* It is now impossible to say with certainty in which round this famous early instance of a “long count” took place. Miles in his Remarks says the 28th, but does not even mention rounds 24 to 28 in his running commentary. Egan (a Cribb enthusiast), although he details every round, makes no mention of the incident at all. Another theory is that it happened as early as the 24th, but from the descriptions which both Miles and Egan give of the progressive exhaustion of the fighters, it seems probable that it did not take place before the 30th round at least. That it did happen is not disputed, and while no blame attaches to Cribb or Jackson, it seems clear that Molineaux was robbed, and this was a widely-held opinion at the time.
His Royal Highness
GEORGE AUGUSTUS FREDERICK,
Prince of Wales,
later KING GEORGE IV
Molineaux, I maintain, beat Cribb! Curse me if he did not!
PADDINGTON JONES, resumed
His Royal Highness said that, sir? Then God bless him for an honest man and a true sportsman – aye, and a proper Englishman! Would to God he had been at the ringside, so we might ha' had fair play. I choke to this day when I think on it, and feel the red rage I felt then.
“You, you lousy thieving son of a bitch!” I told Joe Ward. “By God, the difference 'tween you and Dick Turpin is that he wore a mask! You're a damned chousing cheat, and to hell wi' you!”
“On my oath, Pad, Buck Flashman swore he saw you slip the bullets!” cries he.
“You lie, you bastard!” says I, tho' on reflection I'm not sure as he did. “Damn you all to hell, you and Gully and Cribb, for you're the first that ever stole the Championship of England!”
And that was the God's truth, of Ward, anyway, and no doubt Buckley Flashman. They were the cheats, and Cribb had the benefit. Tom Molineaux, my Tom, won the title that day, and all the world saw it, and more than one thought shame for the honour of the game, aye, and more than the game. “A black day for England, this,” I heard one say, and another cried: “Bad work, bad work! The black deserved better.” There were more'n a few frowns and shaken heads among the Fancy, and voices to echo what you tell me the Prince maintained. Aye, Molineaux beat Cribb indeed, damme if he did not.
Some held otherwise, course they did, and you may think, sir, that there was summat in what they said. One Corinthian, I mind, swore that a mill was ended only when one o' the fighters owned himself beat. “The nigger it was who cried enough, not Cribb,” says he. “And what o' the rules, sir?” cries another. “Cribb did not answer – nay, could not answer – when time was called, and so forfeited the match!” “Come, sir, he answered in the end!” says the first buck. “Would ye strip the man of his laurels for a matter of a few seconds?” “Aye, if he broke the rule!” retorts the other. “Damnation, sir, what are rules for?” A third opined that by the letter o' the law it might be said that Molineaux had won, “but by its spirit Cribb was the better man, and I for one am proud of him, begad!”
I reckon that was the general opinion, among the public, who were behind Cribb to a man and not inclined to question the outcome. The professional millers said naught to me, and I didn't ask 'em, but I reckon Big Bob Gregson spoke for more'n a few by what he did. He'd wagered a cool thousand guineas on Cribb, but asked only for his stake to be returned: the winnings, sir, he would not touch, and what d'ye make o' that?
At all events, 'twas over and done, and no sense repining, or blaming Jackson, or Apreece, or anyone except those two dirty villains aforementioned. I could ha' swung for the pair of 'em, but, d'ye know, sir, when my first wrath had passed I could find consolation, too. In a few months I'd trained a raw black clown to hold his own – and better! – with the best Champion the game had ever seen. Fair's fair, mind. Cribb was not in primest twig. He'd counted Tom too cheap, wasn't better'n three-quarters trained, and should ha' milled on the retreat earlier than he did. It was the wind and rain that saved him. If Tom had had the sun on his body, Cribb would not have lasted to the half-hour. That boded well for the future; next time, thinks I, we'll meet Master Cribb in summer.
My one fear was that Tom might have been sickened. He'd had the damnedest melting – Egan reckoned it was the bloodiest, cruellest mill that ever was – and I've seen good men spoiled for keeps by less punishment than he'd taken that day. Both his ogles was swollen closed, his nose split in two places, a gash from his lower lip nigh to his chin, one ear part torn away, and the rest of his nob cut and rasped and bloody as raw liver. God, that right hand of Cribb's was a terrible thing! Tom's body was one mighty bruise, but at least no ribs was broke.
'Twas small comfort that Cribb, by what I'd seen, was in no better case. But he had suffered it all afore, and come again; the only way to sicken the Cribbs o' this world is to kill 'em. But Tom I was not sure of, and when we'd cleaned and stitched and tended him and put some soft peck and spirits into him, and settled him on cushions at the inn, and he was in his right mind again, I was all eyes to see how he might be. If he had gone into the blues, and moped silent, as I'd seen so many do, I'd ha' known that here was another promising chicken gone, but God be thanked that was not his sort at all.
Sir, he was like a wild beast! He raved, and whined, and swore, and damned if he didn't pipe his eye, and when he heard the Bristol boys downstairs hurrahing and cheering Cribb, it was all I could do to prevent him having at 'em. “They cheated me! They done robbed me!” bawls he, over and over, and beat his fists that were red raw in their swaddling, and flung himself about so far as he was able, what with his pain. “Ah beat him! Ah beat him! Yuh-all knows Ah beat him!” He plumps down in a chair, wi' the tears running down his swollen black face. “Oh, Pad! How c'd they cheat me thataway? Oh, Bill, Ah beat him!”
Richmond hadn't said above six words since the fight, he'd been that heart-sick, but now he was just fagged out and quiet, setting at the table with his hands clasped on the board.
“No, Tom,” says he. “You didn't beat him. 'Member I told you, th'only way to do that was to put him cold to sleep.”
“He din't come to scratch!” wails Tom. “That sunnabitch Joe Ward bought him time! Ain't that so?”
“ 'Tis so,” says Bill.
“An' Ah had him down more'n a half-minnit! That's the rule, an' he din't make it to time!”
“Maybe not,” says Bill, “but then he got up, an' started to fight, like I said he would. He didn't quit.” I knew what he was thinking, sir: Tom was the one who'd said he could fight no more.
I guess perhaps Tom knew it, too, for he changed his tack. “'Twarn't fair! Ah had cramps wi' the cold, ma laigs wudn't answer! An' they cheated me! Lissen 'em singin' an' rejoicin', the lyin', gammonin', cheatin' bastards! Ah jes' hope they satisfied the way they won – chea-tin' me!”
“Guess they are,” nods Bill, studying his hands. “But I know one man who ain't … an' that's Tom Cribb.”
Tom left off sniffing. “Whut you mean?”
Richmond gave him a thoughtful look. “I mean he wants your hide, boy.” He let it sink into Tom's mind, and leaned forward across the table. “'Fore today, he didn't reckon you worth a peck o' coon-shit. Well, now he knows better … an', boy, he wants you real bad!”
You never saw a man's mood change so fast; I could have laughed to see the shades run o'er Tom's phiz – misery, astonishment, and then a great blaze of hope, sir, as if he'd seen a wonder. He almost threw himself at Richmond.
“You mean … Ah kin git a re-turn? He fight me agin?” He stared from Bill to me, the joy fair bursting out of him.
“He can't do other,” says Bill. “Ain't that so, Pad?”
“The country won't let him,” says I. “And he's a proud man, is Tom Cribb. Aye, you lost, Tom, but you gave him such a pasting as he never had before – and he don't like what happened in the thirty-first round any more'n we do. He'll give you a return – and then, watch out!”
Tom gave a great whoop and fell back in his chair, limbs all a-sprawl. He shook his fists, beaming.
“Hallelujah!?
?? roars he. “Oh, great day! When, Bill, when? Oh, Bill, Pad, Ah swear Ah lick him nex' time! Ah knows Ah kin, honnist to Jesus! I knew it today, when him an' me was out theah! Ah got his measure! Oh, Ah knows how good he is – man, Ah din't think they was such a millin' cove in creation … but Ah's bettah! Ah kin lick him!”
That was when I knew for certain that we had a real miller on our hands, sir – a match for the Cribb he'd fought that day, and even for the Cribb who would come at him the second time. He'd forgot his hurts, his disappointment, and his rage all in a trice, so full of joy was he – at the prospect of doing it all over again! But, bless you, every good pug is dicked in the nob, or he'd not be a pug in the first place.
Even Bill had it in him to smile at so much eagerness. “Yes, you can lick him. You did … for a while. An' maybe Tom Cribb taught you sump'n today … what makes a champion, more'n any skill or strength or speed. Yes, sir – how to get up again. That's what you got to do now, the sooner the better. Moment we're back in Town, you'll write a challenge in the press.”
Tom's face fell again. “You know Ah cain't write!”
“I can,” says Bill, “and Pierce Egan'll do the flowery bits. You can make your mark … and then, Tom, my boy, you can learn to be a slave again, with Paddington Jones as your task-master!”
TOM MOLINEAUX, pugilist
To Mr Thomas Cribb, St Martin's Street, Leicester Square,
December 21, 1810
Sir,
My friends think that had the weather on last Tuesday, the day on which I contended with you, not been so unfavourable, I should have won the battle; I therefore challenge you to a second meeting, at any time within two months, for such sum as those gentlemen who place confidence in me may be pleased to arrange.
As it is possible this letter may meet the public eye, I cannot omit the opportunity of expressing a confident hope, that the circumstance of my being of a different colour to that of a people amongst whom I have sought protection, will not in any way operate to my prejudice.
I am, sir,
Your most obedient humble servant,
T. MOLINEAUX
PIERCE EGAN, interpolated
… It was all up with Rimmer, who retreated to every part of the ring, closely followed by Molineaux, who put in a dreadful stomacher, which floored him. A scene now took place which beggared all description, during [which] Rimmer lay prostrate on the ground, the ring was broken, owing, it is said, from the antipathy felt against a man of colour proving the conqueror – if it was so, the illiberal were disappointed by this manoeuvre, as those who had taken the odds gained nothing by the event. Rimmer was completely exhausted, almost in a state of insensibility. It would have been a fine subject for the pencil of Hogarth to have delineated – here were Corinthians and Coster-mongers in rude contact; Johnny-Raws and first-rate Swells jostling each other; Pugilists and Novices, all jawing, threatening, but no hearing – the confusion was beyond every thing, sticks and whips at work in all directions, ten thousand people in one rude commotion, and those persons in the interior of this vast assemblage suffering from their attempts to extricate themselves from so perilous and unpleasant a situation. Twenty minutes elapsed in this chaotic manner, till the Champion of England, assisted by some brave fellows, once more formed something like a ring. Molineaux and Rimmer again set to, but it proved a short-lived advantage to the latter, notwithstanding extraordinary exertions were made to renovate Rimmer, to make him stand upon his legs. It was all in vain, during six more rounds Rimmer was so severely punished as to be unable to stand up, when he acknowledged he had received enough!
BOB GREGSON, resumed
So that was that, and that was a' – and enough, I'll tell thee! It was a lesson to me. I should never ha' made the match, for it broke the boy, and he ne'er fought again that I heerd on. But man, how was I to knaw that I was pittin' him 'gainst a miller that the best on God's earth couldna ha' stood up to, let alone a green lad? I tell thee straight, if Molineaux had fought like yon at Copthorn, we'd ha' had a black champion of England. Now, then! I said as much to Cribb, and a', and he gi'ed us his nod, solemn like, and says: “Aye, like enough … if I'd let him.”
I'll tell thee summat else. Cribb saved the nigger's life that day at Moulsey, when they broke the ring. Man, they'd ha' killed him, for they were run mad wi' rage, hollerin' to be at him wi' sticks and clubs and owt they could lay hand on, and umpires and seconds and a' swept aside, and the poor bloody darkie kicked and trampled nigh to bits 'til Cribb and the vinegars threw back the press and dragged him clear! Pad Jones reckoned Cribb levelled more fellers that day than in a' his mills put together.
Aye, weel, we live and larn. Two hoondred quid that mill cost us, 'tween the stake and the blunt I was daft enough to wager on Rimmer. A' the benefit I had was the privilege o' watching Molineaux at work; he was a canny fibber. Mind you, if I'd been Cribb I'd ha' let 'em stamp the black booger six feet oonder.
BOB GREGSON,
championship contender, publican,
poet, and match-maker
Ha-ha! Aye, Cribb showed us the black's letter, asked us what it might mean. “It means tha'd best get thasel' fit, man!” I told him. “Did I not warn thee what'd coom on't if ye met the nigger half-trained? Man, ye were fatter'n a pregnant pig, and think thasel' lucky he did not flatten thee! He's a canny miller, the same feller, an' if tha's not doon to thurteen stone when ye coom to scratch wi' him again, God help thee. I lost a good thoosand guineas as I'd ha' won but for thy guzzlin', ye big-bellied booger! Fat, man – I say ye were fat!”
“I hear ye!” snaps he, short as ever. “But what's his ‘different colour' to do wi’ me?”
“Nowt,” says I. “That's to the Fancy's address, man, not thine. He's tellin' 'em, polite-like, that he doesna want 'em cryin' ‘Away, ye black bastard!' when he gits in't ring. But what noo, Tom? Wilt put thasel’ in trim, an' meet him again?”
“I will, tho' I'd as soon not,” says he, scratchin' at the stitches on his clock – man, ye'd ha' thowt he'd been shaved by a barber's drunk 'prentice. “That black's a fibber,” says he. “It were a dear-bought three hundred quid. Nay, I grow old, Bob. Win or lose, 'twill be my last mill.”
“Git oot, man, is that the way to talk? ‘Me last mill’, as tho' ye were sixty! Ye're but a lad yet,” says I, “an' look ye here, Tom Cribb – git thasel' in fettle, an' the black'll not stand twenty minutes wi' thee, good miller an' all as he is! What? Git tha head up, man! We're coontin' on thee!”
“I'll never quit to him, at all events,” says he, and that was a' I could get from him. Mind you, he was ever a quiet 'un, was Tom, but ye'd ha' looked for more spirit in him, would ye not, an' a sharp answer to the nigger's challenge? Nay, but he hung back on that, turned a stopped lug to a' inquiries, and put it aboot that he'd no inclination to fight! I wondered at the man – aye, and if the larrupin' at Copthorn had given him his fill. God knows he'd got no profit from it, while the black had larned wi' every blow. And tho' he'd been beat, Molineaux was the cocksurest dandyprat still.
'Twas aboot six weeks after Copthorn that the patrons gi'ed Cribb a benefit at Fives Court. The whole Fancy was theer, three thoosand on 'em, young Queensberry, Sefton and Craven and them, a' the top millers, Cribb his sel', and Power and Richmond and Tom Belcher (but not Jem, who had fell oot wi' Cribb) and Jones and Ben Burn and Cropley and Mendoza and O'Donnell … oh, aye, and Molineaux, a' sauce and swagger. He was figged oot like a May Day cuddy, wi' a collar that high his chin was wheer his neb should ha' been, silk coat, roofles, a lace hanky in's cuff, and mair rings than a Haymarket hoor. Aye, and scented, an a'.
But this was the thing – ye'd ha' thought from his gait that Copthorn had never happened, or, if it had, that he'd won it! It was: “Ah! How-de-do, Mistah Cribb!”, wi' a lordly smile and compliments on his benefit, and a few pleasantries aboot their mill – but not a word o' Joe Ward's antics, no 'plaints, and never a mention o' his challenge that still waited an answer. Talk aboot genteel; ye'd ha' thought h
e was the Duke o' Clarence.
Cribb spoke him civil and steady as ever, but 'twas the black that had the ease and settled way wi' him. I tell thee, viewin' the pair o' them, ye'd ha' said from his airs 'twas Molineaux was the Champion.
He acted it on't stage, and a', when he had the mufflers on wi' young Tom Belcher, laughin' and sparrin' at half-pace – and, man, even at that he fair danced him dizzy. Tom Belcher, ye know, took ower my chophouse afore I went to Ireland, and was used to say that in twenty year o' prize-fightin', he'd never been so foundered as in that brief breather wi' the black, “for I swear, Bob, I did not touch him above twice, and his left played rat-a-tat-tat on my nob like a woodpecker, as he chose.”
Now, it happened that day I'd brought forrard a young feller, Rimmer, that I had an interest in, him being Northcoontry like mesel'. He made a good figure at the benefit, sparrin' wi' Cropley, and the Fancy swore he were a prime chicken. Well, by and by up to me comes Bill Richmond, and after a bit crack he asked, had I a match in mind for the boy? Hollo, thinks I, what's i' the wind here? I said, maybe aye, maybe no, and what was't to him?
“Would ye have him go 'gainst Molineaux, mebbe?” says Bill.
“What the hell are ye talkin' aboot, man?” says I. “Thy lad's lookin' for a return wi' Cribb!”
“I'm weary waitin' on Cribb,” says he. “He don't answer, and my Tom's gettin' stale. I want to keep him sharp, and seems to me Rim-mer'd be a match, while Cribb's makin' up his mind.”
“Coom up, Bill,” says I, “that's a reet Banbury tale!” For who that had a challenge laid wi' the Champion would bother wi' a novice? “Are ye scorched, or what?” Ye see, I'd heerd word that Richmond had plunged at Copthorn, and his pockets was to let.