CHAPTER V.

NICHOLAS (NICK) WARD.

1835-1841.

The claim of Nick Ward to a chapter in a History of the Ring is,

though certainly slender, of a twofold character. In the first place,

as another and more recently fallen warrior was described as “the

nephew of his uncle,” so Nick Ward may be signalised as “the brother

of Jem;” the second, and more cogent, reason is the high flight of his

ambition, and the consequent eminence of his adversaries, he having

beaten Deaf Burke, and, by a fluke, won a fight for the Championship

with the modern “Big Ben.” These things premised, we proceed to a

brief sketch of his quasi-pugilistic performances.

Nick Ward was born on an ominous day, the 1st of April, in the year

1811, in St. George’s-in-the-East, London; and on February 24th, 1835,

having previously acquired a reputation in the sparring-schools of the

Metropolis, he stripped at Moulsey Hurst, to face John Lockyer, of

Cranbrook, a yokel bruiser of about 12st., whose only scored victory

was a win with one Bridger, of Maidstone, in February, 1833. Jack

Lockyer (named “Harry,” in _Fistiana_, under WARD) was a mere

chopping-block in the skilful hands of Nick, his longer-reached and

more artistic antagonist; and being “satisfied” at the end of 18

rounds, gave no criterion by which to judge of Young Nick’s game or

endurance. It was pretty evident, however, that his brother and

friends were not much taken with this initiative display of his

qualities, for the next match looked out for Master Nick was with a

11st. man, Jem Wharton (afterwards celebrated as “Young Molyneaux,”

and “the Morocco Prince”[22]) for £15 a side. The deposits were made

good, and the day, May 12th, 1835, fixed Nick Ward’s backer having won

the toss for choice of place (within thirty miles of London) named the

well-known Moulsey Hurst as the _champ clos_ of combat.

On the appointed Tuesday, the patrons of the fistic art were on the

_qui vive_ to witness the tourney between “the brother of the

Champion” and the aspiring “Young Molyneaux”――a worthy, albeit a

miniature, counterpart of the dusky gladiator of the same name, who,

in times gone by, twice fell beneath the all-conquering arm of Cribb,

as may be read by those who are curious in the first volume of this

work.

Nick went into training at Norwood, putting up at the “Rose and

Crown,” our old friend Ned Neale’s hostelrie, and, as we thought,

making himself rather more of a public character in the neighbourhood

than was either prudent or desirable. Nevertheless, all looked, thus

far, promising. Of betting there was little or none; for such was the

confidence in favour of Ward, that three to one was offered, but no

takers――a circumstance attributable to his superiority in science,

length, and weight (for he weighed 12st. 10lb., while the Black was

more than a stone under that standard, as well as being much shorter).

It was still thought there would be excellent sport afforded, and

there were those who, although not disposed to risk their rhino, yet

entertained “a shrewd suspicion” that the Black would win. The

necessary preparations were made for conveying the men to the scene of

action on Tuesday morning; but, unluckily, on the evening before a

“stopper” was placed upon Ward, who was apprehended (on the authority

of a warrant issued by the magistrates at Union Hall), and taken

before Mr. Ellyard, a local magistrate at Norwood, by whom he was held

to bail to keep the peace towards all his Majesty’s subjects in

general, and the Black Prince in particular. The unpleasant

intelligence was soon conveyed to town, and produced no small panic in

the minds of those to whose knowledge it came; but a vast number

remained in ignorance of the fact till the next day, when too late to

save them the expense and trouble of a long trot. The road to Hampton

on Tuesday presented the customary bustle, and it was not till the

throng congregated in hundreds in view of the Hurst, that the rumours

with which they were assailed on the road were confirmed. Great

indignation was, of course, expressed, and various speculations were

afloat as to the author of the mischief; some attributing the step to

Jem Burn or his party, and others to the malice of some secret enemy

of the sports of the Ring. There was, however, no help for it, and as

it was found that orders were also given to prevent “any breach of the

peace” on Moulsey Hurst, it was resolved to seek consolation in a

minor mill, which was yet to the good, in a meadow about two miles

from Hampton, whither the ropes and stakes were conveyed, followed by

a countless succession of go-carts, and vehicles of a more

aristocratic description, which joined in the motley cavalcade.

This “little go” we may note in a parenthesis. It was between Evans

(nicknamed “the Pumpborer”), and an aspirant who contented himself

with the title of “Jack January’s brother.” These “obscurities” having

punished each other for seventy minutes, Evans was hailed the victor.

We ought to state that Wharton was driven on to the ground in style,

looking bright as “Day and Martin’s Japan,” and jauntily tossed his

hat into the ring, his “soul in arms and eager for the fray.” This

was, however, a mere matter of form, as “magisterial interference”

having placed his antagonist out of harm’s way, no forfeit could be

claimed. The mischance, of course, excited much speculation among the

disappointed, as to the author of the interruption, some attributing

it to the friends of the Black, and others to the partisans of Ward;

while a third party laid the blame, and not without fair ground of

suspicion, to some dog in the manger, who, disliking the sports of the

Ring himself, determined to deprive others of a pleasure in which he

did not choose to participate. There was nothing in the character of

the match to warrant a belief that the backers of either man had a

sufficient motive for declining the contest. The stakes were trifling,

and made up by subscription, so that the loss in this way could not

have been worth consideration. The expenses of training had already

been incurred, handkerchiefs bought, and vehicles to take the men to

the ground engaged. Both men were in first-rate condition, and both,

notwithstanding the disparity in their size, equally confident, and

more especially Wharton, who booked winning, and nothing else; and

then, as to the betting, there were no bets made which could have

influenced any of the contracting parties to contrive a “draw.” The

real cause of the fiasco, which was never clearly made out, may be

surmised, when read by the knowledge acquired by subsequent events;

and, without much damage to young Nick’s reputation, we may conclude

that he had “no stomach for the fight,” and was secretly glad that the

affair had a bloodless termination by “magisterial interference,” and

his being formally bound over, for a whole twelvemonth, “to keep the

peace towards all her Majesty’s subjects.”

From this time (May, 1835), Nick merely exhibited with the gloves, in

“brother Jem’s” saloon, or at other “assaults of arms,” for benefits,

&c., though his name appears as “challenged by Burke, Hampson,

Brassey, Fisher, Bailey, and other “big ’uns.”

On the 24th May, 1836, Bendigo beat Brassey at Sheffield, and three

days afterwards, on Friday, the 27th, Jem Ward, Brother Nick, Jem

Burn, Bendy, and an aristocratic assemblage of “swells,” were at

Tottenham, where, at a private farm, there was some “cocking.” The

facetious Sambo Sutton, too, was among the company; and as a sequel to

the sports of the pit, at a merry meeting at mine host Harry

Milbourne’s, there was some lively chaff about the late “black job;”

the said chaff being specially promoted by Jem Burn, who was retorted

upon (he being the patron of “Young Molyneaux,” and now of the

eccentric “Sambo”) as a dealer in sable specimens of humanity. Some

reflections on Nick’s pluck being of a very “pale complexion,” led to

an offer to match him against Burn’s latest “new black,” and on Massa

Sambo enthusiastically declaring how delighted he would be “jest to

hab a roun’ or two,” Nick “screwed his courage to the sticking-place,”

and a “purse” being at once subscribed, “a field near Finchley” was

offered by a sporting gentleman present, and off the whole party

started. At this time Sambo was only known, beyond some sparring

capabilities, to be a merry mountebank of the original Ethiopian

order, and is described in a contemporary paper as having “a head like

a cow-cabbage, a mouth laughing all across his face, and possesing an

extraordinary faculty of standing upon his flat head, with his flatter

feet flourishing in the air, dancing and singing for an hour together,

and varying the fun by drinking miscellaneous liquors in that

uncomfortable position.” To these accomplishments, says the writer,

“he adds great bodily strength, long arms, and such a gluttonous

appetite for ‘towelling’ that nobody can give him enough with the

gloves.” The affair was really got up as an experiment to try Nick’s

mettle, and such was the consequence drawn from his “blood and

breeding,” that two and three to one on him were offered, but no

takers.

The fight did not take place until seven in the evening, when the real

P.C. ropes and stakes were got down from town, and pitched in an

excellent spot, hidden from the North Road, Finchley, by a rising

ground. Jack Adams and Fitzmaurice waited on Ward, Byng Stocks and

Jack Clarke on Sambo.

For the first ten rounds Nick took the lead in good style, nobbing his

man neatly, stopping his attempts at returning, and gaining first

blood in the third round. Sambo also made some very clever stops, and

now and then got home a sort of swinger on Nick’s ribs; nevertheless,

he was down anyhow at the end of each round. Still, he rolled about

like an india-rubber tombola, and when he did get in a “little ’un”

the “big ’un” seemed to jump away, and fight very shy till he could

himself “get on” again. Ward came up, once or twice, “blowing” in a

manner that did not indicate first-rate condition. In the eleventh

round, Sambo being pretty considerably cut about the head, Adams

called on Nick to “go in and finish him;” Nick tried to obey orders.

He caught the Nigger a slashing hit on the head, which Sambo took

kindly, merely shaking it; and, darting in, he drew Ward’s cork from

his smelling-bottle so suddenly that a gush of claret followed; Nick

made an involuntary backward step, and Sambo bustled him down. The

“clerks of St. Nicholas” looked blank.

Ward came up slowly for round 12, when Sambo went in furiously. Ward

met him a hot ’un on the nob; but the darkey would not be denied, and

in a wild sort of rally Sambo caught Master Nick such an awful chop on

the smeller, as they were both going down, that Ward was under, by his

own consent, and the tap again copiously turned on. This was enough.

Nick declared he would “have no more of it.” Remonstrance was useless:

“he would fight no longer,” and the sponge was thrown up. Sambo,

shaking his head like a black and red rag-mop, cut a “break-down”

caper, and sang a song of triumph which defied the art of stenography,

while Ward hurried off, amidst the laughter and cheering of the

assembly, like a “trundle-tailed cur,” declaring, “it was no use, he

was not cut out for a fighting man!” an assertion, in the words of the

old song, “Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny.”

After this public manifestation that whatever “devil” there may be in

“Old Nick” his young namesake was endowed with none of that fiery

quality, “the Champion’s brother” confined himself to “attitude,” the

horse-hair pads, and, in the words of pugilistic M.C.’s., to “walking

round and showing his muscle.” Meantime the “cow-cabbage hero” kept

continually challenging him to another bout “in the reg’lar ring,”

while starring it on sparring tours at Cambridge, Oxford, and

elsewhere――for Sambo was an immense favourite among the “’Varsity

men.” At last the smoke kindled into a flame, and out came Nick, with

a declaration that he would “no longer stand this black buffoon’s

bounce.” Articles were accordingly signed, a match made for £50 a

side, and the stakes deposited in the hands of old Tom Cribb. Tuesday,

the 27th March, 1838, was named as the day, half-way between

Birmingham and London as the place of battle; for though the deposits

were made in town it was not a metropolitan match. Nick Ward’s money

was found by brother Jem and certain Liverpool supporters; while the

funds for Sambo were readily raised, principally by some Oxford

friends. Ward went into training at Crosby, near Liverpool, under the

immediate eye of his brother and Peter Taylor. Sambo did his

breathings and gymnastics at a village near Oxford city. Both men were

reported to be in tip-top condition, and eager for the fray――Nick to

refurbish his tarnished reputation, and rub off the stain of

pusillanimity, and Sambo, as he said, “’cos him like to hab anoder

slap at Massa Ward, him so clebber at get away――but p’raps not dis

time;” and he shook his woolly nob like a black Burleigh. It was the

desire of the London division that, under the shadow of the untoward

result of the encounter between Owen Swift and Brighton Bill (March

13th, 1838), a postponement of the meeting should take place; but time

would not permit, in those days of slow communication, to have a

conference on the subject, so matters took their course. Ward, having

won the toss, named Bicester, in Oxfordshire (the recent scene of the

defeat of Byng Stocks, of Westminster, by Hammer Lane, of Birmingham),

a town distinguished for the jovial character and sporting

propensities of its inhabitants. Thither were the ropes and stakes

sent. The Commissary being laid up with the gout, and unable to

accompany them, Jack Clarke was deputed to officiate, he being on the

spot, and acting as trainer to Massa Sambo. As we feel best satisfied

when we write from personal observation, we may note that on Monday

afternoon we found ourselves comfortably seated in a room at the

“King’s Arms,” Bicester, a house distinguished for solid customers,

and them boasting a host of high sporting quality. There was no bustle

in the town, which at that time was quiet as a Quakers’ meeting; none

of the “old familiar faces” were visible. The London Fancy――and we

think they were right――had determined that all matches should be

postponed for a certain period. Hence, not a single familiar phiz

graced the scene. It is true the town was enlivened by the presence of

Sir Henry Peyton, with his spicy four-in-hand, and there, too, was

Lord Chetwynd, on his cover-hack; but we could not help thinking, as

his lordship gave us a sly nod of recognition, that there was a

curious expression in his jolly face, as he made us aware that there

had been “magisterial business” at the Town Hall, as a sort of reason

_why_ we saw him there. This was soon confirmed by a sporting friend,

whom we fearlessly set down as that _lusus naturæ_, “an honest

lawyer.” He told us, with regret, that “the Philistines were abroad,”

and that the Home Office, urged on by the twaddle of “My Grandmother”

(the _Morning Herald_), and the goody-goody papers, with the awful

denunciations of the supineness or complicity of the magistracy of

Cambridgeshire and Herts in the melancholy affair of Swift and Phelps,

had sent down warnings and counsels for extra vigilance to the police

and magistracy of Oxford and Bucks. That “all this was sooth” we had

afterwards reason to find. Sambo, we learned, had been at Lainton,

about two miles from the town, but, as a measure of precaution, he was

moved from a public to a private house, and in the domicile of an

honest yeoman met with that kindly hospitality by which this class of

our countrymen was characterised. Here he was thought perfectly safe,

and all that was now wanting was the arrival of Jem Ward, or some

emissary from him, to agree upon some less dangerous point of meeting.

It was understood that Ward had been advised to stop short of

Bicester, but it was fully expected that he would appear at

head-quarters to settle upon preliminaries. Every avenue was watched,

yet up to nine o’clock no tidings of him were heard, and although the

country was scoured over a circuit of three-and-twenty miles, after

nine o’clock, in search of him, and every village visited, his

presence could not be discovered, for the best of all reasons, that he

had stopped short at Banbury, and did not come forward till the

morning, nor send any person forward to announce his proximity. This

was more than mortifying, for it was soon seen that the magistrates of

Buckinghamshire became more active, and a constable was despatched by

the venerable and amatory Sir John Chetwood, with a warrant for the

apprehension of Sambo, which was backed by an Oxfordshire magistrate.

The constable thus entrusted was more than usually active in his

vocation, and endeavoured, by every means in his power, to ferret out

his sable prey: an activity, no doubt, very praiseworthy, but which

led him into an adventure far from agreeable, and certainly likely to

remain impressed on his memory. While grunting about, like a boar

looking for a pig-nut, he met with a wag who informed him, on a solemn

promise of secresy, that Sambo was stowed away in a _badger-box_,

which he knew to be placed in an enclosed paddock behind the house of

the honest lawyer to whom we have already alluded, and whose

zoological collection was known, far and near, as being of an

extensive and curious description. “A nod is as good as a wink to a

blind horse,” so Mister Constable, cock-sure of having marked down his

game, silently stole into the paddock, where stood the long

badger-box, of which he determined, from that instant, never to lose

sight until its occupant should disclose himself. Night was fast

approaching, but it was clear and fine, so, after duly reconnoitring,

the “copper” cautiously approached the box, and, tapping on the lid,

in soothing terms invited Mister Sutton to come out and surrender, as

he was “wanted,” or else, badger or no badger, he must be “drawn.” As

Sambo was about two miles off he made no answer, so the invitation was

repeated in more peremptory tones, but with no more success. “Bobby”

became irate at what he considered nigger obstinacy, so he turned the

button and thrust his hand into the sacking, and so into the round

hole at the top, with the view of lifting the lid. Rash experiment!

the lawful tenant――a badger, not of African, but of British breed――was

“at home,” but not to Home Office visitors. Without growl, bark, or

other warning, the sharp-toothed “varmint” revenged the violation of

his sanctum by seizing the digits of the assailant of his castle, and

nearly severing the top joints of at least three of his fingers. The

luckless constable raised so loud an exclamation that forth rushed a

favourite old retriever hight “Nelson,” who gave tongue so loudly

that, though “his bark was worse than his bite,” it was lucky he was

on the chain, or, perchance, the seat of the rural’s inexpressibles

might have been absent without leave before he succeeded in clearing

the low wall into the high road, whence he lost no time in making his

way to the village surgery, and thence, his dexter fin, as the

police-reporters say, “enveloped in surgical bandages,” he hastened to

“report” himself and his adventure to his superior officers. The

mischievous author of the hoax did not fail to spread the story of the

success of his severe practical joke, and for some time it was

dangerous, but not uncommon, for labourers and impertinent boys to

address the query to the Buckinghamshire constables of “Who drew the

badger?” without receiving a civil or satisfactory answer.

On Tuesday morning Sambo was still at the house of his friend, few

knowing his whereabouts; when it transpired that every route from

Bicester into Northamptonshire was closely watched to prevent the

escape of Sambo, or the approach of Ward. It was therefore determined

to cover his retreat by a “ruse,” which was thus arranged. A

countryman was engaged by a bribe to allow his face to be blacked with

cart-grease and soot, his neck encircled by Sambo’s colours (white

with a blue border), wrapped in a white box-cloth driving coat, and

sent off towards Oxford at as good a pace as a pair of posters could

carry him. But alas! great conceptions often meet with untoward

interruptions. One of the Buckinghamshire “badger-drawers” discovered

from a chawbacon lout the exact hiding place of the sable-fox, and

carried the intelligence to Sir John Chetwood; then returning, with

the baronet close at his heels, he boldly knocked at the door of the

house, which was opened by a servantgirl. Demanding to see her master,

and the wench stoutly refusing him admittance, he gallantly pulled out

a pistol, and presenting it, marched on in triumph. Walking into the

back-parlour, “from information he had received,” he at once

recognised the real Sambo, and, producing his warrant, made a quiet

capture of his prisoner. At this moment Lord Chetwynd, with

attendants, rode up and joined Sir John Chetwood, so that “the majesty

of the law” was fully represented at the capture of his Sable

Highness. On reaching the front of the house, however, Sambo made a

cunning and bold attempt at an escape from his “buckra” enemies. In

vain; he was quickly overtaken and secured, and forthwith conveyed to

Buckingham. Our friend the “honest lawyer” was not far off. He went

back to Bicester, took a postchaise and pair, enlisted a friend and

“householder,” and without hesitation followed the captive “Black

Prince,” put in the required sureties, and restored him to freedom.

Meantime the first news was received of Ward, that he and his friends

were at Middleton, a village three miles off, and were awaiting

Sambo’s arrival. It was now too late. A Mercury was despatched to Nick

and Co., advising him to make himself scarce, as he too might be

“wanted;” a hint which was in season, for, in an hour after, Lord

Chetwynd and company were on the road to Middleton, where they arrived

in time to find that the bird had flown. Ward, his brother, and

friends, of course returned to Liverpool, and Sambo, though “bound

over,” was at liberty to dance, sing, tumble, spar, and “jump Jem

Crow,” a free man in all things but a “free fight.”

Another twelvemonth of rustication ended in a match with Jem Bailey, a

12 stone Irishman (not “Bailey of Bristol”), and the fight was fixed

for January 14th, 1839, the stake £25 a side. This went off in a

forfeit by Bailey, as did another match made by Ward himself. In

October, however, after some clever and vicious “gloving,” and a very

strong expression of opinion by Bailey of Nick’s mode of “cutting” it

when “tackled,” two spirited gents, in the habit of frequenting Alec

Reid’s sparring-room, Frith Street, Soho, expressed a willingness to

back Bailey for £25 against Ward, who immediately found backers to

that amount among some amateurs in the art of self-defence, at Owen

Swift’s, in Tichborne Street. As the match was only made about a week

before the day fixed――October 18th, 1839――there was not much time

allowed for training. Ward went to Acton for two or three days, but

Bailey, we are informed, did not employ his leisure hours quite so

profitably as many considered he ought to have done under the

circumstances.

On the Thursday the whole of the stakes were deposited in the hands of

Owen Swift, at the “Coach and Horses,” Frith Street, Soho, in the

presence of a numerous assemblage of the Fancy, when a long discussion

ensued respecting the place where the fight should come off. On the

part of Ward it was contended that “down the river,” would be

preferable to any other place, inasmuch as they were the less likely

to be interfered with in that quarter than if they went out of town

per railroad, as the partisans of Bailey wished. It was, however,

decided that Ditton Marsh should be visited, and the majority of those

who were in the secret repaired to the Southampton terminus at Nine

Elms, by nine o’clock on the following morning (Friday), while some

who possessed fast “tits” preferred the road. The Fancy having

comfortably seated themselves in the train, in the full expectation of

not meeting with any annoyance by the presence of a “beak,” were not a

little flabbergasted by observing Mr. Hedger and several other

magistrates of Surrey enter one of the first-class carriages.

“What could they do there at that early hour?” was the very natural

inquiry, which query was not satisfactorily solved till the gentlemen

in Her Majesty’s commission took their departure at Kingston, where it

appears their presence was necessary at the Sessions. Never did the

lovers of boxing part company with their travelling companions with a

greater degree of satisfaction than they did with their worships.

Ditton Station having been announced by the attendants of the railway,

the train was nearly cleared of its passengers, and the veteran

Commissary and his coadjutor, Little Jack, were not long in fixing the

stakes and ropes at the further end of the common, on the left of the

station. Some delay, however, ensued in consequence of the articles

not stating that the men were to fight in accordance with the new

rules of the P.R., and the circumstance of several parties refusing to

take office under the old regulations. Alec Reid, who wished the fight

to proceed in accordance with the articles, at length gave way, and it

was agreed the new, and certainly more manly and humane laws, should

be adopted. All the necessary preliminaries were then adjusted, and

the men entered the ring.

Previous to the commencement of hostilities a good deal of betting

took place at 6 to 4 on Ward, and Bailey accepted those odds with an

eagerness which showed he had great confidence in himself.

Bailey, a native of the Emerald Isle, in height 5 feet 11 inches,

weighing 12 st. 2 lb., aged 28, was well known in the neighbourhood of

Norwich, where they thought him good enough to match him against the

renowned Brassey, of Bradford, on two occasions, on both of which he

was, of course, thrashed.

King Dick and Harry Holt, the “Cicero” of the Fancy, attended on Ward;

the Essex Youth and a gallant son of Mars waited on Bailey. All being

in readiness, the men peeled, and at twenty minutes past ten commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――Neither, from the circumstances above stated,

looked quite up to the mark as regards condition, but a

smile of confidence played on the features of both.

Ward’s attitude was easier and more scientific than

Bailey’s, who stood in a straggling and ungainly

manner. They kept at a respectful distance from each

other for some time, when Ward let fly with his left,

and caught his man on the top of the head; an exchange

of blows ensued, when they broke away from each other.

Bailey, however, soon made play, and in the close Ward

went down.

2.――No damage done. Bailey came up smiling to the

scratch. He tried it on with his right, but the hit was

too round to take much effect on Ward’s side; the

latter then went to work, but neither in their

exchanges did any mischief. In the close Bailey tried

for the cross-buttock, but he slipped and fell.

3.――Both quickly resumed business, and as quickly

closed, when some fibbing ensued, which Bailey had the

best of, and both went down together. [Loud shouts for

Bailey, from whose mouth, however, a little claret

appeared.]

4.――The smile on Bailey’s mug soon disappeared on Ward

popping in his left on the nob sharply, and another on

the sinister ogle. In the close Bailey was under.

5.――Bailey made play, but received a clean counter-hit

just above his right peeper, which evidently severed

one of the small veins, for the crimson stream spurted

forth in profusion; Bailey then closed on his opponent,

who went down.

6.――The left hand of Ward was evidently damaged from

coming in contact with the knowledge box of Bailey, who

made play with his right, but was admirably stopped; a

close, Bailey bored to the ropes, when Ward tried the

upper-cut, but missed his man, who dropped down at the

corner.

7.――Bailey came up smiling, and a good fighting round

took place in favour of Ward, who again went down at

the close to avoid any punishment he might receive at

infighting.

8.――After some sparring Ward shot out his left bang on

the mug of Bailey, and kept countering him till they

closed, when Nick cut work for a time by going down.

[Much dissatisfaction was expressed at Ward’s conduct

in dropping.]

9.――The frontispiece of Bailey exhibited marks of

severe punishment, and in addition to other hits, his

left cheek-bone had received a nasty one, still he came

up to his man courageously, and in trying it on with

his right received a counter-hit, which however, missed

the intended spot, and fell on the shoulder; a close,

when Nick released himself in the usual way by going

down.

10.――Ward again at work with his left, which slightly

fell on the nob; a close, and before Bailey could get a

good hit at him, Nick dropped.

11.――Bailey made play, but missed his antagonist, and

in a scramble Ward fell.

12.――The expressions of disapprobation at Ward’s

continually going down were now so general that Ward

smilingly exclaimed on coming up to the scratch

“Bailey, don’t find fault; why should you?” Ward tried

his left, but was stopped; he then put in his right,

which slightly took effect on the nob; a rally, when

Ward dropped on his knees, and Bailey was very near

hitting him in that position.

13.――Ward put in a chin-chopper; a rally to the ropes,

and both down together, if anything, Ward under.

14.――The left hand of Ward quickly visited the

headpiece of Bailey, who rushed in, but it was “no go,”

for his man went down as formerly.

15.――Ward led off, but missed the intended visitation,

when Bailey went in, and for once succeeded in giving

Nick the upper cut, which made a slight incision over

the eyebrow.

16.――Bailey again felt Ward’s left on the canister, and

the latter got away without a return, and was quickly

down.

At this point, twenty-five minutes having elapsed, a policeman well

mounted was seen in the distance, and the combatants had the office to

“cut,” which they quickly did. The man in blue on arriving at the ring

pulled out his “toasting fork,” and requested an old farmer, named

Weston (who was also mounted, and had previously appeared to take

extreme interest in the battle), to point out the fighting men. The

jesuitical veteran, with evident pleasure, was about doing so, but

both men escaped unperceived to a barn opposite. As the policeman

expressed his determination to follow the parties, and prevent

hostilities, a council of war was held, and it was decided that the

train should be again had recourse to, and Woking Common the place of

rendezvous. The Woking station was reached a little after one, and in

less than half an hour the stakes were fixed in a retired spot at the

end of the lane across the Common.

Here seventeen more rounds were fought in about thirty minutes, when

the same style of fighting ensued as that above described, Ward,

however, not going down _quite_ so frequently as heretofore. Bailey

received additional pepper on his mug, while Ward scarcely exhibited

any marks of punishment. Many of the rounds were remarkable for their

non-effect on either side, and their scrambling struggles were more

like those of two big boys at school than men in the P.R. In the 12th

round Bailey had the best of it, but “bad was the best.”

A dispute arose in the 15th round, Bailey having slipped down without

a blow, but the fight was ordered to be proceeded with. In the next

bout, after a short rally, Ward dropped to avoid in-fighting, when

Bailey certainly struck Nick on the ribs while he was on his knees.

The referee, however, gave a contrary opinion, and the men came to the

scratch for the 17th time at this place, and the 33rd in the whole.

They soon went to work, and immediately after closing Ward went down,

when Bailey, it was said, again struck him foul.

The referee was once more appealed to, who decided that Bailey,

although evidently accidentally, had hit his man when down. Ward

immediately proceeded to the corner to untie the colours, which was

resisted by Bailey, who “pitched into him,” and bored him with his

neck against the ropes. They were soon separated, and Ward left the

ring with his friends, Bailey reluctantly following.

The fight, _Bell’s Life_ remarks, did not in any way come up to the

expectations of those who had travelled so far to witness it. Bailey

is as game a man as ever entered the ring, but he has very little

knowledge of the art, and as for countering, it appears such an idea

never entered his head. His position is also bad, being too wide and

straggling. Ward is a scientific boxer, but he wants determination and

the _heart_ to go in and punish his opponent when an opportunity

presents itself, many of which Bailey gave him, but they were not

taken advantage of. We heard him declare that he had received orders

to fight cautiously, but his frequent “dropping” at close quarters

cannot, notwithstanding his instructions, be considered commendable.

Had the fight been continued, we have no doubt Bailey must have been

defeated, although his courage might have protracted the battle for a

much longer time, for in each succeeding round he was receiving

punishment without returning it with any visible effect. Ward’s left

hand was puffed, which, with the exception of the slight cut over the

eye, was all the injury he appeared to have met with, while the

frontispiece of his opponent was very much disfigured by the continual

jobs from Ward’s left hand.

The majority of the spectators left Woking by the three o’clock train,

and were conveyed to town, a distance of 33 miles, in about two

minutes over the hour.

This affair was followed by another match, and a deposit of £10; but

at the second deposit at Peter Crawley’s, on the 14th January, 1840,

Ward was announced as “too unwell to fight,” and the stakes down were

handed over to Bailey, at Mrs. Owen’s, Belgrave Mews, on the

succeeding Tuesday; Bailey on the occasion proposing a match with Deaf

Burke, which “ended in smoke.”

In May, Nick Ward was matched for £50 with Brassey, of Bradford, but

this also went off in a refusal on the part of Brassey’s friends to

allow their man to fight for less than £100.

At length, in July, the long-talked-of tourney between Nick and the

Deaf’un took shape and substance, and £50 were down, to be made £100,

for the men to meet on the 22nd of September, 1840, over 50 and under

100 miles from London. To that day we shall, therefore, come, without

further preface.

“Thayre you air agin,” as Paddy said to the pig in his potato-trench――and

sure enough “thayre we were, body and bones,” on Tuesday, September

22nd, in the self-same field, on the borders of Oxfordshire, in which

Isaac Dobell (lately defunct) whacked his friend Bailey the butcher,

on the 7th of April, 1828; and we can only regret that in modern times

we have not had more frequent opportunities of witnessing those manly

demonstrations of “fair play” which the sports of the Ring are so

admirably calculated to afford. But how did you get there? Why, to

tell the truth, as far as we were personally concerned, with tolerable

ease――although not without incurring divers dangers by “flood and

field”――_bekase_ the Commissary had kindly engaged us a postchaise;

and we regret that many of our friends were not equally fortunate. To

be plain――the fight was fixed to come off within sixty, and above

fifty miles from London, on the Liverpool line, and hence the Deaf’un,

who won the toss for choice of ground, named Wolverton, the first

“grubbing bazaar” on the Birmingham railway (about fifty-one miles

from the Euston Square station), as the point of rendezvous. Thither,

on the day before, the Commissary and his deputy (Tom Oliver and Jack

Clarke) repaired with their _materiel_, and it was ascertained that

“the Deaf’un and Co.” had taken up their quarters at the “Bull,” at

Stony Stratford, while “Nick Ward and Co.” were domiciled in a village

not far distant.

The morning broke most inauspiciously, and heavy showers damped the

ardour of many a boxing patron, who, instead of advancing to

Buckinghamshire, quietly sojourned in _Bedfordshire_. Still, there was

a fair “turn out” of spicy dare-devils, who were not to be scared by

trifles from their favourite pastime, hence the morning trains took

down a moderate sprinkling of “the right sort.” On reaching Wolverton,

however, great was their dismay at finding that there were but two

postchaises at that station――both of which had been pre-engaged――and

that of other vehicles there was a similar scarcity. Scouts were sent

to Stony Stratford, but in vain; for the few that were there had

already been secured by the early birds, and thus “a pilgrimage

through the Slough of Despond” stared them in the face. Poor Stony

Stratford is, alas! not what it was before railroads were in fashion.

It is reduced to a mere sleepy, out-of-the-way village, instead of

being as, in our time, a centre of bustle and prosperity: indeed, in

recent memory it was the high and popular road to Birmingham,

distinguished by the number of mails and stage-coaches which “changed”

there, and the continuous demand for post-horses. Alas! “The Cock,”

the sign of its principal inn, has ceased to “crow,” and the host,

like Dennis Bulgruddery, often calls in vain upon his ostler Dan, to

know “if he sees a customer coming that way?” Happily, Tuesday’s call

enabled Dan to respond――not that there was a customer coming, but

many, and thus the ordinary gloom of every-day melancholy was roused

into cheerfulness and hope. All the nags were soon engaged, and “the

Cock” without and “the cocks” within chuckled with satisfaction. The

“Bull,” at which the Burkites were assembled, also became rampant, and

“sich a gittin up stairs” had not been witnessed for months.

As the day advanced the bells of the parish church rang a merry peal,

“set a-going,” as the facetious Jem Burn said, “in honour of the

occasion;” but, as we afterwards learnt, with the double intent of

announcing a couple of village weddings. By a singular combination,

the face of the clock of the said parish church, in gilt letters,

forewarned the travellers of the fact that it was either the handiwork

of “_T. Oliver_ and _J. Clarke_” or had been erected or repaired

during the official service of churchwardens bearing those popular

names; a fact which produced on the “dials” of the venerable

Commissary and his deputy, as they waited for orders, a grin of

scarcely repressible self-sufficiency. The “office” was duly given as

to “the where,” and away went the Commissary and his pioneers to

Deanshanger, about four miles distant, in the county of Bucks,

followed by a goodly multitude, horse and foot, embracing a large

proportion of British yeomen, to whom the dripping weather gave a

timely relief from the labours of the field. On reaching Deanshanger,

however, the fact of a couple of mounted “rural blues” being abroad

rendered it prudent to move on, and hence the arena was finally formed

at Lillingstone Level, on the estate of Colonel Delappe, on the

borders of Oxfordshire; the journey to which locality, “through the

woods and through the woods,” was trying alike to man and horse. In

truth, a more heathenish road never was travelled since the times of

the Druids; nor ever did the modern invention of springs undergo a

more severe ordeal, while the be-bogged pedestrian railed with bitter

inveteracy against the railroads which had subjected them to such

unforeseen difficulties, by causing a dearth of the ordinary modes of

“civilised conveyance.” However, “barring all pother,” we at length

reached our final destination, and there found the lists in fitting

preparation.

It was now nearly one o’clock, and all was completed; but, as might

have been said to the mob who surrounded Tyburn tree, awaiting the

arrival of Jack Sheppard, “there’s no fun till the principals arrive,”

so here there was no fun till Ward presented his agreeable mug. It is

true that the Deaf’un shied his castor into the ring before one, and

claimed forfeit in consequence of the absence of “Young” not “_Old

Nick_;” but as the appointed ground had been changed, and Ward and his

friends had to scramble through the bogs with the assistance only of a

one-horse cart, sufficient excuse was afforded for his absence, and

the claim was premature.

At last the signal of approach was given, and hailed with

satisfaction. At a quarter past one Ward was on the ground, and the

Deaf’un, who had retired to his drag, was handed forth amidst loud

cheers.

Now came “the tug of war.” The belligerents entered the ring in high

spirits, the Deaf’un attended by Harry Preston and Sutton, the

pedestrian; Nick Ward by Dick Curtis and Levi Eckersley. They shook

hands with mutual good will, and having tied their _fogles_ to the

stake (blue and white spot for Nick, and fancy white and green for

Burke), they tossed for choice of corners, which was won by the

Deaf’un. Each immediately proceeded to his toilette, and, “in the

wringing off of a door-knocker,” was prepared for action. This was at

twenty-five minutes to two, and as the rain had ceased, a “comfortable

mill” was anticipated by a vast multitude, horse and foot, which

surrounded the magic circle, and which was every moment swelling from

fresh arrivals through cross-country paths.

On presenting themselves at the scratch the fronts of the heroes were

duly scanned and criticised. Burke, for an old ’un, who had contended

in seventeen prize battles, of which he had won fifteen and lost but

two, looked remarkably well. His condition was quite up to the mark,

and easy confidence sat proudly on his veteran phiz. His ample muscle

was finely developed, and his weight was close upon 12st. 4lb. His

nether extremities were clothed in a pair of drawers, composed of

green and white, the combined remnants of bygone uniforms in which he

had figured as the victor. Nick Ward was also in beautiful condition,

and, in appearance, was all his friends could desire. His weight was

about 12st. 10lb., and he had the advantage in height and length, as

well as youth and freshness, over his opponent. Burke was born in

December, 1809, and Ward in April, 1813, so that there was nearly four

years’ difference between them. Previous to setting-to the current

odds were 6 and 7 to 4 on Ward; but 2 to 1 had been laid, and his

friends booked success as certain.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――The Deaf’un came up smiling, and Ward quiet,

but serious. After a good deal of dodging, in which

neither seemed inclined to commence, Nick tried his

left, but was neatly stopped. Burke had evidently made

up his mind to the “waiting game,” foreseeing that if

he “led off,” the long left-handed prop of Nick, which

was always ready, would be inconvenient to his

frontispiece. Ward seemed as little inclined to go to

close quarters, but again tried his left, which was

again stopped. In the third attempt he touched the

Deaf’un slightly on the cheek. Again did the Deaf’un

stop the left, and Ward, putting his hands down, looked

as if he would if he could, while the Deaf’un,

following his example, grinned and exclaimed “It won’t

do, Nick.” Into position again, but Nick extremely

cautious, and evidently not desirous of close quarters.

Burke beckoned him to come, but the hint was more civil

than welcome. Nick let fly with his left, but the

Deaf’un caught it on his elbow. More hitting and

stopping, when Nick crept in and let fly with his left,

but was admirably countered. Nick’s knuckles, however,

reached home first, and a slight tinge of blood was

visible on the Deaf’un’s left cheek (first blood for

Ward). The mark of the counter-hit of Burke also became

apparent on Nick’s left cheek, and this was “trick and

tie.” Again did they counter-hit with the left, and the

Deaf’un showed blood from his mouth. Ward put his hands

down again, and they looked at each other with

patience. Burke clearly determined not to play Nick’s

game, but to wait for his onslaught. Nick recommenced

his manœuvring, but found the Deaf’un so well covered

that he dared not try it, and he dodged about as

before, trying the patience of the spectators, who

repeatedly cried, “Go in and fight” Out went his left,

but Burke stopped it neatly. Nick drew back, and the

Deaf’un amused the folks with a few of his “hankey

pankey” antics, and shaking his head, exclaimed,

“’Twon’t do dis time, Nicks.” Long sparring; Nick hit

short, and the Deaf’un popped his thumb to his nose.

Curtis called on Nick to shoot with his left, but it

was no go, and the Deaf’un, who can hear when he likes,

cried out, “You knows all about it betters as we can

tell you.” The Deaf’un stole a march and popped in his

left on Nick’s cheek (cries of “Bravo, Deaf’un!” from

his friends). Long pauses and mutual stopping.

(Twenty-three minutes had expired, but no mischief

done; Jem Burn called for a pillow, and Tommy Roundhead

told the Deaf’un he had ordered a leg of mutton to be

ready by eleven at night.) Nick at last nailed the

Deaf’un on the jaw with his left and got away (cheers

for Nick). A jackdaw, which flew close over the ring

several times, now relieved the monotony of the sport,

but on seeing his big brother, Molyneux, he cut it.

Mutual stopping and waiting, but no business done. The

Deaf’un put in his right on the body, and at last they

got to a rally; heavy hits were exchanged, and the

Deaf’un closed for in-fighting; but Nick fell, the

Deaf’un on him. (This round lasted thirty-seven

minutes, and excited general displeasure, from its want

of animation.)

2.――Both men showed marks of pepper from the close

contact in the last round. Burke bled from the mouth,

and Ward a little from the ear; but there was no real

mischief done. Again did Burke wait and Ward stand off,

still disinclined for close quarters. “Why don’t you go

and fight?” resounded from all sides. “I’m ready,”

cried the Deaf’un; “why don’t he come?” Fifty minutes

had elapsed. The men approached and retreated several

times, till at length heavy counters with the left were

exchanged, and away; more dodging. The Deaf’un crept in

and caught Ward under the left arm with his right; had

it been over the shoulder and reached the ear, it would

have told tales. Jem Ward exclaimed, “The day’s long

enough, take your time, Nick.” “Ay,” cried the Deaf’un,

“it will be long enough for me to lick him, and you

afterwards.” Nick now got closer, counter-hits were

tried, but stopped; each brought up his right at the

jaw and closed, and the Deaf’un was disposed to

continue his work, but Ward fell on his knees. The

round lasted twenty minutes, and fifty-seven minutes

had passed away.

3.――Again was the long and tedious system of waiting

adopted. Each dropped his hands, and Nick scratched his

head, and rubbed his breast, but did anything but go in

to fight, although Dick Curtis assured him the Deaf’un

would “stand it” The Deaf’un laughed and shook his

head, tried his right, but was short; in a second

attempt he was more successful, and caught Ward on the

jaw, just under the old cheek hit. Ward looked serious.

At last Ward rushed in left and right; blows were

exchanged, but the round was closed by Ward getting

down. He was clearly playing the safe game of caution,

and had no desire to throw a chance away. One hour and

forty-three minutes had elapsed.

4.――Cries to Ward of “Go in,” but he was deaf to the

incitement, and “bided his time;” finally he stole upon

the Deaf’un, hit left and right, and for a moment there

was some tidy in-fighting, and a few exchanges; in the

close the Deaf’un was down. Nick, we thought, hit

open-handed. On the Deaf’un rising his “bellows

heaved,” and it was clear this long sparring delay was

searching his wind, while his damaged right leg seemed

to get weak from long standing.

5.――The Deaf’un let fly with his right and caught Ward

on the shoulder――well meant, but too low. Counter-hits

with the left, when Ward planted three left-handed hits

in succession on Burke’s nob. Burke slightly countered,

but was getting slow, and bled from the mouth and nose.

Ward improved his advantage and again popped in his

left three or four times. The Deaf’un went wildly to

work, but was short with his right, and his

counter-hits with the left did not get well home. In a

scrambling close Ward was down, and Burke was evidently

distressed and not firm on his pins (4 to 1 offered on

Ward).

6.――Ward, seeing the condition of his man, determined

to improve his advantage――popped in a left-hander on

the Deaf’un’s eyebrow, which he cut; a rally followed,

and good hits were exchanged; in the close Ward down. A

blow from Ward’s right, below Burke’s waistband,

excited some discontent, but it was not objected to by

the umpire.

7.――Burke stopped Nick’s left, and planted his right

counter-hits with the left, and a smart rally. Nick hit

with his hand open, but the returns were rapid, and in

the close Ward went down.

8.――Both showed punishment, but the Deaf’un had the

balance against him and his left eye was swollen. A

spirited rally, although wild; the Deaf’un was slow and

short with his right. In the close Ward fell on his

hands and knees. He still continued to play the careful

game.

9.――Burke steadied himself, stopped Nick’s left with

great precision, popping in his right heavily on Ward’s

body. Nick popped in his left and got to a close; the

Deaf’un fibbed, but Ward soon got down, the Deaf’un

falling by his side.

10.――The Deaf’un hit short with his right, but Nick

planted his left, when the Deaf’un bored in and fell on

his knees――Ward withholding an intended blow in time.

11.――(Two hours had now elapsed.) Nick hit short with

his left, and the Deaf’un nodded. Counter-hits on the

masticators. The Deaf’un planted his right on Nick’s

nose, and drew claret. Nick made play with his left,

and the Deaf’un fell on his knees. The visit to Nick’s

smelling organ seemed anything but acceptable.

12.――Ward’s proboscis bleeding; but he seemed not to

have lost his spirits, and let fly his left, which

Burke stopped. Heavy counter-hits with the left, and

the Deaf’un delivered a good body-blow with his right;

Nick in with his left, and went down. It was now

thought to be anybody’s fight, and the odds were

reduced to 6 to 4 on Ward; but still it was apparent

that the Deaf’un was distressed, while Ward was fresh,

and careful of his corpus.

13.――Nick led off with his left, and followed the

Deaf’un to his corner. The Deaf’un stood on the

defensive, but received two or three heavy hits right

and left. In the close he fell under the ropes, and

Nick also went down.

14.――Nick saw his man was abroad, and the moment he was

up set to work left and right. The Deaf’un fought

boldly, but was slow, and had the worst of the

punishment; still he made some good round hits, and

Ward was down.

15.――Nick went to work left and right; the Deaf’un

became groggy, and fought wildly, missing several

blows. Both down, Ward under.

16.――Nick now saw it was all in his favour: he hit as

he pleased left and right; the Deaf’un, all abroad, hit

wildly. In the close Ward down, and the Deaf’un on him,

weak.

17.――The Deaf’un came up quite groggy, when Ward went

to work left and right, having it all his own way; he

drove Burke against the ropes, upon which he threw him

on his back, and, while in that position, hit him

heavily with his right till he fell over; cries of

“_foul!_” here burst from the Deaf’un’s friends, in

which others joined, and a general rush was made to the

ring, overturning all those who sat close to it,

including ourselves. The umpires disagreed, of course,

but not being close to the referee, had to go round to

him: pending this, Nick Ward stood up in the ring,

while the Deaf’un was picked up and seated on Sutton’s

knee. At last the referee was reached, and on being

appealed to, pronounced, as he was justified in doing,

“fair.” It was said “time” was then called, although,

from our position, involved in a crush, we did not hear

it. The hat was immediately thrown up, and the battle

was claimed for Ward. (We ought to state that during

the last four or five rounds there was a tremendous

fall of hail and rain.)

Subsequent to the termination of the 17th round, and

previous to the referee giving his judgment, it was

stated that while Deaf Burke was seated on his second’s

knee Nick Ward went up to him and struck him twice or

thrice in the face, and also struck Preston, and

subsequently there was a battle raging between him and

Preston, and then between Preston and Jem Ward, close

to the referee. We have been further informed that if

“time” was called, Burke refused to prolong the fight,

alleging that Ward had struck him “foul” while on his

second’s knee, and before the decision on the previous

question had been given. With respect to all this, we

confess we are unable to give an opinion; because we

saw no part of it, being glad to escape from the

overwhelming mass by which we were overborne. Our

impression at the time was that the decision of the

referee was conclusive, and that Burke was unable to

come again, although, from the time occupied in the

discussion, it is not improbable he might have

recovered his wind and have once more met his man;

still, in our opinion, with very little chance of

turning the scale in his favour; but there is no

calculating on the chapter of accidents. Ward walked

from the ring in full vigour, and was seen walking

about little the worse for wear, beyond the closure of

his left eye, and we believe he would have seconded

Corbett in the next fight had it been permitted. The

Deaf’un was conducted to his carriage, and, like Ward,

on recovering his wind was not materially damaged. He

contended he was entitled to the stakes from Ward’s

alleged foul conduct. Ward was so elated that he boldly

challenged the winner of the coming great fight between

Caunt and Brassey for £100――a challenge in which his

brother Jem heartily joined.

REMARKS.――We must say that in this battle Burke

exceeded our expectations――his condition was far

superior to that in which he fought Bendigo, and his

style of fighting was excellent. He no longer gave his

head as heretofore, but got it well out of mischief,

and stopped beautifully, until exhausted by the

protracted character of Ward’s tactics, and the failure

of his knee, on which he could not be persuaded to wear

a cap, when he became slow, and was fatally exposed to

Ward’s rapid and severe deliveries with his left. He

fought manfully, and with no more than proper caution,

and had Ward been disposed, would have joined issue in

the first round. Ward, however, evidently fought to

orders; both he and his friends knew that while Burke’s

vigour was undiminished close contact was dangerous;

and Ward has a very strong antipathy to punishment

which can be avoided. This he showed, not only from his

so long stopping out, but by his getting down at the

end of the early rounds. The moment he saw he had got

the Deaf’un safe, he threw off all reserve, and his

youth, quickness, and vigour enabled him to gain an

easy victory, which the increasing slowness and

wildness of the Deaf’un rendered more certain. Of his

courage, however, we cannot say much――he wants “that

within which passeth show,” and will never make “a

kill-devil.”

The very next day the following notice was served upon the

stakeholder:――

“I do hereby give you notice not to deliver up the stakes to

the opposite party in the fight between me and Nick Ward, as

I hereby claim the same from having received foul blows from

my opponent, Nick Ward, while on my second’s knee, and

before ‘Time’ was called. One of the umpires bears evidence

that the last statement is correct, as a friend of the other

umpire (Nick Ward’s) had taken away the only watch used for

time-keeping, while he and my second, Harry Preston, were

appealing to the referee with respect to a prior foul blow.

My reason for entering the protest is in order that a

meeting may be obtained with the referee and an appointed

number of friends of each party, so that a proper and just

arbitration may be obtained. I shall be prepared at that

meeting to produce affidavits in confirmation of what I

assert. My backers hold you liable for the amount of the

stakes.

“24th September, 1849. “(Signed) JAMES BURKE.”

To this is added the following certificate from Burke’s umpire:――

“NICK WARD AND BURKE.――I hereby declare that no ‘Time’ was

called after the appeal to the referee.”

Thus it would seem that this affair came to a wrangle, one of the

misfortunes which arise from the headstrong folly with which the

surrounding spectators rush to the ring the moment a dispute arises.

Had they kept their places, nothing could have been more simple than

the issue. The umpires disagreeing, the referee would at once have

said “fair” or “foul;” and in the former, as decidedly must have been

the case in this instance, “time” would have been called, and the men

would have fought on, or he who refused to walk to the scratch would

have lost the battle. But now comes a new position, all owing to the

irregularity described, and of which we are persuaded neither the

umpires nor referee had any knowledge whatever, except from hearsay.

The obtrusion of any person within the ring, or close to the ring,

until the fight shall have been fairly decided, is obviously wrong,

and its mischief is here clearly demonstrated. The matter was now

hedged round with difficulty, the decision of which could only be

given by the appointed referee, and as he could not see the act

complained of, his judgment was founded on the evidence submitted to

him.

This decision quickly came, and was in favour of Ward, to whom the

stakes were duly paid over.

Ward was now at the top of the tree, and confidence in his powers

seemed to have come with victory. After sundry cartels and haggling

about preliminaries, Caunt having defeated Brassey in October, Nick

challenged Caunt for the honour of the title of “Champion.” Ben

responded, nothing loth, and the subjoined articles were formulated by

“the high contracting plenipotentaries”:――

“Articles of Agreement entered into this 8th day of

December, 1840, between Benjamin Caunt and Nicholas

Ward――The said Ben Caunt agrees to fight the said Nick Ward,

a fair stand-up fight, in a four-and-twenty foot roped ring,

half minute time, within sixty miles of London, on Tuesday,

the 2nd of February, 1841, for £100 a side, according to the

provisions of the new rules. In pursuance of this agreement,

£20 a side are now deposited; a second deposit of £10 a side

to be made on Thursday, the 17th of December, at Young Dutch

Sam’s; a third deposit of £10 a side on Monday, the 21st of

December, at Peter Crawley’s; a fourth deposit of £10 a

side, on Thursday, the 31st of December, at Jem Ward’s,

Liverpool; a fifth deposit of £10 a side, on Friday, the 8th

of January, 1841, at Owen Swift’s; a sixth deposit of £10 a

side, on Thursday, the 14th of January, at Young Dutch

Sam’s; a seventh deposit of £10 a side, on Monday, the 18th

of January, at Peter Crawley’s; and the eighth and last

deposit of £10 a side, on Thursday, the 28th of January, at

the same house: the said deposits to be made between the

hours of eight and ten in the evening, or the party failing

to forfeit the money down. The choice of place to be decided

at the last deposit by toss. The men to be in the ring

between the hours of twelve and one o’clock, or the party

absent to forfeit the battle-money, unless an earlier hour

shall be mutually agreed upon at the last deposit, to which

hour the same forfeiture shall be applicable. Two umpires

and a referee to be chosen on the ground; in case of dispute

the decision of the latter to be conclusive. Should

magisterial interference take place, the stakeholder to name

the next time and place of meeting, if possible on the same

day. The use of resin or other powder to the hands during

the battle to be considered foul, and the money not to be

given up till fairly won or lost by a fight.

“Signed――for Caunt――PETER CRAWLEY.

“Do., for Ward――SAMUEL EVANS.”

On the 23rd of February, then, this anxiously anticipated meeting took

place, but resulted in a manner anything but satisfactory to the

admirers of manly pugilism.

On the match being made, the men were quickly in training, Caunt under

the wing of Peter Crawley, at Hatfield, near Barnet, and Nick Ward

under the able supervision of Peter Taylor, near Liverpool. In point

of condition there was no fault to be found; both were perfectly up to

the mark, and in all respects judiciously prepared for their coming

struggle.

According to the articles it was provided that the combat should take

place within 60 miles of London. The choice of place was to be decided

by toss, and this was won by the backer of Caunt, who named the

vicinity of the Andover Road Station, on the Southampton Railway, as

the place of meeting; thus imposing upon Nick Ward and his friends the

necessity of coming a distance of upwards of 270 miles, after the

Saturday morning, on which day only they could receive notice of the

fixture. This circumstance produced a good deal of sore feeling among

the Ward-ites, and on the morning of battle led to some angry

expressions. We certainly think that the laws of “give and take”

should have been observed in this instance, and that it was anything

but considerate to have imposed so long a journey upon an honourable

opponent. We believe that the selection rather arose from a desire to

give “a turn” to the folks of Hampshire, than from any wish to take an

unfair advantage of Ward. How this love of the “Hampshire hogs” was

returned the vicissitudes hereafter described will show.

On the Sunday, Caunt and Hammer Lane, who were to exhibit in the same

ring, arrived at the “Vine,” at Stockbridge, about ten miles from the

Winchester Station, where they were joined by a select circle of their

backers and friends, and on the day following Nick Ward and Sullivan

(the opponent of Hammer Lane) reached the Andover Road Station,

accompanied by Jem Ward, Peter Taylor, and other friends and admirers,

to the great comfort of the railway officials, who obtained on that

and the succeeding day a profitable accession of passengers. The

owners of the houses of entertainment in the neighbourhood were not

less delighted, but many, from the want of accommodation, proceeded to

Winchester, where their patronage was equally acceptable. On Monday

evening it was ascertained beyond a doubt that the “Hampshire hogs”

were as stubborn as some of their namesakes in other counties, and the

hostility of the beaks to the manly demonstrations of fair play in the

Prize Ring was grunted forth by sundry official leaders of the rural

police, by whom, however, it is due to say, every courtesy consistent

with their situation was displayed. This fact created additional

unpopularity towards the original author of the disappointment, who

was not less mortified than his grumbling opponents. There was no help

for it, however, and in the evening it was agreed that both parties

should meet the next morning at the village of Sutton, about four

miles from the station, there to determine on the line of march. The

Caunt-ites having ascertained that the affair might come off without

interruption in the county of Wilts, proposed an adjournment in that

direction; but as this step would have carried the Ward-ites some 14

or 15 miles beyond the stipulated distance of 60 miles from London,

they peremptorily refused to budge an inch across the limit laid down

in the articles, and the road back towards London was the only

direction in which they would consent to proceed. This was the state

of things on Monday evening, and on Tuesday morning, at half-past ten,

the village of Sutton displayed a dense congregation of all classes,

from the high-titled nob to the wooden-soled chawbacon. Carriages of

all sorts, from Winchester, Andover, Stockbridge, Odiham, and all the

surrounding post-towns, as well as from London and elsewhere, were

huddled together in tangled confusion, anxiously waiting to receive

the authorised “office” as to the road they should take. Among these

the Commissary, in a light chaise cart, with the indispensable

_materiel_ of his calling, occupied a prominent position, while the

belligerents in their respective drags patiently waited the order for

advance. Amidst the turmoil, the superintendent and the inspectors of

the rural police, attended by a number of constables, some on

horseback and some in chaise carts, were preparing to do their duty,

and to see the expectant multitude fairly out of their jurisdiction.

A council of war having been held at the head inn, Crookham Common, on

the borders of Berkshire, and within three and a half miles of

Newbury, was finally agreed upon as the scene of action, a distance of

upwards of sixteen miles, through a country not very agreeably

distinguished by a succession of steep hills, the ascent and descent

of which tended not a little to retard the speed of the travellers,

and still more to try the mettle of the nags upon whom this additional

labour was imposed, while hundreds of the ten-toed amateurs were

altogether thrown out of the sport. At Whitchurch the inhabitants were

rather astonished at the sudden incursion of the cavalcade. Here there

was a general halt for refreshment for man and beast, and, most

ominously, the carriage in which Hammer Lane was placed broke down; an

unfortunate fracture which was imitated by many other vehicles, which,

for this particular occasion, had been drawn from a retirement that

previous wear and tear had led their owners to consider perpetual.

After a short time “forward” was again the order of the day, and

King’s Clere was reached in due course. Here was another halt,

indispensable to men and cattle, and many of the jaded horses were for

a time placed in stables, while the bonifaces received ample proofs of

the beneficial effects resulting to the human appetite when whetted

against the rough edge of a hard frost and a bracing atmosphere. It

was now ascertained that the “land of promise” was within three miles

of the village, and the Commissary was sent forward to make the

necessary preparations for action, while the horses of the police,

sharing the fate of their companions, were so knocked up that their

masters determined to perform the rest of their journey to the verge

of the county on foot, heartily sick of the ungracious office assigned

them. In half an hour the general body made their final move, and,

crossing the river Enborne, at last made their exit from the

inhospitable county of Hants, and luckily sustained no further

impediment. They reached the battle-field on Crookham Common about

half-past three, quickly forming a spacious circle round the ring,

which had been admirably prepared by the commissariat department. The

ground was thinly covered with snow, and was as hard as adamant from

the intensity of the frost, while a cutting breeze from the east,

sweeping over the elevation on which the common is placed, left little

ground of regret among those whose customary visits to their barbers

had been neglected from the rapidity of their morning movements, as

they were shaved free of cost. The assemblage, if not as numerous as

might have been anticipated had not the move taken place, was in the

honest sense of the word respectable, and many persons of _bonâ fide_

distinction, both as to rank and station in society, studded the

lively circle.

The umpires having been chosen, the difficulty of selecting a referee

was presented in the same unpleasant aspect as in the then recent

fight between Hannan and Broome,[23] but was at length got over, after

a considerable argumentation, in the selection of a gentleman who, if

not professionally engaged in the business of the Ring, was fully

competent to decide any dispute which might arise, and who certainly

discharged the duties of his unpleasant office with becoming firmness

and determination, and, we must add, with perfect impartiality.

All being now prepared for combat, the men entered the ring, greeted

by the cheers of their friends. Caunt came forward, attended by Tass

Parker and Johnny Broome, all sporting their “yellow men,” while Nick

Ward made his bow under the friendly introduction of Dick Curtis and

Harry Holt, each of whom displayed a fogle of blue and white spots.

The men instantly advanced, and shook hands with apparent good-humour,

Ward looked rather serious, while Caunt exhibited a nonchalance and

gaiety which proved that he regarded the coming engagement with

anything but personal apprehension. The betting round the ring at this

moment was 5 to 4 on Caunt, with ready takers; and the preliminaries

having been fully adjusted, the joust commenced.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――On getting into position, the scientific

manner in which Ward presented himself, with his arms

well up, prepared to stop with his right and shoot with

his left, gave evident tokens of his being an

accomplished member of the scientific school. Caunt

also held his arms well up, but with a degree of

awkwardness anything but calculated to lead the

spectators to assume that he had taken his degree as a

“Master of Arts.” He had evidently made up his mind to

lose no time in commencing operations; he advanced upon

his man, while Ward stepped back; Caunt, after a

flourish or two of his mawleys, let fly with his left,

but was stopped; Ward in return popped in his left and

right slightly, and after a wild rally, in which

neither hit with precision, and in which some slight

returns were made, Ward’s left creating a blushing

tinge on the big’un’s cheek, they closed, when Ward

dropped, evidently disinclined to luxuriate in the

embrace of his opponent.

2.――Again the big ’un came up ripe for mischief, and

made play left and right, but was neatly stopped; Ward

then popped in his left, catching his antagonist on the

nose; both then fought merrily left and right, but

there a want of precision in Ward’s deliveries, his

left passing the head of Caunt like “the idle wind,”

and from the slippery state of the ground it was

obvious that neither could obtain firm footing. Nick,

however, contrived to plant two or three left-handed

pops, and the round concluded by both slipping down.

(Loud and encouraging shouts for Ward, whose friends

seemed to deem it necessary to cheer him on to hopes of

victory.)

3.――Ward came up steady, prepared for the stop or the

shoot. He waited for the attack, which was soon

commenced by Caunt with vigorous but wild

determination. He stopped left and right, but in his

returns was short, his visitations not reaching their

intended point of contact. Both in fact missed their

blows, and no real mischief was done. Caunt rushed to a

close, but Ward, still resolved to foil the grappling

propensity of his opponent, slipped down.

4.――Caunt came up resolved to do, but wild and awkward

in his mode of attack. Nick waited for him, his left

ready to pop. Caunt hit out with his left, but missed,

and Nick in the return was out of distance.

Counter-hitting with the left. Both stopped intended

visitations. Heavy exchanges left and right, in which

Caunt caught a stinger on the forehead and the nose,

from the former of which blood was drawn, and declared

for Ward amidst deafening shouts and exclamations of

“It’s all your own!” A wild rally followed, in which

Caunt caught Ward a crack on the nob with his right. In

the close Caunt caught Ward in his arms, but he again

went down.

5.――Caunt tried a feint to draw his man, but Nick was

too leary. He preserved his own position, evidently

determined to nail his man with the left on coming in.

Caunt, impatient, hit out wildly left and right, Nick

broke ground and got away. On again getting to work

Nick planted his left on Caunt’s eye, slight exchanges

followed, but no serious impression was made, and

Ward’s left passed over Caunt’s shoulder. In Caunt’s

deliveries there was neither force nor accuracy. Ward

getting nearer his man succeeded in planting a rap on

his proboscis. Caunt instantly seized him in his arms

and was about to fib, when Ward endeavoured to get

down, but the big ’un held him too firmly, and fell

heavily upon him.

6.――On coming up Caunt exhibited symptoms of

visitations to his nose and eye, as well as to his

forehead, but still no material damage had been

effected. Ward led off with his left, but the hit was

short, and was attended with little effect. Caunt again

closed, determined to give his man the benefit of a

Nottinghamshire hug, but Ward frustrated his intention

by dropping on his knees. At the moment Caunt,

determined to give him a compliment as he fell, let fly

his right, which did not reach its destination (Ward’s

lug) till Ward’s knees had actually reached the ground.

(There was an immediate cry of “foul!” and the

partisans of Ward, as well as his second, rushed to the

referee to claim the battle. This was decidedly in

opposition to the new rules, which prescribe that all

such appeals shall be made to the umpires, and by them

to the referee, and that no other person whatever shall

presume to interfere. Amidst the turmoil and confusion

of intimidation the referee remained silent until the

umpires declared they disagreed, and when the question

was then put to him deliberately pronounced “fair,”

believing, as he said he did, that the blow was

unintentional, and had commenced its flight before Ward

was actually on the ground. All cavil was now at an

end, and the fight proceeded; the friends of Caunt

earnestly entreating that he would be cautious of what

he was about, and be particularly careful in avoiding

the repetition of the blow, which the falling system of

Ward might unintentionally lead him to administer.)

7.――Caunt came up as fresh as a sucking bull, and

pregnant with deeds of mischief. Ward waited for him

steadily, and let fly his left, catching Caunt slightly

on the mug. Caunt hit wildly left and right, but

missed; he then closed, again catching Ward in his

forceps. Ward, however, renewed his dropping system,

and slipped from between his arms on his knees, his

hands up. While in this position, evidently down, Caunt

instantaneously drew back his right hand, and hit him

twice on the side of the head. The shout of “Foul!” was

immediately renewed with redoubled ardour, and a

simultaneous appeal was again made to the referee by

some dozen persons who crowded round him, all

vociferously demanding confirmation of their own

impressions. This indecorous and disgraceful dictation

was again manfully resisted by the referee, who,

waiting with firmness till calmness was restored,

listened to the appeal from the proper authorities, and

pronounced the last blows to be “foul;” observing that

Ward was clearly down upon both knees when the blows

were delivered. Shouts of congratulation forthwith

hailed Ward as the conqueror; a result which filled him

with delight: and he quitted the ring with joyous

satisfaction, scarcely exhibiting a mark of the

conflict in which he had been engaged. Indeed of

punishment he did not afford a specimen worth

mentioning. The fight lasted but twelve minutes, and

terminated at three minutes after four o’clock.

The backer of Caunt was naturally irritated at this

disappointment of his hopes, and, sustained by the

authority of an old ring-goer, contended that the

decision of the referee, however honourably given, was

in opposition to the rules of the Ring, for that by

those rules it was provided, that it was necessary a

man should have his hand on the ground, as well as both

knees, before a blow given could be pronounced foul;

and in this persuasion he said he should give notice to

the stakeholder not to part with the stakes or the bets

till the point was deliberately settled. The referee

said he had given his decision with perfect

impartiality, and he believed with perfect justice. In

confirmation of which he turned to a copy of

_Fistiana_, which he had in his possession, and quoted

from thence (page 29) the 7th at Broughton’s Rules,

which provides, “That no person is to hit his adversary

when he is down, or seize him by the ham, the breeches,

or any part below the waist; a man on his knees to be

reckoned down.” He then quoted the 14th of the New

Rules of the Ring (page 65), which provides, in the

same spirit, “That a blow struck when a man is thrown,

or down, shall be deemed foul. That a man with one hand

and one knee on the ground, or with both knees on the

ground, shall be deemed down; and a blow given in

either of these positions shall be considered foul;

providing always, that when in such position, the man

so down shall not strike, or attempt to strike.” The

articles having been framed according to the New Rules,

this reference must be conclusive. It was contended,

that in the battle between Tom Belcher and Dutch Sam,

the Pugilistic Club had decided that a blow given when

a man was on his knees, with both hands up, was not

foul; but, as there was no written record of this

decision, and as it is opposed both to Broughton’s

Rules and the New Rules, the argument can have no

weight, and the stakes, however easily and

unsatisfactorily won, were of right given to Ward.

REMARKS.――Ward, in purchasing this almost bloodless

victory, did not add much to his reputation. That he

was entitled to the reward of conquest cannot be

denied; but the opportunities of testing his improved

qualities and courage were so limited, that it would be

worse than hypocrisy to say he offered any peculiar

claims to high praise. That he is more scientific than

his opponent cannot be doubted; but it must be admitted

that on comparing his tactics with the steady and

cutting precision of his brother Jem, he has yet much

to learn. Many of his blows were short, while others,

well-intentioned, missed their aim――a circumstance

probably to be ascribed to the slippery state of the

ground, and the unsteady manœuvres of his opponent.

Whether, if the fight had been prolonged, he would have

improved upon acquaintance, we cannot foresee.

Regarding his courage, no particular exception can be

taken, for although going down or trying to go down in

every round is unsightly in the eyes of the spectators,

and has the semblance of being opposed to the

commonplace notions of a fair stand-up fight, yet,

according to the 12th of the New Rules, it will be seen

that such an expedient is allowable; that rule provides

“that it shall be a fair stand-up fight; and if either

man shall wilfully throw himself down without receiving

a blow, he shall be deemed to have lost the battle: but

this rule shall not apply to a man who in a close slips

down from the grasp of his opponent to avoid

punishment.” Here blows had been exchanged, and Ward

obviously slipped down to avoid the punishment which

Caunt had determined to administer. Moreover, it was to

avoid the hugging end being borne on to the ropes which

Ward evaded by slipping from the intended embrace. With

regard to Caunt, we attribute the loss of the battle to

his uncontrollable impetuosity. That he would have been

defeated in fair fight by his accomplished antagonist

is by no means a settled point, for although he showed

marks of tapping, he was quite as fresh and vigorous as

when he commenced, and was quite as likely to win in

the last as he was in the first round. He has still,

however, much to learn; he wants steadiness and

precision, and the wildness with which he hits defeats

his own object. In the use of his left, as well as in

stopping, he has certainly improved, and we think, as

his experience increases, he may become a greater adept

in the art. He must learn to curb his impetuosity, and

preserve that presence of mind the absence of which so

speedily led to the downfall of his hopes in this case.

So persuaded was he that he could have won, that

immediately after judgment had been given against him,

he declared he would make a fresh match, and post the

whole hundred of his own money. It is singular that in

his fights with Bendigo and Brassey he seldom lost a

due command over his temper, although both these men

pursued the same course of getting down as Ward. With

regard to Brassey, his gift of punishment is far more

severe than that of Ward, as the evidence of Caunt’s

carved frontispiece on the former occasion sufficiently

testified.

Here, once again, we will ask the reader to take our arm and stroll

away from plain prose into the pleasant path of poetry, by presenting

him with a Chant of the Ring about――

NICK WARD AND CAUNT.

Hurrah for the Ring and the bunch of fives!

Like a giant refreshed the Ring revives,

It awakens again to vigorous life

To scare the assassin and crush the knife;

Then welcome to earth as the flowers in spring

Be the glory renew’d of the Boxing Ring,

And over each British boxer brave,

Long may the banner of fair play wave.

Let Puritans sour in accents shrill

Rave against Fistiana still,

And owl-faced beaks shake the nob and vow

To their fiat stern the Ring shall bow;

Let lobsters raw with their truncheons roar

“Disperse” to the pugilistic corps――

The pinks of the Prize Ring, in freedom nurs’d

Shall tell them undaunted to do their worst――

Shall proclaim to the traps ’tis weak and vain

To seek the brave boxer to restrain;

And better ’twould be by far to grab

Those who settle disputes by a mortal stab:

By Heaven, ’tis sufficient to make us blush

For those who are seeking fair play to crush,

To extinguish courage, and skill, and game,

And in letters of blood stamp England’s shame.

Keen is the morning, the glittering snow

Mantles the hills and the vales below,

The landscape around is bleak and bare,

Chill’d by the nipping and frosty air;

The north-east cold over land and sea

Is whistling a sharp, shrill melody;

But the sun is up, and the morning bright,

So hasten, brave boys, to the field of fight.

This day will decide whether Caunt or Nick

In the shape of conquest shall do the trick――

This day shall to Fancy lads declare

Which hero the Champion’s belt shall wear――

Whether Ben, the athletic, of giant limb,

Shall yield to young Ward, or Nick to him,

And after contention fierce and tough

Which combatant first shall sing “enough.”

From slumber rouse, let no time be lost,

Forward for Stockbridge through snow and frost,

Near which, when with creature comfort warmed,

Shall the stakes be pitch’d and the ring be form’d.

Strong was the muster upon that day

Of plebeians low and Corinthians gay,

But the beaks for Hants had in anger vow’d

No mill in their county should be allow’d.

Looks of despair the Fancy put on,

And determin’d to make a move to Sutton,

And thither hasten’d the fistic ranks,

With policemen hanging upon their flanks;

Then Captain Robbins, with gaze intense,

Cried, “Gentlemen, meaning no offence,

You mustn’t attempt, or I’m a liar,

To settle your matters in this here shire.”

Now suppose the Fancy, each peril pass’d,

As Crookham Common arriv’d at last,

Prepar’d for superior milling works

Without meddling traps in the shire of Berks:

Suppose the men in position plac’d.

With arms well up and with muscle brac’d,

Each champion seeming resolved to win,

For the love of glory, as well as tin!

But, ah! it is useless to recite

The details of this brief and no-go fight,

What pepper Nick dealt on the giant’s mug,

And how Caunt return’d with a Russian hug;

How Nick, though on serious mischief bent,

Dropp’d down to steer clear of punishment;

And how big Caunt, though in tip-top plight,

Hit his foe on his knees and lost the fight.

Yet hurrah for the Ring and the bunch of fives!

Like a giant refresh’d the Ring revives,

It awakens again to vigorous life

To scare the assassin and crush the knife:

Then welcome to earth as the flowers in spring

Be the glory renew’d of the Fighting Ring,

And over each British boxer brave

Long may the banner of fair play wave.

On the Thursday evening of the ensuing week, on the occasion of the

giving up of the stakes, which took place at Young Dutch Sam’s, in

Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane, Big Ben and his friends were “all there,”

and a “motion for a new trial” was made and agreed to on both sides.

The articles, which were settled in the following week, will be found

in a former page of this volume, in the Memoir of CAUNT, who “reversed

the former verdict” on the 11th of May, 1841, at Long Marsden, in

thirty-five rounds, occupying forty-seven minutes.

This was Nick’s “Waterloo,” and his last appearance on any field. He

became a publican, first in Liverpool, and then in London, and on the

17th of February, 1850, departed this life, at the “King’s Head,”

Compton Street, Soho, the victim of a pulmonary attack.

[22] A detailed biography of this remarkable boxer will be

found in the Author’s “RECOLLECTIONS OF THE RING,” vol. i.

“Pencilling,” III.

[23] See _Recollections of the Ring and Pencillings of

Pugilists_. No. IX. JOHNNY BROOME.