Black Ajax

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Can ye stand?” asks Pad, and Tom stood, more or less. Pad looked at me. “If he can walk to the ring and be floored, well, 'tis a defeat. But if he cries off drunk, he's ruined. Tom – can ye walk, lad? Can ye put up your fams?”

  Tom said not a word but a great belch of wind, nodded hard, and came on guard, but mighty confused.

  “Well enough,” says Pad. “Out ye go, then, head up, walk brisk and steady! Bill, lay hold on his elbow!”

  There was a great yell when Tom appeared, with the blanket well over his head, and you bet I was at his side while Pad followed wi' the towels and bottles. A great press crowded in, cheering and staring. “Here comes the black! Huzza for the nigger!” The vinegars heaved away to make a lane to the ropes, which gave us the excuse to go slow. Tom didn't stumble, but I could feel him shudder, and he gave sad little moans, ducking his head 'gainst the strong sea-breeze which had the lookers-on clutching their tiles and capes, and that I guess stopped 'em noticing what a rum state he was in.

  There was no stage, just forty-forty grass inside the ropes, and Blake at one corner, all six feet and fifteen stone of him; for all his forty years he looked to be in fettle, no spare fat, chaffing with his seconds, Cribb and Bill Gibbons, and jigging up and down a sight more nimble than I liked. Cap'n Buck was nowhere to be seen, but Breen was to the fore among the Quality, with the ladies in the open rigs craning to see, and behind them the great dark spread of the crowd, seven thousand strong (so I heard), and in the distance the sound of the sea.

  “Never a bloody magistrate when ye want one,” growls Pad, and it would have suited just fine if the bailiffs had stopped the mill that minute, for when I took the blanket from Tom's head he was grey and peaky as ever, and horrible bloodshot. Gully, who was to umpire, called the men to the scales.

  Sir, if my salvation depended on't, I couldn't tell you what they weighed, for I was having conniptions that Tom'd fall off o' the scale. When Pad gave him the hat, he looked owlish and set it on his head, and everyone laughed, thinking he did it in fun.

  “Throw the dam' thing in the ring!” whispers Pad, so he did, and all but tumbled over. I pushed him through the ropes and gave him my knee 'fore he fell down, and so help me Hannah he sat like a sack o' grits, eyes closed and grunting something peculiar.

  “Ah's goin' be sick!” whines he. “Oh, sweet pityin' Jesus, ma po' haid!”

  Every eye was turned on him from that great wall of faces, someone said the nigger was trained off, and the cry went round among the legs, “Six to four Blake!” Gully called 'em to scratch, I heaved Tom up, and he ambled for'ard somehow and stood swaying with his head down while Gully read the articles.

  “Pad, I don't believe he knows where he's at,” says I.

  “No matter,” says Pad, “so long as he knows what he's here for.”

  They shook hands – leastways, Blake did, grabbing Tom's daddle, eyeing him cautious-like – and when Gully called “Set to!” ye could see Blake was shy, having seen Tom at work, for he circled away and looked leery under his brows, and Tom turned with him, blinking his eyes and blowing out his cheeks, with his hands half-up.

  “Lord love me, he's goin' to spew again!” mutters Pad. “Oh, God, if Blake hits him in the belly!” But Blake was still wary, weaving his great knotted fists; whenever Tom swayed, Blake flinched, but then he bore in, planting a smart one-two. Tom staggered, and would ha' gone down, but Blake, getting bolder, closed at half-arm, pounded his ribs, and planted him a tremendous facer, flush on the trap. And it's God's own truth, sir, Tom all of a sudden came alive, head up and eyes wide open, and hollered: “Damn yo' skin, what ye do that for?”

  He hadn't been shamming drunk, I swear, for he still looked 'mazed and foolish. No, he'd been the foxedest nigger all day, and still looked like to puke, but that facer braced him somehow, and when Blake tried another one-two he blocked the one, slipped t'other, let go a shaky left, and moved away. He wasn't steady, but his feet were going at last, and he circled, head a-shake, and Pad let out a whooping sigh, for now Tom was milling on the retreat, guard well up. I don't say he was in his senses, and he was greener than black, but he was eyeing his man, and when Blake led off he blocked it easy, feinted, and side-stepped on his toes, daring Blake to come to him.

  “Thank God!” says Pad. “Oh, land him another facer, Blake, and s'help me he'll be stone-cold sober!”

  Blake tried it, but Tom stepped outside and in again, smacking him the first real blow he'd struck, a right chopper down his face. Blake tried to close, but Tom's left was stabbing his nob like a piston, and when Blake tried a left of his own, Tom flipped it away and nailed him a down-cut to the neck. “Bravo, Mendoza!” bawls Pad, and as Blake stumbled, down came the right again, the rabbit-blow, driving him to his knees. He was up in a trice, waving to Cribb as he went to his corner, while Tom came to my knee, rubbing his eyes like a man coming to.

  Pad sluiced him wi' the bottle, but Tom took it off o' him and drained it dry.

  “Gi' me mo'!” croaks he. “Oh, lawdy, but Ah's dry! Oh, ma po' haid!”

  “How are ye, Tom?”

  “Bloody sick,” groans Tom. “Ah got sech a mis'ry in ma belly! Oh, gi' me 'nother drink, Pad, 'fore Ah burns up!” He clapped the bottle to his mouth. “Oh my, oh my! Oh, Ah's hurtin' sumpn cruel!”

  “Where?” cries Pad. “Where did he hurt ye?”

  “Not him, the mollishers! Oh, Lawd, three on 'em, Ah's clean wore away, awful sore!”

  “Well, it can't be the clap, not yet,” says Pad. “Ne'er mind if ye're sore! How's your innards?”

  “They's b'ilin' sick,” whimpers Tom. “Oh, my, was Ah lushy! Say, was that the fust round?”

  “It was, and that's Tom Blake – Tom Tough, so keep your distance 'til ye're in condition to box, d'ye hear?”

  “Ah kin box!” gasps Tom. “But Ah ain't 'bout to. Ah's tired an' sick, got to put him down quick, Ah reckon. Oh, ma haid!”

  And damme if he didn't step out, pretty groggy, for the second round, standing flat-footed while Blake planted him two or three flush hits on the head to shrieks of excitement from the mob, and then Tom fetched him the most tremendous smash to the jaw that sent him flying through the ropes. I never saw a faster punch, sir; one instant Blake was boring in, the next he was sprawling, and Tom came to my knee, holding his belly. Pad was in a fury, telling him to mill on the retreat, to shift and cut away, for the hits that Blake had planted had been reg'lar melters. Tom made nothing of 'em.

  “He don' make me dizzy, but daffy does. Cain't skip 'round, Pad, or Ah tumble down sho'. Guess Ah kin ruffian him, though.”

  And that, sir, was 'zackly what he did, for the few rounds the fight lasted. He just let Blake hit – and Blake was a real punishing fibber, mind, strong and savage – but for every blow he planted Tom gave him back two, and they were grave-diggers. He chopped Blake's arms nigh to pulp, 'til his guard was feeble, and fibbed him head and body, no science, but brutal hard. One time he took Blake in chancery, and mangled him so hard I wondered the man came to scratch again; he was a fearsome sight, upper works cut all to pieces, but Tom, for all the smashing he'd took, showed nary a mark.

  Pad was like to despair, seeing the man he'd trained to so much science hammering in like any coal-heaver. Not me, tho', for Tom had taken real gruel in his turn, first I'd ever seen him eat, and minded it no more'n snowflakes. That warmed my heart; I'd always known he had strength, but now I knew he had bottom, too.

  With five rounds gone in as many minutes and his figurehead like the knacker's yard, Blake got chary of standing toe to toe and began to box – oh, he was a prime miller, sir, as fly as brave, and now Tom must move and chase to come at him. He was getting soberer by the minute, as his footwork showed, but Blake was no Bristol Man to be pommelled at will. Bloody and busted as he was, he milled well on the retreat, guarding as best could wi' his bruised arms, and try as Tom might, he could not put in a finisher. That, and the distemper of his head and guts, made him peevish, and he started hollering at
Blake to stand and fight.

  “You beat, Tom Blake, why'nt you quit? You want Ah should chase you clear 'round Kent county? Give over runnin', dammit! Fight, cain't ye, or cry 'nuff !”

  Blake milled away backwards, saying never a word, but not so the crowd. They didn't like it 'bove half, and roared at Tom to dub his mummer and finish him, 'stead o' jibing at a beat man. They yelled at Blake to stand game and not give best to a saucy nigger, and from that they turned to abusing Tom in earnest, telling him to take his dam' tongue and his black carcase back to the States. The whole company took up the cry, and called him an ape and a savage and a low-down slave and I don't know what, hissing whenever he got in a blow, and I began to fear they would rush the ring. Fact was, they couldn't abide to see a white man thrashed by a black – a good white man, I mean; they hadn't cared a fig when Tom hammered the Bristol Boy, but Blake was a different article. He was a first-run heavyweight, and if Tom could whip him, why, maybe he could whip all the way to the championship, d'ye see?

  That was when it all changed, I reckon, in that sixth round. Yes, sir, that was when England began to fear Tom Molineaux. He wasn't the laughable darkie, the raree show, ever again after that. They commenced to fear him, then – and to hate him. Every blow he struck, they bayed like hounds, the whole crowd heaving ahead and cursing 'til I thought the vinegars must be trod under and the ring broke in. When Tom milled down Blake's guard and knocked him clean off his gams with a wisty left, there was a shout to bust the heavens, and if Gully hadn't raised his arms and roared 'em down, they'd ha' broke the ropes for sure.

  “Fair play, there! Fair play!” cries Gully, and they held off, but the jeers and yells came thicker than ever. Tom stared 'round, all bewildered, and when he came to my knee, he asked:

  “What's a matter? What Ah done wrong? Why they 'busin' me thataway, like Ah was fightin' foul or sumpn? Ah's fightin' fair, Bill! Ain't Ah, Pad? Sho' Ah is! What they want o' me?”

  “Get away, ye black bastard!” yells someone, and “Be off, ye dirty nigger!” I never knew such a storm of 'bomination, they was so wild, fists shaking and cussing him the vilest names, although the Quality was silent for the most part, and the better sort trying to hush the people, but I saw a couple o' ladies that joined in the outcry. Gully waved his arms in vain – and then the rummest thing happened I ever saw in the ring, while Tom sat nigh weeping on my knee, begging me to tell him what to do.

  The timekeeper called, and when I pushed Tom up to scratch he was fearful to go, but went when Gully beckoned. That was when the hats and clods o' turf and even brickbats began to fly into the ring, and one knocked Gully's hat off, and while he was scrambling for his tile Tom was alone, wi' the lumps hailing down 'round him. Then Cribb, who'd been putting Blake on his feet, left him and came for'ard his own self to the scratch, and at that you can bet the brickbats stopped, and the yelling also, 'sif someone had taken the crowd by the windpipe. Cribb took his stand maybe a yard from Tom, but didn't say a word or glance at him even, only stood there and looked 'round, real slow and grim, eyeing the crowd. Someone cried a cheer for the Champion, and there was a few huzzas, but he never minded 'em, just stood regarding the people this way and that, and the cheers and cries faded down to a whisper, 'til that whole assembly was as still as in church, and all you could hear was the wind and distant sea. Then Cribb said a word to Gully, gave Tom the littlest nod, and went back to his corner and sent Blake to the mark.

  Ye know, sir, I have to own that I never liked Cribb all that much, can't tell why. But I never saw a man I respected more.

  Gully called “Set to” in such a silence the crowd might ha' been asleep. Tom didn't want to, what wi' being still confused wi' drink and sickness and the baiting they'd give him. That was the first time I'd seen him scairt, sir. He'd never known such hate before, the screaming faces and shaken fists, and if he could ha' run I believe he would. What stirred him at last was when Blake, wi' the blood caked on his face and body and his eyes nigh swollen shut, came stumbling at him wi' his fists up, and the legs crying “Any odds the black!” Even then Tom went for him only half-hearted, but Blake was too weak to stand, and one little left put him down again.

  He came out, though, for the eighth round, and landed Tom a facer, croaking: “There's for 'ee, blackee!” Tom bored in, and planted him a real churchwarden's right that knocked him arse over ears. Cribb and Gibbons did what they could, but at the half-minute he was still sound asleep, and Gully took Tom's famble and cried: “Molineaux the winner!”

  And that, sir, is how Tom Molineaux, woozy wi' daffy and collywobbles and half the strength drained out o' him by a night's fornicating, beat Tom Blake, the game Tom Tough, in twelve minutes or there'bouts, and I swear if there was a less popular man in Kent that day, he must ha' had leprosy. There was hissing and booing, but less'n before, for they gave their voices to cheers for Blake. Gully put 'round a hat for him, and when he was come to the swell division they crowded 'round to clap him on the shoulder for his bottom, and plenty he had o' that. He came lurching and grinning to shake Tom's hand, and swore he'd never been milled so hard, and the crowd cheered wi' might and main, so they might ha' been cheers for Tom, too, for all you could tell.

  There was one there, though, to give him a bravo and a slap on the back and all smiles, and guess who that was, sir – why, Cap'n Buck Flashman, to be sure! Not so much as the tip o' his whisker had I seen 'til then, when the fight was won and his man cock o' the walk, but now he was full of delight and great action, crying how proud he was, and what fettle, Tom? and bidding Pad and me rub him down 'fore he took cold. 'Twould ha' been a different tale if Tom had tumbled down drunk in the first round, you bet. The Cap'n shook hands wi' Breen and the Corinthians, who were bound to congratulate him, and then led Tom to a tilbury where Lady Manners was set so that she could smile on him and touch his hand wi' the tips o' her dainty fingers, aye, and look him over wi' a lazy smile that I didn't care for 'bove half. Alvanley and Mellish, who were the best o' the bucks, shook Tom's hand also, and Lord Sefton called out to all that would listen: “He's a dam' stout fellow, I say, a damned stout fellow!”

  Tom stood, head down and silent, while the Quality praised him, and the commons looked on grinning but liking him no better. Pad and I would ha' had him away to the carriage, but he shook his head, and damned if I knew what to make of him. He wasn't scairt no more, nor sick for what I could see, but his teeth were set hard, and he kept shooting little looks sidelong, at the bucks, and the crowd, and the legs that were paying or collecting, and all the confusion 'round about.

  “Gi' me a guinea,” says he, so I gave him the flimsy, and he went to where Gully had the hat they'd put 'round for Blake, and dropped the flimsy in it. Now, sir, I thought 'twas just kindness, but I don't think that no longer. It was policy, sir, such as I'd not ha' credited him wi' thinking of. For he had that grinning look, now, and when those closest, who saw what he'd done, cried bravo and well done, he threw off the blanket round his shoulders, and held up his hands to the crowd.

  “What the dooce is he about?” wonders Pad, and Cap'n Buck began to call out to him. Tell truth, sir, I wondered if the drink was still at work in him, for he waited 'til the buzz o' the crowd was stilled, and then he called out:

  “Lawds, an' ladies, an gen'men! Ah am Tom Molineaux of Virginny, in th'United States of 'Merica, an' mebbe Ah's the best millin' cove in the hull o' Creation – an' mebbe Ah ain't! Ah got ma own 'pinion on that, an' you got yo's. You seen me fight a real game man today, a real prime miller. You make o' that what you will. Ah's in England to do ma best, to fight fair, an' to stand up to any man who'll come to scratch wi' me. An' whether Ah win or whether Ah lose, you good people goin' to gi' me fair play, 'cos they ain't no people in the whole world as good an' spo'tin' as the people of Ol' England, an' you know yo' good ol' game o' prize-fightin' mus' have the best, an' by golly Ah's goin' see that you gits it! An' the Lawd bless you all, an' you take care! An' God save the King!”

  No, sir, he was
not drunk, he was not distempered, nor had he gone queer in the attic, though you might ha' thought so if you had seen our phizzes – Pad wi' his mouth wide as a cod's, and Cap'n Buck struck dumb, and the Quality a-stare at this astonishing address from the black figure in his white breeches, alone in the ring. He gave a little bow, and walked back to us, and someone – I guess it might ha' been Sefton – cried “Bravo!”, and the Quality clapped and cried: “Well said, the black!” and in a moment there was a great sighing noise that burst in a storm of cheers, and hats were flying into the air, and handkerchieves waving, and someone struck up “Marlbroug”, and in a moment they were hollering it out, “For he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us!” They were all 'round him, grasping his hands, and slapping his shoulders, and I swear he took more punishment in those few moments than ever he got from Tom Tough. We had to fight our way to the carriage, wi' the vinegars clearing a way, and Cap'n Buck calling for three cheers and a tiger.

  We got Tom inside and closed the blinds, but the mob tore 'em away and beat on the coach, yelling and cheering. I was all concern for him, for 'twasn't natural or like him at all, sir, to speak as he'd done, before all those folk, who'd never spoke out in all his life before, not public, I mean. He looked tired to death, lying back 'gainst the cushions, while Pad poured him a tot, and outside the people had unyoked the horses and were dragging the carriage along.

  Pad gave him the dram, and he sipped and coughed and waved it away like 'twas nauseous to him, which was no wonder. Then he opened an eye and gave us a sleepy little smile slantendicular.

  “Them people likin' me a little bitty mo' now, you reckon?” says he.