“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 whatdiableriethey 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.
Myuncle’s impatience would not suffer him to wait for the slow rotation which would bring us to the door, but he flung the reins and a crown-piece to one of the rough fellows who thronged the side-walk, and pushing his way vigorously through the crowd, he made for the entrance. As he came within the circle of light thrown by the windows, a whisper ran round as to who this masterful gentleman with the pale face and the driving-coat might be, and a lane was formed to admit us. I had never before understood the popularity of my uncle in the sporting world, for the folk began to huzza as we passed with cries of “Hurrah for Buck Tregellis! Good luck to you and your man, Sir Charles! Clear a path for a bang-up noble Corinthian!” whilst the landlord, attracted by the shouting, came running out to greet us.
“Good evening, Sir Charles!” he cried. “I hope I see you well, sir, and I trust that you will find that your man does credit to the George.”
“How is he?” asked my uncle, quickly.
“Never better, sir. Looks a picture, he does—and fit to fight for a kingdom.”
My uncle gave a sigh of relief.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“He’s gone to his room early, sir, seein’ that he had some very partic’lar business to-morrow mornin’,” said the landlord, grinning.
“Where is Belcher?”
“Here he is, in the bar parlour.”
He opened a door as he spoke, and looking in we saw a score of well-dressed men, some of whose faces had become familiar to me during my short West End career, seated round a table upon which stood a steaming soup-tureen filled with punch. At the further end, very much at his ease amongst the aristocrats and exquisites who surrounded him, sat the Champion of England, his superb figure thrown back in his chair, a flush upon his handsome face, and a loose red handkerchief knotted carelessly round his throat in the picturesque fashion which was long known by his name. Half a century has passed since then, and I have seen my share of fine men. Perhaps it is because I am a slight creature myself, but it is my peculiarity that I had rather look upon a splendid man than upon any work of Nature. Yet during all that time I have never seen a finer man than Jim Belcher, and if I wish to match him in my memory, I can only turn to that other Jim whose fate and fortunes I am trying to lay before you.
There was a shout of jovial greeting when my uncle’s face was seen in the doorway.
“Come in, Tregellis!” “We were expecting you!” “There’s a devilled bladebone ordered.” “What’s the latest from London?” “What is the meaning of the long odds against your man?” “Have the folk gone mad?” “What the devil is it all about?” They were all talking at once.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” my uncle answered. “I shall be happy to give you any information in my power a little later. I have a matter of some slight importance to decide. Belcher, I would have a word with you!”
The Champion came out with us into the passage.
“Where is your man, Belcher?”
“He has gone to his room, sir. I believe that he should have a clear twelve hours’ sleep before fighting.”
“What sort of day has he had?”
“I did him lightly in the matter of exercise. Clubs, dumbbells, walking, and a half-hour with the mufflers. He’ll do us all proud, sir, or I’m a Dutchman! But what in the world’s amiss with the betting? If I didn’t know that he was as straight as a line, I’d ha’ thought he was planning a cross and laying against himself.”
“It’s about that I’ve hurried down. I have good information, Belcher, that there has been a plot to cripple him, and that the rogues are so sure of success that they are prepared to lay anything against his appearance.”
Belcher whistled between his teeth.
“I’ve seen no sign of anything of the kind, sir. No one has been near him or had speech with him, except only your nephew there and myself.”
“Four villains, with Berks at their head, got the start of us by several hours. It was Warr who told me.”
“What Bill Warr says is straight, and what Joe Berks does is crooked. Who were the others, sir?”
“Red Ike, Fighting Yussef, and Chris McCarthy.”
“A pretty gang, too! Well, sir, the lad is safe, but it would be as well, perhaps, for one or other of us to stay in his room with him. For my own part, as long as he’s my charge I’m never very far away.”
“It is a pity to wake him.”
“He can hardly be asleep with all this racket in the house. This way, sir, and down the passage!”
We passed along the low-roofed, devious corridors of the old-fashioned inn to the back of the house.
“This is my room, sir,” said Belcher, nodding to a door upon the right. “This one upon the left is his.” He threw it open as he spoke. “Here’s Sir Charles Tregellis come to see you, Jim,” said he; and then, “Good Lord, what is the meaning of this?”
The little chamber lay before us brightly illuminated by a brass lamp which stood upon the table. The bedclothes had not been turned down, but there was an indentation upon the counterpane which showed that some one had lain there. One-half of the lattice window was swinging on its hinge, and a cloth cap lying upon the table was the only sign of the occupant. My uncle looked round him and shook his head.
“It seems that we are too late,” said he.
“That’s his cap, sir. Where in the world can he have gone to with his head bare? I thought he was safe in his bed an hour ago. Jim! Jim!” he shouted.
“He has certainly gone through the window,” cried my uncle. “I believe these villains have enticed him out by some devilish device of their own. Hold the lamp, nephew. Ha! I thought so. Here are his footmarks upon the flower-bed outside.”
The landlord, and one or two of the Corinthians from the bar-parlour, had followed us to the back of the house. Some one had opened the side door, and we found ourselves in the kitchen garden, where, clustering upon the gravel path, we were able to hold the lamp over the soft, newly turned earth which lay between us and the window.
“That’s his footmark!” said Belcher. “He wore his running boots this evening, and you can see the nails. But what’s this? Some one else has been here.”
“A woman!” I cried.
“By Heaven, you’re right, nephew,” said my uncle.
Belcher gave a hearty curse.
“He never had a word to say to any girl in the village. I took partic’lar notice of that. And to think of them coming in like this at the last moment!”
“It’s clear as possible, Tregellis,” said the Hon. Berkeley Craven, who was one of the company from the bar-parlour. “Whoever it was came outside the window and tapped. You see here, and here, the small feet have their toes to the house, while the others are all leading away. She came to summon him, and he followed her.”
“That is perfectly certain,” said my uncle. “There’s not a moment to be lost. We must divide and search in different directions, unless we can get some clue as to where they have gone.”
“There’s only the one path out of the garden,” cried the landlord, leading the way. “It opens out into this back lane, which leads up to the stables. The other end of the lane goes out into the side road.”
The bright yellow glare from a stable lantern cut a ring suddenly from the darkness, and an ostler came lounging out of the yard.
“Who’s that?” cried the landlord.
“It’s me, master! Bill Shields.”
“How long have you been there, Bill?”
“Well, master, I’ve been in an’ out of the stables this hour back. We can’t pack in another ’orse, and there’s no use tryin’. I daren’t ’ardly give them their feed, for, if they was to thicken out just ever so little—”
“See here, Bill. Be careful how you answer, for a mistake may cost you your place. Have you seen any one pass down the lane?”
“There was a feller in a rabbit-skin cap some time ago. ’E was loiterin’ about until I asked ’im what ’is business was, for I didn’t care about the looks of ’im, or the way that ’e was peepin’ in at the windows. I turned the stable lantern on to ’im, but ’e ducked ’is face, an’ I could only swear to ’is red ’ead.”
I cast a quick glance at my uncle, and I saw that the shadow had deepened upon his face.
“What became of him?” he asked.
“’E slouched away, sir, an’ I saw the last of ’im.”
“You’ve seen no one else? You didn’t, for example, see a woman and a man pass down the lane together?”
“No, sir.”
“Or hear anything unusual?”
“Why, now that you mention it, sir, I did ’ear somethin’; but on a night like this, when all these London blades are in the village—”
“What was it, then?” cried my uncle, impatiently.
“Well, sir, it was a kind of a cry out yonder as if some one ’ad got ’imself into trouble. I thought, maybe, two sparks were fightin’, and I took no partic’lar notice.”
“Where did it come from?”
“From the side road, yonder.”
“Was it distant?”
“No, sir; I should say it didn’t come from more’n two hundred yards.”
“A single cry?”
“Well, it was a kind of screech, sir, and then I ’eard somebody drivin’ very ’ard down the road. I remember thinking that it was strange that any one should be driving away from Crawley on a great night like this.”
My uncle seized the lantern from the fellow’s hand, and we all trooped behind him down the lane. At the further end the road cut it across at right angles. Down this my uncle hastened, but his search was not a long one, for the glaring light fell suddenly upon something which brought a groan to my lips and a bitter curse to those of Jem Belcher. Along the white surface of the dusty highway there was drawn a long smear of crimson, while beside this ominous stain there lay a murderous little pocket-bludgeon, such as Warr had described in the morning.
Allthrough that weary night my uncle and I, with Belcher, Berkeley Craven, and a dozen of the Corinthians, searched the country side for some trace of our missing man, but save for that ill-boding splash upon the road not the slightest clue could be obtained as to what had befallen him. No one had seen or heard anything of him, and the single cry in the night of which the ostler told us was the only indication of the tragedy which had taken place. In small parties we scoured the country as far as East Grinstead and Bletchingley, and the sun had been long over the horizon before we found ourselves back at Crawley once more with heavy hearts and tired feet. My uncle, who had driven to Reigate in the hope of gaining some intelligence, did not return until past seven o’clock, and a glance at his face gave us the same black news which he gathered from ours.
We held a council round our dismal breakfast-table, to which Mr. Berkeley Craven was invited as a man of sound wisdom and large experience in matters of sport. Belcher was half frenzied by this sudden ending of all the pains which he had taken in the training, and could only rave out threats at Berks and his companions, with terrible menaces as to what he would do when he met them. My uncle sat grave and thoughtful, eating nothing and drumming his fingers upon the table, while my heart was heavy within me, and I could have sunk my face into my hands and burst into tears as I thought how powerless I was to aid my friend. Mr. Craven, a fresh-faced, alert man of the world, was the only one of us who seemed to preserve both his wits and his appetite.
“Let me see! The fight was to be at ten, was it not?” he asked.
“It was to be.”
“I dare say it will be, too. Never say die, Tregellis! Your man has still three hours in which to come back.”
My uncle shook his head.
“The villains have done their work too well for that, I fear,” said he.
“Well, now, let us reason it out,” said Berkeley Craven. “A woman comes and she coaxes this young man out of his room. Do you know any young woman who had an influence over him?”
My uncle looked at me.
“No,” said I. “I know of none.”
“Well, we know that she came,” said Berkeley Craven. “There can be no question as to that. She brought some piteous tale, no doubt, such as a gallant young man could hardly refuse to listen to. He fell into the trap, and allowed himself to be decoyed to the place where these rascals were waiting for him. We may take all that as proved, I should fancy, Tregellis.”
“I see no better explanation,” said my uncle.
“Well, then, it is obviously not the interest of these men to kill him. Warr heard them say as much. They could not make sure, perhaps, of doing so tough a young fellow an injury which would certainly prevent him from fighting. Even with a broken arm he might pull the fight off, as men have done before. There was too much money on for them to run any risks. They gave him a tap on the head, therefore, to prevent his making too much resistance, and they then drove him off to some farmhouse or stable, where they will hold him a prisoner until the time for the fight is over. I warrant that you see him before to-night as well as ever he was.”
This theory sounded so reasonable that it seemed to lift a little of the weight from my heart, but I could see that from my uncle’s point of view it was a poor consolation.
“I dare say you are right, Craven,” said he.
“I am sure that I am.”
“But it won’t help us to win the fight.”
“That’s the point, sir,” cried Belcher. “By the Lord, I wish they’d let me take his place, even with my left arm strapped behind me.”
“I should advise you in any case to go to the ringside,” said Craven. “You should hold on until the last moment in the hope of your man turning up.”
“I shall certainly do so. And I shall protest against paying the wagers under such circumstances.”
Craven shrugged his shoulders.
“You remember the conditions of the match,” said he. “I fear it is pay or play. No doubt the point might be submitted to the referees, but I cannot doubt that they would have to give it against you.”
We had sunk into a melancholy silence, when suddenly Belcher sprang up from the table.
“Hark!” he cried. “Listen to that!”
“What is it?” we cried, all three.
“The betting! Listen again!”
Out of the babel of voices and roaring of wheels outside the window a single sentence struck sharply on our ears.
“Even money upon Sir Charles’s nominee!”
“Even money!” cried my uncle. “It was seven to one against me, yesterday. What is the meaning of this?”
“Even money either way,” cried the voice again.
“There’s somebody knows something,” said Belcher, “and there’s nobody has a better right to know what it is than we. Come on, sir, and we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
The village street was packed with people, for they had been sleeping twelve and fifteen in a room, whilst hundreds of gentlemen had spent the night in their carriages. So thick was the throng that it was no easy matter to get out of the George. A drunken man, snoring horribly in his breathing, was curled up in the passage, absolutely oblivious to the stream of people who flowed round and occasionally over him.
“What’s the betting, boys?” asked Belcher, from the steps.
“Even money, Jim,” cried several voices.
“It was long odds on Wilson when last I heard.”
“Yes; but there came a man who laid freely the other way, and he started others taking the odds, until now you can get even money.”
“Who started it?”
“Why, that’s he! The man that lies drunk in the passage. He’s been pouring it down like water ever since he drove in at six o’clock, so it’s no wonder he’s like that.”
Belcher stooped down and turned over the man’s inert head so as to show his features.
“He’s a stranger to me, sir.”
“And to me,” added my uncle.
“But not to me,” I cried. “It’s John Cumming, the landlord of the inn at Friar’s Oak. I’ve known him ever since I was a boy, and I can’t be mistaken.”
“Well, what the devil canheknow about it?” said Craven.
“Nothing at all, in all probability,” answered my uncle. “He is backing young Jim because he knows him, and because he has more brandy than sense. His drunken confidence set others to do the same, and so the odds came down.”
“He was as sober as a judge when he drove in here this morning,” said the landlord. “He began backing Sir Charles’s nominee from the moment he arrived. Some of the other boys took the office from him, and they very soon brought the odds down amongst them.”
“I wish he had not brought himself down as well,” said my uncle. “I beg that you will bring me a little lavender water, landlord, for the smell of this crowd is appalling. I suppose you could not get any sense from this drunken fellow, nephew, or find out what it is he knows.”
It was in vain that I rocked him by the shoulder and shouted his name in his ear. Nothing could break in upon that serene intoxication.
“Well, it’s a unique situation as far as my experience goes,” said Berkeley Craven. “Here we are within a couple of hours of the fight, and yet you don’t know whether you have a man to represent you. I hope you don’t stand to lose very much, Tregellis.”
My uncle shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and took a pinch of his snuff with that inimitable sweeping gesture which no man has ever ventured to imitate.
“Pretty well, my boy!” said he. “But it is time that we thought of going up to the Downs. This night journey has left me just a littleeffleuré, and I should like half an hour of privacy to arrange my toilet. If this is my last kick, it shall at least be with a well-brushed boot.”
I have heard a traveller from the wilds of America say that he looked upon the Red Indian and the English gentleman as closely akin, citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and the suppression of the emotions in each. I thought of his words as I watched my uncle that morning, for I believe that no victim tied to the stake could have had a worse outlook before him. It was not merely that his own fortunes were largely at stake, but it was the dreadful position in which he would stand before this immense concourse of people, many of whom had put their money upon his judgment, if he should find himself at the last moment with an impotent excuse instead of a champion to put before them. What a situation for a man who prided himself upon his aplomb, and upon bringing all that he undertook to the very highest standard of success! I, who knew him well, could tell from his wan cheeks and his restless fingers that he was at his wit’s ends what to do; but no stranger who observed his jaunty bearing, the flecking of his laced handkerchief, the handling of his quizzing glass, or the shooting of his ruffles, would ever have thought that this butterfly creature could have had a care upon earth.
It was close upon nine o’clock when we were ready to start for the Downs, and by that time my uncle’s curricle was almost the only vehicle left in the village street. The night before they had lain with their wheels interlocking and their shafts under each other’s bodies, as thick as they could fit, from the old church to the Crawley Elm, spanning the road five-deep for a good half-mile in length. Now the grey village street lay before us almost deserted save by a few women and children. Men, horses, carriages—all were gone. My uncle drew on his driving-gloves and arranged his costume with punctilious neatness; but I observed that he glanced up and down the road with a haggard and yet expectant eye before he took his seat. I sat behind with Belcher, while the Hon. Berkeley Craven took the place beside him.
The road from Crawley curves gently upwards to the upland heather-clad plateau which extends for many miles in every direction. Strings of pedestrians, most of them so weary and dust-covered that it was evident that they had walked the thirty miles from London during the night, were plodding along by the sides of the road or trailing over the long mottled slopes of the moorland. A horseman, fantastically dressed in green and splendidly mounted, was waiting at the crossroads, and as he spurred towards us I recognised the dark, handsome face and bold black eyes of Mendoza.
“I am waiting here to give the office, Sir Charles,” said he. “It’s down the Grinstead road, half a mile to the left.”
“Very good,” said my uncle, reining his mares round into the cross-road.
“You haven’t got your man there,” remarked Mendoza, with something of suspicion in his manner.
“What the devil is that to you?” cried Belcher, furiously.
“It’s a good deal to all of us, for there are some funny stories about.”
“You keep them to yourself, then, or you may wish you had never heard them.”
“All right, Jem! Your breakfast don’t seem to have agreed with you this morning.”
“Have the others arrived?” asked my uncle, carelessly.
“Not yet, Sir Charles. But Tom Oliver is there with the ropes and stakes. Jackson drove by just now, and most of the ring-keepers are up.”
“We have still an hour,” remarked my uncle, as he drove on. “It is possible that the others may be late, since they have to come from Reigate.”
“You take it like a man, Tregellis,” said Craven. “We must keep a bold face and brazen it out until the last moment.”
“Of course, sir,” cried Belcher. “I’ll never believe the betting would rise like that if somebody didn’t know something. We’ll hold on by our teeth and nails, Sir Charles, and see what comes of it.”
We could hear a sound like the waves upon the beach, long before we came in sight of that mighty multitude, and then at last, on a sudden dip of the road, we saw it lying before us, a whirlpool of humanity with an open vortex in the centre. All round, the thousands of carriages and horses were dotted over the moor, and the slopes were gay with tents and booths. A spot had been chosen for the ring, where a great basin had been hollowed out in the ground, so that all round that natural amphitheatre a crowd of thirty thousand people could see very well what was going on in the centre. As we drove up a buzz of greeting came from the people upon the fringe which was nearest to us, spreading and spreading, until the whole multitude had joined in the acclamation. Then an instant later a second shout broke forth, beginning from the other side of the arena, and the faces which had been turned towards us whisked round, so that in a twinkling the whole foreground changed from white to dark.
“It’s they. They are in time,” said my uncle and Craven together.
Standing up on our curricle, we could see the cavalcade approaching over the Downs. In front came a huge yellow barouche, in which sat Sir Lothian Hume, Crab Wilson, and Captain Barclay, his trainer. The postillions were flying canary-yellow ribands from their caps, those being the colours under which Wilson was to fight. Behind the carriage there rode a hundred or more noblemen and gentlemen of the west country, and then a line of gigs, tilburies, and carriages wound away down the Grinstead road as far as our eyes could follow it. The big barouche came lumbering over the sward in our direction until Sir Lothian Hume caught sight of us, when he shouted to his postillions to pull up.
“Good morning, Sir Charles,” said he, springing out of the carriage. “I thought I knew your scarlet curricle. We have an excellent morning for the battle.”
My uncle bowed coldly, and made no answer.
“I suppose that since we are all here we may begin at once,” said Sir Lothian, taking no notice of the other’s manner.
“We begin at ten o’clock. Not an instant before.”
“Very good, if you prefer it. By the way, Sir Charles, where is your man?”
“I would askyouthat question, Sir Lothian,” answered my uncle. “Where is my man?”
A look of astonishment passed over Sir Lothian’s features, which, if it were not real, was most admirably affected.
“What do you mean by asking me such a question?”
“Because I wish to know.”
“But how can I tell, and what business is it of mine?”
“I have reason to believe that you have made it your business.”
“If you would kindly put the matter a little more clearly there would be some possibility of my understanding you.”
They were both very white and cold, formal and unimpassioned in their bearing, but exchanging glances which crossed like rapier blades. I thought of Sir Lothian’s murderous repute as a duellist, and I trembled for my uncle.
“Now, sir, if you imagine that you have a grievance against me, you will oblige me vastly by putting it into words.”
“I will,” said my uncle. “There has been a conspiracy to maim or kidnap my man, and I have every reason to believe that you are privy to it.”
An ugly sneer came over Sir Lothian’s saturnine face.
“I see,” said he. “Your man has not come on quite as well as you had expected in his training, and you are hard put to it to invent an excuse. Still, I should have thought that you might have found a more probable one, and one which would entail less serious consequences.”
“Sir,” answered my uncle, “you are a liar, but how great a liar you are nobody knows save yourself.”
Sir Lothian’s hollow cheeks grew white with passion, and I saw for an instant in his deep-set eyes such a glare as comes from the frenzied hound rearing and ramping at the end of its chain. Then, with an effort, he became the same cold, hard, self-contained man as ever.
“It does not become our position to quarrel like two yokels at a fair,” said he; “we shall go further into the matter afterwards.”
“I promise you that we shall,” answered my uncle, grimly.
“Meanwhile, I hold you to the terms of your wager. Unless you produce your nominee within five-and-twenty minutes, I claim the match.”
“Eight-and-twenty minutes,” said my uncle, looking at his watch. “You may claim it then, but not an instant before.”
He was admirable at that moment, for his manner was that of a man with all sorts of hidden resources, so that I could hardly make myself realize as I looked at him that our position was really as desperate as I knew it to be. In the meantime Berkeley Craven, who had been exchanging a few words with Sir Lothian Hume, came back to our side.
“I have been asked to be sole referee in this matter,” said he. “Does that meet with your wishes, Sir Charles?”
“I should be vastly obliged to you, Craven, if you will undertake the duties.”
“And Jackson has been suggested as timekeeper.”
“I could not wish a better one.”
“Very good. That is settled.”
In the meantime the last of the carriages had come up, and the horses had all been picketed upon the moor. The stragglers who had dotted the grass had closed in until the huge crowd was one unit with a single mighty voice, which was already beginning to bellow its impatience. Looking round, there was hardly a moving object upon the whole vast expanse of green and purple down. A belated gig was coming at full gallop down the road which led from the south, and a few pedestrians were still trailing up from Crawley, but nowhere was there a sign of the missing man.
“The betting keeps up for all that,” said Belcher. “I’ve just been to the ring-side, and it is still even.”
“There’s a place for you at the outer ropes, Sir Charles,” said Craven.
“There is no sign of my man yet. I won’t come in until he arrives.”
“It is my duty to tell you that only ten minutes are left.”
“I make it five,” cried Sir Lothian Hume.
“That is a question which lies with the referee,” said Craven, firmly. “My watch makes it ten minutes, and ten it must be.”
“Here’s Crab Wilson!” cried Belcher, and at the same moment a shout like a thunderclap burst from the crowd. The west countryman had emerged from his dressing-tent, followed by Dutch Sam and Tom Owen, who were acting as his seconds. He was nude to the waist, with a pair of white calico drawers, white silk stockings, and running shoes. Round his middle was a canary-yellow sash, and dainty little ribbons of the same colour fluttered from the sides of his knees. He carried a high white hat in his hand, and running down the lane which had been kept open through the crowd to allow persons to reach the ring, he threw the hat high into the air, so that it fell within the staked inclosure. Then with a double spring he cleared the outer and inner line of rope, and stood with his arms folded in the centre.
I do not wonder that the people cheered. Even Belcher could not help joining in the general shout of applause. He was certainly a splendidly built young athlete, and one could not have wished to look upon a finer sight as his white skin, sleek and luminous as a panther’s, gleamed in the light of the morning sun, with a beautiful liquid rippling of muscles at every movement. His arms were long and slingy, his shoulders loose and yet powerful, with the downward slant which is a surer index of power than squareness can be. He clasped his hands behind his head, threw them aloft, and swung them backwards, and at every movement some fresh expanse of his smooth, white skin became knobbed and gnarled with muscles, whilst a yell of admiration and delight from the crowd greeted each fresh exhibition. Then, folding his arms once more, he stood like a beautiful statue waiting for his antagonist.
Sir Lothian Hume had been looking impatiently at his watch, and now he shut it with a triumphant snap.
“Time’s up!” he cried. “The match is forfeit.”
“Time is not up,” said Craven.
“I have still five minutes.” My uncle looked round with despairing eyes.
“Only three, Tregellis!”
A deep angry murmur was rising from the crowd.
“It’s a cross! It’s a cross! It’s a fake!” was the cry.
“Two minutes, Tregellis!”
“Where’s your man, Sir Charles? Where’s the man that we have backed?” Flushed faces began to crane over each other, and angry eyes glared up at us.
“One more minute, Tregellis! I am very sorry, but it will be my duty to declare it forfeit against you.”
There was a sudden swirl in the crowd, a rush, a shout, and high up in the air there spun an old black hat, floating over the heads of the ring-siders and flickering down within the ropes.
“Saved, by the Lord!” screamed Belcher.
“I rather fancy,” said my uncle, calmly, “that this must be my man.”
“Too late!” cried Sir Lothian.
“No,” answered the referee. “It was still twenty seconds to the hour. The fight will now proceed.”
Outof the whole of that vast multitude I was one of the very few who had observed whence it was that this black hat, skimming so opportunely over the ropes, had come. I have already remarked that when we looked around us there had been a single gig travelling very rapidly upon the southern road. My uncle’s eyes had rested upon it, but his attention had been drawn away by the discussion between Sir Lothian Hume and the referee upon the question of time. For my own part, I had been so struck by the furious manner in which these belated travellers were approaching, that I had continued to watch them with all sorts of vague hopes within me, which I did not dare to put into words for fear of adding to my uncle’s disappointments. I had just made out that the gig contained a man and a woman, when suddenly I saw it swerve off the road, and come with a galloping horse and bounding wheels right across the moor, crashing through the gorse bushes, and sinking down to the hubs in the heather and bracken. As the driver pulled up his foam-spattered horse, he threw the reins to his companion, sprang from his seat, butted furiously into the crowd, and then an instant afterwards up went the hat which told of his challenge and defiance.
“There is no hurry now, I presume, Craven,” said my uncle, as coolly as if this sudden effect had been carefully devised by him.
“Now that your man has his hat in the ring you can take as much time as you like, Sir Charles.”
“Your friend has certainly cut it rather fine, nephew.”
“It is not Jim, sir,” I whispered. “It is some one else.”
My uncle’s eyebrows betrayed his astonishment.
“Some one else!” he ejaculated.
“And a good man too!” roared Belcher, slapping his thigh with a crack like a pistol-shot. “Why, blow my dickey if it ain’t old Jack Harrison himself!”
Looking down at the crowd, we had seen the head and shoulders of a powerful and strenuous man moving slowly forward, and leaving behind him a long V-shaped ripple upon its surface like the wake of a swimming dog. Now, as he pushed his way through the looser fringe the head was raised, and there was the grinning, hardy face of the smith looking up at us. He had left his hat in the ring, and was enveloped in an overcoat with a blue bird’s-eye handkerchief tied round his neck. As he emerged from the throng he let his great-coat fly loose, and showed that he was dressed in his full fighting kit—black drawers, chocolate stockings, and white shoes.
“I’m right sorry to be so late, Sir Charles,” he cried. “I’d have been sooner, but it took me a little time to make it all straight with the missus. I couldn’t convince her all at once, an’ so I brought her with me, and we argued it out on the way.”
Looking at the gig, I saw that it was indeed Mrs. Harrison who was seated in it. Sir Charles beckoned him up to the wheel of the curricle.
“What in the world brings you here, Harrison?” he whispered. “I am as glad to see you as ever I was to see a man in my life, but I confess that I did not expect you.”
“Well, sir, you heard I was coming,” said the smith.
“Indeed, I did not.”
“Didn’t you get a message, Sir Charles, from a man named Cumming, landlord of the Friar’s Oak Inn? Mister Rodney there would know him.”
“We saw him dead drunk at the George.”
“There, now, if I wasn’t afraid of it!” cried Harrison, angrily. “He’s always like that when he’s excited, and I never saw a man more off his head than he was when he heard I was going to take this job over. He brought a bag of sovereigns up with him to back me with.”
“That’s how the betting got turned,” said my uncle. “He found others to follow his lead, it appears.”
“I was so afraid that he might get upon the drink that I made him promise to go straight to you, sir, the very instant he should arrive. He had a note to deliver.”
“I understand that he reached the George at six, whilst I did not return from Reigate until after seven, by which time I have no doubt that he had drunk his message to me out of his head. But where is your nephew Jim, and how did you come to know that you would be needed?”
“It is not his fault, I promise you, that you should be left in the lurch. As to me, I had my orders to take his place from the only man upon earth whose word I have never disobeyed.”
“Yes, Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Harrison, who had left the gig and approached us. “You can make the most of it this time, for never again shall you have my Jack—not if you were to go on your knees for him.”
“She’s not a patron of sport, and that’s a fact,” said the smith.
“Sport!” she cried, with shrill contempt and anger. “Tell me when all is over.”
She hurried away, and I saw her afterwards seated amongst the bracken, her back turned towards the multitude, and her hands over her ears, cowering and wincing in an agony of apprehension.
Whilst this hurried scene had been taking place, the crowd had become more and more tumultuous, partly from their impatience at the delay, and partly from their exuberant spirits at the unexpected chance of seeing so celebrated a fighting man as Harrison. His identity had already been noised abroad, and many an elderly connoisseur plucked his long net-purse out of his fob, in order to put a few guineas upon the man who would represent the school of the past against the present. The younger men were still in favour of the west-countryman, and small odds were to be had either way in proportion to the number of the supporters of each in the different parts of the crowd.
In the mean time Sir Lothian Hume had come bustling up to the Honourable Berkeley Craven, who was still standing near our curricle.
“I beg to lodge a formal protest against these proceedings,” said he.
“On what grounds, sir?”
“Because the man produced is not the original nominee of Sir Charles Tregellis.”
“I never named one, as you are well aware,” said my uncle.
“The betting has all been upon the understanding that young Jim Harrison was my man’s opponent. Now, at the last moment, he is withdrawn and another and more formidable man put into his place.”
“Sir Charles Tregellis is quite within his rights,” said Craven, firmly. “He undertook to produce a man who should be within the age limits stipulated, and I understand that Harrison fulfils all the conditions. You are over five-and-thirty, Harrison?”
“Forty-one next month, master.”
“Very good. I direct that the fight proceed.”
But alas! there was one authority which was higher even than that of the referee, and we were destined to an experience which was the prelude, and sometimes the conclusion, also, of many an old-time fight. Across the moor there had ridden a black-coated gentleman, with buff-topped hunting-boots and a couple of grooms behind him, the little knot of horsemen showing up clearly upon the curving swells and then dipping down into the alternate hollows. Some of the more observant of the crowd had glanced suspiciously at this advancing figure, but the majority had not observed him at all until he reined up his horse upon a knoll which overlooked the amphitheatre, and in a stentorian voice announced that he represented theCustos rotulorumof His Majesty’s county of Sussex, that he proclaimed this assembly to be gathered together for an illegal purpose, and that he was commissioned to disperse it by force, if necessary.
Never before had I understood that deep-seated fear and wholesome respect which many centuries of bludgeoning at the hands of the law had beaten into the fierce and turbulent natives of these islands. Here was a man with two attendants upon one side, and on the other thirty thousand very angry and disappointed people, many of them fighters by profession, and some from the roughest and most dangerous classes in the country. And yet it was the single man who appealed confidently to force, whilst the huge multitude swayed and murmured like a mutinous fierce-willed creature brought face to face with a power against which it knew that there was neither argument nor resistance. My uncle, however, with Berkeley Craven, Sir John Lade, and a dozen other lords and gentlemen, hurried across to the interrupter of the sport.
“I presume that you have a warrant, sir?” said Craven.
“Yes, sir, I have a warrant.”
“Then I have a legal right to inspect it.”
The magistrate handed him a blue paper which the little knot of gentlemen clustered their heads over, for they were mostly magistrates themselves, and were keenly alive to any possible flaw in the wording. At last Craven shrugged his shoulders, and handed it back.
“This seems to be correct, sir,” said he.
“It is entirely correct,” answered the magistrate, affably. “To prevent waste of your valuable time, gentlemen, I may say, once for all, that it is my unalterable determination that no fight shall, under any circumstances, be brought off in the county over which I have control, and I am prepared to follow you all day in order to prevent it.”
To my inexperience this appeared to bring the whole matter to a conclusion, but I had underrated the foresight of those who arrange these affairs, and also the advantages which made Crawley Down so favourite a rendezvous. There was a hurried consultation between the principals, the backers, the referee, and the timekeeper.
“It’s seven miles to Hampshire border and about two to Surrey,” said Jackson. The famous Master of the Ring was clad in honour of the occasion in a most resplendent scarlet coat worked in gold at the buttonholes, a white stock, a looped hat with a broad black band, buff knee-breeches, white silk stockings, and paste buckles—a costume which did justice to his magnificent figure, and especially to those famous “balustrade” calves which had helped him to be the finest runner and jumper as well as the most formidable pugilist in England. His hard, high-boned face, large piercing eyes, and immense physique made him a fitting leader for that rough and tumultuous body who had named him as their commander-in-chief.
“If I might venture to offer you a word of advice,” said the affable official, “it would be to make for the Hampshire line, for Sir James Ford, on the Surrey border, has as great an objection to such assemblies as I have, whilst Mr. Merridew, of Long Hall, who is the Hampshire magistrate, has fewer scruples upon the point.”
“Sir,” said my uncle, raising his hat in his most impressive manner, “I am infinitely obliged to you. With the referee’s permission, there is nothing for it but to shift the stakes.”
In an instant a scene of the wildest animation had set in. Tom Owen and his assistant, Fogo, with the help of the ring-keepers, plucked up the stakes and ropes, and carried them off across country. Crab Wilson was enveloped in great coats, and borne away in the barouche, whilst Champion Harrison took Mr. Craven’s place in our curricle. Then, off the huge crowd started, horsemen, vehicles, and pedestrians, rolling slowly over the broad face of the moorland. The carriages rocked and pitched like boats in a seaway, as they lumbered along, fifty abreast, scrambling and lurching over everything which came in their way. Sometimes, with a snap and a thud, one axle would come to the ground, whilst a wheel reeled off amidst the tussocks of heather, and roars of delight greeted the owners as they looked ruefully at the ruin. Then as the gorse clumps grew thinner, and the sward more level, those on foot began to run, the riders struck in their spurs, the drivers cracked their whips, and away they all streamed in the maddest, wildest cross-country steeplechase, the yellow barouche and the crimson curricle, which held the two champions, leading the van.
“What do you think of your chances, Harrison?” I heard my uncle ask, as the two mares picked their way over the broken ground.
“It’s my last fight, Sir Charles,” said the smith. “You heard the missus say that if she let me off this time I was never to ask again. I must try and make it a good one.”
“But your training?”
“I’m always in training, sir. I work hard from morning to night, and I drink little else than water. I don’t think that Captain Barclay can do much better with all his rules.”
“He’s rather long in the reach for you.”
“I’ve fought and beat them that were longer. If it comes to a rally I should hold my own, and I should have the better of him at a throw.”
“It’s a match of youth against experience. Well, I would not hedge a guinea of my money. But, unless he was acting under force, I cannot forgive young Jim for having deserted me.”
“Hewasacting under force, Sir Charles.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“No, master, I have not seen him.”
“You know where he is?”
“Well, it is not for me to say one way or the other. I can only tell you that he could not help himself. But here’s the beak a-comin’ for us again.”
The ominous figure galloped up once more alongside of our curricle, but this time his mission was a more amiable one.
“My jurisdiction ends at that ditch, sir,” said he. “I should fancy that you could hardly wish a better place for a mill than the sloping field beyond. I am quite sure that no one will interfere with you there.”
His anxiety that the fight should be brought off was in such contrast to the zeal with which he had chased us from his county, that my uncle could not help remarking upon it.
“It is not for a magistrate to wink at the breaking of the law, sir,” he answered. “But if my colleague of Hampshire has no scruples about its being brought off within his jurisdiction, I should very much like to see the fight,” with which he spurred his horse up an adjacent knoll, from which he thought that he might gain the best view of the proceedings.
And now I had a view of all those points of etiquette and curious survivals of custom which are so recent, that we have not yet appreciated that they may some day be as interesting to the social historian as they then were to the sportsman. A dignity was given to the contest by a rigid code of ceremony, just as the clash of mail-clad knights was prefaced and adorned by the calling of the heralds and the showing of blazoned shields. To many in those ancient days the tourney may have seemed a bloody and brutal ordeal, but we who look at it with ample perspective see that it was a rude but gallant preparation for the conditions of life in an iron age. And so also, when the ring has become as extinct as the lists, we may understand that a broader philosophy would show that all things, which spring up so naturally and spontaneously, have a function to fulfil, and that it is a less evil that two men should, of their own free will, fight until they can fight no more than that the standard of hardihood and endurance should run the slightest risk of being lowered in a nation which depends so largely upon the individual qualities of her citizens for her defence. Do away with war, if the cursed thing can by any wit of man be avoided, but until you see your way to that, have a care in meddling with those primitive qualities to which at any moment you may have to appeal for your own protection.
Tom Owen and his singular assistant, Fogo, who combined the functions of prize-fighter and of poet, though, fortunately for himself, he could use his fists better than his pen, soon had the ring arranged according to the rules then in vogue. The white wooden posts, each with the P.C. of the pugilistic club printed upon it, were so fixed as to leave a square of 24 feet within the roped enclosure. Outside this ring an outer one was pitched, eight feet separating the two. The inner was for the combatants and for their seconds, while in the outer there were places for the referee, the timekeeper, the backers, and a few select and fortunate individuals, of whom, through being in my uncle’s company, I was one. Some twenty well-known prize-fighters, including my friend Bill Warr, Black Richmond, Maddox, The Pride of Westminster, Tom Belcher, Paddington Jones, Tough Tom Blake, Symonds the ruffian, Tyne the tailor, and others, were stationed in the outer ring as beaters. These fellows all wore the high white hats which were at that time much affected by the fancy, and they were armed with horse-whips, silver-mounted, and each bearing the P.C. monogram. Did any one, be it East End rough or West End patrician, intrude within the outer ropes, this corp of guardians neither argued nor expostulated, but they fell upon the offender and laced him with their whips until he escaped back out of the forbidden ground. Even with so formidable a guard and such fierce measures, the beaters-out, who had to check the forward heaves of a maddened, straining crowd, were often as exhausted at the end of a fight as the principals themselves. In the mean time they formed up in a line of sentinels, presenting under their row of white hats every type of fighting face, from the fresh boyish countenances of Tom Belcher, Jones, and the other younger recruits, to the scarred and mutilated visages of the veteran bruisers.
Whilst the business of the fixing of the stakes and the fastening of the ropes was going forward, I from my place of vantage could hear the talk of the crowd behind me, the front two rows of which were lying upon the grass, the next two kneeling, and the others standing in serried ranks all up the side of the gently sloping hill, so that each line could just see over the shoulders of that which was in front. There were several, and those amongst the most experienced, who took the gloomiest view of Harrison’s chances, and it made my heart heavy to overhear them.
“It’s the old story over again,” said one. “They won’t bear in mind that youth will be served. They only learn wisdom when it’s knocked into them.”
“Ay, ay,” responded another. “That’s how Jack Slack thrashed Boughton, and I myself saw Hooper, the tinman, beat to pieces by the fighting oilman. They all come to it in time, and now it’s Harrison’s turn.”
“Don’t you be so sure about that!” cried a third. “I’ve seen Jack Harrison fight five times, and I never yet saw him have the worse of it. He’s a slaughterer, and so I tell you.”
“He was, you mean.”
“Well, I don’t see no such difference as all that comes to, and I’m putting ten guineas on my opinion.”
“Why,” said a loud, consequential man from immediately behind me, speaking with a broad western burr, “vrom what I’ve zeen of this young Gloucester lad, I doan’t think Harrison could have stood bevore him for ten rounds when he vas in his prime. I vas coming up in the Bristol coach yesterday, and the guard he told me that he had vifteen thousand pound in hard gold in the boot that had been zent up to back our man.”
“They’ll be in luck if they see their money again,” said another. “Harrison’s no lady’s-maid fighter, and he’s blood to the bone. He’d have a shy at it if his man was as big as Carlton House.”
“Tut,” answered the west-countryman. “It’s only in Bristol and Gloucester that you can get men to beat Bristol and Gloucester.”
“It’s like your damned himpudence to say so,” said an angry voice from the throng behind him. “There are six men in London that would hengage to walk round the best twelve that hever came from the west.”
The proceedings might have opened by an impromptu bye-battle between the indignant cockney and the gentleman from Bristol, but a prolonged roar of applause broke in upon their altercation. It was caused by the appearance in the ring of Crab Wilson, followed by Dutch Sam and Mendoza carrying the basin, sponge, brandy-bladder, and other badges of their office. As he entered Wilson pulled the canary-yellow handkerchief from his waist, and going to the corner post, he tied it to the top of it, where it remained fluttering in the breeze. He then took a bundle of smaller ribands of the same colour from his seconds, and walking round, he offered them to the noblemen and Corinthians at half-a-guinea apiece as souvenirs of the fight. His brisk trade was only brought to an end by the appearance of Harrison, who climbed in a very leisurely manner over the ropes, as befitted his more mature years and less elastic joints. The yell which greeted him was even more enthusiastic than that which had heralded Wilson, and there was a louder ring of admiration in it, for the crowd had already had their opportunity of seeing Wilson’s physique, whilst Harrison’s was a surprise to them.
I had often looked upon the mighty arms and neck of the smith, but I had never before seen him stripped to the waist, or understood the marvellous symmetry of development which had made him in his youth the favourite model of the London sculptors. There was none of that white sleek skin and shimmering play of sinew which made Wilson a beautiful picture, but in its stead there was a rugged grandeur of knotted and tangled muscle, as though the roots of some old tree were writhing from breast to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow. Even in repose the sun threw shadows from the curves of his skin, but when he exerted himself every muscle bunched itself up, distinct and hard, breaking his whole trunk into gnarled knots of sinew. His skin, on face and body, was darker and harsher than that of his youthful antagonist, but he looked tougher and harder, an effect which was increased by the sombre colour of his stockings and breeches. He entered the ring, sucking a lemon, with Jim Belcher and Caleb Baldwin, the coster, at his heels. Strolling across to the post, he tied his blue bird’s-eye handkerchief over the west-countryman’s yellow, and then walked to his opponent with his hand out.
“I hope I see you well, Wilson,” said he.
“Pretty tidy, I thank you,” answered the other. “We’ll speak to each other in a different vashion, I ’spects, afore we part.”
“But no ill-feeling,” said the smith, and the two fighting men grinned at each other as they took their own corners.
“May I ask, Mr. Referee, whether these two men have been weighed?” asked Sir Lothian Hume, standing up in the outer ring.
“Their weight has just been taken under my supervision, sir,” answered Mr. Craven. “Your man brought the scale down at thirteen-three, and Harrison at thirteen-eight.”
“He’s a fifteen-stoner from the loins upwards,” cried Dutch Sam, from his corner.
“We’ll get some of it off him before we finish.”
“You’ll get more off him than ever you bargained for,” answered Jim Belcher, and the crowd laughed at the rough chaff.