“You ain't heedin' what I say,” says Bill. “I ain't about to match Tom wi' him. See here, Sam's retired, an' he's bushed, and for a twelve-month now he's been trainin' on blue tape – but he can still fib hard as ever. If we tip him some spangles, he'll go a few rounds wi' Tom, and find out what bottom he has.”
It was not my place to argue, so next day I smoked Sam out at the Hole-in-the-Wall, Randall's place in Chancery Lane.† Sir, I never seen a drunker Jew, and not a feather to fly with, as Bill had prophesied. We had to bring him down to the Nag on a hand-cart, and when we'd got him three parts sober wi' coffee and toast and his head in a bucket, Bill won him wi' the spangles aforesaid and the promise of lush unlimited.
“Thtrike me dumb, I'm your man,” says Sam. “Oo's the wictim?”
“Now, Mister Elias,” says Bill, “here's what you do. I've a nigger out yonder, an' maybe he can take gruel, an' maybe he can't. You bore in at his belly, hard as you can, but if you touch his neck or phizzog you'll never drink in my tap again, see?”
“Trutht me for that, Bill,” says Sam, sporting his daddle. “I'll thtartle the black rathcal, thee if I don't. Vot 'appens if I break hith ribth?”
“We'll risk that,” says Bill. “Just steer clear of his figurehead, an' no upper-cuttin', mind.”
Well, sir, they set to wi' the mauleys, and I was a-tiptoe to see how Tom would fare with a real fibber. Sam had science, and made play at first, feinting at Tom's head, drawing him in, and then stepped inside and planted him a one-two to the body, as hard as he knew. Tom doubled up, and if Sam had used his invention it'd have been hard on the black, but he held off, and Tom came back at him game enough, and planted him a facer with that quick left, which made the Israelite blink. He bore in again at half-arm, slipping Tom's left and stopping his right, and gave Tom three or four severe winders. Tom gasped, but did not bend, and before Sam knew it Tom hit him clean off his feet with a wisty right. They set to again, and yet again and again, with Sam closing and hammering Tom's breadbasket cruelly, and each time Tom floored him with blows to the head. At the last time of asking Sam sits up and says:
“S'elp me Cot, if 'e doth that again I'll upper-cut hith black nob off, tho I will! My old muvver didn't raithe me to lothe all me teeth a-rattlin' a darkie'th belly to no purpothe! Gi' me a ball o' fire afore I forget methelf an' beat hith clock in!”
Bill reckoned he'd served his turn and earned his wet, and sent him into the tap while we looked to Tom. Even with the mufflers, Sam had bruised his middle and flanks, but when we asked if he hurt, he shook his head. I gave him a good kneading with the oil and sent him in to rest. Bill was drumming his fingers and looking at the sky, with a light in his eye.
“We can't tell whether he's got bottom 'til he's been in a proper mill,” says he, “but, by God, Pad, if he can take Dutch Sam's best … why, I don't know but what he may do!”
“So think I,” says I. “Mind you, Bill, he's green yet. Sam got inside as he pleased.”
“Why, Sam has science,” says he. “Fifteen years' worth. Tom's had less'n a month, man! I tell ye, Pad, if I thought …” Then he laughed, sir, and shook his head, and said ne'er mind what he thought, but to work with Tom as before, and take him out on the road each morning.
“Run him down Chelsea way first thing, buy him his breakfast at Don Saltero's,* an' bring him back by the Green Park an' St James's. Have him buy half a stone o' plums at Kelsey's each day, an' then along Piccadilly an' home,” says Bill, grinning leery-like, “but keep your mummer closed, an' if anyone asks who he is, give 'em his name, an' naught besides.”
“He'll eat no bloody plums while I'm training him!” I said, and Bill winked.
“Nor will he, old Pad. The maids can have 'em, just so Tom buys 'em.”
Can you guess what he was about, sir? Why, he wanted Tom to be noticed, and wondered at, to set the Town talking of this mysterious black cove who ran through the West End each morning all muffled up in a greatcoat, buying plums at the fashionable fruiterer's, with the well-known Paddington Jones at his elbow. Oh, he was a fly file, was Richmond, for he knew that the more they saw of Tom, and the less they knew of him, the more they'd be piqued, and when the time came to make a match, the greater would be the interest among the Fancy, and the bigger the side-bets and subscription purses. He was a nigger with a head on him, was Bill.
So I ran Tom to Chelsea and back daily, and didn't the heads turn as he trotted through the Park, and up St James's? There weren't many of the Quality afoot at that time o' day, but I knew the word'd spread, and sure enough we had a prime stroke of luck on the third day, for just as we turned out of Kelsey's shop, with Tom hugging his bag o' plums, out of one o' the clubs steps the Prince of Wales, with Colonel Harry Mellish and old Mr Sheridan and others, who'd been at play all night by the look of 'em.
“God save us, what's this?” cries the Prince. “Jones, Jones, who the devil's that blackamoor? Aha!” says he, “he's a miller, damned if he's not, eh, Sherry? Well, Jones?”
“By your highness's leave,” says I, “he's a friend of Bill Richmond's new come from America.”
“Ye don't say! Why, then, he's a miller for certain! By God, but he's black! Eh, Sherry? Blackest thing I ever saw in my life, what? And a damned stout fellow, too, I'll be bound! What's his name?”
“Tom Molineaux, please your highness,” says I.
“Molineaux, eh? Well, how d'ye do, Master Molineaux, glad to see you!” cries the Prince, and holds out his hand. I nudged Tom, and he took it – and you'll think me soft, sir, but I was the proudest man in London that moment. Not just for Tom, you know, but for Old England – for how many foreign kings' sons would take the hand of a common man, and a black at that, so free and easy, with the finest in the land looking on? Yes, sir, I was right proud.
“When will he fight, Jones?” says the Colonel, who was a keen blade of the Fancy. “Where's the turn-up to be, eh? Who'll he fight – Gregson? By George, George, he looks man enough for Gregson, don't he?”
“Hold up … Molineaux?” says the Prince, and squints at Tom. “No connection to Sefton, I suppose? The Earl, ye know? His name's Molyneux. Not black, though … is he? Sefton ain't black, Sherry? No, no, damme, course he's not! Damned ugly, mind you, but not black.” They all roared with laughter, while Tom stood there with his head down, right out of his bearings, for while he'd no notion who they were, he could see they were nobs such as he'd never encountered in his life. One of the gentlemen asked what was in his bag, and when he showed the plums, damned if they didn't pile into the fruit, saying they were the most refreshing article, and just the thing for a dawn thirst. Mr Sheridan had one, as big and red as his own conk, but the Prince said they'd give him the wherry-go-nimbles, and he'd liefer not, but thanked him, and if you could ha' seen Tom grin then, sir, 'twould ha' done your heart good. All o'er his face he grinned, to see such jolly, kindly gentlemen – d'ye know, I doubt if white men had ever spoke him so before, and he was dazed by it, but happy, too.
“He'll fight Gregson, though, won't he?” cries Mellish. “It must be the Giant, eh?”
“Will ye mill Gregson over, Tom?” says the Prince. “Damned if ye won't! What? What?”
Tom hadn't said a word, but now he grinned wider than ever.
“Ah's goin' beat Tom Cribb,” says he.
My stars, you should have heard 'em then, sir! Some laughed, and some cried that he'd do it, too, and the Prince laughed loudest of all, and wished him well, and I wondered if St James's had ever seen such a sight before, the noblest in the land cracking the whid with a black prize-fighter and pecking his plums, and all as cheery as could be. I wished they'd stash it, mind, for Tom in his simplicity might easy ha' given offence, so I begged the Prince's leave to brush, in case Tom should take cold, and he let us go with a wave and a kind word.
A fair crowd had gathered, and among them two bucks with a pair of Cyprians in tow, decked-out flash mots who goggle-eyed Tom as he ran by. I saw his head turn, but thought naught of it until
we were padding it over Princes Street, when I asked him what he'd thought of the company, for I was eager to hear what he'd made of the Prince.
“Fat gen'man real kindly,” says he.
“Fat, curse your impudence! Who're you to say so, ye sooty marvel? You'd best mind your trap, my boy. Well, what more?”
He gave a rum grin, leery-like. “Mighty fine ladies in London. Real sweet an' pretty, sho' 'nuff,” and chuckled deep down.
“Never mind that! You keep your mind on your work, d'ye hear? They weren't no ladies, neither,” I told him, and he said he guessed not, and rolled his eyes, ho-hoing. If he'd been white, I'd have dressed him down sharp, for the last thing a training man needs on his mind is skirt, but him being black I never thought he'd dare. That was all I knew.
I wondered what Bill Richmond would make of our encounter with Royalty, but he was all for it. “Dutch Sam'll pass the word, an' all,” says he, well pleased. “A regular mouth, is Sam. Aye, it'll be all the buzz on Town presently.” Which it was, more than we guessed, for the Earl of Sefton, hearing that the Prince had coupled his name with Tom's, and some similar pleasantry having been made before, swore it was more than enough, and damned if he wouldn't call him out. He was in his proper high ropes, but his noble friends persuaded him it was all slum, so he dropped it, but wouldn't notice the Prince for a month.
Now I told you, sir, that Tom was rare to train but bad to manage, and so he proved that very night. I was used to dorse on a mattress in the tap, and woke to the sound of thumping and scuffling out by the back, where the maids slept – Nance, a big country fussock who was forever sporting her juggs at the customers, and Flora the tap-girl, and little Betty the slavey. We're being screwed, was my first thought, so I took a cane and crept out. There was squawks and creaks from the maids' billet, so I opened the jigger wary-like, and damme if Tom wasn't atop big Nance on the bed, wi' his backside going like a fiddler's elbow, and Flora stark by the bed, hissing at 'em 'twas her turn, and Nance was like to play him out.
I didn't use no circumvendibus, but laid my cane across his rump, and he shot off Nance like a rocket and let drive a right that would ha' knocked me to Hanover Square if it'd got home, which I took care it didn't. I was so wild, sir, that I never minded his size or strength, but lammed into him with my cane, going for his giggling-pin, and that sent him skipping. I slammed the jigger and loosed my wrath on the girls, calling 'em such names as I think shame on now, dirty puzzles and crummy butters and that they should be fly-flapped for the whores they were. Nance was a right trollop, and gave me sauce to my face, but Flora was all whine and weep, snitching on Nance who she said had edged Tom from the first, and they'd been strapping this week past. Poor little Betty lay mum as a mouse in her crib; well, I didn't blame her.
Bill must not know of this, thinks I, for he'll set the wenches out of doors for certain, and be at odds with Tom; 'twill be misery-go-round and likely adieu to the promisingest heavyweight I've seen in years. So I gave the girls toco and stern warning, for all the good it would do fat Nance, snickering and tossing her head, and went out to Tom in a great rage.
“What d'ye mean by it, ye black golumpus? D'ye think I sweat and train you for that, damn you?”
Did he look down, or show humble, or even glower? Not a bit of it. He stood cool as a flounder, looking down his flat snout at me, bare naked and bold as brass.
“Ain't but pleasurin' maself. What's it to you?” says he, and gave the meanest grin, gibing at me. “Ah like wenches, 'speshly white meat, an' what you goin' do 'bout that, Mister Paddin'ton Jones?”
If you'd heard him, sir, you'd ha' been dumbstruck as I was, for I'd never known the like from him. Oh, he'd grumbled and shown stubborn now and then, when I'd worked him too hard, but that had been childish sullens, where this was bold-staring impudence, with a tilt to his head, daring me. I was so wild, sir, I near took the cane to him, but he came up on his toes.
“Best not, Pad,” says he. “You git pepper if ye try.”
'Twas the way he said it, sir, not with a growl or a jeer or a threat, even, but calm and almost gentle, that told me he was a changed man. I haven't the gift of words to explain the difference, but he wasn't sullen slow Tom to be bidden no more; he was giving me eye for eye as an equal, him that had been so lowly, and 'twas God's truth that he could ha' given me pepper if I'd squared up to him. Whether 'twas flooring Dutch Sam, or meeting the Prince, or having his way with Nance, or knowing his own strength and the science I'd taught him, I can't say, but summat had changed him; perhaps in that black brain of his that I could never fathom he knew that Molineaux the miller meant as much to me as he did to Tom himself. I saw I must take a new tack with him.
“Well, Tom,” says I, and tossed the cane aside, “I see ye're an even bigger born fool than I always thought. You want to be a fighter, don't you – d'ye think you can spend your strength on sluts, and fight? Why, ye black ninnyhammer, you'd be too baked to toss your chap over the ropes! And you talk of meeting Cribb!”
“I kin beat Cribb, don' you fret! Wenchin' don' do me no hurt. Fo' white fighters, mebbe, but not fo' me. The mo' wenches I has, the better ma trim, see?”
“God damn your thick nigger skull!” says I, getting warm again. “Ye think ye know better than I, that's trained more pugs and fought more mills than Abraham's grandfather? Why, ye clunch, wenches are worse poison for a miller, black or white, than booze! But if you think contrary, why, tell Bill Richmond in the morning, and he can kick your black breech into the street, where you belong!”
“No, he won', neether,” says he, and there was more cunning than sneer in the grin on his ugly phiz. “Bill Richmond countin' on me. So's you. You ain't goin' spoil things, cryin' rope on me to Bill jus' 'cos I give Nance an' Flora a li'l futter.”
I all but planted him one then, sir, pepper or no, for the brazen black effrontery of it. Did you ever hear the like for sauce, and presumption? – for I swear I never did. But I held back, for two could play his game.
“Bill's counting on you, is he? Well, perhaps he is and perhaps he ain't, and I'd not find out if I was you, Massa Tom! Maybe he'll be content to spend his blunt and peck and booze on a dunderhead that thinks he can mount every mollisher from here to Peckham, and still stand up in the ring. But not I, Tom. Good-night to you.”
I was turning away when he growls: “What you mean?”
“Why, I'm giving you up, Tom. You may be worth someone's while, but you ain't worth Paddington Jones's, d'ye see? Not unless you give your solemn oath to steer clear o' skirt. And I don't know as I'd believe you if ye did give your affy-davy. Well, it's a pity. You see, Tom, with me, you might ha' got within arm's length of Tom Cribb. Without me, you'd best go for a porter at Covent Garden, if they'll have you.”
“You ain't the on'y trainer!” cries he, but by then I was in the tap, seeking my mattress. Sure enough, after a few moments I heard his footstep in the dark. I swear I could hear him thinking.
“If I was to do like you say,” growls he. “Give my word, honest. You wouldn't gi' me up?”
“Why, no, Tom. Give me your bounden oath, and all's bowmon.”
So he did, and if I didn't believe a word of it, no matter, I'd put him in place, which was necessary, sir, if I was to handle him. I had my doubts, after that night, whether he would ever come within reach of Cribb, but he was right in one thing: I was counting on him to do me some credit, and had no wish to cry off at halfway.
I kept my mummer shut to Bill next day, and put Tom through his running and training as before. He shaped well enough, for all his fornications, and within the week was in prime trim as ever. I slept with one eye open, I can tell you, but 'twas quiet as a crypt, and I could tell from the sulky looks of Nance and Flora that Tom was holding to his word, thus far leastways.
Captain Buck Flashman, who'd persuaded Bill to give Tom a run in the first place – ah, you knew that, sir, course you did – was used to stop by at the Nag occasional, to see how Tom shaped, and now he and Bill had me
go a few rounds with Tom in the mufflers, but at full stretch. I was hard put to it, sir, I can tell you, and glad to keep my distance, for when it came to holding and throwing I was a babby to him. He cross-buttocked me twice, grinning to show he was going gently, and his in-fighting was tip-top; I never knew a right cross come in so fast.
Captain Buck took my place, and if Tom had held off with me, he did no longer. He bore in hammering, and Captain Buck, for all he was a prime amateur, could do nothing with him. Twice Tom floored him, the last with a down-cut to the neck that dazed him well beyond time, and the Captain pulled off his mauleys and shook hands.
“He's a slasher,” was his verdict. “Well, who shall it be, Bill, for he must have a match, that's certain. Cropley? Maltby? George Cribb?” This was Tom's brother, sir, game but of no account. “Not Gregson, though; he ain't ready for that, what? Who's best for him to beat?”
“The Bristol Man, Burrows,” says Bill straight out. “He's big, an' game, an' not too clever. An' I know who'll second him.”
“What's that to matter?” asks the Captain.
“A good deal,” says Bill, looking sly and giving me the wink. “I got my reasons, cap'n. Trust me for that.”
* Also known as the Nag and Blower, the Prad and Swimmer, the Prad and Pilchard, etc.
* Captain Flashman may well have known the Daffy Club a few years later, but not in 1809. It was founded, as an irregular drinking fraternity, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, during the tenancy of Tom Belcher the pugilist, who did not take over until 1814. Daffy was gin, so called from Daffy's Elixir for infants, to which gin was occasionally added. The Four-in-Hand Club, a group of aristocratic drivers, flourished at the same time.
* William Crockford (1775–1844), founder of the famous gaming club, began life as a fishmonger, and is supposed to have established himself as a professional gambler early in the century when he and his partner in a “hell” won £100,000 in a 24-hour sitting. “Fishmonger's Hall” was the name applied to his various establishments, including the palatial building in St James's Street which he eventually opened in 1827.
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