To one used to the silence of a country night sleep at the George Inn, Grantham, on the eye of a great fight was almost an impossibility. Sounds of loud revelry floated up from the coffee-room to Miss Taverner’s bedchamber until an early hour of the morning; she dozed fitfully, time and again awakened by a burst of laughter below-stairs, voices in the street below her window, or a hurrying footstep outside her door. After two o’clock the noise abated gradually, and she was able at last to fall into a sleep which lasted until three long blasts on a horn rudely interrupted it at twenty-three minutes past seven.
She started up in bed. “Good God, what now?” Her maid, who had also been awakened by the sudden commotion, slipped out of the truckle-bed, and ran to peep between the blinds of the window. She was able to report that it was only the Edinburgh mail, and stayed to giggle over the appearance presented by the night-capped passengers descending from it to partake of breakfast in the inn. Miss Taverner, quite uninterested, sank back upon her pillows, but soon found that peace was at an end. The house was awake, and beginning to be in a bustle. In a very short time she was glad to give up all attempt to go to sleep again, and get up.
Peregrine was knocking on her door before nine o’clock. She must come down to breakfast; he was advised to start in good time for Thistleton Gap if he wanted to procure a good place, and could not be dawdling.
She went down with him to the coffee-room. There were only a few persons there, the passengers on the Edinburgh mail having been whisked off again on their journey south, and the sporting gentlemen who had made so much uproar the evening before apparently preferring to breakfast in the privacy of their own apartments.
As she had guessed, Peregrine had been of the company overnight He had made the acquaintance of a set of very good fellows, though he could not recall their names at the moment, and had cracked a bottle with them. The talk had been all of the fight; his talk was still of it. He would back the Champion: Judith must know he had been trained by Captain Barclay of—of—he thought it was Ury, or some such queer name, but he could not be sure. At all events, he was the man who went on walking matches—she might have heard of him. It was said he had reduced Cribb to thirteen stone six pounds. Cribb was in fine fettle; he did not know about the Black, though there was no denying he could give Cribb four years. Cribb must be going on for thirty now. So it went on, while Judith ate her breakfast, and interpolated a yes or a no where it was required.
Peregrine had no qualms about leaving her to her own devices for the morning: the town would be empty, and she might walk abroad with perfect propriety; need not even take her maid.
Soon after he had finished his breakfast he was off, with a packet of sandwiches in one pocket and a bottle in the other. He had no difficulty in finding out the way: he had only to follow the stream of traffic a distance of eight miles. Everyone was bound for Thistleton Gap, in every conceivable kind of conveyance, from unwieldy coaches to farm-carts, and a great number, those who could not beg or buy a place in a wagon, afoot.
Progress was necessarily slow, but at last the scene of the fight was reached, a stubble-field, not far from Crown Point. It seemed already thick with people. In the middle men were busily engaged in erecting a twenty-five-foot stage.
Peregrine was directed to a quarter of the ground where the carriages of the gentry were to be ranged, and took up a position there, as close to the ring as he might. He had some time to wait before the fight was due to begin, but he was in a mood to be pleased, and found plenty to interest him in watching the gradually thickening crowd. The company was for the most part a rough one, but as midday approached the carriages began to outnumber the wagons. The only circumstances to mar Peregrine’s enjoyment were the facts of his having not one acquaintance amongst the Corinthians surrounding him, of his gig being out of the common shabby, and of his coat boasting no more than three modest capes. These were evils, but he forgot them when someone close to him said: “Here’s Jackson arrived!”
Loneliness, coat and gig were at once nothing: here was Gentleman Jackson, one-time champion, now the most famous teacher of boxing in England. He was walking towards the ring with another man. As soon as he jumped up on to the stage the crowd set up a cheer for him, which he acknowledged with a smile and a good-humoured wave of his hand.
His countenance was by no means prepossessing, his brow being too low, his nose and mouth rather coarse, and his ears projecting from his head; but he had a fine pair of eyes, full and piercing, and his figure, though he was over forty years of age, was still remarkable for its grace and perfect proportions. He had very small hands, and models had been made of his ankles, which were said to be most beautifully turned. He was dressed in good style, but without display, and he had a quiet, unassuming manner.
He left the ring presently, and came over to speak with a red-headed man in a tilbury near to Peregrine’s gig. A couple of young Corinthians hailed him, and there was a great deal of joking and laughter, in which Peregrine very much wished that he could have joined. However, it would not be very long now, he hoped, before he, too, would be offering odds that he would pop in a hit over Jackson’s guard at their next sparring. And no doubt John Jackson would refuse to bet, just as he was refusing now, with that humorous smile and pleasant jest, that it would be no better than robbery, because everyone, even Sir Peregrine Taverner, who had never been nearer to London than this in his life, knew that none of his pupils had ever managed to put in a hit on Jackson when he chose to deny them that privilege.
Jackson went back to join a group of gentlemen beside the ring in a few minutes, for he was to act as referee presently, and as usual had been put in charge of most of the arrangements. Peregrine was so busy watching him, and thinking about his famous sparring school at No. 13, Old Bond Street, and how he himself would be taking lessons there in a very short while, that he failed to notice the approach of a curricle-and-four, which edged its way in neatly to a place immediately alongside his own gig and there drew up.
A voice said: “Starch is an excellent thing, but in moderation, Worcester, for heaven’s sake in moderation! I thought George had dropped a hint in your ear?”
The voice was a perfectly soft one, but it brought Peregrine’s head round with a jerk, and made him jump. It belonged to a gentleman who drove a team of blood-chestnuts, and wore a great-coat with fifteen capes. He was addressing an exquisite in an enormously high collar and neck-cloth, who coloured and said: “Oh, be damned to you, Julian!”
As ill-luck would have it, Peregrine’s start had made him tighten the reins involuntarily, and the farmer’s horse began to back. Peregrine stopped him in a moment, but not in time to prevent his right mudguard just grazing the curricle’s left one. He could have sworn aloud from annoyance.
The gentleman in the curricle turned, brows lifted in pained astonishment. “My very good sir,” he began, and then stopped. The astonishment gave place to an expression of resignation. “I might have known,” he said. “After all, you did promise yourself this meeting, did you not?”
It was said quite quietly, but Peregrine, hot with chagrin, felt that it must have drawn all eyes upon himself. Certainly the gentleman in the high collar was leaning forward to look at him across the intervening curricle. He blurted out: “I hardly touched your carriage! I could not help it if I did!”
“No, that is what I complain of,” sighed his tormentor. “I’m sure you could not.”
Very red in the face, Peregrine said: “You needn’t be afraid, sir! This place will no longer do for me, I assure you!”
“But what is the matter? What are you saying, Julian?” demanded Lord Worcester curiously. “Who is it?”
“An acquaintance of mine,” replied the gentleman in the curricle. “Unsought, but damnably recurrent.”
Peregrine gathered up his reins in hands that were by no means steady; he might not find another place, but stay wherehe was he would not. He said: “I shall relieve you of my presence, sir!”
“Thank you,” murmured the other, faintly smiling.
The gig drew out of the line without mishap and was driven off with unusual care through the press of people. There was by this time no gap in the first row of carriages into which a gig might squeeze its way, and after driving down, the length of the long line Peregrine began to regret his hastiness. But just as he was about to turn up an avenue left in the ranks to get to the rear a young gentleman in a smart-looking whisky hailed him good-naturedly, and offered to pull in a little closer to the coach on his right, and so contrive a space for the gig.
Peregrine accepted this offer thankfully, and after a little manoeuvring and some protests from a party of men seated on the roof of the coach, room was made, and Peregrine could be comfortable again.
The owner of the whisky seemed to be a friendly young man. He had a chubby, smiling countenance, with a somewhat roguish pair of eyes. He was dressed in a blue single-breasted coat with a long waist, a blue waistcoat with inch-wide yellow stripes, plush breeches, tied at the knee with strings and rosettes, short boots with very long tops, and an amazing cravat of white muslin spotted with black. Over all this he wore a driving-coat of white drab, hanging negligently open, with two tiers of pockets, a Belcher handkerchief, innumerable capes, and a large nosegay.
Having satisfied himself that Peregrine, in spite of his gig and his old-fashioned dress, was not a mere Johnny Raw, he soon plunged into conversation; and in a very little while Peregrine learned that his name was Henry Fitzjohn, that he lived in Cork Street, was not long down from Oxford, and had come to Thistleton Gap in the expectation of joining a party of friends there. However, either because they had not yet arrived, or because the crowd was too dense to allow him to discover their position, he had missed them, and been forced to take up a place without them or lose his chance of seeing the fight. His dress was the insignia of the Four Horse Club, to which, as he naively informed Peregrine, he had been elected a member that very year.
He had backed the Champion to win the day’s fight, and as soon as he discovered that Peregrine had never laid eyes on him—or, indeed, on any other of the notables present—he took it upon himself to point out every one of interest. That was Berkeley Craven, one of the stake-holders, standing by the ring now with Colonel Hervey Aston. Aston was one of the Duke of York’s closest friends, and a great patron of the ring. Did Peregrine see that stoutish man with the crooked shoulder approaching Jackson? That was Lord Sefton, a capital fellow! And there, over to the right, was Captain Barclay, talking to Sir Watkin Williams Wynne, who was always to be seen at every fight. Mr. Fitzjohn fancied that none of the Royal Dukes was present; he could not see them, though he had heard that Old Tarry Breeks—Clarence, of course—was expected to be there.
Peregrine drank it all in, feeling very humble and ignorant. In Yorkshire he had been used to know everyone and be known everywhere, but it was evident that in London circles it was different. Beverley Hall and the Taverner fortune counted for nothing; he was only an unknown provincial here.
Mr. Fitzjohn produced an enormous turnip watch from his pocket and consulted it. “It’s after twelve,” he announced. “If the magistrates have got wind of this and mean to stop it it will be a damned hum!”
But just at that moment some cheering, not unmixed with catcalls and a few derisive shouts, was set up, and Tom Molyneux, accompanied by his seconds, Bill Richmond, the Black, and Bill Gibbons, arbiter of sport, came up to the ring.
“He looks a strong fellow,” said Peregrine, anxiously scrutinising as much as he could see of the negro for the enveloping folds of his greatcoat.
“Weighs something between thirteen and fourteen stone,” said Mr. Fitzjohn knowledgeably. “They say he loses his temper. You weren’t at the fight last year? No, of course you weren’t: I was forgetting. Well, y’know it was bad, very bad. The crowd booed him. Don’t know why, for they don’t boo at Richmond and he’s a Black, too. I daresay it was just from everyone’s wanting Cribb to win. But it was not at all the thing, and made the Black think he had not been fairly treated, though that was all my eye and Betty Martin, of course. Cribb is the better man, best fighter I ever saw in my life.”
“Did you ever see Belcher?” asked Peregrine.
“Well, no,” admitted Mr. Fitzjohn regretfully. “Before my time, you know, though I did have the chance of being at his last fight, a couple of years ago, when he was beaten by Cribb. But I don’t know that I’m sorry I missed it. They say he was past it and then, of course, there was his eye—he only had one then, you know. My father says there was never a boxer to come near him in his day. Always remember my father telling me how he was at Wimbledon when Belcher knocked Gamble out in five rounds. Fight only lasted seven minutes. There were twenty thousand people there to see it. My father told me how the ring was within sight of the gibbet, and all the while they could hear Jerry Abershaw, who was hanging there in chains, creaking every time the wind caught him. Holla, this looks like business! There’s old Gibbons tying his man’s colours to the ropes. Crimson and orange, you see. Cribb sports the old blue bird’s eye. Ha, there’s John Gully! Cribb must have arrived! Who is his bottle-holder, I wonder? They’ll be throwing their castors in the ring any moment now. Cribb was lying at the Blue Bull on Witham Common last night, and I believe Molyneux was at the Ram Jam. Can’t make out why they’re behind time. Lord, listen to them cheering! That must be Cribb sure enough! Yes, there he goes! He has Joe Ward with him. He must be his bottle-holder. Looks to be in fine feather, don’t he? I’ve laid a monkey on him, and another he gives the first knock-down. The only thing is that he is slow. No denying it. But excellent bottom, never shy at all.”
The Champion’s hat had been tossed into the ring by now, and he had followed it, and was acknowledging with a broad smile, and a wave of his hand, the cheers and yells of encouragement that greeted him. He was an inch and a half taller than the Black, a heavy-looking fighter, but neat on his feet. He did indeed look to be in fine feather, but so, too, did Molyneux, emerging from his greatcoat. The Black had an enormous reach, and huge muscular development. He looked a formidable customer, but the betting was steady at three to one on Cribb.
In another few moments the seconds and bottle-holders left the ring, and at eighteen minutes past twelve precisely (as Mr. Fitzjohn verified by a glance at his watch) the fight began.
For about a minute both men sparred cautiously, then Cribb made play right and left, and Molyneux returning slightly to the head, a brisk rally followed. The Champion put in a blow to the throat, and Molyneux fell.
“Nothing to choose between ’em, so far,” said Mr. Fitzjohn wisely. “Mere flourishing. But Cribb always starts slow. Stands well up, don’t he?”
At setting-to again the Champion showed first blood, at the mouth, and immediately a brisk rally commenced. Cribb put in a good hit with his right; Molyneux returned like lightning on the head with the left flush, and some quick fighting followed at half-arm. They closed, and after a fierce struggle the Black threw Cribb a cross-buttock.
Mr. Fitzjohn, who had risen from his seat in his excitement, sat down again, and said there was nothing in it. Peregrine, observing the Champion’s right eye to be nearly closed from the last rally, could not but feel that Molyneux was getting the best of it. He had a tremendous punch, fought with marked ferocity, and seemed quicker than Cribb. The third round opened with some sparring for wind; then Cribb put in a doubler to the body which pushed Molyneux away. A roar went up from the crowd, but the Black kept his legs, and rushed in again. For one and a half minutes there was some quick, fierce fighting; then they closed once more, and again Molyneux threw Cribb.
“The Black will win!” Peregrine exclaimed. “He fights like a tiger! I’ll lay you two to one in ponies the Black wins!”
“Done!” said Mr. Fitzjohn promptly, though he looked a trifle anxious.
In the fourth round Molyneux continued fighting at the head, and putting in some flush hits, drew blood. Mr. Fitzjohn began to fidget, for it was seen that both Cribb’s eyes were damaged. Molyneux, however, seemed to be in considerable distress, his great chest heaving, and the sweat pouring off him. The Champion was smiling, but the round ended in his falling again.
Peregrine was quite sure the Black must win, and could not understand how seven to four in favour of Cribb could still be offered.
“Pooh, Cribb hasn’t begun yet!” said Mr. Fitzjohn stoutly. “The Black’s looking as queer as Dick’s hat-band already.”
“Look at Cribb’s face!” retorted Peregrine.
“Lord, there’s nothing in the Black having drawn his cork. He’s fighting at the head all the time. But watch Cribb going for the mark, that’s what I say. He’ll mill his man down yet, though I don’t deny the Black shows game.”
Both men rattled in well up to time in the next round, but Molyneux had decidedly the best of the rally. Cribb fell, and a roar of angry disapproval went up from the crowd. There were some shouts of “Foul!” and for a few moments it seemed as though the ring was to be stormed.
“I think the Black hit him as he fell,” said Mr. Fitzjohn. “I think that must have been it. Jackson makes no sign, you see; it can’t have been a foul blow, or he would.”
The disturbance died down as both fighters came up to the mark for the sixth round. It was now obvious that Molyneux was greatly distressed for wind. Cribb was still full of gaiety. He avoided a rather wild lunge to left and right, and threw in a blow to the body. Molyneux managed to stop it, but was doubled up immediately by a terrific blow at the neck. He got away, but was dreadfully cut up.
“What did I tell you?” cried Mr. Fitzjohn. “Good God, the Black’s as sick as a horse! He’s all abroad! Cribb has him on the run!”
The blow seemed indeed to have shaken the Black up badly. He was hitting short, dancing about the ring in a way that provoked the rougher part of the crowd to jeers and yells of laughter. Cribb followed him round the ring, and floored him by a hit at full arm’s length.
The odds being offered rose to five to one, and Mr. Fitzjohn could scarcely keep his seat for excitement. “The next round ends it!” he said. “The Black’s lost in rage!”
He was wrong, however. Molyneux came up to time, and charged in, planting one or two blows. Cribb put in some straight hits at the throat, stepping back after each. The Black bored in, fell, but whether from a hit or from exhaustion neither Peregrine nor Mr. Fitzjohn could see.
Richmond got Molyneux up to time again. He rallied gamely, but his distance was ill-judged. Cribb did much as he liked with him, got his head into chancery, and fibbed till he fell.
“Lombard Street to a China orange!” exclaimed Mr. Fitzjohn. “Ay, you can see how Richmond and Bill Gibbons are working on him, but it’s my belief he’s done .... No, by God, he’s coming up to the mark again! Damme, the fellow’s got excellent bottom, say what you will! But he’s dead-beat, Taverner. Wonder Richmond don’t throw the towel in .... Hey, that’s finished him! What a left! Enough to break his jaw!”
The Black had gone down like a log. He was dragged to his corner, apparently insensible, and it seemed impossible that he could recover in the half-minute. But Cribb, who, in spite of his disfigured countenance, seemed as full of gaiety as ever, gave away his chance, and hugely delighted the crowd by dancing a hornpipe round the stage.
Molyneux got off his second’s knee, but it was obvious that he could do no more. He made a game attempt to rally, but fell almost at once.
“I believe Cribb did break his jaw,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, who was watching the Black closely. “Damn it, the man’s done! Richmond ought to throw in the towel. No sport in this! Lord, he’s up again, full of pluck! No, he’s done for! There’ll be no getting him on his feet again. Ah, you see—Richmond knows it! He’s going to throw in his towel.” Here Mr. Fitzjohn broke off to join in the cheering.
On the stage the Champion, and Gully, his second, were engaged in dancing a Scotch reel to announce the victory. Peregrine joined Mr. Fitzjohn in waving his hat in the air, and cheering, and sat down again feeling that he had seen a great fight. The knowledge that he had lost quite a large sum of money on it did not weigh with him in the least. He exchanged cards with Mr. Fitzjohn, accepted some advice from that knowledgeable young gentleman on the best hotel to put up at in London, promised to call on him in Cork Street to pay his debts at the first opportunity, and parted from him with the agreeable conviction that he now had at least one acquaintance in London.