Black Ajax

by George MacDonald Fraser

  There was no backing down, even had I wished – and tell you the truth, mister, I did not know whether I wished or not. I'd thought nothing but ill o' Tom until his fight wi' Fuller, but that day, when he'd showed so game, and just now and then like his old self, I'd felt my feelings change somehow. I could never put from my mind all the misery and pain he'd caused me, but it was not in me to bear grudge, neither, not now, when 'twas all by and done with. I can't put words to it, 'xactly, but I guess if you've been concerned in some one, and tried to make him into something, then even if evil comes 'twixt you … well, hang it, you don't forget the good times, and could wish the bad had never been, and even if you can't forgive in your heart, why, the grudges don't seem worth having. Not to show, leastways.

  The mill was at some little place in Lanarkshire, March 10, 1815 – I recall the date 'cos it was the day we heard Bonaparte had 'scaped from Elba and was back in France, you know, 'fore Waterloo. There wasn't a drag or a prad to be had in Edinburgh at breakfast, and thousands had been on the road to the fight 'fore daybreak – say, and other thousands had gotten the wrong office and arrived some place else! But it might ha' been Moulsey or Tothill Fields, so great was the crowd and the carriages, and as I made the ring, I thought, yes sir, they still come to see the Black Ajax.

  It took me flat aback, tho', when I laid eyes on Tom, coming to the field wi' Joe Ward at his elbow. He was twice the size of a year ago, the fat hanging on him in dewlaps, his phiz all broke and scarred, and white sprinkled in his hair like powder. I was talking to George Cooper by the ring when the roar went up, and I looked round, and thought hardly to recognise Tom, he was so beat up, and old somehow.

  He looked across the ring and saw me, and said something to Ward, and then sat himself down wi' his back to the post as though to rest. Back of Ward there was a couple o' flash coves who'd come wi' them, and two or three mollishers all decked and painted, laughing and preening, and I thought, brother, you sure been training the way you know best. Abner Gray was there, and handed down Tom a bottle looked like stout, and Tom drained it right off. He must ha' seen me watching, for he looked 'round at the doxies and then at the bottle, and then grinned at me with a little nod. 'Twas so unlooked for I didn't know what to think. Oh, confound it all, said I, and went over to him.

  “Hollo, Bill,” says he, squinting up.

  “Hollo, Tom,” says I, and he reached up a hand and I took it.

  “Din't know you was a commissary-gen'ral,” says he, and I told him George Cooper had asked me to hold the ring. “You ain't in his corner, then?” says Tom, and I said no. I told him I'd seen him fight Fuller last year, and that he showed pretty well.

  “Well 'nuff to win, no thanks to this sunnabitch,” says he, pointing to Ward. “Say, Joe, if Cooper ribs me good, mebbe you'll pull me down, hey? Ye saw that, Bill, the trick he served me? Weren't that the damnedest thing?”

  “I was Fuller's man that day,” says Joe, sour as usual. “I'll do as much for you, aye, or for any man as is on my knee.”

  ‘Speshly if he's Tom Cribb,” says Tom, winking at me. “Say, Bill, you're commissary – you mebbe take a good look at Cooper's hands, see he hasn't got no bullets in 'em!”

  “Why, ye sooty villain!” cries Ward. “Have I not told thee once, an’ a thousand times, 'twas Buck Flashman's ploy, not mine!”

  “Sho' 'nuff, Joe,” says Tom, “sho' 'nuff.” He was not smiling, mister, nor angry neither, but sighed weary-like and shook his head. I asked him what he'd done this year past, and had he settled in Scotland.

  “Guess not. Me'n Abner's goin' over to Ireland pretty soon, do a little sparrin' an' ex'bitions,” says he. “Give lessons, mebbe, teach 'em a bitty Cum'erland style rasslin' an' that.”

  “What d'you know 'bout Cumberland rasslin'?”

  “More'n the Paddies, Ah guess. Easier'n millin', that's fo' sho'.” He gave another sigh and put up a hand 'gainst the sun. “Tirin' work, Bill, tirin' work. Don' know why I made this match, even. They say Cooper's a prime chicken, fibs real hard.”

  “Hundred quid a side, that's why ye made it!” says Joe. “Here's the scales, so shift your black arse!”

  They weighed, Cooper at twelve four and Tom at seventeen, which I reckon would ha' been more, but the umpire slid the gauge along the bar when no one was looking, for decency's sake. Seventeen stone, mister, and him but five foot nine erect!

  The umpire read the articles, Cooper skipping a little, Tom standing slumped wi' his belly glistening like a whale's back, and every now and then he would give me a shot of his eye sidelong, as though reflecting on something. He muttered once to Ward, who nodded, and when the reading was done he says to me:

  “Say, Bill – care to gi' me yo' knee?”

  I couldn't see what he meant. “Joe Ward's your second.”

  “Joe don' mind holdin' the bottle. Ah'd take it kin'ly if you'd pick me up, be ma senior counsel.”

  “But I'm commissary!”

  “You done that, staked it out an' all. Anybody can mind the ring.” He gave me a wink and that great darkie grin. “You don' mind? Kind o' like to have you in ma corner, bein' ma las' mill, likely.”

  “Your last mill? Why, how you talk!” Truth to tell, mister, 'twas so unexpected, after all of everything, I knew not what to say. Not a word 'bout our differences, or ca. sa., and he was asking me to pick him up. “What d'ye mean, your last mill – why, you'll have mills a–plenty in Ireland!”

  “Not reg'lar mills, not thisaway,” says he, nodding 'round at the great throng beyond the ropes, thousands on 'em lying and kneeling and standing. “This Cooper's a top-notcher, ain't he, an' Ah don't reckon to find many such in Ireland –'sides, Abner's no hand at all at match-makin'.” He laughed, that big melon-splitter of a laugh. “An' Ah ain't all that in-clined to matches wi' bustlin' young chickens these days.” He tapped me on the shoulder, that old coaxing way. “What say, Bill? Gimme a knee?”

  Mister, I felt … I don't know what I felt. “Damn you, Tom Molineaux! Damn you to Hell!” says I, and he stood there grinning all over that ugly scarred phiz. “Damn you! I'll give you my knee!”

  “You ain't so green, Bill Richmond!” cries he. “'Bout time you's on the winnin' side! Ain't had that many chickens to run, lately, hey? Git back to Town, presn'ly, git roun' the Fives Court, hear the boys askin' ‘Where you been, Bill?’ ‘Why, Ah's been up nawth, pickin’ up Tom Molineaux!' ‘Lan' sakes!’ says the boys, ‘you in the swim again, Bill, jes' when we's reckonin’ you done up an' gone to roost.”' He was laughing at me, damn him, drawing me to his corner. “Like ole times, hey, Billy boy?”

  I dare not answer him, mister, but went to Cooper and the umpires, who gave their consent soon enough, but puzzled I could see. Tom was at his bottle again, wi' the mollishers tittering 'round him. I hustled 'em away and gave him my knee in the corner; 'twas like holding up an elephant.

  “Cooper's got no body, they sayin',” says he, resting back on me. “Cain't take middlin'. Ah guess Ah give him the one-two an' away, likely. Hey, Bill? Git him on the mark, fold him up, hey?”

  “Never you mind his goddam middle! You're too dam' fat for one-two and away! Who the hell you think you are – Mendoza? You play at his head wi' your left, nob him senseless!” I knew Cooper was too fast by yards, and Tom must fight at distance or be dead of exhaustion. “Let him come to you, give him the left! Go for his brows, mind! Don't chase him, he's too nimble!”

  “Oh, Bill, he ain't but a novice! Ah licked Fuller, din' Ah, an' you cain't tell me this Cooper'd be any bait fo' him!”

  “Forget 'bout Fuller – this fellow's fast and he's clever and he ain't no novice! How d'ye feel, Tom? Legs easy? Then don't tire 'em – stay back, let him come in, then left-left-left!”

  “Sho' 'nuff, Mass' Richmond! Like you say, mass'! Ah trim him up jes' how you tell me!” I could feel him laughing. “Say, an' when Ah comes back f'm the Wild Goose Nation, how 'bout we challenge Tom Cribb again? Lissen, Ah cud lick him right here an' now! Think Ah cudn't?”r />
  “Tom, I'm giving you my knee,” says I, “but don't dare talk to me 'bout Cribb, not now, not never!”

  “Tell ye why Ah cud lick him –'cos he'll be fatter'n Ah am this minute, beatin' his belly in Panton Street, wi' ale by the gallon!” He gave another great sigh. “Say, this is real comf 'table, ain't it, tho'? You got a fatter knee'n Pad Jones, ye know that?” He was silent a moment, watching the umpires making the scratch, and the timekeepers setting their repeaters. “Wisht ole Pad was here, too,” he said.

  “Come to the mark!” was the cry, and he heaved up off my knee, putting a hand down to clap my shoulder.

  “Go on, Tom,” says I. “Left hand, mind.”

  ROUND 1. Silence prevailed, and the Caledonians appeared anxiously interested to witness the opening attack. Considerable sparring took place, both being aware of the milling talents possessed by the other. Molineaux commenced offensive operations right and left, and Cooper, in return, put in a sharp bodier, but received a hit which sent him under the ropes. Six to four Molineaux.

  ROUND 2. Milling without ceremony, and both the combatants on their mettle. Molineaux planted a sharp nobbler, but received two tremendous rib-roasters that made him wince and gasp for breath. Some blows were exchanged; in closing, both went down.

  ROUND 3. Molineaux, with the most determined spirit, kept fighting at his opponent's head, while Cooper directed most of his blows at the body. Some heavy hits, and in a desperate rally against the ropes the claret was first observed on Cooper. However, the round ended to his advantage, for he hit the man of colour through the ropes. Seven to four Cooper.

  ROUND 4. Molineaux appeared at the scratch rather distressed. Cooper, full of gaiety, took the lead and floored Molineaux in grand style. Two to one Cooper.

  ROUND 5. The superiority of Cooper was conspicuous. He stopped the fury of the Black with skill, nobbed him at will, and again hit the man of colour down. Any odds Cooper.

  ROUND 6. Molineaux was growing weak. Cooper, having the best of him, eventually put in a tremendous facer, which floored the Black like a shot.

  ROUNDS 7 to 9. In all these rounds the best of the fighting was decidedly on the part of Cooper. Molineaux was hit down every round.

  ROUND 10. The Black, still determined, rallied Cooper against the ropes, and some hard fighting followed, but Cooper planted so desperate a blow on his opponent's body that he went down quite rolled up, his head falling against the post.

  ROUND 11. Molineaux, despite his defects and falling off, astonished the ring from the gallant manner he fought this round. Some terrible exchanges of blows were witnessed, when the Black again rallied Cooper to the ropes. In closing, Molineaux was severely fibbed, but broke cleverly, and felled Cooper by a heavy blow upon his face. From great exertion, however, Molineaux fell exhausted. This rather reduced the odds.

  ROUND 12. Cooper appeared at the scratch eager to finish the Black, whom he nobbed repeatedly, and completely hit off his legs. The man of colour was sick, and brandy was given him to recruit his declining spirits. Any odds, but no takers.

  ROUND 13. Molineaux was sent down as soon as he toed the scratch.

  ROUND 14. The Black could scarcely leave the knee of his second, and upon meeting his man he was again floored. The battle was thus at an end, twenty minutes only having elapsed.

  From the superior style of Cooper, he rose high in the opinion of the Scotch fancy, and entered the ring in good condition. Molineaux trusted principally to his weight and length, neglecting any preparatory care of his health, so that the right-handed blows of Cooper proved irresistible. The tourney was well conducted, and afforded a high treat to the northern admirers of boxing.

  From Scotland Molineaux went on a sparring tour into Ireland, travelling over the northern parts of the country, teaching the stick-fighting natives the use of their fists; an accomplishment which might save many a jury the trouble of a trial ending in a verdict of manslaughter or even of murder. But the sun of his prosperity was set. Intemperance, and its sure follower, disease, brought down the once-formidable gladiator to a mere anatomy. Molineaux was illiterate and ostentatious, but good-tempered, liberal, and generous to a fault. Fond of gay life, fine clothes, and amorous in the extreme, he deluded himself that his strength of constitution was proof against excesses. Alas, poor Molineaux! Peace be to his manes! He was a brave but reckless and inconsiderate man, on whose integrity and straightforwardness none who knew him ever cast a slur; nevertheless he was the worst of fools, inasmuch as he sacrificed fame, fortune, and life …

  * Jack Slack, a Norwich butcher, became Champion of England in 1750 when he beat the famous Jack Broughton, codifier of boxing's first laws, inventor of the boxing-glove, and in later years a Yeoman of the Guard. Slack was the central link in a dynasty of great fighters; grandfather to Jem Belcher, he was himself grandson of the “Father of Boxing”, James Figg, first Champion of England (1719–34) and the subject of one of Hogarth's finest portraits.

  * The temptation to identify “Jericho” with Theodore Gericault (1791–1824) is at first overwhelming. The great French painter did indeed make an etching, Boxeurs, in which the fighters are undoubtedly Cribb and Molineaux, and while it is somewhat romantic, and depicts the combatants in trousers, it is plainly the work of an artist who has studied prize-fighting at close quarters, and the head of Cribb appears to have been drawn from life. On the other hand, there is no evidence that Gericault visited England before 1820, when the controversy over his famous painting, The Raft of the Medusa, drove him across the Channel. In 1811 he was a young artist studying in France under Guerin, and with the countries at war a clandestine journey to a boxing bout in Leicestershire, while not impossible, would have been a hazardous matter, even for one who was a sports enthusiast. The mystery of “Jericho” remains.

  EPILOGUE

  Tom Molineaux died on August 4, 1818, aged probably thirty-four, in the bandroom of the 77th (East Middlesex) Regiment, at Galway, where he had been befriended by two black soldiers. His claims to fame are his two fights with Cribb, the most celebrated bouts in the early history of the ring, and the fact that he was the first and, for all we know, the best in a long succession of great black heavyweights. Sporting comparisons are more odious than most, for every generation loves to believe that its champions are superior to all who have gone before; in sports where achievement is measurable, the records of times and distances appear to justify them, although one can never tell how athletes of old would have performed given modern equipment and modern marks to aim at. Boxing has no times or distances on which to base comparison, and its rules and conditions have changed greatly, but anyone who studies the history of the prize ring over its two and a half centuries must surely doubt whether any modern champion, unskilled in wrestling, used to three-minute rounds, unaccustomed to being hit repeatedly by bare fists calloused to a degree unknown today, and, most vital of all, depending on heavily-padded gloves to protect his hands, could endure for long the savage exchanges of the golden age of bareknuckle fighting. But talk of “the greatest” is always futile. Molineaux has his place in social as well as in sporting history, and he did his profession and his people good service.

  Bill Richmond moved from the Horse and Dolphin to rooms in Whitcomb Street, Haymarket, which were “highly patronised by the nobility”, including his friend Byron. A popular and respected figure, noted for his pleasant manners and excellent conversation, he remained a sought-after instructor, second, and master of ceremonies, was a first-class cricketer, and still a formidable boxer well into his later years; at the age of fifty-three he beat Jack Carter, Molineaux's old antagonist, in three rounds. In 1821 Richmond was one of Gentleman Jackson's security “heavies” at the Coronation of George IV; they also included Cribb, Carter, and the then Champion, Tom Spring, all dressed as royal pages. Richmond died on December 28, 1829. He was sixty-five.

  Paddington Jones's long and active career began in 1786 when, at the age of twenty, he beat one Jack Holmes for a stake of half
a crown. He became champion at what would now be called welter-weight, but frequently fought the heaviest men of the day. Jones, who was credited with having fought more bouts and seconded more boxers than anyone before him, died at his birthplace in Paddington in 1833, aged sixty-seven.

  Tom Cribb, the most famous of bare-knuckle boxers, never fought again after his contests with Molineaux, although he continued to be recognised as Champion until his formal retirement in 1822 in favour of Spring; he had held the title for fourteen years. By all accounts a superb boxer and a genial and kindly if uncommunicative man, it was Cribb's extraordinary courage and refusal to admit defeat that endeared him not only to the Fancy but to a far wider public; he may fairly be called the first superstar in the history of sport. In 1814 he was the main attraction at an exhibition given before crowned heads, including the Tsar of Russia, and other allied leaders visiting London to celebrate the peace, “and the veteran Blucher eyed him with more than common attention”. His later life was marred by business setbacks and domestic troubles, and he died after a long illness at the home of his son in Woolwich, on May 11, 1848, at the age of sixty-seven. An imposing monument in the form of a stone lion was erected over his grave in Woolwich Churchyard.

  GLOSSARY

  above par tolerably drunk