What pleased me most was that a week's bouncing and bucking hadn't taken the edge off of Tom's speed hardly; he shifted real nimble, flipped well at half-arm, and chased Barclay to desperation. “This can't last,” says Pad, and sure enough Tom danced in, feinting high, and planted a one-two to the body that would ha' kilt a mule, and down goes our gallant captain with a couple o' busted ribs – “and well served,” whispers Pad, “for a sneaky Sawney brogue-beater, him and his skinny mufflers!”
There was huge outcry and wonder when they saw he was hurt, with Cap'n Buck roaring concern, and damning Tom for his violence; they were all agog that a man in mauleys could do such damage, and the Duke swore he was the most hammering fibber in the nation. His stock went up summat peculiar with everyone 'cept Barclay; when they'd strapped him up pale and pained he took Tom's hand right enough, but with no charity in his busted bosom, I could see.
“You fib dam' hard for a sparring-match,” says he, pretty sour.
“I hopes I din't hurt ye too much,” says Tom, 'pologetic.
“Hurt? I'll be on the braid o' my back for a week!” snaps Barclay, while Cap'n Buck was all consolation, trying not to whoop. Oh, he was mighty amused, but his jape made Tom an enemy for life, for I reckon Captain Barclay never forgave him for giving him such a basting 'fore all his swell friends – and no good came o' that.
You may guess that Tom was no easier to leash in after this bout, either. He figured he must be the fatalest fibber since Goliath, and when Pad and I told him 'bout the light gloves, he wouldn't believe it, said we was just trying to cry him down.
“You jus' jealous 'cos Ah floored him so quick'n easy!” cries he. “Best amateur miller in England, and how long he stan' up to me – two minutes, mebbe? Din't stand, neether – run like a skeered hen, never touched me, an' Ah nailed him good! Don' gi' me no gammon 'bout light mauleys! Why, but fo' them mufflers Ah might ha' kilt him – an' Ah wasn't tryin', hardly!”
I got so wild, listening to his brag, I couldn't trust myself to speak. 'Twouldn't ha' done a pinch o' good – he never minded me, not then or ever, and you know why, sir? 'Cos I was black, like him. Any heed he paid, 'twas to Pad or Cap'n Buck – and only one o' them give him good advice.
“Ne'er mind Barclay,” says Pad. “He ain't a match – but Blake
is
, and if you're to stand up to him in a month's time you must put body and mind in order, d'ye hear? No more booze, no more chippers, no park-sauntering and coming home wi' the lark. Ye've had a week's fun wi' your fine new acquaintances – I won't call 'em friends, for that they ain't – ”
“They real kind to me, whatever!” growls Tom.
“Is that so?” says I. “Even when they's laughing at you?”
He glared at me. “They quit laughin' when Ah took a rise out o' Gen'man Jackson! They wasn't laughin' when Ah melted that buck Barclay! They real polite to me, you bet! An' 'tain't like back home, neither, where ev'y white man 'spects you to git out his way, an' shoves you offa the sidewalk ifn you don', no suh! Over heah it don' make no nevahminds if yo' black or white – lissen, they don' got no slaves in Englan', you know that?”
“They ain't got no cotton nor baccy in England, neither!” I told him. “And they real kind to dogs and horses. Why, you big jackass,
you're just the latest toy in the shop, don't you see? By and by they'll get tired o' you, and your big black ass'll be shot off Piccadilly so fast it'll change colour! You think 'cos they pay you heed now, that they your
friends
?”
“What
you
know, Bill Richmond?” scowls he. “Nobody goin' git tired o' me! White ladies sho' ain't gittin' tired – wore out, maybe, but not tired, haw-haw! Real 'portant ladies like Miss Janey Perkins, what's an actress – she had me in her bed –”
“Janey Perkins is a two-bit whore! Like all the rest of 'em!”
He gave me a real mean sneer. “How'd
you
know? Ah ain't seen no white ladies callin' on
you
lately! An' she ain't no whore!”
Pad says, quiet-like: “Whore or not don't signify, Tom. I'll put it plain. You meet Blake in four weeks. You won't be fit to meet him, or the village lush, if you're goin' twenty rounds wi' Janey Perkins or any other wagtail every night o' the week. Now, you can choose, Tom. I don't train mutton-mongers. Which'll it be?”
That sobered him; he had respect for Pad, and I guess knew how much he owed him. He laughed kind of sulky-like, but came round in the end, saying he'd only wanted a bit of fun, and it hadn't done him no harm, look how he'd crumpled up Barclay, hey? Pad said nothing, but set him to work on the weights and fibbing-bag, bed at nine sharp, steaks and small beer, and running at four of a morning when the streets was empty.
He took it wi' no good grace at first, and Pad and I had to look sharp to keep him from straying, which ain't easy in a hostel, with spirits to hand and lusty gals like that Nance and Flora. We physicked and purged him to damp his Adam, and slept wi' one eye open, but I suspicioned, from Nance's smirks, that Tom was somehow finding occasion to climb aboard now and then; I'd ha' turned her out, but Pad said let it be, Tom was training into good trim and in better spirits by the day, so keep all comfortable.
'Twas the best luck that Cap'n Buckley was out o' Town at the time, so Tom had no one to edge him on to mischief. I told you the Cap'n was mad nutty on the Paget gal, and she on him, so her folks had whipped her off to Bath, and then to their country seat, 'round Oxford somewheres, to get her beyond his reach, I guess. It didn't answer, for he was hot-foot to Bath, and then to a village near the
Paget place, so he could moon under his lady-love's window clandestine, until old man Paget took him for a poacher one fine night (so he said), and filled his arse wi' buckshot. That kind o' thing never discouraged the bold Buckley, but the Paget chit took fright for his life and bade him back to Town, where he was so busy consoling himself with Sir John Manners's young wife (for being a devoted swain didn't stop him mollishing, ever) that he had no time for Tom bar a look-in at the Nag now and then.
That was just fine, and by the week o' the Blake mill Tom was in the primest twig. His skin was sleek and his eye clear, his speed was such as Pad couldn't touch him, his knuckles was like teak, and when we took him to the Fives Court for a spar wi' Dutch Sam, why, anyone could see the Jew was nowhere. Tom Blake came to watch, wi' Cribb at his elbow, and when 'twas over Blake says: “Well, was he ever so good, 'twill be only one hiding more, and at any rate I'll find out what stuff is in him.”
“Villem, take note,” says Pad. “Blake's beat 'fore he starts – and Cribb's alive to our Tom. Let him win well o' Tuesday, and you may have a tilt at the championship when you choose.”
“Not 'less I'm sure he can win it,” says I, for I tell you, sir, I was mortal scared of matching him wi' Cribb too early. Yet watching him 'gainst Dutch Sam, I hoped and wondered, for I knew I was seeing the best heavy man in England bar Cribb his self. “One thing at a time, Pad. Let's wait 'til Blake's hollered 'nuff.”
Pad went easy wi' Tom in the last week, lest he be trained too sharp, and we tried to keep him clear o' the Fancy crowd that packed the tap day and night, for the Town was on fire wi' the fight and eager for a glimpse of “the Black Colossus”, as Egan called him. The sporting Corinthians pressed in to shake his hand, and their Cyprians were not backward; I never saw more skirt preening and ogling 'round a prize pug. That dam' Janey Perkins the actress was foremost wi' a bevy of her theatre titters, all come to squeal and kiss him for luck. Janey was one of your real fancy doxies, painted and feathered like a Mohawk and twice as noisy, clinging on Tom's arm with her dairies in his face and laughing her hoyden head off.
“That's the very thing to keep his mind on his work!” snaps Pad. “Damnation, she'll have him hotter'n the town bull!” But either Tom
was seeing sense for once, or the physick was working, for he was civil and modest as a new curate, thanking her kindly and begging to be excused.
“My eye and Betty Martin,” says Pad. “Pious as Paul he is, but I know what the bastard's thinking. Damme if I don't stick a wedge 'neath his door tonight and stand sentry under the window. The sooner he's snug in Canterbury the better.” Janey was cooing at Tom's listener, but Pad hustled him away, leaving her squawking and crying good luck after him.
We'd spoke rooms at Canterbury for the night 'fore the fight, which was to be at Margate. Cap'n Buck and Blake's patron, a sporting baronet named Breen, had agreed it must be out o' Town, for with all the buzz and interest the London beaks would have been down on us, and naught spoils a mill more than having to hare 'cross the county line, fighters, handlers, spectators, ring-posts and all, with half Bow Street on your heels and Bond and Reed men waving their damned warrants. Margate was a close secret known only to us and Jack Randall, who'd give the office on Monday evening, in time for the Fancy to troop down to Margate during the night. It was no joke, sir, in those days, to arrange a turn-up in peace and quiet.
We jaunted down to Canterbury on the Monday in a closed
rattler
, Tom with a shawl over his mug so that no one would know he'd left Town. Cap'n Buck stayed behind for the moment to fool the magistrates, and we kept Tom close and had supper in our chamber at the inn. We settled in early, three in the bed wi' Tom in the middle, and a happy man I was, sir, to see his black
pimple
on the pillow when we doused the glim. 'Tis ever the same afore a fight; you've slogged away to get your man in trim and watched over him like a new bride, and there he is, nice and natty, and you think
all's bowmon
and so to Nod. Next I knew was Pad swearing in the dark and firing the glim.
“Who's
prigged
the mutton?” says I, half-asleep.
“Mutton's the word, or I'll eat my boots!” roars Pad. “The bugger's
hopped the wag
! Out, Bill, and after him!”
Tom was gone, and the jigger ajar, so we bundled into our clothes and tumbled downstairs and into the street. How the deuce he'd slipped his cable without rousing us, I couldn't figure, any more than why he'd done it.
“Why, to kick his heels up!” cries Pad. “I knew he was too holy and humble by half, I should ha' had
darbies
on him! Damn that slut Perkins for firing him up! What's o'clock? Jiminy, nigh on four! The black villain's had time to cover every nun in Kent and drink his self daft in the bargain!”
“Not the night before a mill, surely?”
“A lummox like him, what does he care? Come on, Canterbury ain't so large. If we bustle we'll nap him afore he's foundered altogether!”
We cast about through the dark streets, and came on a
pilot
who steered us to the likeliest
dives
and family
pannies
. We gave a good gun to two or three without success, and at last struck home at a likely flash-ken where they were keeping it up to some tune, with dancing and song and nobody sober. “Blow me, if it ain't another
lillywhite
!” was the cry when they saw my colour, so we knew Tom was about, and sure enough there he was abovestairs, in bed wi' three nightingales – three, sir, on my oath – and half castaway in the bargain. I near burst into tears, and Pad was raging; we dragged him out in his shirt, with the sluts screaming and the flash coves and queans belowstairs laughing and cheering as we hove him out, but what with his weight and him stumbling in drink, we had to hire a hurdle to get him back to the inn. We threw him in a chair, blowing like a whale and muttering to his self, and a pitiful horrible sight he was.
I was nigh heart-broken, for never would he be fit to fight that day, but Pad ground his teeth, white as wax.
“He'll fight if I have to kill him first!” says he, and slapped Tom right and left, which no more than made him blink. “Salt and water,” says Pad, and we held his great pug nose and dosed him to bursting. He came to and shot the cat from the window, howling to wake the dead, and then we sent for coffee and dosed him again. He was grey-green by this, and weak as a kitten, so we bundled him into bed and let him sleep three or four hours, when Pad roused him out, smacking him about the head while I worked at his neck and shoulders.
We had him half sober by noon, and tried him with some bread and milk to put peck in him at the least, but he
flashed the hash
again, and sat with his head in his hands.
“Ma haid hurts,” groans he. “Lemme be, Ah's awful sick.”
“Ye'll be sicker yet when Tom Tough sets about you,” says Pad.
“D'ye hear that? In two hours you toe the scratch, damned drunken dog that you are! Now get up and walk, ye pig!”
We had to heave him to his feet, and Pad kicked him till he stumbled up and down, with a whine or a groan at every step. Pad drove him on with blows and curses, but never a word of why he'd sneaked out to the sluts and daffy, for it didn't signify now, when all that counted was to get him well enough to climb through the ropes at Margate. Soon after twelve we tried him with thick gruel, and he kept it down.
“Get the beasts put to,” says Pad, and when I had seen to it we took him by a side-door to the yard, with a blanket over his head, and spanked off for the coast.
Half-past one was the appointed hour, and I doubted if we'd be in time, for the road was thick with rigs and people hurrying to the fight. Tom sat a-sway with the blanket about him, and devil a word of sense to be had from him, while Pad put salts to his nose, which made him weep, and presently he came to and looked about in a daze.
“Where we goin'?” says he, and when Pad told him he let out a wail and lay back with his eyes closed, whimpering that he was powerful sick. We were close by the ground now, and could hear the shouting of the crowd, and fellows by the coach spotted Tom within, and set up a great cry that here was the black at last.
Tom blinked and sat up, fresh as a two-day corpse. For a moment I thought he'd cat again, but he hung his head and muttered: “Ah's sorry, Pad! Ah's so sorry!” and wept.
“Hang your sorrow!” says Pad. “Sit up, d'ye hear? Look alive, damn you! I never brought a blubbering pug to a mill before, and I ain't about to.” Tom mopped his face with the blanket, and gave a great grunting sniff. “Now see here, Tom Molineaux,” says Pad, and gripped him about the shoulders, “you're a fool and an ingrate and a damned black pest, but you're the best fighting cove on earth this minute, d'ye hear me? If ye feel sick 'tis no wonder, for you're half-drunk, but drunk or sober you can floor Tom Blake, mind that!”