“'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.
The mill was set for Copthorn Common, which lay about thirty miles from Town, hard by East Grinstead in Sussex. Gully and Richmond had chosen it as being close to both Kent and Surrey, so that if the magistrates got wind there would be two counties to bolt to, but it was labour lost. He'd have been a bold beak that sought to queer
that
fight, with the whole world agog; they'd have tarred and feathered him, I dare say. Lord lu'mme, we could have set up the ropes in Hanover Square! But Copthorn suited me, for it meant an easy coach the day before, and a quiet night in new quarters, which keeps your man occupied and free of care.
But quiet it was not, sir, for the inn was packed to the eaves, like every house for miles around, and seemed to be uncommon full of Bristol men, bawling five to one Cribb, ten to one the black would fall within fifteen minutes,
hundred
to one he would not last the hour. Oh, come, Pad, thinks I, have you not the game to back a man of your training to stand up a quarter hour? And a hundred to one is too good to lose any day. So while we were at supper in our chamber I slipped down and sought out Abe Moss, one of Jew King's legs, a known file that would not dare welsh, and laid ten on each count. I felt the better for it, as backing my own man, and told Tom what I'd done. He laughed and thanked me, with his ear cocked to the Bristol boys singing below. You know the air, sir, course you do, “Down in the Valley Where She Followed Me”, but these were the words: