TOM SAYERS AND THE TIPTON SLASHER
Unequal fights always engage both our sympathy and our interest, and
Tom Sayers was hardly ever matched with a man of anything at all near
his own height and weight. William Perry, commonly called the Tipton
Slasher, from the place of his birth in the Black Country, was Champion
of England. He had fought ten big battles and had beaten good men,
including Tass Parker twice. He had held the championship for four
years when Sayers challenged him.
It was looked upon as an absurd match. Sayers was a lightish
middleweight of 5 feet 8 inches. The Slasher now weighed about 14
stone and stood over 6 feet. He laughed at Sayers’s challenge. He was
utterly confident, knowing that he was bigger, stronger, and heavier,
and believing that he was the better boxer. Nevertheless, Sayers found
backing, and on June 16th, 1857, they fought for £200 a side and the
belt.
These were the days when it was not sufficient in the interests of
sport merely to pitch a ring on the boundary of two, or possibly three,
counties, so that while the magistrates of one county might interfere,
the principals and their followers had only to slip over the border
into the next. In the fifties, and earlier, the law was much more
stringently enforced, and vast expeditions used to leave London by
special train to destinations unknown. In the present instance, an
enormous crowd packed the train at Fenchurch Street Station. Tom Sayers
was on it, but disguised, in case the police, who knew perfectly who
the combatants were, searched the train. William Perry was picked up
at Tilbury on the journey eastwards. At Southend the crowd left the
train and embarked on a steamer which proceeded to mid-channel, and
then altering her course, put down her freight of sportsmen, fighters,
and ruffians at the Isle of Grain. Two more steamers now arrived, and
a ring was made, out of sight of the river, in a field beneath a dyke.
The first stake had hardly been driven in, when the police appeared--in
what to us, now, would seem the picturesque costume of blue coats,
white trousers, and glazed toppers. The crowd of 3000 men rapidly
re-embarked in the waiting steamers, and the two boxers, hidden like
leaves in a forest, escaped. They crossed the river, and, disembarking
once more on the Kentish coast, were so lucky as to find a sporting
farmer who gladly let the officials have the use of one of his fields
in return for a place at the ring-side, which was joyfully awarded him.
Here, behind the farm buildings, which hid the proceedings from passing
ships, the ring was once more pegged out: the colours were tied to the
stakes, blue with large white spots for Sayers, blue birds’ eye for the
Slasher. The two men were each seconded by old opponents who had become
friends; Nat Langham and Bill Hayes in Sayers’s corner, Tass Parker and
Jack Macdonald in Perry’s.
People said that there had been nothing like this since the days of
Johnson and Perrins. For the Tipton Slasher was a magnificent giant,
with the enormous shoulder-blades which stand for hard hitting, though
a slight deformity in one leg had given him the nickname of “Old K
Legs.” But there was not an ounce of tallow on him. He was thirty-eight
years of age, and looked more, for all his front upper teeth had been
knocked out and his face was covered with the scars of old wounds.
Little Tom Sayers was neatly built, clean-limbed, and in superb
condition, but every one present when they saw the two standing up,
facing one another, wondered how, with his comparatively short reach,
he was going to hit the Slasher at all.
There are two ways of beginning a fight, and Perry chose the wrong
one. Directly they had shaken hands and their seconds had retired to
their respective corners he lunged out, aiming a tremendous hit and
wasted it on the air. Not once nor twice did he misjudge his distance
and throw away his strength in this manner, while Sayers nimbly jumped
aside, or back, leading him round the ring. The Slasher was furious.
“Coom and fight me,” he said. “Don’t ’ee go skirling about like a
bloody dancing master.” And Tom laughed at him. He knew perfectly well
what he was about. He would make the giant tire himself out and then
he would hit him at his own leisure. The Slasher, on the other hand,
believed that one hit from him--one really good hit such as he alone
could deliver--would finish his little opponent, and he tried again and
again to put in such a blow. At first Tom Sayers was content to avoid
them and leave well alone, but after a while he saw a perfect opening
as he slipped his man’s ponderous left, and he sent his own left in,
straight, with all his might. It landed on the Slasher’s nose and he
snorted and gasped. That was a wonderful punch for so small a man. He
began to feel a little uncomfortable. He couldn’t be _beaten_, surely,
by this monkey of a fellow. Still, it was disconcerting. And the more
uncertain he became the wilder he grew. He was soon puffing and blowing
from his frantic exertions to land just that one beauty which should
knock Sayers out of time.
Then quite suddenly Tom Sayers reached the point when he could resist
fighting no longer. It was all very well dodging and jumping out of
harm’s way and putting in an occasional counter-hit: and it was the
right way to tackle a giant like William Perry. But Sayers was a
fighter and he loved to “mix it.” And so he restrained himself less and
instead of running away he stood up to the Slasher. Tom ducked from the
next mighty blow which swished through the air over his head, and again
he ducked and this time the Tipton Slasher followed up one failure with
several, and sent blow after blow into thin air. There came a chuckle
of delight from behind him, and swinging round he saw Sayers dancing
about and laughing at him. The big man looked extremely foolish. His
seconds now roundly swore at him for wasting his strength, and told him
that he ought to wait. But Perrins was angry and he went on beating the
air. After a while, however, he did manage to land a good blow, which
caught Sayers on the forehead and knocked him down flat. The onlookers
gasped, for they thought that such a blow would kill the little man.
But when time was called up he came still grinning and none the worse
save for a bump like an egg. Now the Slasher was much happier. Two
or three more like that and the fight would be over. But Sayers knew
every trick of his trade, though he never descended to the dirty ones.
He pretended now to be really frightened, and instead of slipping and
laughing, he kept running away round the ring. But he was ready all the
time and perfectly cool. He kept his right foot behind his left and
never crossed his feet. Lumbering after him and playing the game he
wanted him to play, came the Tipton Slasher. Then to save his breath
Perry at length pulled up. Instantly, Sayers stopped also and plugged
him in the face.
In the ninth round the Slasher came up to the scratch slowly. His
seconds had done their best for him, but his strength was going. It is
very exhausting to dash about a grassy ring and hurl ponderous blows at
nothing. Once more he tried, but he couldn’t get near Sayers. But now
he was too tired to keep running after his opponent, and Sayers stood
his ground. The next time the mighty fist shot out he ducked under it
again and sent in a smashing blow on the Slasher’s face. In that round
he put in at least three perfect hits with every ounce of his weight
behind them. At the third the Tipton Slasher staggered, and fell over.
It was not a severe knock-down because the big man was badly balanced
at the moment, but the spectators could see that he was beaten all the
same. Then Sayers hit him as he liked, left and right: no dancing or
running away now. The Slasher’s seconds begged him to give in. They saw
that it was hopeless, but this he refused to do. He would fight as long
as he could see and stand. It is terribly humiliating to be thrashed by
a man half your size, but William Perry was brave, and he faced that
fact as well as the more pressing one. For he was dreadfully cut about.
His seconds carried out all the usual receipts for bringing their man
to the scratch again, biting his ears and sluicing him with cold water.
The onlookers called out to have the Slasher taken away, but he would
not be taken away. Tom Sayers stood in the mid-ring with his arms
folded, waiting for his antagonist. He did not in the least want to
hurt him, but what was he to do? At last Owen Swift, who was prominent
amongst the Slasher’s supporters, got through the ropes into the ring
and held up his hand. The sponge was then thrown up from the Slasher’s
corner, and Tom Sayers was proclaimed Champion of England.
The battle had lasted for an hour and forty-two minutes. The Slasher
wept bitterly when Sayers came over to shake hands. He had staked every
penny he had on the fight, and was, besides being beaten, utterly
ruined. “Something” was done for him afterwards, so that he was able to
take the inevitable inn and spent the rest of his days in comparative
comfort. He answered the final call of “Time” in January, 1881.