, sir, you ain't quick at all! Now, boy – make a fist, hold it right there!” Tom obeyed, goggling, and Bill snatched my cane and lashed him over the knuckles. Tom howled and hopped, wringing his hand.

  “What you do that for, man?” cries he.

  “Oh, my goodness!” cries Bill. “Did I hurt your poor little hand? Oh, mercy me, I'm so sorry!” He stepped up and hit Tom in the breadbasket, doubling him over. “Did that hurt, too? Oh my, oh my! Yessir, boy, you surely are in prime twig to beat Tom Cribb! Why, he'd be shakin' in his shoes if –”

  “Ah wasn't ready!” bawls Tom.

  “Oh, I should ha' told you!” cries Richmond. “Tom Cribb, he'll write you a letter, tellin' you when he's goin' to fib you! It's a rule in these parts, so black chawbacons don't git took unawares!” He slapped Tom back and forth. “Put your head up, boy, when I talk to you! An' you think you're a millin' man, hey, a prize-fighter?”

  “Ah's a fighter!” roars Tom, looking monstrous, and yet in awe of this fiery browbeater half his size. “Ah won my freedom fightin'! Won fiffy-fi' thousan' dollahs, beatin' Black Ghost, an' my master set me free.”

  “Well, 'magine that!” cries Bill, in mock amazement. “You mus' be one hell of a fightin' terror, Tom Molineaux!” He stepped back, slipped off his coat, and squared up. “C'mon then! You show me! Sport your fives, boy! Fall to, an' let's see how you goin' to beat Cribb!”

  Tom looked in such a bait that I expected a wild rush, but he stood glaring murder at Richmond, and then shook his head.

  “Ain't fightin' you,” says he sullenly, and I saw his eyes stray to the table and the leavings of his meal. “You call me what you please, don' make no matter.” He stooped to pick up his coat. “Ah thank you fo' the vittles.”

  Richmond let out a snort. “What's matter, boy, you skeered o' little ol' Bill?”

  “Ain't skeered o' nobody,” growls Tom. “Ah guess Ah be steppin' on.”

  I took a hand then, and not only because I wanted to see what this strange blackamoor was made of, and whether his feet were as fast as his hands. It was damned odd, but I'd taken a fancy to him. He'd taken blows and dog's abuse, but wouldn't raise a hand to the man who'd fed him – a man, by the way, who could ha' chopped him up in no time, but Tom didn't know that. He thought he was sparing Richmond, and as he put on his ragged coat and looked about for his stick and bundle, I'll be shot if he didn't look half-dignified, which is an odd word to use about a great black booby, but 'twas the case.

  “Hold on, Tom,” says I. “Mister Richmond wishes to take your measure.”

  “Ah knows that,” says Tom, head down again. “Ah's 'bliged to him.”

  “God bless me!” cries Bill.

  “I'd like to measure you myself, Tom,” says I. “Spar a round with me?”

  He looked up, and I'll swear there was terror in his eyes as he rolled them at me. “You a white man!” says he.

  “So I am, and so is every fighter in England, bar Bill here. You'd best learn to fight white men, if you hope to meet Cribb, for he ain't going to change colour to suit you. Never fear, I can box. Come now, let's see what you can make of me.”

  But he didn't care for it above half. “You gen'man,” mutters he, and I saw that the notion of hitting “massa” was too much for him. “Ain't fightin' you … cap'n,” says he, shaking his head, so I gave Bill the wink again, and he heaped insults on the brute, taunting him, squaring up and slapping him, and finally planting him a facer, and at that Tom tossed his coat aside and squared up in turn, but – which I thought odd – with no sign of anger. Take care, Bill, thinks I, he may not be such a johnny raw after all, and if he catches you with the brute strength of those mighty arms and shoulders, you'll feel it.

  I needn't ha' fretted. It was Mendoza to a chopping block, for old as he was Richmond was one of the prime scientific millers of the day, and Tom was dished from the start. His only ploy was to shoot out his left, fast enough, stand dumfounded when Bill stopped or slipped it, and then put in a right cross that came from Chelsea by way of Green Park. He knew no more of in-fighting than the town clock, and when Bill feinted and planted a one-two in his guts his astonishment was comical to see. He was slower on his pins than a Shire horse, and while he had some rudiments of footwork he had no notion of setting himself to counter.

  Bill went easy, weaving on his toes and hitting where he chose, but once Tom caught him with a left which came in at his fly-catching speed. Bill floored him for that, and twice again, and Tom began to thrash like a windmill, at which Bill commenced to rag him in earnest, with fist and tongue.

  “My, boy, you sure can mill!” Whack! “You must ha' been the talk o' the ol' plantation!” Whack! “You went down the cowpens with massa an' chewed the bollocks off the Black Ghost, lawks a mercy!” Whack! “An' massa set you free, land sakes, Jemima, 'cos you bust up some ol' crippled nigger you could ha' knocked down with a good fart!” Whack! “An' you think you can fight!”

  Tom went wild at last, and rushed him, and when Bill ducked, damme if the great bullock's fist didn't smash through the panelling as if't had been paper. He was mad with rage, so Bill fibbed him with three hard lefts to the nob and a right upper-cut, and down he went with his senses knocked half out of him. I told Bill to give him a shove in the mouth, and he gulped it down and sat on the floor with his head in his hands. Bill clapped him on the shoulder and came
across to me, rubbing his knuckles.

  “Guess Cribb can sleep o' nights, cap'n,” says he, looking droll. “Hey, boy – you still set on bein' a prize-fighter?”

  D'ye know what the clown replied? I couldn't believe my ears. He sat there, all of a heap, head bowed, and growled: “Ah is a fighter. You floored me, but you din' hurt me. An' we wasn't holdin' or throwin', neether. An' Ah was tired. When Ah's rested, Ah trim you up good. Then Ah whup Tom Cribb.”

  Richmond was knocked all of a heap between mirth and anger. “Well, blow me! Why, ye great black lummox, ye couldn't whip a kid's top! My stars, cap'n, did ye ever hear such sauce? Why, you jack puddin', you, ye never even touched me! Ain't that so, cap'n?”

  “He did, though, once.”

  “Aye – once! Didn't rattle my ivories, even!” He turned angrily on Tom. “You want to be a miller, boy – which you ain't – you best learn not to talk like a rasher o' wind! Here, git up off o' my floor – if you ain't too tired, that is!”

  Tom took his hand and got up, looking damned sour and troubled. I saw how it was; he'd never met a boxer before, and his thick head couldn't take in the novelty. He scowled at Bill like a spoiled infant.

  “You got a lot o' tricks,” growls he. “You don' fight. You … you jus' … full o' tricks!” He couldn't describe what he didn't know, you see.

  “Tom,” says I, “d'ye think you could learn Mr Richmond's tricks, as you call 'em? If he was to show you, eh?”

  Bill stared at me open-mouthed. “What's that, cap'n? You ain't thinkin' I could make somethin' of him, surely? Why, he'd never be above third-rate!”

  “Take off your shirt, Tom,” says I, and he did. “Now, then, Bill, how many peel as well as that? Ain't he made to be a miller?” For I'd never seen likelier, shoulders and arms of a blacksmith, but neat in the waist.

  “So's half the coal-heavers in Deptford!” cries Bill. “That don't make a millin' cove, cap'n, you know that!” He shook his salt-and-pepper head in impatience. “What d'ye see in him, cap'n?”