“Never mind that,” says he. “Well, truth is we're bound to meet Cribb wi'in two months of acceptance, and blow me if I want to see Tom fight him in the month o' March –'twill be bitter cold as December, likely! But if you'll make us a match wi' Rimmer afore Cribb answers, why, when he does we can postpone legitimate and Tom can fight Cribb in summer. What say, Bob?”
He was a reet fly 'un, was he not? Well, 'twas good sense for him – and good business for me. Match-makin' was ever my game, and 'twould be a grand advance for young Rimmer to fight Molineaux, whose name was on every lip. Mind you, the black would mill him fra Hell to Huddersfield, but what o' that? The lad had his name to make, and he'd go broody on me if I denied him a tilt at the man who'd gone thurty roonds wi' the Champion. Aye, and the green fairy circle's a chancy place: many a novice has upset the odds, and young Rimmer might be one o' the lucky 'uns.
“What does Pad Jones think?” says I.
“When I want to know, I'll ask him,” says Richmond, mighty short – and I wondered at that, and a'.
‘Canst stand good for a hoondred guineas a side?” I asked him, and he swore he'd raise the wind, so we shook hands on't then and theer, and when I told Rimmer he danced on his hat for joy.
I wondered how Cribb might take it, but it made no matter to him. He cared not tuppence when he fought the black, or if he ne'er fought him at a’; he was content to let the challenge lie until after Molineaux had met Rimmer. Aye, and Richmond was in no haste now that he'd put Cribb off 'til summer; May, says he, would be soon enough for the mill wi' my lad – as I'd suspicioned, he was short o' brass, and worse, he was in debt to the Land o' Judah, and vexed how to clear himsel'. 'Twas rumoured that even the Prad and Swimmer was poulticed, but I know nowt o' that.
So what does he do but take the black to tour the country, wi' exhibitions o' the Manly Art, and sparrin' matches, and showin' his man off to the gapeseeds at markets and holidays for a tanner a time. Molineaux was a canny wrestler as well as a miller, and there was no lack o' farm loons and sojers and daft hicks eager to try a fall or put on't mufflers wi' the famous blackamoor. 'Twas easy fare for Molineaux to topple 'em, tho' for the most part I reckon they was satisfied to see him strike a pose, bare to the brisket, for the half o' them had never seen a nigger afore.
Now, this way o' goin' on was weel enough to get them a livin' and steer Richmond clear o' Point Nonplus, wi' a dollop put by for the Rimmer stake and expenses – but 'twas no life for a fighter, I can tell thee. He needs to be settled, man, and reg'lar, and kept hard at the bit in trainin'. They say Molineaux had been bad enough to manage afore, but from a' I heerd he was ten times worse on that tour, traipsin' fra toon to toon, wi' the folk gawkin' at him, and him up to a' larks at a' hours, seldom sober, beddin' every mollisher that offered, and splashin' his rhino on fancy toggery and toys and whatever trash took his fancy.
To make bad worse, Pad Jones parted fra him in disgoost at the way he was kickin' up and wastin' his self, and Richmond not able to rein him in. By what Pad told me later, Richmond had vowed that Molineaux would be kept to the collar and no liberties, but when it came to it, he let the black have his wilful way for fear he'd lose him; there was high words among the three o' them, and Pad packed his ditty and bade them fareweel. In his stead, Richmond brought in two reet flash gills, Abner Gray and Joe Ward – aye, that verra same Joe Ward that had humbugged Jackson aboot the bullets at Copthorn! Never ask me how Richmond came to make his peace wi' that 'un, or coaxed Molineaux into usin' him to spar wi', but so it was. Worse yoke-fellers for a fighter ye could not find, but they came cheap likely, and Bill would be coontin' his coppers. I wouldna gi' the reek off my dottle for the pair o' them!
When I heerd o' the way Molineaux was carryin' on wi' the bub and the burricks, and that Pad Jones had washed his hands of him, I says to mesel', Bob, I says, if ye miss this chance ye're a cloot-bobby. Straight I went to Pad and offered him the trainin' o' Rimmer. First off he shook his head, sayin' he didna like.
“What's likin' to do wi' it? Ye trained the black for Richmond, what hinders thee to train Rimmer for me?”
“ 'Twould go 'gainst the grain, Bob,” says he, doubtful. “If 'twere against any other fighter, I'd say aye and gladly, but not against Tom Molineaux.”
“What the hell, man! Are ye feared Molineaux'll leather my chap, is that what ails thee?”
“If he does, and 'tis Lombard Street to a China orange he will,” says Pad, “'twill be because Tom's the fighter I made him – and made Champion o' England, if he had his rights. Nay, Bob, how could I train another milling-gloak 'gainst him?”
“Weel, Pad, I thought ye were a professional man,” says I. “But since ye've gone soft on the nigger, seemin'ly, we'll say nae mair.”
He swore he was not soft, but no turncoat, either – which was a daft start, for in those days milling men were wont to hold the bottle and give the knee against their best friends even, in the way o' business, and no hard feelings. It was the professional way, man, and none knew it better than Pad. I let it lie, while he pulled his lip, considerin', and he hemmed and hawed and then laughed and said, well enough, he'd take charge o' Rimmer. I asked why he laughed, and he said the fact was he couldna abide to be awa' fra the ringside when the black was fightin'. Did ye ever hear the like, eh? “But I'll do my best for your lad, Bob, never doubt it,” says he, and gave me his hand. I knew he was straight, and my hopes went cockahoop high, for Rimmer would have the best knee in the game, and one that knew Molineaux like a book.
“Reet, my lad,” I told Rimmer, “ye'll be on't road every day by six, get half a stone o' rump inside thee at noon, skip and lift and thresh that bag 'til tha's baked, Pad'll coach and breathe thee reg'lar, and by God we'll startle the nigger yet!” The lad went to work like a navvy, wi' Jack Power the Irish plumber as partner, and wi' Pad's guidance he shaped better'n ever I could ha' hoped. He had a miller's head on him, and was big and strong and speedy, and larned quick. Pad put him up to a' the dodges the black favoured – how he played at the head, so his left must be weel stopped, and that he favoured Mendoza's guard, but lost patience if his man milled on the retreat, and might be weel punished wi' a one-two stomacher, and all o' that.
Aye, Rimmer shaped reet handy, and a few there were who said he had the makin's o' another Jem Belcher. Cribb himsel' came to see him spar, and put the mitts on wi' him, and was weel pleased. Aha, Tom, thinks I, d'ye hope to see Rimmer do thy work for thee? Others wondered, too, and the buzz was that 'twould be grand if Rimmer should be next to bid for the Championship, as must surely follow if he beat Molineaux.
For the black was become badly liked since Copthorn. He was that cocksure and impident, and cut such a figure in his flash duds, and gave offence by his goings on, what wi' the sprees on his coontry jaunt, and he was foreign, and black – and ower a' that, he'd put the fear o' God into the Fancy by his showin' 'gainst Cribb. They dearly hoped that Rimmer might cut his comb for him, and never did a novice get such a cheer as went up fra the ten thoosand at Moulsey Hurst when my lad threw his shap over the ropes on the day.
Molineaux, for a' the lush and trollops he'd been trainin' on, looked better than I liked, bar a bit o' belly on him, and the odds were three to one for him when they went to the scales. Richmond and Bill Gibbons 'tended him, and didna Richmond glower when Pad Jones stepped up as leadin' counsel for Rimmer? Not the black, though; he laughed and clapped Pad on the back, and bade him tell Rimmer to watch oot for his left hand.
Aye, weel, we live and larn. For a' the good Pad's trainin' and advice was, Rimmer might as well ha' had Boney's mother in his corner. I saw my hoondred guineas fly awa' in the furst roond, when Molineaux saunters oot on his heels, smilin' and sparrin' easy, 'ticed my lad to let go wi' both hands, and flattened him wi' that same left. Four to one, and they'd barely set to when Molineaux put in left and right, and doon goes Rimmer a second time. And then a thurd, and a fourth, and damn my skin, the same tale for eight roonds. The boy made play game enough, but k
new no more o' distance than a blin' beggar, while Molineaux stood off laughin' at him, made his stops as though he were pattin' flies awa', grinned a' ower his ugly black dial as he picked his marks, and when he struck, Rimmer went doon like a man shot.
By God, it galled the crowd, the way yon nigger strutted and smiled and tret the lad like a clodpole. There wasna a sound bar a groan whenever Rimmer went to grass, and wi' a bare ten minutes run he was a woeful sight, spoutin' claret like a cloudburst and fair dozzened by the hammerin'. I doot if any but Jones could ha' kept him on his gams, but after the eighth he shook his head at me. “The boy's foundered,” says he. “I can do naught for him.”
I asked Rimmer would he give up, and damme if he didna rally and rattle the nigger's nob, and milled him back, but Blackee weathered it, fibbed him doon yet again, and then set oot to pay him back. I never saw such savage millin', for noo Molineaux stretched himsel' and went after Rimmer like a tiger, fibbin' him a' roond the ring, feet and fists flyin' too fast to follow. Man, he was a grand miller, the black! Rimmer was game, but the crowd thought nowt o' him, but gave a' their voice in yells and curses and threats at Molineaux, shakin' their clubs and sticks, and I heered Cribb tell Baldwin, who had charge o' the vinegars, to look to the outer ring. The nigger never heeded the cat-calls, but floored Rimmer twice again, wi' the mob uglier by the minute, and when the lad, half-gone and oot o' his wits wi' pain, wrestled him Lancashire style below the waist and threw him foul, there was sic a hollerin' cheer that the umpires darsn't say bo! Again Molineaux floored him, again Rimmer threw him foul, and now I saw the black set himsel' to finish it for good and a' …
Captain ROBERT BARCLAY ALLARDICE,
late 23rd Foot,
pedestrian, landowner, and agriculturalist
Sir,
I had not intended to reply to yours of the 15th, which on immediate perusal I was inclined to dismiss as an unwarranted impertinence unworthy of notice. On reflection, however, it seems possible that you may have addressed me without intent to offend, since the aspersions on my character which your letter contains are not your own, but those of others, and that your repetition of their slanders, however insolent in itself, may have had the not unworthy object of inviting me to refute them. The question remains open in my mind, but I give you the benefit of the doubt for the time being, and I shall avail myself of the opportunity to rebut calumny and at the same time satisfy your other inquiries which by their nature suggest that you may be an earnest if importunate seeker after truth rather than a mere echo of scandalous gossip.
I must warn you, however, that any publication outwith this present correspondence of the defamatory matter to which you have referred, will meet with a prompt response. I allude not to redress at law, in which personal experience leads me to repose no confidence, but to certain facts anent myself to which you have made adversion in your letter – viz., that in my youth I was accounted the foremost amateur practitioner of the pugilistic art, that I was known to perform the feat of lifting with one hand an eighteen-stone man from the floor to a table, and that I pursued a course of exercise and diet designed to promote a health and vigour which, I am happy to say, I retain even in my advancing years. Sir, you have been warned.
I proceed now to the statements which you attribute to Mr Charles Wheeler and an unnamed other party, touching my spar with Molineaux the prize-fighter at Jackson's Rooms in the summer of the year 1810. They say: “Barclay never forgave the nigger for beating him, and this, Mr Charles Wheeler, who knows Barclay well, assures me was the reason why the Captain took such an interest in Cribb's second match with the black and offered to train Cribb at his own expense.”
That, sir, is a disgraceful falsehood. I bore no grudge to Molineaux, indeed, I held him in esteem as a pugilist whose ability marked him as worthy of the highest honours of his profession, and my motives in training and sponsoring Cribb were in no way whatever influenced by any emotion of rancour towards his opponent. My interest in Cribb had been kindled years before Molineaux's arrival in England, and in training him for the bout referred to I was but continuing the policy begun when he was first brought to my notice by Mr Jackson, when I sponsored, trained, and backed him for 200 guineas in his victorious match against Jem Belcher. It will not, I think, appear strange that having trained and sponsored a fighter to the Championship of England, I should be moved by interest and friendship to assist him again when his laurels were in danger from an adversary whose formidable powers all acknowledged, but the suggestion that I did so from feelings of spite and ill-will towards that adversary is beneath contempt and merely dishonours him who makes it.
One word more, and I have done with this distasteful topic. It has been supposed by the ignorant mass who imagine their own prejudices to be universal, that the determination with which my principal and I laboured to resist Molineaux's challenge sprang in part from an aversion to his colour. That, too, is utterly false. It has been truly said of Thomas Cribb that an opponent's colour or country made no difference to him. I may say of myself that had Molineaux been an Esquimaux or a Tartar, a Prussian or even a Frenchman, my feeling towards him would not have been altered by one iota from what it was. That I was concerned to keep the Championship out of a foreign grasp I am proud to acknowledge; that I was concerned to keep it out of a black grasp I most emphatically deny. That many of the public did not partake of my sentiments is true, alas, and a blot on our national escutcheon. That they were shared by the race of pugilists, who welcomed the Black American among them, and thought of him as one of themselves, is manifest, and found expression in one of many patriotic chaunts sung at Bob's Chophouse and those other houses of good fellowship where the milling professionals were wont to foregather. I quote it with apologies for its poetic shortcomings, but pride in its sentiments:
Since boxing is a manly game
And Britons' recreation,
By boxing we will raise our fame
'Bove any other nation.
If Boney doubt it, let him come
And try with Cribb a round;
And Cribb shall beat him like a drum,
And make his carcase sound.
Mendoza, Gully, MOLINEAUX,
Each nature's weapon wield,
Who each at Boney would stand true,
And never to him yield.
I believe, sir, that his fellow pugilists' regard for Thomas Molineaux needs no other endorsement, and the association of his name with three of the worthiest Champions is ample testimony to his stature in the annals of the Prize Ring.
Now, sir, the particulars which you seek of my preparation of Cribb for his second bout with Molineaux might have been obtained without inconvenience from the work on Pedestrianism and Training by my friend and neighbour, Mr Thom, of Aberdeen, in which I assisted. However, to avoid any possibility of error leading to misinterpretation on your part, I summarise them herewith, commencing with an observation on the character of the Champion.
Cribb, on my first acquaintance with him in the year 1806, was in his twenty-sixth year, and endowed with such natural ability as to arouse peculiar interest in me. He possessed every attribute of the expert pugilist, save one. Being of a genial, quiet, and indolent nature, he had a deep aversion to that strenuous exercise essential to any person who aspires to success in the prize ring. In short, he would not train, being content to rely on his great scientific powers alone, and frequently pitted himself against the foremost and thoroughly trained opponents while himself in an ill-prepared condition, overweight, and in poor temper both mental and physical. On the occasion of his only defeat, by Nicholls, it is stated on good authority that Cribb came to the contest in a state of inebriation, which may well be true, for his easy-going and generous nature led him into companionable indulgence, and this failing, so fatal to any sportsman, but to a pugilist above all, was one which I was at pains to correct. Even then, his habitual resistance to a proper course of exercise, diet, and practice came near to being his downfall, as in his matches again
st Pigg and Gregson, in both of which he was entirely exhausted, and triumphed only through that indomitable refusal to surrender which endeared him to the public at large even more than did that pugilistic genius which (I believe) was born in him to a greater degree than in any professional fighter before or since.
His condition in his first encounter with Molineaux, for which I was not responsible (being occupied by military duties as aide to Lord Huntly) was far from satisfactory. He was too heavy and sluggish against a most dangerous opponent whom he had manifestly undervalued, whose one shortcoming was want of experience, and whose strength and skill on the occasion were hardly, if at all, inferior to his own. It was evident that only by subjecting himself to the most rigorous preparation could the Champion hope to withstand his redoubtable challenger when their struggle was resumed in circumstances which must necessarily be more favourable to the American by virtue of his youth, anticipated improvement in skill, a less inhospitable climate, and, perhaps more than all the rest, the confidence accruing from his admirable showing on their first encounter.
I therefore began by removing Cribb from London, where the crowded confinement of the city and its unwholesome air had combined with his slothful and irregular mode of living and the influence of boon companions, to render him corpulent, big-bellied, full of gross humours, and short-breathed. When he arrived at my seat near Stonehaven, Kincardineshire, he weighed full sixteen stone and could walk ten miles only with difficulty. I prescribed a diet of beef, mutton, strong beer, stale bread, and Glauber salts, with a strict prohibition of butter, cheese, eggs, and fish, and subjected him to a course of physic, consisting of three doses, but did not yet commence his sweats. For recreation he walked about as he pleased, and spent many hours strolling the woods and plantations with a fowling piece; the reports of his gun resounded every where through the groves and hollows of that delightful place, to the great terror of the magpies and wood pigeons.