“He ain't that frightsome,” says I, although Tom was showing the effect of his night's mop, red-eyed and shocking seedy. “And you won't find a finer figure for a swell case anywhere, I'll be bound. Which shall it be, George – Scott or Weston?”
He choked on his brandy. “It's a dreadful dream,” says he. “Curse me if curried lobster ever passes my lips again.” He took another shot of his glass at Tom, who was glowering like Apollyon. “No, begad, he's real! Quel visage! My dear Buckley, are you mad, or castaway entirely? Who in his right mind could present that monstrosity to Weston or Scott?”
“Nobody but Brummell,” says I. “Come, George, forget his phiz and consider the rest of him. Why, he's a snyder's delight. Anyway, it's for a lark. And Scott would tog out a Barbary ape if you gave the word.”
“A happy comparison,” says he, but his lips twitched; he was all for fun, in his quiet way, and the kindest soul alive. “But I'll be shot ere I drive down the Grand Strut with him.” He hopped down, shook hands with Tom, complimented him on his victory – trust George to be beforehand with the whiz – and walked slowly round him, quizzing up and down. “Dam' fine leg, but those Guardee shoulders will need accommodation. Aye, Weston, I think; his sleeves are altogether inspired these days, and we'll catch him while the fit lasts.”
So to Weston we went, and such was the power of George's name that they never blinked an eye. Under his supervision they measured and chalked and pinned and jotted their notes, and Tom, who had been so full of buck the day before, stood mute and wary in their midst, while Brummell discussed collars and pockets and buttons, and how the pantaloons must fit like a skin and yet give complete freedom of movement, to which Weston's minions nodded and exclaimed in reverence as though it had been the Sermon on the Mount. I stood it for about an hour, by which time George's coat was off and the floor was knee deep in paper and bolts of cloth, and one little snyder was in tears and ready to fall on his scissors. I suspect they were still at it by candlelight, and to some tune, for when they screwed him into the duds next day Tom was the bangest-up Corinthian you ever saw. The coat was a marvel of pale grey superfine – I'd thought a red or blue would have suited, but Brummell swore there wasn't another rig of that peculiar grey between Soho and the Serpentine.
“Except his Royal Highness's,” says the snyder-in-chief, in a voice of doom.
“Cut by Scott, so it don't signify,” says George. “Now, then, the neckcloth … Waterfall, Mail Coach, Osbaldeston – no, demned if I don't make him one of my own! The Molineaux, begad! Ah, Tom, Tom, you'll live in song and story!”
That was a sight, Beau Brummell, the dandy of dandies, arranging Tom's neckercher, folding and twitching and stepping back to consider before adjusting a crease just so, and that dreadful blackamoor map grinning above the snowy linen. For now that he had grown used to being in a tailor's shop (where I'll swear he'd never been before) he was back in his cheerfuls again, craning to observe his reflection and giving little chuckles of pleasure. And didn't he cut a figure, just, for if Nature had played him scurvy in the feature department, she'd done him proud beneath the neck; I never saw a frame better designed for the snyder's art, with those splendid shoulders and neat waist, and when he stood forth with Weston's superfine showing never a crease, his white pantaloons tight to perfection, the top boots gleaming, and George's creation billowing beneath his chin, the minions were in raptures, and Brummell admitted that he might very well do.
“Demned if I ever saw a neater fit beneath the shoulder,” drawls he, “and that's the sticking point, eh, Weston? Very creditable, quite in the – good Gad!”
He went pink, for in considering the rig-out he'd fallen into his critical pose, head back, one foot forward, and tapping a finger on his chin – and damned if Tom wasn't doing likewise. Like all blacks, he was a born mimic, and 'twas the most comical sight to see those two immaculate figures viewing each other identical, the pale fine-featured Corinthian head on one, and the grinning black savage on t'other. George threw up a hand in surprise, Tom did the same, George turned to me, Tom followed suit, and George burst out laughing.
“I'll be demned! I say, Buckley, don't for any favour give him an eye-glass, for if he sports it at our swells I swear there'll be a revolution! And no hat, mind, or the effect will be spoiled. Now, he's all yours, my boy! I'll leave you to stump the pewter. Well done, Weston! Good day to ye, Tom, and keep your chin clear o' that neckercher!”
Tom swept him a most elegant bow, crying: “'Bliged t'ye, Mistah Brummell!” and preened himself before the mirror, turning this way and that to admire the hang of the tails, and all as to the manner born. I had the deuce of a job to get him out of the shop.
Native sense warned me that I'd be best not to exhibit my protege in the Park at the “bitching hour” of five, when all the Quality turned out to see and be seen. Ten years later, in the Tom-and-Jerry days, when the vulgar horde had come West with a vengeance, and the Park was a jamboree of both nobility and flash, dukes and tradesmen, town tabbies and trollops, it would have suited, but not in the war time. The Park then was exclusive to the ton, and the commonalty kept clear of it in the afternoon when the titles promenaded in fashionable array to gossip and sneer, the bucks on their bits of blood and the ladies in their vis-a-vises. The gargoyle frontispiece of blackamoor Tom, attired in Weston's finest, would have been decidedly outre in that company – I shuddered at the thought of encountering Queen Sarah and her Almack's Amazons, and having my great piccaninny beaming and crying: “Halloo, gals!” So I tooled the curricle discreetly along Park Lane, or Tyburn Lane as my guv'nor used to call it, and into the north end of the Park about noon, when the more select females would still be at their toilettes, and most of the traffic was of the sporting set. I wanted Tom to be seen, you understand, but not so much as to draw frowns.
He was in capital spirits at first, well pleased with his new togs, beaming affably to the carriages and riders, admiring the fine trees, and exclaiming at the cows and deer browsing by the walks. He attracted much attention, the riders reining up to stare and the carriage females all a-titter and turning their heads. I acknowledged acquaintances, but didn't stop to chat, content to let Tom bask in the world's regard, which he did in gallant style, nodding and waving, and telling me this was “real supernaculous”.
After a while, he seemed to smile and wave less often, and by the time I wheeled in at Tattersall's Corner he had fallen silent, brooding at his boots. I thought the sight of the Horse Capital of the World, with all its colour and bustle, might revive his interest, but no such thing. It was an auction day, and the enclosure and club-room were crowded with the horsey ton, the bucks and squires with their grooms and tigers, and the great press of jockeys and touts and blacklegs, all come to gossip of turf and hunt and view the four new Persian prads just come from Asia, and wag their heads over the bidding; it was lost on Tom, although he was still the focus of all eyes. I made him known to a few, and he barely grunted; when I pressed him to a glass of arrack and a sandwich, he shook his head; young Dick Tattersall (they call him Old Dick nowadays, by the way) came down from his table all smiles, for he was a keen amateur miller, and anxious to meet the new aspirant, but all he got from Tom was a nod and a mutter.
I couldn't think what was troubling the brute, but seeing he'd make few friends in his present dumps, I put him aboard again and made for Piccadilly. He continued blue as ever, even when we passed Old Q's house and saw a sight which I was sure must gladden the heart of a lickerish nigger: two of the prettiest little angelics, dressed as Corinthians, hats on blonde curls, sporting their shapes in tail-coats, tight breeches, boots and all, tripping down the steps flourishing their canes and giggling. I remarked on them to Tom, explaining that Old Q was notorious for peculiar debauchery, and the two little winkers had undoubtedly been putting him over the jumps that morning; the surly oaf didn't even look at 'em, so I wheeled into Half-Moon Street and pulled up, out of all patience.
“What the devil's the matter? C
onfound it, I fig you out to the nines, drive you through the Park, show you the sights, and ye're as lively as a dead trout. What's wrong, man?”
“Nuthin',” says he. “Wan' to go home.”
“What the dooce for? Look here – what's cast you down? Out with it, rot you! What's amiss?”
He sat hunched in his magnificent coat, clenching his fists, and suddenly burst out in a furious growl:
“They's laffin' at me! Damn 'em, why's they laffin'? 'Cos Ah's a black man all dressed up? Ah seen 'em, in the Park, an' 'mong the hosses yonder! They's all a-laffin', makin' mock o' Tom Molineaux!” I'll swear there were red sparks in his eyes. “Say – that why you had me decked out in these fancy duds, Mistah Brummell an' all, so they make game o' me? That yo' joke, Cap'n Buck?”
Vent your heat on me, and you get it back with interest. “Damn your eyes, don't dare take that tone to me! Laughing, were they? And who the hell are you, curse your impudence, that your betters can't laugh if they choose? Count yourself lucky they do, d'ye hear? What d'ye expect, when they see a nigger decked out like the Prince Regent, scowling his black head off? See here, my boy,” says I, “I gave you a swell case to be noticed, to be talked about, because a fighter who ain't in the public eye is nobody, d'ye understand? And I haven't lodged and fed and trained you and brought you on so that you can have the vapours when I show you to the Town!”
“Whut call they got to laff?” roars he, turning on me. “Ah ain't a … a scarecrow! Nor a dwarf, like in a show!”
“Ain't you, now? Well, I'm damned! No, you ain't a scarecrow or a dwarf, you're a black pug too big for your blasted breeches! And you're my pug, d'ye hear? Now, Mister Tom Molineaux,” says I, drawing breath and temper, “I've been dam' good to you, because I thought you had something in you, and might make a show in the ring – but if you don't care for it, and are so almighty proud that no one can even look at you, and smile, bigod! – why, then, you can get back to the gutter where you belong! Well?”
Would you believe it, he wasn't done yet. “Ah ain't goin' be laffed at!” cries he. “They wasn't laffin' yes'day, when Ah mollocated that big lummox! 'Cos o' this, ain't it?” He seized the skirt of his coat and shook it.
“Tear that, and so help me God I'll take this whip to you!” I was near speechless with fury. “Let it go, d'ye hear? Jesus, man, d'ye know what it cost?” It was past belief, a nigger pup with sensibilities, and I at my wits' end to put sense and reason into him. If I'd not had an interest in his future, I'd have kicked him on to the pavement, shiny buttons, Brummell's cravat and all. I tried a line that I thought might serve.
“If folk laugh at you, laugh straight back at 'em, blast you! Aye, consider, when they laugh, how you'd serve 'em in a mill! Think of that, hey? Damn my blood if I ever knew such a fellow! Now, look alive, for I'm taking you to a place where I swear you will not be laughed at – not by anyone who signifies, leastways. Sit up, can't ye, and look as pleasant as you know. Smile, you black fool!”
He stared at me a long moment, mutiny and murder in his eyes, and they did not change as his thick lips twisted in a grin fit to frighten the French. He nodded, and I whipped up, and presently we rolled into Berkeley Square, where I made the circuit twice to test his conduct. The saunterers and promenading ladies stopped to quiz him through their glasses and stare sidelong, and true enough, there was as much disdainful amusement as curiosity in their looks, but the delicate bloom by my side must have taken my words to heart, for he bore it with the lordliest air, reclining at ease and only glancing to right or left, ugly but serene with Brummell's creation billowing beneath his chin. You're hatching something, you bastard, thinks I, but at least his sullens had passed for the moment. I turned the curricle east and we came by the quieter streets to our destination, not far from the Nag and Blower.
You've seen Blake's famous picture of the Fives Court? It's a nonsense, to be sure, for it shows every great miller and name of the Fancy that ever was, all assembled together (which they never were – why, they even have Molineaux himself, posed and peeled for a bout, and elsewhere Hen Pearce, the Game Chicken, and Bill Warr, who were dead and buried side by side at St Pancras years before Tom came to London), but the general view is right enough. The Fives Court was to boxing what Tattersall's was to horse society: the hub of the universe. Here the Fancy would congregate in the great barn of a building with its galleries and boxes overlooking the roped stages; here the challenges were given and the matches made, the wagers laid and taken, the disputes settled and the benefits held; here you might see the Prince of Wales in hearty discussion with Gentleman Jackson or Bill Richmond; Dutch Sam or Mendoza sparring on the stage while Paddington Jones or John Gully explained the finer points to young Lord Palmerston; Big Bob Gregson, who fancied himself a poet, having his verses conned by Byron himself; Egan in warm dispute with Hazlitt; and everywhere the great buzz of form and weight and training, and who was coming forward among the younger men, or declining among the older, and fight, fight, fight! All gone now, most of 'em leastways, into the shades and Blake's picture.
As soon as we entered the Court Tom's behaviour was put to the test. Every head turned, and while for the most part the pugs regarded him with shrewd appraisal, there was no denying the looks of the Quality. Amusement, disbelief, contempt, and even disgust were written on every lordly face as they surveyed the nigger in his finery, so outlandish with that grotesque black phiz and woolly pate; there were stifled guffaws, and an outraged whisper of “Weston, bigad, or I'm a Dutchman!” Oh, aye, they were a damned ill-bred lot, the Georgian bucks, beneath their polish – no consideration at all for me, you'll notice, whose man they were sneering at. Much I cared – and neither, seemingly, did Tom, for he kept the indifferent countenance he'd shown in Berkeley Square until Gentleman Jackson (who hadn't earned the name for nothing), came forward to take his hand and bid him smiling welcome, reminding him that he'd umpired the fight the day before, and leading him off to make him known to the millers.
I looked about for Richmond and Pad Jones, whom I had warned to be on hand. Bill was scowling like a Moor at Communion.
“That's Mister Brummell's handiwork, I guess! Well, cap'n, pardon the liberty, but I don't like it. That's one nigger who's blowed up high enough already. Cribb's here, did ye know?”
Sure enough, he was, cracking with his Bristol cronies.
“What of it, Bill? Are you afraid Tom will challenge him?”
“I'd not put it by him!” cries Bill. “What I'm 'fraid of is that Cribb'd accept!”
“It might suit if he did,” says Jones, thoughtful-like. “He ain't fought in a while, an' Tom's in prime condition.”
“Prime condition?” scoffs Bill. “Your arse in a bandbox! He's beat one third-rater, a bloody farmer wi' two left feet, an' you say it might suit! Talk sense, Pad! Cribb'd swallow him whole!” He glared in Tom's direction. “What for you had him figged out thataway, cap'n? He looks downright foolish!”
I told him I had heard already on that subject from Tom himself, and had put him in place.
“Yeah?” says Bill doubtfully. “By your leave, cap'n, I'll bear up yonder 'fore he does any mischief!” And off he went to take Tom's elbow as our novice was borne by Jackson to Cribb's circle and the momentous presentation took place. I drew near, all eyes and ears, in tune with the rest of the company, for Tom's avowed intent in coming to England had been well advertised by Egan, and I didn't doubt that his bragging had reached Cribb's ears.
D'ye know, 'twas the oddest thing: I believe they liked each other from the first. They made a grand pair, face to face, Cribb the taller by a couple of inches, florid and handsome in his sober broadcloth, Tom with his vast shoulders and trim waist set off by Weston's coat, the long legs muscled like whipcord in the dandy pants. If he'd been impassive before, he was bobbish enough now, paying no heed to the covert smiles about him.
“How-de-do, Mistah Cribb,” says he, grinning.
“Glad to know ye, Mister Molineaux,” says Cribb soberly, an
d they shook hands, lightly enough, no crushing.
“Come a right long way to …” Tom paused “… to shake yo' hand.”
Cribb inclined his curly head. “Obliged to ye, I'm sure.”
“Mister Cribb was second to the Bristol Man yesterday,” says Jackson.
“Ah know that, suh,” says Tom, beaming at Cribb wider than ever. “You did right well to keep him at scratch so long.”
Cribb, ever a man of few words, said: “He's game.”
“He sho'ly is,” says Tom. “Jus' kept a-comin'.”
Cribb nodded, quite deliberate, and smiled. “Thaat's the way,” says he, in that deep West Country burr, and you could have heard a pin drop as they stood eye to eye, measuring each other, calm and steady. In that long moment, I'll swear, they were away in some place of their own, the Fives Court and the company forgotten, and at last Tom began to chuckle, a gentle bubble of darkie laughter, and Cribb, who wasn't given to mirth as a rule, grinned back at him – and that was when I knew that each liked what he saw, for as one they shook hands again as easy as could be, and now Jackson was steering Tom to another group, with Richmond hovering like a nervous hen, and Pad Jones let out a long breath.
“Bli'me, cap'n, I'd not ha' been surprised if Tom had planted him a facer! If ye'd heard him last night, swearin' how he'd beat the blood out o' Cribb's carcase when they met, an' see him now, civil as you please. Tell ye what, cap'n, ye never know wi' a nigger, do ye?”
Indeed you don't, thinks I. Within an hour I'd seen him in so many moods: cock-a-hoop with his new duds, in black fury at being laughed at, silent and thoughtful after I'd dressed him down, and now cheery and at ease with Cribb of all people, when I'd half expected him to challenge the Champion on the spot, and be set down for his pains, but he could not have borne himself better. But I still had the uneasy notion that he was reining in, remembering the sidelong sneers and mocking glances, and biding his time to show 'em that Tom Molineaux was more than a ludicrous black clothes-horse. His opportunity came in an unexpected way.