With those whose charity begins—and ends—at the farthest possible point from home, with those who, to be more particular, born of British blood, cannot speak of the British Lion without referring to mange, who never refer to British traditions or institutions without a sneer, the present writer has little patience. It is necessary to say that at some point in this chronicle in order to avoid misunderstanding. Tutored by Pierce Egan, Borrow, and other and later writers, we are apt to lose all sense of perspective in regarding that one-time wholly British institution, the Prize-Ring. Further, other sources of enlightenment, and especially our schoolmasters, have blinded us to any flaw in the tradition of British Fair Play, the love of which, as already said, is an acquired and not an inherent virtue. And if in this and other chapters some account is given of events where the love of fair play was conspicuously lacking, and which perhaps tend to show that a great tradition can be, after all, but a great superstition, that will not, I trust, be taken as evidence of the writer’s anti-English proclivities. At this time of day, the truth, so far as one can discover it, can do no harm—if indeed it ever can. And with that much by way of explanation and warning, we proceed to some account of the two immortal battles between Cribb and Molineux, the black.

The history of the Nigger in Boxing has yet to be fully explored. From the time of Bill Richmond and Molineux (the first black boxers whose names have come down to us) till the time of Jack Johnson, negroes in this country have fought, with certain exceptions, under the severe handicap of unpopularity. Without entering too deeply into the Colour question, we may say that this unpopularity comes also from tradition. The vast majority of negro boxers had been slaves or the descendants of slaves. In early days and in the popular imagination they were savages, or almost savages. Also it was recognised from the first that the African negro and his descendants in the West Indies and America were harder-headed than white men, less sensitive about the face and jaw; most black boxers can take without pain or trouble a smashing which would cause the collapse of a white man. Occasionally this is balanced by the nigger’s weakness in the stomach—but, one thing with another, the white man is at a disadvantage. But physical inequality is not the only point of difference. Niggers are usually children in temperament, with the children’s bad points as well as their good ones. The black man’s head is easily turned, and when his personal and physical success over a white man is manifest he generally behaves like the worst kind of spoiled child. In extreme cases his overwhelming sense of triumph knows no bounds at all, and he turns from a primitive man into a fiend. His insolence is appalling. When the black is in this condition ignorant white men lose their heads, their betters are coldly disgusted. There have been exceptions, the most notable of whom was Peter Jackson, whose exploits will be found in the second part of this book. Peter Jackson was a thoroughly good fellow. As a rule, however, it is far better that negroes, if fight they must, should fight amongst themselves. No crowd is ever big-hearted enough, or “sporting” enough, to regard an encounter between white and black with a purely sporting interest.

Thomas Molineux was born of slave parents in the State of Virginia. He himself had been legally freed, and he came over to England, without friends, with the idea of earning a living with his fists. “Thormanby” (the pen name of the late W. Wilmott Dixon) tells us that he had been in the service, in America, of Mr. Pinckney, subsequently United States Ambassador at the Court of St. James’s; and he was a good friend to the lonely black on his arrival in London. Molineux put himself in the hands of Bill Richmond, a fellow negro who had been taken into the service of the Duke of Northumberland when that nobleman was campaigning in America, and, later, educated at his expense and by him set up as a carpenter. Richmond appears to have been a very well-behaved fellow, and at the time of Molineux’s arrival was keeping an inn in the West End of London.

By all that is fair, even in love and war, Molineux should have won the first of the two battles he fought with Tom Cribb. He was aiming high, for his conquests, previous to his challenging the champion, were few and insignificant. However, Tom could do no less than accept, though he underrated the black: and a match was made for £200 a side. The place chosen was Copthall Common, near East Grinstead, in Sussex, and the day December 10th, 1810. Vast numbers of people came down from London to see the fight, travelling through a downpour of rain which made the ring into a mere pool of mud. Cribb was seconded by John Gulley and Joe Ward, and Molineux by Bill Richmond and Paddington Jones. “Time” was kept by Sir Thomas Apreece.

Bets were made that Molineux would not last for half an hour—and, as the event proved, lost.

The men were splendidly matched. Cribb stood 5 feet 10½ inches and weighed 14 stone 2 lb.: Molineux was two inches shorter and almost exactly the same weight. Neither man was in absolutely first-rate condition. Cribb was always inclined to be “beefy” and the Moor (as Egan calls him) was a somewhat dissipated customer. Indeed the majority of fighters in those days were plucky enough in battle, but lacked the higher and more enduring courage to go through a long period of arduous training.

Owing to Gentleman Jackson’s perspicacity, the ring had been formed at the bottom of a hill, so that the great crowd of spectators could get an excellent view of the proceedings.

Nothing of any importance occurred in the first four rounds. Molineux was thrown in the first and drew first blood from the champion in the second. The wet ground made foothold precarious, and on that account a comparatively light blow knocked a man down. Even so it was Cribb who did the most knocking. The fifth round was very fierce. Each in turn had some little advantage. The round was a long series of rallies, quick leads neatly stopped, hot counters, one of which landed on Cribb’s left eye. There was no betting at the end of this round. In the eighth the champion had a good deal the worst of it, but stood and took his gruel like the man he always was. Egan’s description of the ninth round may be quoted in full as being typical of that author, with his numerous exaggerations and underlinings.

“The battle had now arrived at that doubtful state, and things seemed not to prove so easy and tractable as was anticipated, that the betters were rather puzzled to know how they should proceed with success. Molineux gave such proofs of gluttony, that four to one now made many tremble who had sported it; but still there was a ray of hope remaining from the senseless state in which the Moor appeared at the conclusion of the last round. Both the combatants appeared dreadfully punished; and Cribb’s head was terribly swelled on the left side; Molineux’s nob was also much the worse for the fight. On Cribb’s displaying weakness, the flash side were full of palpitation—it was not looked for, and operated more severe upon their minds upon that account. Molineux rallied with a spirit unexpected, bored in upon Cribb, and by a strong blow through the Champion’s guard, which he planted in his face, brought him down. It would be futile here to attempt to pourtray the countenances of the interested part of the spectators, who appeared, as it were, panic-struck, and those who were not thoroughly acquainted with the game of the Champion began hastily to hedge-off; while others, better informed, still placed their confidence on Cribb, from what they had seen him hitherto take.”

By the thirteenth round the betting had changed to 6-4 on the Moor. But the fight remained extraordinarily level until the end of the eighteenth round, when both appeared to be exhausted. They were both heavily punished, and on the whole fight perhaps Cribb had been the more severely handled. Both were unrecognisable, and their colour only distinguished them.

In the nineteenth round, during which the half-hour from the beginning was up, Cribb, who for some time past had been “milling on the retreat,” tried to land a desperate blow at the moment when Molineux had him up against the ropes. These were in three rows, the top one being five feet from the ground. The black dodged the blow, and, seizing the top rope on either side of Cribb with his two hands, pressed upon the champion with all his might. Cribb could neither hit, nor fall. The seconds on either side argued the propriety of separating the men: but the umpires decided that no such interference was allowable. One of the combatants must fall before a second touched either. At that moment about two hundred of the onlookers, infuriated at the black man’s behaviour, rushed the outer ropes and pressed upon the ring-side. Several men snatched at Molineux’s fingers, which still clung to the top rope, and tried to dislodge them. Some say that one or more of the black’s fingers were broken, others that they were at least injured. But all the time Molineux was resting and getting his wind, his head down on Cribb’s chest, his weight thrown forward upon his body. At last, what with his own efforts and the people plucking at his opponent’s hands, Cribb got free and retreated towards the nearest corner. A less courageous man would have contrived to slip down. As it was, Molineux caught him, and, avoiding a hard left with which Cribb lunged at his body, seized the champion’s head under his arm and proceeded to punish him with short, jolting blows, from which presently Cribb fell exhausted to the ground. He brought Cribb down again the next round as well. The twenty-second round, Egan tells us, was “of no importance,” and he leaves it at that, whilst we sadly reflect how many rounds of nowadays, tediously described in detail, deserve the same fate.

It was at the end of the next round that Molineux should have won, though Pierce Egan entirely omits the incident from his full account, merely observing, in another volume of Boxiana (where he makes a note upon the negro’s death in Ireland):—

“His first contest with Cribb will long be remembered by the Sporting World. It will also not be forgotten, if Justice holds the scales, that his colour alone prevented him from becoming the hero of that fight.”

The following is Egan’s exact account of the twenty-third and twenty-fourth rounds:—

“Twenty-third.—The wind of both the combatants appearing somewhat damaged, they sparred some time to recruit it, when Cribb put in a blow on the left eye of Molineux, which hitherto had escaped milling. The Moor ran in, gave Cribb a severe hit on the body, and threw him heavily.

“Twenty-fourth.—Molineux began this round with considerable spirit, and some hits were exchanged, when Cribb was thrown. The betting tolerably even.”

Now at the end of the twenty-second round Molineux was doing better than the champion, and the betting was 4-1 on him. The crowd at the ring side shouted: “Now, Tom, now! Don’t be beat by the nigger.” But all the same Cribb went down at the end of the twenty-third round utterly done. What followed throws no shadow upon the character of Tom Cribb himself. From all we can gather he was a perfectly straight and honest bruiser. But he had been badly knocked about, and Joe Ward, one of his seconds, was desperately afraid that he would never get him up to the scratch by the call of time. There seems to be, indeed, no doubt that Cribb was, but for the squeezing against the ropes, fairly beaten. Ward was a clever rascal, and he ran across the ring to Molineux’s corner and accused Bill Richmond of putting bullets into his principal’s hands.2 He must have known perfectly well that this was false, just as he must have known, incidentally, that such foul play would do far more harm to the striker than to his opponent. But the altercation achieved its purpose, and Cribb got a good deal more than his due thirty seconds in which to recover.

Immediately after this the black got a fit of shivering, as by now, despite the pace at which they had been fighting, the chill of the December day had got into his bones, fresh as he was from a warm climate. Molineux weakened rapidly, though, urged by his seconds, he fought on till the fortieth round. Of the end of this battle Egan says:—

“This (the 34th) was the last round of what might be termed fighting, in which Molineux had materially the worst of it; but the battle was continued to the 39th, when Cribb evidently appeared the best man, and at its conclusion, the Moor for the first time complained, that ‘he could fight no more!’ but his seconds, who viewed the nicety of the point, persuaded him to try the chance of another round, to which request he acquiesced, when he fell from weakness, reflecting additional credit on the manhood of his brave conqueror, Tom Cribb.”

What additional credit is reflected by knocking down an exhausted man, I find it a little difficult to perceive. Whether we like the fact or not, Molineux should have been Champion of England that day, a day which is indeed black for the fair name of good sport. No possible good can come of trying, as Pierce Egan did, to disguise it. The referee was grossly unfair in not stopping Joe Ward’s trick, which he can hardly have failed to see. It should also be added that the crowd hooted and jeered at Molineux throughout the fight—but then, crowds are like that. Crowds are seldom genuinely sporting in the finest sense. It should be said, however, that the Stock Exchange gave the black a warm reception after the fight, and sent him away with a present of £45.

We may be sure, however, that Tom Cribb himself treated his antagonist with chivalry. This is manifest in the fact that Molineux in after years did his utmost in support of the champion, sparring at his benefit performance, and, unasked, selling tickets for it.

At the time the black man was anxious for another trial; and the following letter appeared in The Times for Christmas Day, 1810:—

“St. Martin’s Street,
“Leicester Square,
“Dec. 21st, 1810.”

“To Mr. Thomas Cribb.

“Sir,—My friends think, that had the weather on last Tuesday, the day upon 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. Molineux.”

“Witness, J. Scholfield.”

The announcement of Cribb’s acceptance of the challenge was given in The Times for December 29th, and the match was made for a purse of 600 guineas.

It took place at Thistleton Gap, in the county of Rutland, on September 28th, 1811, and though a much shorter affair, the second battle is hardly less famous than the other. The final blow of this encounter is depicted in a print published less than a week afterwards, a reproduction of which will be found in this book.

This time Captain Barclay trained Cribb to a hair, so that all his beef was gone. His system was a savage one and must have killed some men, would certainly kill many boxers of the present day. But it agreed with Cribb, much though he is said to have disliked the process at the time. Cribb’s preparation lasted for eleven weeks, and his weight was brought down from 16 stone to 13 stone 6 lb. He was probably the first really trained man that ever stepped into a ring.

If the truth is to be known, Barclay had a special reason for making a good job of the champion’s training. He was a good amateur boxer himself, and was used to put the gloves on with the pros at Jackson’s rooms in Bond Street. But, “Thormanby” informs us, he kept a special pair of gloves there for his own use. Whether they were harder than the ordinary we do not know, but they were probably much lighter! The day on which he had arranged to spar with Molineux he arrived after the black, who was already wearing his special mufflers. He could not very well say: “Here, those are my particular gloves,” and so had to be content with the regulation puddings. The result was that Molineux broke one of his ribs; and now he wanted to be even with him, though by proxy.

Molineux did not train. As already suggested, he was a self-indulgent fellow and a spoiled child. He went on a sparring tour round the country with Tom Belcher (Jem’s brother), and Bill Richmond. They were not strong-minded guardians, and only just before the fight the black ate a whole chicken, and an apple pie, washing them down with a prodigious draught of porter.

When the men met before a huge crowd of about 20,000 people, the black was so amazed at Cribb’s appearance that at first he could hardly recognise him. The simple blackamoor had not believed in the virtue of getting fit: his strength, skill, and undoubted courage were enough for him. And here, shaking him by the hand, was a hard-faced fellow without an ounce of tallow on him, all bone and long, rippling muscles—a very different Cribb to the well-larded customer he had fought on Copthall Common. And none of the champion’s strength or stamina was gone—rather the contrary. Cribb had Gulley and Ward in his corner again, while Bill Gibbons and Richmond looked after Molineux. There is little to be said of the battle itself. It was fought on a stage this time, twenty-five feet square. Cribb scored the first knock-down. Captain Barclay recommended his man to let the black beat himself and to hold back. In the third round Molineux by an overhand blow closed Tom’s right eye, the fist hitting him on the cheek bone, immediately under the eye, so that the swelling took an upward direction. On his side Cribb was perfectly confident, but too old a hand not to be extremely careful, and wisely he gave most of his attention to Molineux’s body—always a good policy with a black man, especially when he is out of training. He nearly doubled up the Moor with one terrific right, and yet the plucky fellow pulled himself together immediately afterwards and threw Cribb heavily to the boards.

In a short while Cribb showed severe signs of punishment about the head and face, but he kept smiling amiably, which drove his adversary to madness, so that in the sixth round he was literally capering about in sheer frenzy, hitting the air wildly. Cribb came up to him and knocked him down. Again and again this happened, though at intervals Molineux regained his composure and fought well. In the ninth round, with a tremendous right-hander, the champion broke his jaw, after which he failed by half a minute to come up to time. But this was overlooked, and at the end of the eleventh round, when the battle had only lasted nineteen minutes and ten seconds, he sent home a left which knocked Molineux clean out of time: and the black was carried senseless from the ring.

Cribb made about £400 out of this fight directly, though no doubt this sum was largely increased by perquisites later on. Captain Barclay, by judicious betting, made about £10,000. And “through the kind interference of Mr. Jackson,” as Egan puts it, a collection realised £50 extra for the black, whose share of the purse would be £200.

It was on the occasion of this battle that the editor of the Edinburgh Star wrote:—

“When the amount of money collected for the relief of British prisoners in France, now suffering for the cause of their country, scarcely amounts to £49,000, there is—Blush, O Britain!—there is £50,000 depending upon a boxing match! The Champion Cribb’s arrival, and on a Sunday, too! on a visit to a gentleman of Aberdeen (we should be glad to know what kind of gentleman he is) as if he, the meritorious Cribb, did honour to the City of Aberdeen by his presence!”

(The gentleman of Aberdeen was Captain Barclay, who had property in that county and brought Cribb up there to train.)

There are two sorts of amusement to be derived from this quotation, and one of them, having regard to recent memories, is a very bitter sort.

After this, Tom Cribb retired from the Ring, and became, like the majority of successful bruisers of his own and of later times, a publican: and thenceforward the Union Arms in Panton Street, Haymarket, became a very popular house of call with all members of the Fancy.