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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 cat-calls 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 scruti nising 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 said 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.
