Black Ajax

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Well, I was at a loss what to do, sir, as you may himagine, but not wishing to believe the worst without I 'ad seen for myself, I hordered the boy to bed and bade Halbert to conduct me, and went and hobserved through the crack of 'er ladyship's boodwar door. And I would cut out my tongue rather than say it, sir, but conscience compels – there was that monstrous blackamoor stallion a-setting naked on 'er ladyship's own bed, laughing and clapping 'is paws while Lady Bel and the habigail, with not a stitch between 'em, was a-dancing and a-flaunting of theirselves at 'im, and the candles all lit, and then the pair of 'em set about him, squealing like wild things, and carrying on for hever so long, and that 'orrid black fiend … no, sir, I can say no more, but they was at it, I can tell you, and never did I think to see Christian females so habandoned. The things they done, sir, and that he done, well, I was like to puke, and would 'ave tore myself away, but young Halbert was not to be budged, and 'im with the tail of 'is shirt crammed in 'is chops to keep from laughing hout loud, 'e was that shameless.

  So there it was, sir, as I 'ad seen with my own heyes, and naught for it but to hinform Mr Jessup, for with that Halbert and 'Erbert already in the know, 'ow was we to keep it from the hother servants, and then 'twould be the gossip of the 'ole world. Mr Jessup was that took aback, 'e needed a ball o' fire to set 'im right, and then said, very stern, it was 'is dooty to see for 'imself, such a scandal, 'e could not credit without 'e saw the same. So 'e did, the next night, and come down hafter an hour or more, and the sweat a-running off of 'is brow, sir, like water. 'E plumped down in 'is chair, all a-tremble, and sent Halbert straight to the cellar for a bottle of the old Nantes, to settle 'is self.

  “By goles! I seen a deal in sixty year, and thought to know as much as befits a Christian, but that man o' colour is like nothing in nature!” says 'e. “God 'elp Tom Cribb!”

  “God 'elp 'er ladyship, you mean!” cries I.

  “John Doe,” says 'e, “she needs no more 'elp than Potiphar's wife! Jezebel was a babby to 'er, a hinnocent! She's run mad, pleasuring mad she is! It's that,” says 'e, “or the nigger's bewitched 'er!”

  “Must we give our notice to the steward?” says I. “We are perfesshnl men of reppitation. Can we abide in this 'ouse as she 'as turned into an 'eathen bagnio? We must think of our good names, Mr Jessup!”

  That gave 'im to consider, sir, right enough. “Eight and thirty years 'ave I served Sir John, and 'is father afore him. Where would I find another sittywation, at my time, tell me that? No, John, we must not be 'asty. Why, what would be said, what scandal might not harise, if the likes of you and me, perfesshnl men as you say, was to 'op the wag sudden-like? Besides,” says 'e, mighty solemn, “'tis not our place to judge our betters, whatsoever their conduck. That Lady Bel,” says 'e, taking a long pull of the Nantes, and shaking 'is old grey noddle, “beats anything in the Bible, I do believe, or them wicked Roman hempresses of yore. As for the black fellow, I would not 'ave credited such. It is the tropic sun as does it, I reckon.”

  Well, sir, what was we to do, 'cept our hutmost to prevent such scandalous goings-on coming to the ear of the vulgar public? “We can stop the gabs of young Halbert and the boy 'Erbert, at all events,” says Mr Jessup, 'tho 'ow 'e was to do that was beyond me, but 'e 'it on a prime notion. A long 'ead on 'im, 'ad old Jessup. He summoned 'em, stern as a judge, and told 'em that heven to talk of the 'orrors they 'ad witnessed would make 'em parties to unnatteral vice, which was a capital hoffence. I don't know as Halbert, who was a dodgy 'un, believed 'im, but 'Erbert fell a-blubbering, and both swore to keep their mummers shut.

  But hothers knew, sir. The black, you see, was in training for 'is match with the Champion, and 'is people must 'ave twigged to 'is hassignations with my lady, for twice of a morning, nigh on six, the time when the habigail was used to let the nigger out at the area door, there was a man a-waiting, a lean likely villain in a round shap and black coat. Mr Jessup, who was a follower of the Fancy, swore it was Paddington Jones, the bruiser as 'ad charge of Molineaux – and if you ax me how Mr Jessup come to be at the back winder at that time o' day, sir, I cannot say, but I 'as my suspicions 'e was doing more spying than sleeping, and at 'is hage, too. Howsomever, Molineaux and the man Jones fell a-bickering in the very street; I 'eard 'em myself the second time, such habuse and filthy words as would 'ave scorched your ears, sir, afore they goes off together.

  Now you may wonder at it, sir, but all the time she 'ad been degrading of 'erself with the black by night, Lady Bel 'ad been spry as a starling by day, driving hout with Captain Flashman and 'er friends, receiving and paying of 'er calls, seen about Town and the smart shops and the theatre and Halmack's, all quite the thing. I hattended on 'er as dooty demanded, and I fair marvelled at the brass fore'ead of 'er, I did. I should tell you, sir, she was the most delicate and refined creeter to look upon, hever so fair and fresh-like, with the sweetest manner and them wide blue peepers, butter wouldn't 'ave melted, and such a taste in dress as ravished the ton haltogether. 'Twas a privilege to wait hupon 'er, and made me right proud – until that hugly blackamoor, I never could hesteem 'er the same after, I could not. I would see 'er a-languishing on the Captain's harm, laughing with 'er fine friends, hinnocent as day, and think to myself, woe hunto you, my lady, your sins will find you hout one o' these days, or I'm parson's pig. And so they did, sir.

  How Captain Flashman got wind of 'er goings-on, I know not. P'raps by way of Paddington Jones or some hother of the black's people. Nor I wouldn't put it past that French habigail, a sly malishus trollop with more hairs and graces than 'er mistress, and the wickedest tongue. Anyways, sir, came a daybreak when I was in the kitchen at my morning wet, and Mr Jessup come in a huge fluster with his wig like an 'en's nest, and fair dragged me to the back winder, and who should we see but the Captain 'is very self, jumping down from 'is curricle, and the prads steaming like boiled flounders. Still 'alf-dark it was, but we could see as the Captain 'ad black rage writ all over 'im, pacing up and down in a passion and thrashing 'is whip on 'is boot.

  “'E's twigged 'em!” says Mr Jessup. “By goles, John, we'll see murder done, so we will!”

  “I'll run for the charlies!” says I.

  “You'll not!” cries 'e. “I would not miss this for a seat in the Lords!”

  Just then we 'eard the habigail a-tittering on the stairs, and in a moment hout comes the nigger from the area door. The Captain spoke never a word but laced straight into 'im with 'is whip, lashing 'im something cruel, and the blackamoor took all hunawares and staggering and bellowing loud enough to fetch the beadle, and the Captain red as fury.

  The black 'ad with 'im a little toy bird in a cage which I knew for 'er ladyship's, and guessed she must 'ave give it 'im, and it fell and broke on the cobbles. “Ma present!” hollers Molineaux. “You done bust ma present, damn ye!” – you know the way they talk, sir. “'Tis all broke to smash!”

  “I'll break more than that, you black son of a bitch!” cries the Captain, laying on, but Molineaux caught the lash away from 'im and dealt 'im such a leveller as I thought would 'ave killed 'im.

  “The grave-digger!” cries Mr Jessup, and danced on 'is wig. “There's pepper, by goles!”

  But the Captain tore off 'is coat, and flung it in the gutter, such a swell case, sir, as though 'twere a rag, and fair flew at Molineaux with 'is fists, calling 'im bastard and worse. The black sprang away, waving 'is fists and laughing, daring the Captain to come on, and so 'e did, sir, and they struck and mauled heach hother like madmen, the Captain swearing and the blackamoor laughing and taunting 'im, and Mr Jessup was beside 'isself, 'opping hup and down that hexcited, crying: “That's for 'is nob! Go for 'is bread-basket! Foul, foul, by goles! Now, now, the one-two!”

  I know nothing of milling, sir, and despises it for a nasty brutal business, but heven I could see as the Captain was no match for the beastly grinning savvidge, and sure enough Molineaux beat 'im all hover the street until 'e tumbled down and lay there, the blood on 'is lips and stark murder in 'is heyes.
If there 'ad been a sharp or barker to 'and, sir, Molineaux would 'ave lain dead on the hinstant. But the Captain did not get up again, and Molineaux cries: “'Ad enuff, hey? Why, you ain't some chicken, Captain Buck! You's no better at fightin' than Lady Bel says you is at —in', you poor white trash!”

  I 'umbly begs pardon, sir, but them was the words 'e used. I could scarce believe my hears, from a low coloured rascal to a hofficer and gentleman born, the disgrace of it. I felt hutterly hashamed, I did. And then, what do you think – the blackamoor picked up the Captain's coat and wiped 'is 'ands hupon it, and threw it down and went a-strutting off, guffawing like a bull calf. The Captain, 'e said not a word, but got hup presently and hinto 'is curricle and drove away – and then, sir, ah then! We 'eard a winder bang shut hover'ead, and 'er ladyship and the habigail laughing and hexclaiming habovestairs! What do you think of that?

  Captain Flashman never came to the 'ouse no more. Nor did the nigger, nasty beast. We was well shot o' that one, but I regretted the Captain, sir, a proper hopen-'anded gentleman 'e was. Mr Jessup said, funning like, that 'twas a shame, for 'e would 'ave liked to see 'em box a return match, but I do not share 'is 'umour, sir. To my way of thinking, the reppitation of our 'ouse 'ad been polluted, sir, the honner of Manners 'ad been blowed upon by that dirty black creeter.

  What, sir? I 'ave hexplained much as was 'idden from you? Why, I am much gratified to 'ear you say so, and glad to 'ave been of service … oh, my dear sir, thank'ee, deeply hobliged … most generous indeed! And I 'ave your word my name will not happear … ?

  PADDINGTON JONES, resumed

  How could I give him up, sir, I ask you? If't had been any other miller, I might have washed my hands and bidden him good-day, but with Tom … I could not. No, not if he'd drunk the cellars dry, boxed the watch, and covered every moll from the Chelsea waterworks to Shadwell Dock – which he tried to do, Lord knows, and I was nigh on desperate when he took up with that high-flying slut Manners, for he was in her bed the best part of a fortnight. But I'd come too far with him, you see, and turned him from a clumsy looby into as fine and fast a heavy man as ever I knew, and how could I say farewell to all o' that within a month of him fighting for the Championship of England? Tho' when he rolled up to breakfast ho-hoing how he'd thrashed Buck Flashman, I'll own I thought 'twas out of my hands, and the end of him.

  Richmond was near out of his wits. “Ye know what'll come o' this?” bawls he. “You infernal black fool, they'll have ye in the Roundhouse afore noon, for assault, and in the Spike Hotel for the next six months!”

  “Ah don' b'lieve so,” says Tom, sporting his ruffles with Weston's fine coat slung over his shoulders like any shawl. “Ah don' b'lieve Cap'n Flashman goin' to tell the beak: ‘Oh, please yo’ honour, this heah is the niggah whut mounted ma mistress an' whupped me in the street'. Ah cain't heah him, 'zackly!” He gave a great splutter of laughter. “Say, whut's fo' brekfuss, Flora? Ah's been exercisin', an' mighty sharp set!”

  Bill was that angry he could hardly speak. “Damn you! An' what in God's name you goin' to do for a patron now!” was all he could say.

  “Git any number o' patrons,” says Tom, cool as you please. “Lawd Sefton back me in a minnit. Or Mistah Mellish, or Alvanley, or thee Mark-wess o' Queens-burr-ee!” says he, rolling his eyes. “Why, whut's a matter, Bill Richmond, you worrit 'bout the two hunnerd guineas? Git two thousan', easy. Say, Flora, how 'bout two o' yo' big juicy rump steaks, the way Ah likes 'em?”

  “Get out!” yells Bill. “Get your black ass out o' my house!” He was raving, sir, and I thought he would fly at Tom, who sat back on the bench like a dandy in a club and looked him up and down, pitying almost.

  “You ain't puttin' me out, Bill,” says he. “Now, why'nt you let me git ma brekfuss in peace, then me an' Pad'll git out on the road, an' then Ah'll whale the bag an' limber the weights, so I'll be in fettle to dee-molish Tom Cribb? Huh? That's yo' style, Flora, broil 'em up, gal!”

  There was nothing to say to him, for 'twas all true. Buck Flashman daren't charge him, for his credit's sake, half the bucks of the Fancy would be ready to back him, and neither Bill nor I would give him up now – as well he knew, the grinning black villain – not with the prize in reach, and the dream like to come true. For this I'll say, 'spite all his gorging and mollishing and going to bed at cock-crow castaway foxed, aye, and brawling with the charlies and being haled before a magistrate who let him go with a caution (being a follower of the Fancy, I dare say) – for all o' that, sir, he was out on the road with me at peep o' day, and worked and sparred and trained like any Trojan, he did, and all his whoring and hurrawing seemed to have taken no more out of him than a ten-mile trot. Any other pug would ha' been burned to the socket, but Tom Molineaux was of different metal. Course he was. I don't say he throve on loose-living, or that he could not have been sharper and stronger still, but I do say that in those last weeks before Copthorn he was moving as well and fibbing as hard as I could have wished, for all that he was still haunting the kens by night, on the mop and in the saddle.

  We never saw hide nor hair of Flashman after his turn-up with Tom, and it took Bill Richmond all of three days to come out of his sullens, but there was no lack (as Tom had guessed) of sporting men ready to stand the stake, and the purse might have been subscribed a hundred times over, for the fight had caught hold of the Town, aye, and the country, like a fever. I never knew the like, sir, 'fore or since: Crocky reckoned there was a cool five million laid out in wagers, such a sum as had never been known for any mill or race or sporting contest whatever, the papers were full of it, Egan was predicting that Cribb would be tried as never before, the Corinthians were sporting their “Molineaux” bands all over St James's, the milliners were doing a great trade in black dolls with woolly heads which were all the crack with the Quality kidlings, ladies were wearing little Yankee flags with their stripes and stars, Tom was cheered to the skies when we took our runs in the Green Park, the old Nag and Blower was crowded like a Tyburn scragging day and night, Bill was fretful 'cos Tom was still a stone heavier than he liked at fourteen two, and I was wore to a shadow, sir – I swear I never sweated so hard for my own mills as I did for that one.

  Happy, tho', for I was beginning to hope, not least 'cos Dutch Sam and Mendoza had taken to dropping by our ken, to watch Tom at work, and even to spar with him. I knew what that meant: the Jews were taking note of our man, and fixing their odds according. It had been five to one Cribb, but that soon narrowed 'til you might get two to one; on Guy Fawkes they were offering ten to one that Molineaux would not stay with Cribb fifteen minutes, but by the month end 'twas seven to four only, and few takers. The word had gone out that the black was shaping, and the excitement rose ever higher – save for Tom, who was placid as a pond in summer, 'cos he knew he would beat Cribb, and told the world the same. 'Twasn't gas, either; he was that cocksure. I did not mind, sir; a man who truly believes he's about to win is a surer bet than any head-shaker.

  It was too much for Richmond, tho'. He was in terror not only over Tom's carry-ons, but about that same confidence, which he judged ignorant folly.

  “Give over yo' goddam braggin' fo' jus' two minnits, an' lissen to me, will yuh?” says he, all darkie-talk in his excitement. “You reckon Cribb's yo' meat – but you don't know him, you ain't seen him fight, even! I've fought him –”

  “An' he trimmed you up good!” chortles Tom.

  “Dam' right he did – me an' ev'yone else! An' you know why – why he's champeen of England? Not jus' 'cos he's the fastest, strongest, cleverest pug ever come to scratch – oh, sure, you c'd be as strong an' as fast, mebbe even as clever, tho' I doubt it – but, brother, that ain't the half! You've never been where Cribb's been!”

  “An' where might that be, pray?” says Tom, yawning.

  “Flat on yo' back!” roars Richmond. “With yo' innards beat out, an' both eyes closed, and half yo' ribs busted, an' yo' hands all broke, an' nuthin' in the whole world but mis'ry an' pain! That's where Cribb's been!�
� He stamped and took a turn about the yard and stuck his phiz into Tom's, glaring. “An' that's when Tom Cribb gits up an' starts to fight! That's why he's champeen! 'Cos he don' know the word ‘quit’! It ain't just that he's trained mind and body – they's a little bit sump'n mo'.” He took a breath, and put his hand on Tom's shoulder, quiet and weary. “An' Tom, boy, I don't know if you got it. But we sure as hell goin' find out. Now, you do sump'n for me? You have a dish o' tea, and git in your bed by nine? An' don't stir out 'til six – will you do that for me, Tom?”

  For once Tom heeded him, but I guess 'twas just humouring, for next night he was up to his shines again with Janey Perkins and the rakes at the Coal Hole. I had long since given up reproaching him, but in the last fortnight I tried a different tack to rein him in: I let up on his training, in part 'cos I didn't want him trained off on the great day, but also I knew 'twould give him to think, if I showed indifferent. Sure enough, when I didn't rouse him out to run, and left off our sparring, he came frowning to know why. I shrugged and said it didn't signify, now, he might train solus if he liked – d'ye know, sir, he did that very thing, and took to turning in by nine! I watched him closer than he knew, for any sign of the crotchets, or nerves, or clogged bowels, but come December the seventeenth he was in prime twig, a stone too heavy, maybe, but as fit to fight for his life as he ever would be.

  The next day, Tuesday the eighteenth, would see it settled, and I was that tired, sir, as one is when all's done that can be done, and you must abide the moment. All the months of graft were behind us, the Bristol Man, and Tom Tough, and Buckley Flash, and Tom's racketing about Town, and all the rebukes and swearing and passions – they did not amount to snuff now. I could ha' slept for a week, but put on a good face for Tom's sake. Bill was grim as a Turk, that long pepper-and-salt noddle would have set well on a churchwarden – the truth was, sir, the man was frightened out of his wits, both for his fighter and the money he'd laid out with the legs, more than a few hundred, I believe, and he'd put up the stake guineas himself, which didn't signify in rhino, being less than half a monkey, but showed he wanted no obligation to patrons. I had not bet myself, not out of fear, nor superstition, but, to put it plain, sir … I did not know. Word was that Cribb had trained steady and would strip at about fourteen and a half – overweight, like Tom, so you might take your choice between 'em.