ON THE ROAD.
AND now the day of the great fight began to approach. Even the imminent
outbreak of war and the renewed threats of Napoleon were secondary things
in the eyes of the sportsmen—and the sportsmen in those days made a large
half of the population. In the club of the patrician and the plebeian
gin-shop, in the coffee-house of the merchant or the barrack of the
soldier, in London or the provinces, the same question was interesting
the whole nation. Every west-country coach brought up word of the fine
condition of Crab Wilson, who had returned to his own native air for his
training, and was known to be under the immediate care of Captain
Barclay, the expert. On the other hand, although my uncle had not yet
named his man, there was no doubt amongst the public that Jim was to be
his nominee, and the report of his physique and of his performance found
him many backers. On the whole, however, the betting was in favour of
Wilson, for Bristol and the west country stood by him to a man, whilst
London opinion was divided. Three to two were to be had on Wilson at any
West End club two days before the battle.
I had twice been down to Crawley to see Jim in his training quarters,
where I found him undergoing the severe regimen which was usual. From
early dawn until nightfall he was running, jumping, striking a bladder
which swung upon a bar, or sparring with his formidable trainer. His
eyes shone and his skin glowed with exuberent health, and he was so
confident of success that my own misgivings vanished as I watched his
gallant bearing and listened to his quiet and cheerful words.
“But I wonder that you should come and see me now, Rodney,” said he, when
we parted, trying to laugh as he spoke. “I have become a bruiser and
your uncle’s paid man, whilst you are a Corinthian upon town. If you had
not been the best and truest little gentleman in the world, you would
have been my patron instead of my friend before now.”
When I looked at this splendid fellow, with his high-bred, clean-cut
face, and thought of the fine qualities and gentle, generous impulses
which I knew to lie within him, it seemed so absurd that he should speak
as though my friendship towards him were a condescension, that I could
not help laughing aloud.
“That is all very well, Rodney,” said he, looking hard into my eyes.
“But what does your uncle think about it?”
This was a poser, and I could only answer lamely enough that, much as I
was indebted to my uncle, I had known Jim first, and that I was surely
old enough to choose my own friends.
Jim’s misgivings were so far correct that my uncle did very strongly
object to any intimacy between us; but there were so many other points in
which he disapproved of my conduct, that it made the less difference. I
fear that he was already disappointed in me. I would not develop an
eccentricity, although he was good enough to point out several by which I
might “come out of the ruck,” as he expressed it, and so catch the
attention of the strange world in which he lived.
“You are an active young fellow, nephew,” said he. “Do you not think
that you could engage to climb round the furniture of an ordinary room
without setting foot upon the ground? Some little _tour-de-force_ of the
sort is in excellent taste. There was a captain in the Guards who
attained considerable social success by doing it for a small wager. Lady
Lieven, who is exceedingly exigeant, used to invite him to her evenings
merely that he might exhibit it.”
I had to assure him that the feat would be beyond me.
“You are just a little _difficile_,” said he, shrugging his shoulders.
“As my nephew, you might have taken your position by perpetuating my own
delicacy of taste. If you had made bad taste your enemy, the world of
fashion would willingly have looked upon you as an arbiter by virtue of
your family traditions, and you might without a struggle have stepped
into the position to which this young upstart Brummell aspires. But you
have no instinct in that direction. You are incapable of minute
attention to detail. Look at your shoes! Look at your cravat! Look at
your watch-chain! Two links are enough to show. I _have_ shown three,
but it was an indiscretion. At this moment I can see no less than five
of yours. I regret it, nephew, but I do not think that you are destined
to attain that position which I have a right to expect from my blood
relation.”
“I am sorry to be a disappointment to you, sir,” said I.
“It is your misfortune not to have come under my influence earlier,” said
he. “I might then have moulded you so as to have satisfied even my own
aspirations. I had a younger brother whose case was a similar one. I
did what I could for him, but he would wear ribbons in his shoes, and he
publicly mistook white Burgundy for Rhine wine. Eventually the poor
fellow took to books, and lived and died in a country vicarage. He was a
good man, but he was commonplace, and there is no place in society for
commonplace people.”
“Then I fear, sir, that there is none for me,” said I. “But my father
has every hope that Lord Nelson will find me a position in the fleet. If
I have been a failure in town, I am none the less conscious of your
kindness in trying to advance my interests, and I hope that, should I
receive my commission, I may be a credit to you yet.”
“It is possible that you may attain the very spot which I had marked out
for you, but by another road,” said my uncle. “There are many men in
town, such as Lord St. Vincent, Lord Hood, and others, who move in the
most respectable circles, although they have nothing but their services
in the Navy to recommend them.”
It was on the afternoon of the day before the fight that this
conversation took place between my uncle and myself in the dainty sanctum
of his Jermyn-Street house. He was clad, I remember, in his flowing
brocade dressing-gown, as was his custom before he set off for his club,
and his foot was extended upon a stool—for Abernethy had just been in to
treat him for an incipient attack of the gout. It may have been the
pain, or it may have been his disappointment at my career, but his manner
was more testy than was usual with him, and I fear that there was
something of a sneer in his smile as he spoke of my deficiencies. For my
own part I was relieved at the explanation, for my father had left London
in the full conviction that a vacancy would speedily be found for us
both, and the one thing which had weighed upon my mind was that I might
have found it hard to leave my uncle without interfering with the plans
which he had formed. I was heart-weary of this empty life, for which I
was so ill-fashioned, and weary also of that intolerant talk which would
make a coterie of frivolous women and foolish fops the central point of
the universe. Something of my uncle’s sneer may have flickered upon my
lips as I heard him allude with supercilious surprise to the presence in
those sacrosanct circles of the men who had stood between the country and
destruction.
“By the way, nephew,” said he, “gout or no gout, and whether Abernethy
likes it or not, we must be down at Crawley to-night. The battle will
take place upon Crawley Downs. Sir Lothian Hume and his man are at
Reigate. I have reserved beds at the George for both of us. The crush
will, it is said, exceed anything ever known. The smell of these country
inns is always most offensive to me—_mais que voulez-vous_? Berkeley
Craven was saying in the club last night that there is not a bed within
twenty miles of Crawley which is not bespoke, and that they are charging
three guineas for the night. I hope that your young friend, if I must
describe him as such, will fulfil the promise which he has shown, for I
have rather more upon the event than I care to lose. Sir Lothian has
been plunging also—he made a single bye-bet of five thousand to three
upon Wilson in Limmer’s yesterday. From what I hear of his affairs it
will be a serious matter for him if we should pull it off. Well,
Lorimer?”
“A person to see you, Sir Charles,” said the new valet.
“You know that I never see any one until my dressing is complete.”
“He insists upon seeing you, sir. He pushed open the door.”
“Pushed it open! What d’you mean, Lorimer? Why didn’t you put him out?”
A smile passed over the servant’s face. At the same moment there came a
deep voice from the passage.
“You show me in this instant, young man, d’ye ’ear? Let me see your
master, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
I thought that I had heard the voice before, but when, over the shoulder
of the valet, I caught a glimpse of a large, fleshy, bull-face, with a
flattened Michael Angelo nose in the centre of it, I knew at once that it
was my neighbour at the supper party.
“It’s Warr, the prizefighter, sir,” said I.
“Yes, sir,” said our visitor, pushing his huge form into the room. “It’s
Bill Warr, landlord of the One Ton public-’ouse, Jermyn Street, and the
gamest man upon the list. There’s only one thing that ever beat me, Sir
Charles, and that was my flesh, which creeps over me that amazin’ fast
that I’ve always got four stone that ’as no business there. Why, sir,
I’ve got enough to spare to make a feather-weight champion out of. You’d
’ardly think, to look at me, that even after Mendoza fought me I was able
to jump the four-foot ropes at the ring-side just as light as a little
kiddy; but if I was to chuck my castor into the ring now I’d never get it
till the wind blew it out again, for blow my dicky if I could climb
after. My respec’s to you, young sir, and I ’ope I see you well.”
My uncle’s face had expressed considerable disgust at this invasion of
his privacy, but it was part of his position to be on good terms with the
fighting-men, so he contented himself with asking curtly what business
had brought him there. For answer the huge prizefighter looked meaningly
at the valet.
“It’s important, Sir Charles, and between man and man,” said he.
“You may go, Lorimer. Now, Warr, what is the matter?”
The bruiser very calmly seated himself astride of a chair with his arms
resting upon the back of it.
“I’ve got information, Sir Charles,” said he.
“Well, what is it?” cried my uncle, impatiently.
“Information of value.”
“Out with it, then!”
“Information that’s worth money,” said Warr, and pursed up his lips.
“I see. You want to be paid for what you know?”
The prizefighter smiled an affirmative.
“Well, I don’t buy things on trust. You should know me better than to
try on such a game with me.”
“I know you for what you are, Sir Charles, and that is a noble, slap-up
Corinthian. But if I was to use this against you, d’ye see, it would be
worth ’undreds in my pocket. But my ’eart won’t let me do it, for Bill
Warr’s always been on the side o’ good sport and fair play. If I use it
for you, then I expect that you won’t see me the loser.”
“You can do what you like,” said my uncle. “If your news is of service
to me, I shall know how to treat you.”
“You can’t say fairer than that. We’ll let it stand there, gov’nor, and
you’ll do the ’andsome thing, as you ’ave always ’ad the name for doin’.
Well, then, your man, Jim ’Arisen, fights Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, at
Crawley Down to-morrow mornin’ for a stake.”
“What of that?”
“Did you ’appen to know what the bettin’ was yesterday?”
“It was three to two on Wilson.”
“Right you are, gov’nor. Three to two was offered in my own bar-parlour.
D’you know what the bettin’ is to-day?”
“I have not been out yet.”
“Then I’ll tell you. It’s seven to one against your man.”
“What?”
“Seven to one, gov’nor, no less.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Warr! How could the betting change from three
to two to seven to one?”
“Ive been to Tom Owen’s, and I’ve been to the ’Ole in the Wall, and I’ve
been to the Waggon and ’Orses, and you can get seven to one in any of
them. There’s tons of money being laid against your man. It’s a ’orse
to a ’en in every sportin’ ’ouse and boozin’ ken from ’ere to Stepney.”
For a moment the expression upon my uncle’s face made me realize that
this match was really a serious matter to him. Then he shrugged his
shoulders with an incredulous smile.
“All the worse for the fools who give the odds,” said he. “My man is all
right. You saw him yesterday, nephew?”
“He was all right yesterday, sir.”
“If anything had gone wrong I should have heard.”
“But perhaps,” said Warr, “it ’as not gone wrong with ’im _yet_.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I’ll tell you what I mean, sir. You remember Berks? You know that ’e
ain’t to be overmuch depended on at any time, and that ’e ’ad a grudge
against your man ’cause ’e laid ’im out in the coach-’ouse. Well, last
night about ten o’clock in ’e comes into my bar, and the three bloodiest
rogues in London at ’is ’eels. There was Red Ike, ’im that was warned
off the ring ’cause ’e fought a cross with Bittoon; and there was
Fightin’ Yussef, who would sell ’is mother for a seven-shillin’-bit; the
third was Chris McCarthy, who is a fogle-snatcher by trade, with a pitch
outside the ’Aymarket Theatre. You don’t often see four such beauties
together, and all with as much as they could carry, save only Chris, who
is too leary a cove to drink when there’s somethin’ goin’ forward. For
my part, I showed ’em into the parlour, not ’cos they was worthy of it,
but ’cos I knew right well they would start bashin’ some of my customers,
and maybe get my license into trouble if I left ’em in the bar. I served
’em with drink, and stayed with ’em just to see that they didn’t lay
their ’ands on the stuffed parroquet and the pictures.
“Well, gov’nor, to cut it short, they began to talk about the fight, and
they all laughed at the idea that young Jim ’Arrison could win it—all
except Chris, and e’ kept a-nudging and a-twitchin’ at the others until
Joe Berks nearly gave him a wipe across the face for ’is trouble. I saw
somethin’ was in the wind, and it wasn’t very ’ard to guess what it
was—especially when Red Ike was ready to put up a fiver that Jim ’Arrison
would never fight at all. So I up to get another bottle of liptrap, and
I slipped round to the shutter that we pass the liquor through from the
private bar into the parlour. I drew it an inch open, and I might ’ave
been at the table with them, I could ’ear every word that clearly.
“There was Chris McCarthy growlin’ at them for not keepin’ their tongues
still, and there was Joe Berks swearin’ that ’e would knock ’is face in
if ’e dared give ’im any of ’is lip. So Chris ’e sort of argued with
them, for ’e was frightened of Berks, and ’e put it to them whether they
would be fit for the job in the mornin’, and whether the gov’nor would
pay the money if ’e found they ’ad been drinkin’ and were not to be
trusted. This struck them sober, all three, an’ Fighting Yussef asked
what time they were to start. Chris said that as long as they were at
Crawley before the George shut up they could work it. ‘It’s poor pay for
a chance of a rope,’ said Red Ike. ‘Rope be damned!’ cried Chris, takin’
a little loaded stick out of his side pocket. ‘If three of you ’old him
down and I break his arm-bone with this, we’ve earned our money, and we
don’t risk more’n six months’ jug.’ ‘’E’ll fight,’ said Berks. ‘Well,
it’s the only fight ’e’ll get,’ answered Chris, and that was all I ’eard
of it. This mornin’ out I went, and I found as I told you afore that the
money is goin’ on to Wilson by the ton, and that no odds are too long for
the layers. So it stands, gov’nor, and you know what the meanin’ of it
may be better than Bill Warr can tell you.”
“Very good, Warr,” said my uncle, rising. “I am very much obliged to you
for telling me this, and I will see that you are not a loser by it. I
put it down as the gossip of drunken ruffians, but none the less you have
served me vastly by calling my attention to it. I suppose I shall see
you at the Downs to-morrow?”
“Mr. Jackson ’as asked me to be one o’ the beaters-out, sir.”
“Very good. I hope that we shall have a fair and good fight. Good day
to you, and thank you.”
My uncle had preserved his jaunty demeanour as long as Warr was in the
room, but the door had hardly closed upon him before he turned to me with
a face which was more agitated than I had ever seen it.
“We must be off for Crawley at once, nephew,” said he, ringing the bell.
“There’s not a moment to be lost. Lorimer, order the bays to be
harnessed in the curricle. Put the toilet things in, and tell William to
have it round at the door as soon as possible.”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” said I, and away I ran to the mews in Little Ryder
Street, where my uncle stabled his horses. The groom was away, and I had
to send a lad in search of him, while with the help of the livery-man I
dragged the curricle from the coach-house and brought the two mares out
of their stalls. It was half an hour, or possibly three-quarters, before
everything had been found, and Lorimer was already waiting in Jermyn
Street with the inevitable baskets, whilst my uncle stood in the open
door of his house, clad in his long fawn-coloured driving-coat, with no
sign upon his calm pale face of the tumult of impatience which must, I
was sure, be raging within.
“We shall leave you, Lorimer,” said he. “We might find it hard to get a
bed for you. Keep at her head, William! Jump in, nephew. Halloa, Warr,
what is the matter now?”
The prizefighter was hastening towards us as fast as his bulk would
allow.
“Just one word before you go, Sir Charles,” he panted. “I’ve just ’eard
in my taproom that the four men I spoke of left for Crawley at one
o’clock.”
“Very good, Warr,” said my uncle, with his foot upon the step.
“And the odds ’ave risen to ten to one.”
“Let go her head, William!”
“Just one more word, gov’nor. You’ll excuse the liberty, but if I was
you I’d take my pistols with me.”
“Thank you; I have them.”
The long thong cracked between the ears of the leader, the groom sprang
for the pavement, and Jermyn Street had changed for St. James’s, and that
again for Whitehall with a swiftness which showed that the gallant mares
were as impatient as their master. It was half-past four by the
Parliament clock as we flew on to Westminster Bridge. There was the
flash of water beneath us, and then we were between those two long
dun-coloured lines of houses which had been the avenue which had led us
to London. My uncle sat with tightened lips and a brooding brow. We had
reached Streatham before he broke the silence.
“I have a good deal at stake, nephew,” said he.
“So have I, sir,” I answered.
“You!” he cried, in surprise.
“My friend, sir.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgot. You have some eccentricities, after all, nephew.
You are a faithful friend, which is a rare enough thing in our circles.
I never had but one friend of my own position, and he—but you’ve heard me
tell the story. I fear it will be dark before we reach Crawley.”
“I fear that it will.”
“In that case we may be too late.”
“Pray God not, sir!”
“We sit behind the best cattle in England, but I fear lest we find the
roads blocked before we get to Crawley. Did you observe, nephew, that
these four villains spoke in Warr’s hearing of the master who was behind
them, and who was paying them for their infamy? Did you not understand
that they were hired to cripple my man? Who, then, could have hired
them? Who had an interest unless it was—I know Sir Lothian Hume to be a
desperate man. I know that he has had heavy card losses at Watier’s and
White’s. I know also that he has much at stake upon this event, and that
he has plunged upon it with a rashness which made his friends think that
he had some private reason for being satisfied as to the result. By
Heaven, it all hangs together! If it should be so—!” He relapsed into
silence, but I saw the same look of cold fierceness settle upon his
features which I had marked there when he and Sir John Lade had raced
wheel to wheel down the Godstone road.
The sun sank slowly towards the low Surrey hills, and the shadows crept
steadily eastwards, but the whirr of the wheels and the roar of the hoofs
never slackened. A fresh wind blew upon our faces, while the young
leaves drooped motionless from the wayside branches. The golden edge of
the sun was just sinking behind the oaks of Reigate Hill when the
dripping mares drew up before the Crown at Redhill. The landlord, an old
sportsman and ringsider, ran out to greet so well-known a Corinthian as
Sir Charles Tregellis.
“You know Berks, the bruiser?” asked my uncle.
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“Has he passed?”
“Yes, Sir Charles. It may have been about four o’clock, though with this
crowd of folk and carriages it’s hard to swear to it. There was him, and
Red Ike, and Fighting Yussef the Jew, and another, with a good bit of
blood betwixt the shafts. They’d been driving her hard, too, for she was
all in a lather.”
“That’s ugly, nephew,” said my uncle, when we were flying onwards towards
Reigate. “If they drove so hard, it looks as though they wished to get
early to work.”
“Jim and Belcher would surely be a match for the four of them,” I
suggested.
“If Belcher were with him I should have no fear. But you cannot tell
what _diablerie_ they may be up to. Let us only find him safe and sound,
and I’ll never lose sight of him until I see him in the ring. We’ll sit
up on guard with our pistols, nephew, and I only trust that these
villains may be indiscreet enough to attempt it. But they must have been
very sure of success before they put the odds up to such a figure, and it
is that which alarms me.”
“But surely they have nothing to win by such villainy, sir? If they were
to hurt Jim Harrison the battle could not be fought, and the bets would
not be decided.”
“So it would be in an ordinary prize-battle, nephew; and it is fortunate
that it should be so, or the rascals who infest the ring would soon make
all sport impossible. But here it is different. On the terms of the
wager I lose unless I can produce a man, within the prescribed ages, who
can beat Crab Wilson. You must remember that I have never named my man.
_C’est dommage_, but so it is! We know who it is and so do our
opponents, but the referees and stakeholder would take no notice of that.
If we complain that Jim Harrison has been crippled, they would answer
that they have no official knowledge that Jim Harrison was our nominee.
It’s play or pay, and the villains are taking advantage of it.”
My uncle’s fears as to our being blocked upon the road were only too well
founded, for after we passed Reigate there was such a procession of every
sort of vehicle, that I believe for the whole eight miles there was not a
horse whose nose was further than a few feet from the back of the
curricle or barouche in front. Every road leading from London, as well
as those from Guildford in the west and Tunbridge in the east, had
contributed their stream of four-in-hands, gigs, and mounted sportsmen,
until the whole broad Brighton highway was choked from ditch to ditch
with a laughing, singing, shouting throng, all flowing in the same
direction. No man who looked upon that motley crowd could deny that, for
good or evil, the love of the ring was confined to no class, but was a
national peculiarity, deeply seated in the English nature, and a common
heritage of the young aristocrat in his drag and of the rough costers
sitting six deep in their pony cart. There I saw statesmen and soldiers,
noblemen and lawyers, farmers and squires, with roughs of the East End
and yokels of the shires, all toiling along with the prospect of a night
of discomfort before them, on the chance of seeing a fight which might,
for all that they knew, be decided in a single round. A more cheery and
hearty set of people could not be imagined, and the chaff flew about as
thick as the dust clouds, while at every wayside inn the landlord and the
drawers would be out with trays of foam-headed tankards to moisten those
importunate throats. The ale-drinking, the rude good-fellowship, the
heartiness, the laughter at discomforts, the craving to see the fight—all
these may be set down as vulgar and trivial by those to whom they are
distasteful; but to me, listening to the far-off and uncertain echoes of
our distant past, they seem to have been the very bones upon which much
that is most solid and virile in this ancient race was moulded.
But, alas for our chance of hastening onwards! Even my uncle’s skill
could not pick a passage through that moving mass. We could but fall
into our places and be content to snail along from Reigate to Horley and
on to Povey Cross and over Lowfield Heath, while day shaded away into
twilight, and that deepened into night. At Kimberham Bridge the
carriage-lamps were all lit, and it was wonderful, where the road curved
downwards before us, to see this writhing serpent with the golden scales
crawling before us in the darkness. And then, at last, we saw the
formless mass of the huge Crawley elm looming before us in the gloom, and
there was the broad village street with the glimmer of the cottage
windows, and the high front of the old George Inn, glowing from every
door and pane and crevice, in honour of the noble company who were to
sleep within that night.