I took my own way to the ground that Tuesday morning, though, for while some Corinthians were used to drive their fighters to the field, and make a great proprietary show, it always looked dam' vulgar to me, and we Flashmans are devils for good taste. I was sure Richmond's caravan would go by Whitehall and Parliament Street to catch the public eye and join with the common herd coming over the Horse Ferry, so I tooled my curricle sedately through the Park to James Street, and who should be on the corner of Castle Lane, hunting for a jarvey and getting nowhere, but Pierce Egan. Better than the town crier, thinks I, for while he wrote the sorriest stuff, he had the public ear and would puff Tom far and wide.
*
I took him up, and he made a desk of his hat on his knee and scribbled as we bowled along past the Artillery Ground.
“Hark to this, Buck,” says he familiarly. “‘Unknown, unnoticed, unprotected and uninformed, the brave Molineaux arrived in England’. How's that for a lead paragraph, eh?”
“Masterly,” says I. “Leigh Hunt must look to his laurels.”
“But who
is
Molineaux, that's the point? Richmond is close as an oyster, and Blackee himself don't gab to be understood. Pad Jones says he was a slave in America – is it so?”
I told him it was, and how Tom had won his freedom.
“Oh, that's rare! ‘Broke the shackles with his iron fist …”’ says
he, pencil flying. “Here, though, we must play up the African warrior. His father wasn't a chief, I suppose? No? Well, I have it! … ‘Descended from a warlike hero, who had been the conquering pugilist of America …’ H'm … what the dooce brought him to England, d'ye know?”
“Wants to be champion, I believe.”
“Ye don't say! I must have Cribb's opinion on that …” Scribble, scribble. “‘Britain attracted his towering disposition … left his native soil in quest for glory … raging seas were no impediment to his heroic views …’ There's a happy phrase, I think … ‘Now offers himself, a rude, unsophisticated savage –’ No, come, that won't do. ‘Stranger’, I think, not ‘savage’ … mustn't alarm our fair readers. Aye, ‘Now offers himself to the patrons of that manly sport which instils valour in England's hardy sons and gives stability to the national character …’ Capital stuff !” says Pierce. “Now, then, no secret you're his patron. Why, Buck?”
“Born a slave,” says I. “My family's always been dead against it. Grandfather spent his life … ah, helping niggers to better themselves. Well, there you are.” I gave a modest shrug. “Don't need to play that up, though.”
“ ‘Patron of freedom!’ ” cries the Grub Street oaf, scribbling like a thing demented. He was babbling about “a dusky hand stretched out to tear the fistic laurels from Britannia's brow” when we rolled into Tothill Fields, which was a sizeable meadow in those days, 'tween Chelsea and the river. This being a minor mill, there was no outer ring or stage, but several hundred were gathered about the ropes, and groups of people were hurrying down from the Horse Ferry Road. There were a number of carriages already there, and among their occupants were Saye and Sele, Alvanley, Sefton (come to see his sooty namesake uphold the family honour, no doubt), Cripplegate Barrymore, and various Four-in-Handers. I raised my whip to their hails, and wheeled in by the ring, the commonalty cheering and making room.
Tom was by the ropes, wrapped in a greatcoat, with Richmond and Pad Jones, and at the other corner stood the Bristol Man, Burrows, stripped and sporting a torso and arms that would have done Hercules credit, a great tow-headed ruffian grinning all over his yokel face as he spoke to his second – and when I saw who
that
was I bore up
sharp, I can tell you. Richmond had made a point, you remember, of the Bristol Man's having the “right” second … no, no, I shan't name him, just yet. Richmond meant it for a surprise, and so do I.
“Not a
beak
in sight,” says Egan, hopping down. “Well, it ain't a big enough turn-up to disturb the peace. Hollo, there's Crocky! Well, old fellow, what price, then?”
“Five to four Bristol,” says Crockford, tipping his tile to me and leering all over his pasty face. “G'day, captain. Here's Lord Barrymore offerin' a thousand 'gainst your black. What's your pleasure?”
“At those odds I'll take it all,” says I. “Why've they dropped?”
“They've seen your man,” says he, and I saw that Tom had shed his coat, and the mob were craning to look and gasping in excitement. “Ah,” says Crocky, all knowing, “they've seen some blackamoors before, but none like that, I'll lay!”
Damme, he was right, for Tom shone in the morning sun like an ebony statue, flexing his splendid arms, and when he skipped it was like some savage war dance. The mob cheered, and Crocky shook his head.
“Evens in a moment, at least. Aye, I thought so – three to two Molineaux! You was just in time, captain!”
The legs were racing about, crying the late odds and jotting in their readers, as the two men ducked through the ropes and took their handlers' knees. There was no weighing, as at the big mills, but Jackson called out Tom at thirteen two, and the Bristol Man unstated. When they came to scratch, and it was seen how large Bristol bulked against Tom, and half a head higher, the odds went back to evens, and Crock-ford laughed as the legs scampered harder than ever.
Then Jackson called for silence, and the two shook hands and squared off, Bristol planted like an oak, Tom dancing on his toes – and in the hush over Tothill Fields I could hear my heart racing. Oh, I knew it was Tom's fight, but how would he play, how would he shape? When you see your fighter primed and ready, for the first time, you're bound to swallow hard and grip your knees. Jackson nodded to the time-keepers, called “Set to!” and they went at it.
Well, they breed game men in Gloucestershire, and had need to that morning, for I never saw a more one-sided melting. Tom made no play at a distance, but bore straight in at half-arm and used the other's
body as a drubbing-bag. Burrows could make nothing of him, clumsy and flat on his feet as Tom danced in and out, hitting where he chose and pounding his ribs. His fists went like steam-pistons, too fast to be seen, and when Bristol put in a counter, Tom either took it without wincing or slipped it with ease, hardly bothering to guard or stop. In thirty seconds he scored the first knock-down, doubling Bristol up and flooring him with a muzzling right that travelled a bare six inches. That was Burrows's epitaph, for every round ended alike, Tom flipping him to the body and practising on his nob till he fell. Burrows was game; he rushed, and was nailed by Tom's left; he tried to hold and throw, and got handfuls of air for his pains.
It was the plebs's delight, a scientist butchering a clod who was too brave to give in. By twenty minutes Bristol's face was a bloody swamp, by the half-hour he was reeling like a soused sailor, but fib as Tom might he could not put the brute away. Time and again the rounds ended with Bristol bleeding on the grass and crawling back to his second's knee, but at every call of “Time!” he would come staggering back to scratch, spouting gore like a fountain, but grinning and trying to raise his fists. Tom knocked him into the ropes, and he hung there helpless, but when Tom appealed to Jackson – and got a rare huzza from the mob – the Bristol Man heaved up again, and it was nigh on an hour before he went down for the last time, and lifted a hand in surrender. Tom had not a mark on him, but I saw Pad Jones making earnest examination of his fists, which must have been the sorest part of him.
Then it was all “Hurra for the black!”, with hats in the air and a surge of people about Tom clapping his shoulder, vowing he was a slasher and a pounder and God knows what. He and the Bristol Man flung their arms about each other, Pad Jones tried to get Tom into his coat, Bill Richmond nodded like a man well content, and Tom embraced 'em both and began to caper, beaming and chortling with his arms in the air, skipping in that plantation dance-step that would soon be known all over Town. I beckoned him, and he pranced over to the curricle with Pad and Richmond at his heels.
“Well done, Tom, my boy,” says I. “How are you?”
“Say, Ah's fit's a fiddle, fresh an' easy, Cap'n Buck!” cries he, with the sauciest grin. Hollo, it used to be “Cap'n”, or “Mass' Buck”,
with a respectful bob, but what the devil, he'd just won his first mill, and in slashing style, too. “Say, but he weren't nuthin', nuthin' at all! Reckon Ah fibbed him down real good! Hey, Pad, am Ah a miller? You bet Ah am! What you say, Bill Richmond? You bring on yo' Gregsons an' yo' Tom Belchers, an' Ah show you! Yeah, bring on yo' Tom Cribb!”
“Ye think so?” says Richmond, with an odd glint in his eye. He looked back at the ring, over the heads of the cockneys cheering about the curricle. “Tell ye what, Tom, you jus' rest here wi' the Cap'n awhile. He'll give you a seat, won't ye, sir? Up with you, now. You jus' set right there, boy, an' keep your eyes on Pad an' me, 'cos we got somethin' to show you.”
I didn't know what he was about, but Richmond never did anything without good reason, so I let Tom sit by me, swathed in his coat, full of brag and ginger, begging a swig of the “
cool Nantz
” from my flask, toasting me familiarly as “Cap'n Buck!” and so uncommon pleased with himself, as he waved to the mob and whinnied his infectious black laugh, that I couldn't take offence. Farewell to our humble, shuffling sambo, I thought, and why not, for he's a figure now, for all the man he's thrashed is no more than a stalwart pudding.
Cripplegate limped up, snarling his congratulations like the charming loser he was and swearing our wager had been at evens, not five to four. I didn't heed him, for a strange scene was being played before my eyes. The crowd were dispersing, the stakes and ropes being removed, and Jones and Richmond were approaching the little knot of folk round the Bristol Man, who sat on the grass counting his teeth through a mouth that was like a gaping wound, while his bottle-holder sponged the blood from his shattered face.
His second stood by, turning as Richmond and Pad approached; he smiled and held out his hand; then his face fell and the hand was withdrawn.
They were too far to be heard, but Richmond was shouting, and suddenly he slapped the second's face and squared up – and in a twinkling the second shot a left at his head, and Bill was sent sprawling. Pad Jones dodged in, letting fly a fist. The second slipped it almost lazily, and as Richmond jumped up and bore in on his other side, the second upper-cut him and in the same moment his other fist knocked
Jones clean off his feet. It was over in an instant, the two of 'em grassed, and the second shrugging and turning away to see to his principal.
Beside me Tom grunted and half-started up, staring as Richmond and Jones climbed to their feet and came back to us, Richmond none too steady and Pad nursing his peeper.
“You see that, Tom?” cries Richmond, out of breath. “You see what that big cove did to me an' Pad, swattin' us off like we's flies? Did ye see his hands move, 'cos I swear I didn't!” He felt his jaw tenderly. “Damme if he ain't loosed a couple o' my dice! Well, I wanted you to see that, Tom, so you can study that man, that big good-lookin'
file
wi' the curly hair, who put down two 'sperienced millers without shiftin' his feet, even! 'Cos he's the feller you came 'cross the herrin' pond for, my boy! That's Tom Cribb.”
It was no news to me, of course, but now I saw what Richmond had been at. He'd picked the Bristol Man as Tom's adversary because he was a prime chopping-block, but also because he knew that Cribb, being from Bristol, always turned out to lend a knee to a fellow-townie, however humble; that was Cribb's sort. And Richmond had picked a quarrel (some gammon about a foul blow, I believe) so that Tom should have a glimpse of the Champion at work.
“So there ye are,” says Bill. “You seen him, but, boy, you ain't
felt
him! Well, what d'ye say now?”
Tom's great lips had gaped at the mention of the name, and he frowned as though puzzled to see the man at last. “That Tom Cribb?” growls he. “The Champeen of Englan' – that him?”
“The one and only,” says Pad.
Tom stared for a moment, and then looked sly, glancing sidelong and rolling his eyes in comical fashion.
“Well, my-my!” crows he. “So that's Tom Cribb! Why, he looks a right nice feller. Ain't you 'shamed, Bill Richmond, pickin' on a quiet 'spectable gen'man like that? Ain't you larned no manners?” He gave his deep darkie chuckle. “Well, Ah guess
he
larned you an' Pad, silly ol' men, baitin' a champeen thataway! Oh, oh, oh!” cries he, giving a great shudder and clasping his coat about him. “Cap'n Buck, Ah's catchin' cold a-settin' here! Cain't we go home, Cap'n Buck, an' leave these foolish pe'sons 'fore they starts mo' brawlin'?
Ah's powe'ful cold, cap'n, Ah's a-shiverin' suthin' painful!” And damned if he didn't contort his grotesque face in a mighty wink at me.
“Damn your eyes!” splutters Richmond, struggling for speech, at which Tom fairly cackled with mirth, and I judged it best to wheel the curricle away and remove this eccentric insolent nigger before Bill, stamping in fury, burst his bounds. Damned if I knew what to make of Molineaux and his antics (and still don't) but as we threaded our way through the multitude streaming towards the Horse Ferry, and I was preparing to shout the starch out of him, he forestalled me with another of his plantation guffaws.
“That Bill Richmond! Tryin' to skeer po' li'l Tom wi' that foolishness! Aimin' to teach the sassy nigguh a lesson, ho-ho!”
“Not before time, I think! Now, see here, Tom–”
“Why, Cap'n Buck, Ah knowed 'twas Cribb f'm the fi'st!” He was grinning like the dam' sunrise. “Ah see his picksher on the wall in that Don Saltero's cawfy-house, din't have to ask who 'twas, 'cos 'tis bigger'n all th'other spo'tin' pickshers. An' the way he eyed me today when Ah's millin' the Bristol Man – he studyin' me real close, Ah see that.” He exploded with mirth. “Hoo-hey, an' ol' Bill gits hisself floo'ed for nuthin', an' Pad gits a
shiner
!”
“I'll be damned!” says I, astonished and trying not to laugh. “Well, ye've seen Cribb with his hands up, at all events. You can thank Richmond for that.”
“Din't tell me nuthin',” says this amazing aborigine. “Allus knowed Tom Cribb mus' be a top-notchah, 'thout seein' him flip Bill an' Pad so easy. Big man, fibs real sweet. Sho', Ah seen him.” He waved to the cheering louts running behind as we bore up towards the Greycoat School, and settled back with a contented sigh, black phiz beaming. “An' he's seen
me
.”