Knuckles and Gloves

The turn of fortune had been amazingly sudden. Not three minutes before every one save Cribb and a few of his supporters had thought the end had come and in Jem’s favour. Now Tom knocked him down again without anything like resistance. And at the end of forty-one rounds and thirty-five minutes, Jem Belcher had perforce to give in. Immediately afterwards he walked, weak but not dead-beat, round the ring, showing his hands to the spectators. They were quite useless. Tom had been right: his hard head had driven up the knuckles so that the lightest hit was to Jem exquisitely painful.

It was an honourable defeat, though a bitter disappointment to Jem Belcher. Well he knew that in all but strength and hardness he was the better man. And he knew, too, that few, save Cribb, could endure the amount of punishment that he had given before his hands went, and that in the days before he lost his eye and before he had weakened his constitution by drinking, Cribb could never have stood a chance with him.

CHAPTER VI
JOHN GULLEY

Before continuing the history of Tom Cribb and finally disposing of the unlucky Belcher, it is necessary to turn aside and examine the brief pugilistic career of John Gulley, who, like Jackson, fought but thrice and like him depended for fame more upon his respectability than upon the drive of his fist. To get the worst over at once I may record the notorious fact that Gulley, after leaving the Ring, made money and flattered his self-esteem by entering Parliament, sitting for Pontefract. Nowadays champion boxers are a cut above that sort of thing.

Despite the shortness of his fighting life and his monumental respectability, John Gulley was a very fine pugilist. How he gained the necessary reputation before being matched with the Game Chicken it is impossible to say. We know that he found willing backers, so we may safely assume that he had shown more than usual skill with the “mufflers,” as boxing gloves were called in those days. The fight, which took place on July 20th, 1805, at Hailsham, in Sussex, lasted for an hour and ten minutes, and was finished in fifty-nine rounds. Gulley was beaten, nearly every round ending by his downfall, but he boxed well and showed remarkable endurance and pluck.

On the retirement of Pearce, chiefly owing to ill-health—indeed, the poor fellow died not long afterwards of consumption—Gulley became virtual champion. But he can hardly be described by that title with full justice, for the reason that he declined the office and showed no desire to act as a champion in the true meaning of the word, for he did not stand to accept challenges. He honourably retired from the ring, kept the Plough Inn, Carey Street, and realised a large fortune as a bookmaker. But his two victories over Bob Gregson are certainly worth mention. One of them is the subject of an illustration in this book.

Though these battles were between two big men, the hugeness of Gregson made them appear unevenly matched. Gulley weighed about 13½ stone, and stood just under 6 feet. Gregson, a Lancashire man by birth, weighed 15 stone and was 6 ft. 2 inches. They fought at Six Mile Bottom, near Newmarket, on October 14th, 1807. Gulley had Tom Cribb in his corner and Gregson Bill Richmond.

For the first six rounds there was little to choose between them. But Gregson was somewhat daunted by a very severe knock down in the second round. Gulley hit him full in the face with such force that the blood literally flew from him. In the seventh, however, the bigger man fought through his opponent’s guard and gave Gulley such a blow under the eye as knocked the senses out of him for a few seconds, and his eye swelled up so that he was completely blinded in it. In the next round Gregson, using his tremendous strength, lifted his man up and hurled him to the ground as though he had been a piece of timber. But he refrained from falling on him, which, by the rules then in force, he was entitled to do, and whereby with his great weight he might have done severe damage—and so earned the cheers of the onlookers. The ninth round immediately following, found Gulley still quite cool and using all his skill. He knocked his man down, though not severely. Then onward till the sixteenth round, however, Gregson’s strength made itself felt, and he gave John Gulley a very bad time. Gulley seemed to be weakening, and round after round ended in his downfall. Then he “got his second wind,” and in a fierce rally knocked Gregson clean off his feet.

It must be remembered that for some time past Gulley could see with but one eye, and though he was the better boxer, his opponent’s extra weight was a severe added handicap when it came to a fall. Gulley would have much the better of the exchanges round after round, and yet many of these rounds ended by his being desperately thrown.

By the twenty-third round, however, it was seen that Gregson’s strength was ebbing, whilst Gulley somehow gave the impression of maintaining the same condition as he had shown after the first ten rounds. That is to say, he appeared to be weak, but again and again gathered himself up for some prodigious effort by sheer will-power. Up to the twenty-fifth round it was, as the saying goes, anybody’s fight. Both men were badly damaged: the strength of both was fast ebbing. You might say that if either had known exactly how bad the other felt he could have won then and there. In all personal combats it is each man’s business to hide his feelings from his opponent. He must be hurt without showing that he is hurt, and however much hurt he must persist in wanting to win. There comes a time in a hard fight, with gloves or without them, when one man or other wants less to win than to be done with the whole agonising, wearying business on any terms. And that man is beaten. So it was now with Gregson. Hurt and fatigued, he lost heart at last. His will had been stubborn, but not so stubborn as John Gulley’s. They fought on till the thirty-sixth round, till both were almost at a standstill. Then Gulley made the last supreme effort and knocked Bob Gregson down, so that he could not rise to the call of time. Gulley himself came staggering to the scratch.

This was regarded at the time as one of the severest battles ever seen in the Prize-Ring. It was a good sporting encounter throughout, with good will and even magnanimity on either side. Gulley had greatly improved in the science of boxing since his encounter with the Chicken, and he needed all that science in order to balance Gregson’s extra height, weight, and reach.

For his part Gregson and his backers believed that he could yet beat Gulley, and he accordingly challenged him to fight for £200 a side. The day fixed was May 10th, 1808, and the scene of action on the borders of Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire. The magistrates, however, made difficulties, as they occasionally did even in those days, and the Dunstable volunteers were called out to “keep the peace” and to deal with “the proposed riotous assembly.” Eventually the principals, seconds, backers, and huge “riotously assembled” crowd moved off to Sir John Seabright’s Park in the friendlier county of Hertford. And there the fight took place in a huge ring, forty feet square.

Men on horseback and on foot, in barouches, coaches, carriages, donkey-carts, men walking, men running, went across country for several miles out of the jurisdiction of the enemies of pugilism. Much rain had fallen during the day, with the consequence that the fighters had some difficulty in keeping their feet. Gregson, in anticipation of this, had spiked shoes, but Captain Barclay, as referee, justly regarded these as dangerous and unfair, and ruled that the men should fight without shoes, which accordingly they did.

The men circled about each other in the dog-like fashion in which the majority of fights opened, and Gulley retreated towards his own corner. His seconds, Bill Gibbons and Joe Ward, fearing lest Gregson with his great weight should fall upon their man whilst his back was against one of the stakes, put their hands over the top of it to prevent serious injury. But Gulley knew what he was about; feinting with his left he brought his right over with a great swing of his shoulders and caught his man fairly upon the temple and knocked him down. So excited were the onlookers at the second great trial between these men that they were quite silent, and not one cheer was raised. Only the light shuffling of stockinged feet was heard, hard breathing, and the spank of Gulley’s prodigious blow. The second round ended in the same way, though Gregson had first put in a resounding thump upon his opponent’s chest, which was, however, unlikely to have damaged him much. They were still very cautious, and for five minutes sparred for an opening, neither taking any grave risk. Then, with all his might, Gregson let fly with his left. Gulley took the blow on his arm, but felt the effects of it for long afterwards. It is probable that such a blow set up an inflammation of the muscles which, aided perhaps by rheumatism, would render it useless for several months.

The next three rounds ended by Gulley going down: in the sixth Gregson fell upon him so that he gasped long for breath. He had previously committed a foul by seizing Gulley’s thighs. The seventh round was Gulley’s, for with blow on blow he drove his opponent through the ropes. He knocked Gregson down again and it was evident that he not only knew more boxing, but by agility and strength made up for the disparity in their weights. The tenth round found Gregson’s head pulped with savage blows and his left eye nearly closed. Egan tells us that Gregson was now “fighting rather after the Lancashire method, without any pretensions to science.”

Gregson showed plenty of ordinary pluck, for though he was knocked down again and again and severely punished, he stood up like a man. But the extraordinary pluck or will-power exerted in adverse circumstances deserted him sooner in this encounter than it had in the previous one. He had been very badly hammered then; and the moral effect of that thrashing told upon him now.

In the twelfth round Gulley landed a smashing hit from which Gregson was in the act of falling when his antagonist hit him again. There were cries of “Foul,” but the blow was a fair one. Such an incident happens not infrequently. It happened in January, 1922, at the end of the fight between Carpentier and Cook.

After this Gregson was all but blinded, and staggered about the ring half dazed, he could not reach Gulley, who hit him thrice in quick succession as it pleased him, and knocked him down.

In the seventeenth round Gregson lost his temper and his head. That is fatal. It is, of course, all nonsense to suppose that an angry man cannot put up a good fight. He can; a touch of cold rage lends power to a man: thinking clearly he hits to hurt. But wild, tempestuous rage is another matter altogether. The man becomes blind, inasmuch as what he sees conveys no message to his brain. For a moment or two it is, perhaps, impossible to hurt him, for his passion consumes his other senses. But sooner or later some stunning blow will cool its victim’s fiery temper: there will be a brief moment of realisation, and—it will be too late. The wild, unthinking attack will have been checked, but the power to guard against reprisal will be numbed.

Gregson charged at his antagonist like a great bull, head down, arms working like flails. Gulley stood still, coolly taking his opportunity. Left and right he sent his bony fists crashing into Gregson’s face, brought, by his attitude, into easy reach. Left and right, and then, giving way a little, left and right again. He hit him as he liked, driving his weight behind each blow, guarding himself from or merely avoiding the ponderous windmill attack of the infuriated giant. When Gregson’s moment of realisation came, his temper having passed, he fled towards the side of the ring, actually turning his back upon Gulley as he did so. But Gulley was after him and never left him alone, bringing short-arm blows to bear upon face and body until, utterly exhausted, Gregson fell.

From the eighteenth to the twenty-fourth and last round Gulley had the fight, as it were, in one hand. He punished Gregson terribly, but the giant’s pluck was even greater than his rage had been. He would not give in, but came, at each call of time, staggering to the scratch. At last Gulley got the chance of an absolutely clear, free blow, into which he could put every ounce of his weight. It caught Gregson behind the ear and knocked him out; that is to say, he had not recovered at the end of half a minute, and was unable to stand at the next call of time.

Bob Gregson was certainly a great pugilist, and besides, like Gulley and Jackson, a man of presence and social charm. Indeed, he was offered and accepted a commission in the army, but Pierce Egan tells us that his means would not support the privilege for more than a very short while. It is Egan, too, who tells us that Bob Gregson, “although not possessing the terseness and originality of Dryden, or the musical cadence and correctness of Pope, yet still ... entered into a peculiar subject with a characteristic energy and apposite spirit.” In other words, Gregson wrote verse. That there may be no misunderstanding, the following stanza, the first of three in honour of Tom Cribb, is quoted below:—

This refers to one of the battles, shortly to be described, between Tom Cribb and Molineux, the black.

CHAPTER VII
JEM BELCHER’S LAST FIGHT

As already said, John Gulley retired from the ring after his second fight with Bob Gregson, and Tom Cribb, having himself beaten Gregson a few months later—that is, on October 25th, 1808, was declared Champion of England. And once again Jem Belcher’s unreasoning ambition (or insensate jealousy—whichever way you like to put it) caused him to challenge Tom for the title. This time, though Jem found backing, as an old favourite somehow always will, his friends frankly dreaded the issue. In the two years or so that had gone by since their last encounter, Jem had taken no greater care of himself than previously. His all too easy, self-indulgent life in conjunction with a naturally delicate body, had made a poor creature of him. Before his second fight with Cribb he entered the ring, as you might say, a beaten man.

The place chosen on this occasion was the racecourse at Epsom, the day was the first of February, 1809. The betting was 7-4 and 2-1 on Cribb, who had been trained by Captain Barclay, himself a good amateur boxer, though chiefly known in those days as the man who, for a wager, had walked a thousand miles in as many hours.

And yet the first round was Jem’s. Tom Cribb, though in much better condition than formerly, had not yet reached his highest form and was still ponderous and slow, relying upon his strength, playing a waiting game. Jem dashed in with all his old eagerness and gusto, and spanked away at the champion merrily. Tom retreated, and Jem’s wonderful speed confused and hustled him, so that he could not guard himself effectually, and Jem would send home sharp, stinging lefts followed by heavier rights, half a dozen to Cribb’s one. But though he might be momentarily bothered and confused, the champion was quite content. He could stand all the punishment that Jem could give him—that he knew already. He had only to wait. It was worth a few knocks. Jem would beat himself.

The second round was rather different. Jem still did all the leading and Tom fought on the retreat, but this time he kept his head and stopped most of the quick blows that Jem aimed at him. His guard had greatly improved, he used both his head and his feet with coolness and sound judgment. It is true that he was somewhat staggered by one very hard hit that Jem drove home over his guard, but that led the weaker man to an act of foolishness such as had helped towards his downfall in their previous fight. Jem dashed in and instead of raining blows to complete his man’s discomfiture, he closed and wrestled with him and finally threw him, which, as we have seen, did more to exhaust the temporary victor than his opponent. Not even the betting by unintelligent spectators was affected. Indeed Captain Barclay promptly tried to lay 4-1 on Cribb, but found no takers even at that price.

And yet for many rounds Belcher boxed with great skill, though quite early in the fight it was noticed that his wind was poor, and in any sharp rally he had to fight for his breath. Time after time Cribb found himself able to get close and throw him. But it was Cribb once more who showed the severer signs of punishment: his face was already swollen and he bled profusely from several cuts made by Jem’s sharp knuckles. Again and again Cribb was out-boxed, but what was science against a man whose mighty strength could ignore blows? Belcher was indeed and once again beating himself. His wind was gone, his breath came in feverish gasps, he grew slower and more feeble. In the eighth round he tried to get away from his man to the side of the ring in order to get his breath, but Cribb followed him quickly to the ropes, and Jem had to fight again. True, he hit Cribb several times, but the sting was gone from him, and presently the champion closed and they both fell.

And now Cribb refused to retreat any more. He stood up and walked into Jem, planting terrible blows, chiefly upon his body, guarding the counters, closing and hurling the lighter man upon the ground. He was confident and happy now. By the eleventh round he knew that he could not lose. And yet Belcher fought on with that amazing persistence, that flickering hope against hope, that glorious courage which in like case to-day, as then, you will often hear called folly. Jem Belcher was beaten then, but he went on till the thirty-first round with a gallantry that endures as an example to this day. Once again his knuckles were driven up and the skin upon them was all torn away. There is no possible doubt but that if Jem had been his old self Cribb could not have beaten him. But that is an unprofitable line of argument.

Belcher never entered the ring again. This battle, though it had lasted only forty minutes, still further reduced his strength. And immediately afterwards he was sentenced to a month in jail for this “breach of the peace.” There he caught a severe chill from which he never recovered. His lungs had always been delicate, and he died eighteen months later at the age of thirty, one of the greatest athletic heroes this country has ever known.

CHAPTER VIII
TOM CRIBB AND MOLINEUX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Mr. Thomas Cribb.

“Sir,—My friends think, that had the weather on last Tuesday, the day upon which I contended with you, not been so unfavourable, I should have won the battle: I, therefore, challenge you to a second meeting, at any time within two months, for such sum as those gentlemen who place confidence in me may be pleased to arrange.

“As it is possible this letter may meet the public eye, I cannot omit the opportunity of expressing a confident hope, that the circumstance of my being of a different colour to that of a people amongst whom I have sought protection will not in any way operate to my prejudice.

“I am, sir,
“Your most obedient, humble servant,
“T. Molineux.”

“Witness, J. Scholfield.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX
JACK SCROGGINS AND NED TURNER

In the days of bare knuckles there was only one champion, and though there were one or two exceptions—Tom Sayers is the most notable—little men, or men little by comparison, were quite out of the running. Champion, therefore, meant Champion—the best man that could be found. There was no qualification of the title—no middle, welter, feather, bantam, fly, or paper-weight. If a first-rate boxer of eight stone liked to fight another of sixteen stone—I suppose he could, but, rather naturally, he didn’t. In the old annals, though there is some record of the lesser men—lesser very often only in size and not in skill or courage—they are overshadowed by the big fellows far more than they are to-day. Even now, of course, from the spectacular point of view, big men—heavy-weights—cause far more excitement. And, as a rule, a good fight between two good big men is better worth seeing than a good fight between two good little men. The dramatic atmosphere is more intense, blows are harder, there is (though it is overrated) a certain splendour in sheer size.

But championship battles both now and in the past have been by no means necessarily the best battles: rather the contrary. Many a pot-house quarrel has provided better sport than a stupendously advertised World’s Championship with heaven only knows how ridiculously many thousands of pounds “hanging” upon the issue.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century there were, then, plenty of good little men, though we hear less about them than we do of the champions. Jack Scroggins was one, Ned Turner another. Scroggins may, by present standards, be called a light middle-weight: he was just under 11 stone. Turner was 10 stone 4 lb.—just over the present light-weight limit.

The first time they fought the ring was broken by rowdy spectators, and the result was a draw. The second battle took place at Sawbridgeworth on June 10th, 1817, and Jack Scroggins, who had never yet been beaten, staked £120 to £80 on the event.

Ned Turner—the Welshman referred to by George Borrow in the passage quoted in the Introduction—was a very fine boxer, and at the outset put up an almost impenetrable defence. Some minutes in the first round went by before the two men really began to fight. Scroggins was accustomed to dash in and hit his man at the very beginning, but something in Turner’s attitude daunted him, and he held off. But a start had to be made, and after a while he did rush, came close to his man, and gave him a light hit from which he fell. Scroggins had been a sailor and was a jolly little man, ever eager to see the bright side of a situation. In the present case he was absurdly elated at his trifling success, and dashed in again. This time the Welshman caught him hard on the face twice, following these blows with another in the ribs, but when they wrestled for a fall he was underneath. Scroggins saw now that he had taken on a better man than he had ever faced before, and was correspondingly cautious. Round after round Turner showed himself quicker with his fists, the sailor stronger in a close. In the fourth round Turner sent in a vicious blow on his opponent’s neck which, Scroggins said later on, decided the fight. It is true that he threw Turner again and again after that, but he was a hurt man. At the end of the fifth round a troop of Yeomanry were seen approaching, clattering down the lane which ran alongside the field of battle. It was thought at first by the ring officials and spectators that these soldiers had come to spoil sport; but as a matter of fact they had heard of the fight and had merely determined to see it.

After this the exchanges were almost equal. Each man planted severe blows, and Turner was undermost when they wrestled for a fall. It was not until the twelfth round that he succeeded in throwing Scroggins. In the following round Turner landed a blow which sent his opponent almost spinning, but the sailorman did not take advantage of it to fall, but dashed in again with commendable pluck. Turner was now a hot favourite. He was knocked down in the next round, but not heavily. He was quick and agile at close quarters, though a bad wrestler; and he generally managed to put in a series of fierce half-arm blows before Scroggins could hold him. The seventeenth round was interesting, as it gave an instance of the same kind of temper in Scroggins, remarkable in Humphries when he fought Mendoza, the Jew. Turner gave him a mighty hit in the face which must have hurt him considerably. He turned round, not from the force of the blow, but in real fear, the instinctive desire to get away—even to run away, out of reach. And then, even as he turned, Jack Scroggins remembered himself, swung right round in his stride and dashed at his adversary again. As they came together Turner hit him unmercifully, but was yet again underneath when they fell to the ground.

And so the fight went on, Scroggins invariably getting the worst of the exchange of blows, Turner the wrestling. The twenty-second was a tremendous round. They began with a furious rally, giving blow for blow with all their might, got away from each other in a moment, and then at it again. Scroggins charged in with his head down, and Turner met him with a vicious uppercut which caught him on the neck; and then, in trying for a fall, was underneath once more. The plucky little sailor was now visibly distressed and his wind was badly touched. He gasped for breath, and though he made his characteristic dash in the next round, it was clear that he was being out-fought. The betting on Turner rose to 5 and 6-1, and Scroggins tottered at the scratch, so weak now that when he lunged forward to hit he fell over. Turner hit him as he pleased, and Scroggins replied with wild blows which beat the air. He was nearly done by the time they fell in the twenty-fifth round.

The men’s seconds, for some reason, instead of keeping opposite corners, nursed their principals between the rounds side by side. As they sat on the knees of their bottle-holders, Turner stretched out a hand and took Scroggins’s to show him that he admired his pluck and that there was no ill-will. And then, immediately afterwards, on resuming, he planted a blow in the middle of the sailor’s face which knocked him clean off his legs. Such is sport. It is a wonderful thing to show your admiration and affection for a man at one moment and then almost in the same breath to hurt him dreadfully in cold blood. No wonder that foreigners think us mad. It was at about this period of the battle that Scroggins had a strong nip of brandy, but he was too far gone for such mild remedies. Again Turner caught him as hard as he could hit, and Scroggins backed away to the side of the ring. Turner beckoned to him and called on him to come and fight, but Scroggins was getting all the rest he could, and Turner in the end had to go after him. The Welshman was still fresh, for all the severe falls that he had suffered. And yet, the sailor with his wind gone, his eyes almost closed, his face swollen and mutilated, though he could not see to hit, even in the thirtieth round he continued to throw his opponent. But Jack Scroggins was quite dazed after that, and only stood at all by the force of his will. Turner upper-cut him again and again. In the thirty-third round he went down before a light hit, and on being carried to his corner gave in. Turner is said to have left the ring with hardly a mark on his face.

But the plucky little sailorman still believed that he was as good as the Welshman, and he challenged Turner to a third battle. This took place at Shepperton, on the Thames, on October 7th, 1818. The fight lasted for over an hour and a half, and Scroggins was again beaten, this time in the thirty-ninth round, when Turner hit him so that he sprawled over the ropes and was quite unable to come up to time. Otherwise it was a repetition of the previous encounter. Turner was by far the better boxer and hit his opponent as he liked. Scroggins was a rushing and dangerous fighter and a really good wrestler, and until he was weakened by repeated blows, ended round after round by throwing Turner to the grass. This time Scroggins was exhausted sooner, but with very real courage refused to give in, and fought as long as he could stand. As in the previous fight, Turner showed himself a chivalrous and sportsmanlike opponent, bearing not the slightest ill-will, nor showing undue elation when he had decisively beaten his indomitable opponent.

The following is an advertisement typical of a hundred years ago which corresponds to the kind of thing we are now accustomed to see on the hoardings outside the Albert Hall or the Holborn Stadium.

Holloa! Holloa!! Holloa!!!
A GENTLEMANLY SORT OF A MAN
JACK SCROGGINS
Humbly doffs his Castor to the
SPORTING WORLD.
TO INFORM
THE FANCY
THAT HIS
BENEFIT
AT THE
FIVES COURT, St. Martin’s Street,
Leicester Fields, takes place on
WEDNESDAY, APRIL the 25th, 1821,
When all the first-rate Pugilists on the List will Exhibit in a variety of
SCIENTIFIC COMBATS.

The Champion of England, Belcher, Spring, Randall, Oliver, Shelton, Burns, Owen, Turner, Richmond, Martin, Harmer, Cooper, Hickman, Sampson, Eales, etc., have promised SCROGGINS to be

HAND AND GLOVE with him upon this MOST STRIKING OCCASION.

SCROGGINS begs leave to assure the Patrons of Scientific Pugilism that nothing shall be wanting on his part to give the utmost satisfaction; and he trusts that, in being remembered ONCE as a great favourite, he also with the utmost deference humbly hopes, that Scroggins will not be forgotten as an Ould SERVANT, who has afforded the Amateurs Lots of Amusement in

SIXTEEN PRIZE BATTLES,

As the following LIST of his Opponents will show:—

BOOTS
SMITH
NOSWORTHY
EALES
WHITAKER
CHURCH
FISHER
TURNER
TURNER
TURNER
MARTIN
JOSH. HUDSON
DAV. HUDSON
DAV. HUDSON
HOLT, and
PARISH.

In order to prevent his being entirely FLOORED; and that they will lend their support as Seconds, towards PICKING HIM UP, Putting him on his Legs, and giving him another Chance, whereby Scroggins may be enabled to get a House over his Topper, where he can

Serve all his CUSTOMERS!!!

And Sing, as an old Sailor, God save the King!
To commence at Two O’clock,—Tickets, 3s. each, to be had at all the Sporting Houses.
⁂ All Tickets issued for February the 27th will be admitted. Tickets to be had at the Bar.

CHAPTER X
JACK RANDALL AND NED TURNER

Jack Randall, the Irishman, whom George Borrow describes as the King of the Light-weights, was a few pounds over the ten stone which is the generally recognised light-weight limit of to-day. He was a frank-faced, open-hearted fellow, a good and chivalrous sportsman, strong-willed, courageous, and by no means a fool. In the year 1818 he was at the height of his fame, but was anxious to fight one or two more battles, before taking the customary tavern and retiring. And a match was accordingly made with Ned Turner to take place on Crawley Downs on December 5th of that year for £100 a side. Both in height, weight, and age, the men were evenly matched. The betting was in favour of Randall. Turner’s seconds were Tom Owen and Bill Richmond, the black; Randall’s, Tom Oliver and White.

As so often happened in the days of bare knuckles, the men were a long time making up their minds to begin, and five minutes went by before the first blow was struck. Then as now, boxers realised the prime importance of a good start, of landing, if possible, a terrific and discouraging smasher in the first round. Many fights have been won like that. In this battle the first two rounds occupied twenty minutes. But in the second Randall landed more often and much the harder of the two. They boxed at long range, and each seemed to be mortally afraid of the other, or rather, to respect him. Once a blow was struck by either, his opponent hastened to return it with all speed and due interest. In the third round the spectators and even the men’s seconds became impatient. The round lasted thirteen minutes, and the pauses between bouts of fighting were so protracted that onlookers suggested to Tom Owen that he might light his pipe, whilst Tom Cribb asked for his night-cap and told his neighbours to wake him up when the fighting started again. Each was determined to give the other no unnecessary chance. When they did get going both boxed extremely well. Randall went mainly for the body at first, and Turner drew blood from the Irishman’s mouth and nose. At the end of the sixth round and about an hour from the start, Turner was showing signs of weariness. He lowered his hands whenever Randall was out of reach, and he was bleeding profusely.

They now began to fight hard. Most rounds ended in a throw, at which Randall as a rule showed himself the stronger. In the eleventh round it was seen that Randall was rather the better, though backers were not yet lacking for his opponent. But presently Turner was worked round so that the sun was in his eyes, and Randall put in a terrific hit on the face. Turner replied with a hard right in the stomach. Then Turner scored the more hits in a fierce rally, but these were not hard enough to do a great deal of damage.

The first knock-down blow came from Randall in the thirteenth round. He shot in a hard left which sent Turner’s head back and then immediately repeated it, whereupon Turner fell. He was bleeding a good deal. The Irishman hit less now at the body, finding Turner’s defence for his head easier to break through. In the sixteenth round Turner hit several times but weakly; in the seventeenth, however, he seized Randall and threw him clean out of the ring. But the effort was a costly one: it did little harm to Randall, whilst Turner stood leaning against the ropes panting. Randall came up for the next round comparatively fresh, and before long he knocked Turner down again.

Two hours had been passed by the time twenty-four rounds had been fought. There were ten more rounds and these only occupied twenty minutes. The reason was that Turner was losing strength rapidly, and Randall knocked or threw him down without much trouble. Turner’s pluck was magnificent. Round after round he got the worst of it, but came up each time with apparent confidence and a smile upon his bruised and bleeding face. In the twenty-seventh round Turner hurled himself at his opponent and hit him so hard as to drive him right away, though without causing his downfall. Randall was now refreshed by a pull at the brandy-flask, but Turner was yet able to stop his best blows and to give good ones in return. But the tide of the battle had set definitely against him. Randall ended one round by knocking him down with a tremendous body-blow and the next by a throw.

When Turner came quite jauntily from his second’s knee for the thirty-first round, the crowd began to call out: “Take him away: he’s too game.” But he went on and Randall finished the bout with another body-blow. Some of the onlookers begged Ned to give in at the end of the thirty-second, but he shook his head. The next round was very short, and Turner was severely knocked down. Again the cry was raised: “Don’t let him fight any more.” However, he came up, full of pluck and perfectly cool, for the thirty-fourth, and did his best to keep Randall away. The Irishman, however, sent in several blows, the last of which on the side of Turner’s head, knocked him down so that he could not come up at the call of time.

The crowd pressed round Randall in congratulation, but he pushed them away and went across to Turner to shake hands with perfect good friendship. Turner, sick at heart and hurt as he was, patted Randall on the back. Never was there less ill-feeling between any two men.

Randall is said to have been a natural fighter in the most literal sense, never having taken a single lesson, but buying his experience solely in the ring.

The Nonpareil, as he was called, had two more fights before finally retiring from the Prize-Ring. Both of these were with the baker, Jack Martin: whom he first defeated in nineteen rounds and fifty minutes, and then in one round of eight and a half minutes. Martin’s very long reach proved a difficulty to Randall in the first fight, for though his rushing and slogging were very powerful and not devoid of skill, his footwork was clumsy and he had no idea of side-stepping or ducking away from the baker’s long arms. But in each of these fights he proved that Martin’s body was weak, and he forced himself in to close fighting and hammered his man about the ribs and stomach until the rigid guard he kept up to protect his head was weakened or lowered. Martin was very plucky, but besides the natural advantage of reach, he was nearly a stone the heavier of the two; so that the highest credit is due to the Irishman for his signal defeat of him.

For some years Randall kept The Hole in the Wall, in Chancery Lane, but like many another fighter, he died whilst still a young man, in 1828.

CHAPTER XI
BILL NEATE AND TOM HICKMAN

Perhaps one of the best known of William Hazlitt’s essays is that called The Fight, though it is the coach drive towards Hungerford and some very intimate and exact discussions upon training which really interested the writer. The fight in question was that between Bill Neate and Tom Hickman, known as “The Gasman,” or, simply, “Gas.”

Hitherto Hickman’s chief title to consideration had been the remarkably short work he had made of at least three sturdy opponents. He had thrashed Peter Crawley in fourteen and a half minutes, Gipsy Cooper twice, once in a quarter of an hour and once in three minutes, and he had taken twelve and a half minutes to defeat Tom Oliver. Neate had a good record too, but he had taken an hour and a half to beat Oliver, so that “Gas” was by way of being the favourite. As a matter of fact history shows that because A beats C with less difficulty than B, it by no means follows that A is invincible by B. It is interesting to know that Neate’s backer on this occasion was that same Mr. Weare who was shortly afterwards murdered by Thurtell.

The fight took place at Newbury, in Berkshire, on December 11th, 1821. Neate’s seconds were Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer, Hickman’s were Tom Spring and Tom Shelton.

Neate fought with a well-extended guard which Hickman found very difficult to pass. He pivoted about, always presenting a good defence. But after a long time sparring, “Gas” charged in, got through his man’s guard, and hit him in the face, jumping away out of danger again. He repeated this again and again, whilst Neate’s replies were poor. Again Hickman charged. This, he thought to himself, was going to be a soft job like the others: but Neate had got used to him by this time and met him with a beautiful straight left in the throat which made Hickman gasp. Again “Gas” tried to rush, and Neate slipped and fell.