Knuckles and Gloves

The second round found the Gasman still grinning with confidence. He tried to get over Neate’s guard with hard chopping blows, but these only fell on the shoulder and did no harm at all. Then there was a hard rally, and Neate sent home another straight left which made his opponent reel: but Hickman was a plucky fellow, and though he found Neate a disappointing antagonist, he would still try to win the encounter off-hand. Neate tried another left which failed, and shortly afterwards slipped down to avoid “Gas’s” in-fighting, which was not to his taste. Hickman’s grin was still confident, but he got the worst of the third round. After a sharp exchange Neate knocked him down, and himself fell from the force of his own blow and the clumsy way in which he stood.

The decisive blow of the fight was struck in the fourth round. Hickman aimed a tremendous right-hander at Neate, which he avoided, himself replying with the left. Describing this and the previous round, Hazlitt wrote:—

“I saw (Neate’s) teeth clenched together and his brows knit close against the sun. He held out both his arms at full length straight before him, like two sledge-hammers, and raised his left an inch or two higher. The Gasman could not get over this guard—they struck mutually and fell, but without advantage on either side.... The Gasman aimed a mortal blow at his adversary’s neck with his right hand, and failing from the length he had to reach, the other returned it with his left at full swing, planted a tremendous blow on his cheek-bone and eyebrow, and made a red ruin of that side of his face.”

Hickman never stood a chance after that. His smile was gone when he came up, plucky but weak, for the fifth round. Neate hit him thrice sharply and then sent in a smashing right on the mouth, which “grassed” him. He had a terrible time in the sixth, for he tried once more to rush his man and did succeed momentarily in pinning him to the ropes. But there Neate’s greater skill came to his aid. He kept perfectly cool, guarded a couple of dangerous blows, and then countered, first with left, then with right, following one with another at top speed until “Gas” gave ground, until his retreat became indeed a rout. Then Neate coming after him, went for his body and planted four terrible blows about the ribs and stomach, the last of which sent Hickman down. So ill was the Gasman after this round that his second had to hold him tight to prevent him from rolling off his knee.

Neate himself was puffing and blowing a good deal, and his thumb gave him considerable pain. He had cut and sprained it severely when he made his terrific hit in the fourth round, and it had been in severe use more than once since then. But he was quite happy. He knew that he had only to keep cool and take his time and the battle was assuredly his. Again he gave “Gas” two tremendous blows, but the latter stood up bravely. Neate was even too determined not to be hurried. He might with advantage have done more in this, the seventh round, which ended by his slipping to grass.

When Hickman came up again he was laughing, actually and audibly laughing! He knew that he could stand very little more, but he was quite determined to discourage Neate to the best of his ability. But a swift left-hander caught him on the right eye and sent him down, and, as we should say now, out. He was quite insensible for nearly half a minute, lying inert in the arms of Tom Spring. Then just when time should have been called for the ninth round some roughs broke into the ring and had to be whipped out. This gave Hickman a full minute’s rest, and he was able to stagger up to the scratch. This time Neate hit clumsily and both fell.

The next few rounds showed that the Gasman was of an indomitable courage. Each time he came up with a wry smile on his battered face and did his best to rush his opponent. Neate’s wind was now much affected and his hitting was weaker. The opportunity of speedy victory he had let slip, and though he was still getting the better of the fight, he made a poor show.

In the fourteenth round it was seen that “Gas” was nearly blind, and he had to be brought up to the scratch by his seconds. He refused to give in and stood helpless to be knocked down. The sixteenth and seventeenth rounds were the same. The Gasman’s seconds were greatly to blame for not throwing up the sponge. It was not for want of urging by the crowd. The eighteenth was the last round. Tom Hickman did not know what he was doing. He tottered in the middle of the ring when his seconds left him, with his hands down. Neate went up to him and gave him a gentle push, which was all that was needed. The whole fight was over in less than half an hour.

The Gasman had a tremendous reputation, and great surprise was caused by his defeat. He was killed precisely a year later, being thrown out of a gig when driving away from another prize-fight.

CHAPTER XII
TOM SPRING AND BILL NEATE

We come now to another of the outstanding figures of the Prize-Ring, the famous Tom Spring. This man’s real name was Winter—“sharp as Winter, kind as Spring”—as Borrow has it. He was born in the county of Hereford in 1795. His height was 5 feet, 11¾ inches, and in perfect condition he weighed 13 stone 6 lb. During his career he fought a dozen main battles, being beaten once by Ned Painter, whom he had previously defeated. They refused to fight out the rubber because they had become fast friends, and Spring, who was perfectly confident of winning the third time, did not wish to risk that friendship.

It was Tom Cribb, visiting the West of England on a sparring tour, who inflamed the young man’s imagination. As a lad Winter drove a butcher’s cart, but he had a spirit above this humdrum avocation. And, contriving to win the old Champion’s confidence, he came to London and immediately made a name for himself. On Cribb’s retirement he became Champion, and remained so until he himself retired in favour of Jem Ward.

In the year following Neate’s victory over the Gasman, a match was arranged between him and Tom Spring for £200 a side, which, after being once postponed, finally took place at Hinkley Downs, near Andover, on May 20th, 1823. This was the first real fight for the championship since the defeat of Molineux by Cribb in 1811. The betting was in favour of Spring, though Neate did not lack support. He was seconded by Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer, while the old champion and Ned Painter, his late antagonist and warmest friend, looked after Spring.

It was a very short battle and was virtually won in the first round, and before a serious blow had been struck. The men faced each other, and it was a long time before any effective move was made. Spring’s attitude was very much the same as the typical “English” attitude of to-day: that is, left foot some eighteen inches in front of the right, left knee slightly bent, left arm out ready to lead, right thrown across the mark to guard. Neate’s position has already been described. It was very stiff and awkward and effective only against a slow boxer. The men exchanged and stopped blows without one landing for some minutes. Once, when Neate sent in a specially hard smack and Spring stopped it coolly with his elbow, he grinned good-naturedly. Then he lowered his hands to tempt Bill Neate to come for him, raising them again the instant the other moved. After a few blows on either side which did at last get home, Spring landed twice on the face, so that Neate turned. The next instant he whipped round, just as though panic had seized him and he had then thought better of it, and rushed the champion to his corner. Tom Belcher cried out to him to go in. “Now’s the time!” But Spring kept perfectly cool, and with deliberation guarded each furious blow that his opponent sent in. Neate tried several times to break through that guard, still keeping Spring at bay in his corner. If he had gone on trying, he might have succeeded. But Spring’s coolness and skill daunted him. He hesitated, and in a measure lost heart. He experienced, at any rate, a momentary feeling of helplessness; and as he hesitated Spring dashed in and fought his way out of the corner. The greater will was Spring’s. Neate closed now to save being hit, and lifted his man nearly off his feet, but Spring was cleverer than he at wrestling and in a moment had twisted him round and thrown him, falling heavily upon him.

When they set to for the second round both were very cautious once more. At last Neate shot out his left with all his thirteen stone odd behind it, but Spring threw back his head to avoid it, and countered instantly with a tremendous smash between the eyes, which drew blood immediately. Neate sprang in for his revenge, but once again his opponent made the blow short by moving and sent in another hard one on the head which swung Bill round. For a moment it looked as though he would fall, but he staggered, and got his feet firmly planted again, and went for Spring. The champion, however, caught him by the neck, gave him two or three hard half-arm blows and hurled him to the ground.

Spring tried a very hard left at the opening of the third round, which Neate stopped. There were several exchanges, and Neate was laughing happily, or tried to give that appearance. He struck once with his right—his best blow—but it landed on the point of Spring’s elbow, which he had thrown across his face. The impact was tremendous, and the small bone of Neate’s fore-arm was broken. He closed and went down under his man.

The champion’s defence seemed to be impregnable, and Neate again experienced the feeling of helplessness, of inferiority which spells defeat. He tried again and again for the head without success, then changed suddenly and attacked the body, only to be stopped once more. Spring countered twice on the nose and threw Neate, whose friends were calling to him to remember his famous right. In the fifth round Spring punished him severely, sending him down at last with a blow on the right ear, and hitting him again as he was falling. To some of Spring’s supporters it appeared as though neither blow had landed and that Neate had gone down without being hit at all. However, Jackson, who was acting as umpire, when appealed to, ruled otherwise.

The next round found Bill Neate “with bellows to mend,” whilst his opponent was fresh and confident. Spring hit him twice on the face and knocked him down.

The champion refused to run any risks though it was clearly evident by now that he had his man beaten. He stepped away from his blows, and refused to run risks by dashing heedlessly in. Presently, however, he drew Neate’s guard with a feint, and let fly left and right on the face, knocking his antagonist down.

The last round, the eighth, made Neate “look like a novice,” as they say to-day. Spring went for his man and hit him as he pleased. Bill tried to use his left, but each blow was ill-timed and ill-judged and went nowhere near the champion. Spring then sent in a right-hander on the face which knocked his man clean off his legs. On the call of time Neate held out his hand to the champion, complaining that he could fight no more with his broken arm. The whole mill was over in thirty-seven minutes.

Neate was plucky to fight so long as he did with a broken arm, but we cannot make too much fuss about it, for several men have fought for longer with similar injuries. He was, too, beaten at the outset, as we have shown, simply by force of character. In his heart of hearts he gave in then, though he took plenty of punishment afterwards bravely enough. But it is braver to go on wanting to win than to endure hurt with resignation.

CHAPTER XIII
TOM SPRING AND JACK LANGAN

The year 1824 was the climax of the best period of the Prize-Ring. There were good fights in later years, as we shall see, first-rate champions, high skill, noble endurance: but the institution of the Ring was never in such good case again. And the most notable events of that year in pugilism were the two great fights between the Champion of England, Tom Spring, and the Champion of Ireland, Jack Langan.

This combat, which was for £300 a side, took place at Worcester Racecourse on January 7th. The men were splendidly matched, in years and in physique. Langan was twenty-five, Spring twenty-nine. There was no serious difference in their weight or height. Spring was the better built man, with the body of an all-round athlete; whilst Langan was awkwardly made, hard, angular, with enormous hands. He was known as a brave and skilful fighter, though he had never fought a battle yet with any men of the first rank.

The magistrates in the neighbourhood of Worcester had at first shown signs of opposition to the fight, but considerable influence was brought to bear upon them, so many great sportsmen were interested in the event, that they gave way; and, far from being secret and improvised, the arrangements for the great battle were as deliberate and as open as those for a public funeral. Stands were built about the racecourse, a special ring was constructed, and accommodation, it is said, for at least 20,000 spectators was provided. All the roads of England, so to speak, converged upon Worcester, and men paid a guinea for a shake-down in the loft of a small ale-house. Indeed, the people of Worcester subscribed £200 to the agents of Spring and Langan to make sure of the battle taking place there, so certain were they of the harvest to come. Onlookers were in their places two hours before the fight began, and the rigging of vessels lying in the Severn, which flowed beside the course, was full of those who could not raise the five shillings, which was the smallest price for a place on the stands.

Spring was once more seconded by Tom Cribb and Ned Painter, Lord Deerhrust acting as his umpire. Josh. Hudson and Tom Reynolds attended to Langan, whilst his umpire was Sir H. Goodricke. Colonel Berkeley was chosen by these umpires as the referee.

The first round was uneventful. The men were excessively cautious and few blows were struck. It was observed that Langan’s guard was highly efficient. Spring finally got in a heavy left on his opponent’s right eye and Langan went down. At the next meeting the Irishman went for the body, but Spring’s defence was very sure, and the two stood toe to toe watching for an opportunity for some time. Finally Spring landed with both hands, and later knocked Langan down with quite a slight hit. During this round one of the stands overlooking the ring collapsed and many people were severely injured. The two boxers waited to find out if any one had been killed before continuing to fight. Fortunately, broken arms and legs were the most serious injuries. This untoward event resulted in about 2000 people who had occupied seats being added to the crowd standing between the wrecked stand and the ring. Owing to this, violent pressure was, from then onwards till the end of the battle, thrown against the ropes, so that the outer ring was entirely broken, and the inner was constantly altering in shape, sometimes hardly leaving the men ten square feet to fight in. No doubt, as usual, many roughs were present, but the breaking of the ring on this occasion may reasonably be attributed to accident rather than a deliberate plan.

Langan still went for the body, and Spring, than whom there was never a cooler boxer, waited for the attack each time; and as Langan lunged forward from long range, lowering his head as he did so, the champion caught him on the face. There was a great deal of wrestling throughout this battle and in the early rounds Spring had been heavily thrown. In the eighth round, the champion who felt himself to be the better boxer, knowing well that he had been getting the worst of the throws, fought much harder and drove Langan into his corner. But he had been hitting the Irishman about his head with great force, and, like Jem Belcher with Tom Cribb, he had injured his hands. The knuckles were not actually driven up, but Spring’s hands “puffed” easily, and already they were swollen and soft, and each blow, especially with the left hand, was an agony to him. This round ended with both men slipping down. So far Spring was unmarked, while Langan was already a good deal disfigured and bleeding. A little later he sent in a tremendous left on the mark, but he had misjudged his distance and the blow was short and did no harm. A good bit of boxing followed, for Spring countered and the Irishman ducked from the blow, whereupon the champion caught him with a sharp upper-cut; then he closed and threw Langan hard. The thirteenth round was a hard one for Langan, Spring hitting him severely on the nose with the right and closing his eye with a smashing left.

It must be remembered that all this time the champion’s hands were growing more and more soft, that each blow he struck was more painful than the one before. And yet all the time he kept quietly confident, never grew flustered, and, besides throwing his man, still hit him hard. He, too, was often thrown, and the nineteenth round found both men panting with their exertions. In the next round Spring fought with tremendous vigour. He dashed at his man, drove him round the ring, then closed and hurled him to the grass, but refrained from falling on him which, by the rules of that day, he was entitled to do.

The Irish champion was now definitely getting the worst of it, though Spring showed signs of weakness. However, he ended the twenty-seventh round by a right-hand blow on the face which lifted Langan from the ground. Langan came up again and yet again, but now always to be knocked or thrown down. He was much marked, but had been perfectly trained and was a man of iron constitution. Spring was looking pale and was clearly growing weak, but his skill and judgment were never at fault. By the thirty-fifth round the officials had all they could do to keep a clear space in the ring for the men to fight in. The rounds now were very short. In the forty-fourth Langan made his last desperate effort and did, in fact, hit as well as Spring, the round ending by both going down together. After that, however, his strength had quite gone. The fight went on till seventy-five rounds had been fought in two hours and ten minutes. Finally Spring sent in a right-hander on the neck which knocked Langan clean out of time. He lost consciousness, and when he recovered on Cribb’s knee wanted to go on, furious when his seconds restrained him, mortified to find that time had indeed been called. He rose, but immediately fell back into Cribb’s arms.

It was generally held that Spring would have won much sooner but for the puffing of his left hand. His right was injured too, but remained effective if painful until the end.

After this battle, Tom Reynolds, Langan’s second and friend, complained that his principal had not been given fair play, and that the crowd had been allowed by Spring’s backers to break the ring because his antagonist was an Irishman. In point of fact, the breaking of the ring was no more to Langan’s disadvantage than the champion’s. Anyhow, Langan was not satisfied, and a little later challenged Spring again, this time for the very large prize (in those days) of £500 a side. Langan stipulated for a raised and boarded stage, such as had been used for the battle between Cribb and Molineux. At first the champion objected to this, because he knew Langan’s wrestling powers, and that to be thrown upon boards is a much worse business than upon grass. However, he agreed in the end, for he saw Langan’s point, namely, that a crowd cannot break a ring so easily upon a raised stage as in an open field.

The second match took place at Birdham Bridge, near Chichester, on June 8th, 1824. Once again there was an enormous crowd, and this time the ring was protected not only by being raised, but by a circle formed by fifty-three farm wagons round about it.

Spring was, naturally, the favourite. He brought down the scales at 13 stone 4 lb., whilst Langan was a stone under that amount, and was by some judges thought to have over-trained.

John Jackson, as was usual at all notable battles since his retirement, superintended all the arrangements in connection with the ring.

Spring was once again seconded by the old champion and Painter, Langan by Tom Belcher and O’Neil. Colours were tied to the posts in the men’s respective corners: blue with white spots for Spring, black for Langan.

The fight began in very much the same way as the other between these men. Nothing of any particular note occurred until the seventh round, which was as good as any ever seen in the Prize-Ring. Spring led with his left and hit Langan hard in the face, stepping back at once. In those days they talked of Spring’s “harlequin step,” for he danced up to a man, hit or missed, as the case might be, and danced away again, extraordinarily light and easy upon his feet, and wonderfully quick. Now he was dancing in again, and hit Langan on the ear and nose. The Irishman came for more and was driven away with a stinging spank on the cheek-bone. His backers now called on him to exert himself, and he rushed at Spring, a great rally taking place, blow for blow, though Langan got the worst of it. Then they closed, and Spring threw his man heavily on the boards. Both were blowing when the round ended. It was “the Bank of England to a nutshell” on Spring, but Langan was a true Irishman. One of the differences between the English and the Irish is this: the Englishman doesn’t know when he is beaten: the Irishman neither knows nor cares. With or without the chance of winning, Langan continued to fight.

By the eighteenth round Spring’s left hand was quite useless. But his right hand was sound still and he used it with great effect. It was Spring’s defence which made him one of the best knuckle-fighters that ever lived. He could guard and stop blows with greater dexterity and judgment than almost any other man, but he also understood the art of avoiding punishment by good footwork, which entails less effort. He was not a remarkably hard hitter, and, as we have seen, he suffered severely from his hands: but his skill lay in hitting again and again and yet again on precisely the same spot, so that the cumulative effect of many blows was as great, if not greater in a long fight, than that of a single smasher.

Certainly Langan succeeded, as he had in the previous affair, in throwing the champion and in hurling his own twelve stone violently on top of him, but as a boxer he was not, as they say, in the same street. There was no sort of question about his pluck. Not satisfied with the result of the previous battle, Jack Langan made his seconds promise on this occasion not on any account to give in for him or to interfere in any way. Indeed Tom Belcher more than once called on him to fight when he was past fighting.

The twenty-fourth round found them both exceedingly willing. Spring with slight marks on cheek and eye but otherwise undamaged by Langan. Both his hands, however, were very swollen now. The fight had already lasted fifty-two minutes, and Langan was much punished. But over and over again he tried his best to get past Spring’s incomparable guard and failed. And now, the champion was getting by far the better of the falls too.

Once or twice during the later rounds there was a certain amount of bickering between the opposing seconds. Cribb, on one occasion, complained that Belcher was trying to gain time between the rounds: and once when Langan seized his opponent by the breeches to throw him a protest was made on that account, and the referee ordered Langan not to do it again.

The thirty-second round ended with a heavy fall for Langan, who struck his neck against one of the wooden rails which were used instead of ropes around the ring. A little later, in the thirty-sixth round, Langan’s backer, Colonel O’Neill, asked that he should be taken away. But this he steadfastly refused, as did his seconds, who had given their solemn promise in that regard. Instead, Langan took a nip of brandy which helped him to recover momentarily: and battered and sorely spent as he was, he croaked out jestingly to his seconds to be sure and keep the brandy cold. He made one or two more attempts to force the fighting, but his antagonist was still quite strong, unhurt, and as alert to seize opportunities and avoid danger as in the first round.

At the beginning of the forty-seventh round Langan was brought up to the scratch by his seconds, which, though strictly speaking, against the rules then in force, was frequently winked at. It was a good rule, and should have been adhered to: because if a man could not come up to the scratch at the call of time he was certainly in no condition to continue fighting. After a time Langan’s conduct went beyond the boundaries of pluck and became—what we should certainly call to-day—foolish obstinacy. “There was nothing to be gained by going on.” And how often do we hear that remark to-day in all manner of diverse connections. But we should recognise a signal virtue in that (no doubt foolish) desire to go on where “nothing is to be gained.” “Leave me alone, I will fight,” Langan said, when his plight was so obviously hopeless that the crowd on all sides yelled for him to be taken away. And he went on until the seventy-seventh round. And for many rounds before the end Spring never hit at all, but gently pushed the brave fellow down. In the end he came tottering to the scratch and fell senseless without even the push.

This fight lasted for one hour and forty-eight minutes.

Both Spring and Langan retired after this and became fast friends. “Thormanby” tell us that every year on the anniversary of their first fight Langan used to send Tom Spring a keg of the very best Irish potheen. Spring told “Thormanby” this story in 1851, just before he died.

After his retirement the champion took the Castle Tavern in Holborn, Tom Belcher’s lease of which had just expired, and he became widely known as a great landlord and sportsman.

“Thormanby” has another story to tell of Jack Langan’s generosity. He settled at Liverpool when he retired and took an inn there; and when the Irish harvesters came over each year, Langan would put up as many of them as he could for a couple of days on their way inland. These men he fed and provided with plenty of beer and a nightcap of potheen—on the condition that before going to roost they left their sickles and shillelaghs in his care.

Towards the end of his life Tom Spring got into financial difficulties, owing to his trust in friends who used him as an agent in betting transactions, and then disappeared when the wrong horse got home or the wrong man gave in. He died at the early age of fifty-six, in 1851; Langan having predeceased him by five years.

CHAPTER XIV
DEAF BURKE AND SIMON BYRNE

On the retirement of Tom Spring the championship fell to Jem Ward, who held it for many years. He was followed by Deaf Burke, whose fight with Simon Byrne is the subject of this chapter. This, as will be seen, was a disastrous fight, in that the unfortunate Byrne died immediately after it. It is, however, necessary to give some details of the circumstances, because Byrne’s death was typical of the sort of accident that occasionally happened in connection with the Prize-Ring, and has since happened more than once in connection with modern boxing. I say “in connection,” rather awkwardly like that because, as will be discovered presently, the fight in these cases is only the occasion and not the actual cause of mortal injury.

The battle in question was fought at No Man’s Land, in Hertfordshire, for £100 a side on May 30th, 1833. Almost exactly three years before, Byrne had fought and beaten a man named McKay, who died next day. Byrne had been tried for manslaughter and acquitted. The circumstances of the death of both were somewhat similar: and there is no doubt that McKay’s death preyed upon Byrne’s mind.

In the first place we find that Simon Byrne was grossly out of condition before he went into training. He weighed 15 stone, and reduced himself to 13 stone 4 lb. “An effort which,” Bell’s Life in London tells us, “as it was effected by hard work and sweating, somewhat impaired his natural stamina, especially as, his habits being far from abstemious when in Ireland, he was scarcely fitted to undergo the necessary amount of labour.” That is, no doubt, the explanation of the tragedy, as it has been the explanation of other tragedies, one of which is within comparatively recent memory. As a rule, the modern champion is a teetotaller, and generally speaking “takes care of himself.” He lives not merely a “reasonable life,” but a life, physically speaking, devoted to one end. His health comes before everything else. It is, for better or for worse, a restrained, careful, hygienic age—anyhow for boxers with pretensions. But in the old days, the fighting men alternated between bouts of the wildest debauchery and the most violently severe training. No wonder they died young. No wonder that the sudden abstention from artificial stimulant combined with over-hard work and culminating in the prolonged strain and pain of a desperate battle occasionally killed them. The wonder is that there were not more deaths from a like cause.

Deaf Burke, on the other hand, was young and healthy, and in high spirits. He was seconded by Tom Gaynor and Dick Curtis, Byrne by Tom Spring and Jem Ward. On stripping, Burke was seen to be in perfect condition, but Byrne looked still a little too fleshy and had no special show of muscle upon him. He had a good deal of advantage in height. Burke was the favourite but not at greater odds than 5-4, or guineas to pounds.

In the days of bare knuckles there was generally a certain amount of “honour” to be gained by achieving the first knock-down, or drawing first blood. There was often betting on the subject, anyhow on the former event. In the first round of this match a good deal of amusement was caused by Burke. Byrne hit him on the nose and made him sniff. Whereupon Byrne called out, “First blood!” Burke deliberately wiped his nose with his finger and showed it to his opponent unstained. Then they went at it again, and before long the Irishman was seen to be bleeding at the mouth. But at the same moment Burke’s nose did begin to bleed, so the umpires and the referee decided that it was a tie.

The second round found both the men in the best of good tempers, and the hitting was even. Towards the end of this set-to there was a fierce rally in which both gave heavy punishment. They closed, and Byrne threw Deaf Burke and fell upon him. Burke’s defence was the sounder, but his antagonist was the better wrestler. In the fourth round Byrne swung his right with tremendous force at his man’s head, and had the blow landed on the jaw it might well have finished the battle. But Burke moved forward at that moment and the blow caught him on the back of the head with much of its force spent, and no particular damage was done.

There was some good fighting in the next round. Each landed a hard left, and then Byrne stepped back, landing a splendidly timed upper-cut with his right as Burke came in. Then he closed and hurled the “Deaf ’un” down. Jem Ward derisively asked Burke from Byrne’s corner “How did you like that?” and Burke grinned.

Byrne’s hand was now beginning to swell from the effects of his tremendous punch in the fourth round. He again threw Burke, who appeared none the worse for it. He was hitting the oftener, Byrne the harder: but the Irishman’s best blows did not get through the other man’s defence. Both were badly marked, however, and before the fight had lasted three-quarters of an hour, had revived themselves with brandy.

By the eighteenth round they were getting slow. Burke had a primitive ruse which he employed from time to time of looking at his man’s body and grimacing and then bringing up his fist to the head. He tried this now with eminent success. In the next round Byrne received a very hard blow under the ear, not by any means the first, which must have done him more harm than he knew at the moment. He fought back, however, and landed on Burke’s nose and again on the eye, when Burke lowered his hands for a moment to wipe them on his breeches. “Loud laughter at Burke’s expense,” says the writer in Bell’s Life.

The first knock-down was administered by Byrne in the twenty-seventh round. After that Byrne had distinctly the best of it for some time. He threw Burke with terrific force on his head in the twenty-ninth round and in the next hit him so severely about the body as to make him sick. Burke was evidently weak, and Byrne seemed to have the fight in his hand. He threw his opponent again and again, rushing him to the ropes and hitting him severely before closing.

The responsible officials ought now to have stopped the fight, there is no excuse for them whatever. What followed was sheer beastliness and nothing else. Burke and Byrne are in no wise to blame. Both fought until they were virtually senseless. Both tried to be, quite roughly speaking, fair.

In the forty-third round Tom Cannon, a well-known bruiser and a backer of Deaf Burke, broke, with others, into the ring and began to curse Burke. “Get up and fight, Deaf ’un,” he shouted. “D’ye mean to make a cross of it?”

With some difficulty Cannon and the rest were expelled from the ring, and the fight, if fight it can be called, went on.

Both men were now nearly exhausted, but Deaf Burke, urged by his seconds, went in with all his remaining strength and punished Byrne severely. In the forty-ninth round the Irishman came to grass very weak, and Burke became favourite again. And so it went on till the ninety-ninth round, now one and now the other having some slight advantage. Once, his supporters seeing Burke down and apparently unconscious hailed Byrne as the winner: but at the call of time, Dick Curtis, his second, brought Burke up to the scratch, where he stood with indomitable pluck, ready to go on fighting. Byrne’s chances had finally gone when both his hands became so “puffed” that he was unable to strike a single blow which could hurt his opponent, let alone knock him out.

Later on, the supporters of the men on either side, apart from their seconds, crowded round them and sprinkled water on them during the progress of the rounds, and fanned them with their hats. And the ring was the centre of pandemonium. The crowd yelled and yelled again for one or other, Burke or Byrne. What cared they that the men had long ago fought themselves to exhaustion, so long as the technical decision was obtained, the decision which would decide the bets?

And there are men now who complain that we are a softened race because we don’t allow this sort of thing....

Burke remained slightly the stronger. Latterly he seldom “hit” except with his open hand, but it was enough to send his antagonist down. And yet in the ninety-first round Byrne managed to trip him and fall on him, so that once again the Irishman’s chances were favoured. Then Burke, answering the curses and the cheers, managed to knock Byrne down rather harder than usual. And that was the last change. After that Byrne was carried to the scratch virtually insensible, literally dazed. He could just stand unsupported long enough for Burke to put out his hand and topple him over. He made pitiful efforts to put out his left to stop the “Deaf ’un.” But it was of no use. At last he fell unconscious on the grass, and Tom Spring and Ward with all their skill—sousing him with water, forcing brandy between his mutilated lips, biting his ears—could not bring him round. And half of the crowd deliriously cheered Deaf Burke as Champion of England.

Two days after this Simon Byrne died. The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of manslaughter against Burke, as “principal in the first degree,” and the four seconds, together with the umpires and the referee, as “principals in the second degree.”

These men were tried at the Hertford Assizes, and on the surgeon’s evidence acquitted. The cause of death was the congestion of blood in the brain. The surgeon also gave the opinion that the intense disappointment of losing the fight lessened his chances of recovery. When he regained consciousness, Byrne believed that he would die; and this very fact, aided by his way of living “out of training,” no doubt aggravated his condition.

This is probably true: but the umpires and the referee deserved the most abusive censure.

Before the trial the sum of £262 was collected for Byrne’s widow: but when the trial was safely and satisfactorily over, one hundred guineas were subscribed in order to present a service of plate to the editor of Bell’s Life, “as a token of the respect in which he was held, not only by the men who had recently undergone their trial, and whose defence he had conducted, but also for the manner in which he had invariably conducted the cause of fair play....”

CHAPTER XV
BENDIGO AND DEAF BURKE

It is not generally known that a Mr. William Thompson was once Champion of England. Sometimes a nickname will stick to a man much harder than the name of his father, and so it was with Thompson. He was one of a triplet, called, in and out of the family, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. This last, “Thormanby” tells us, soon became “Bednego,” of which “Bendigo,”—a much easier word to say—is the natural corruption. To start with, Thompson tried to maintain the full “Abednego,” and advertised himself as a boxer under that nom de guerre in Bell’s Life. Jem Belcher left his name to a particular sort of scarf. “Jack Johnson,” a variety of heavy German shell, is at least as well-known as the negro champion, and thousands of people must know of Bendigo, a town in Australia, who never heard of Bendigo, the prize-fighter.

Bendigo was a Nottingham man, born in 1812, and his first battle took place in 1835. This was with Ben Caunt, with whom he fought in all three times. He was, as champion heavy-weights go, a middle-sized man, 5 feet 9¾ inches in height, and his weight was generally somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve stone. He was an all-round athlete, a fair cricketer and an acrobat: he was also a most scientific boxer, plucky, and a terribly hard hitter: but his methods were foul. In his first fight with Caunt his dodge—to which he was ever faithful in after years—was to hit and then directly there were signs of possible retaliation to slip down, as plausibly as possible, to avoid punishment. Going down without a blow was a foul by the rules: but on the whole Bendigo was wonderfully lucky in his referees. Caunt lost his temper after a time, and dashing across the ring, hit Bendigo whilst still on his second’s knees. That was a foul that no referee could by any conceivable possibility overlook, and Caunt was “deemed the loser.”

Three years later they met again, and this time Caunt won on a foul. This Ben Caunt also came from Nottingham; a huge fellow of 6 feet 2½ inches, weighing well over 15 stone in condition, and much more than that out of it. He had enormous bat-like ears which stood out on his head as do the handles of a cup. In the second fight he showed himself an inferior boxer to Bendigo: but his size and strength enabled him, in a close, to seize his opponent and almost to squeeze the breath out of his body. So far as hitting went, Bendigo had the better of it, and towards the end of the fight, which lasted for seventy-five rounds, the betting on him was 3-1. In the last round, however, he fell without a blow. His supporters declared that he had slipped and that throughout he had been handicapped by not having his proper fighting shoes. Caunt’s people, however, appealed to the referee, who gave it a foul, and Caunt was, therefore, declared the winner. There were many roughs about the ringside, mostly partisans of Bendigo, and Caunt had to be mounted on a horse and ride almost for his life to escape them.

Bendigo’s next fight was with Deaf Burke, and it took place near Appleby in Warwickshire, on February 12th, 1839. Bendigo was in first-rate condition, whilst his opponent looked pale and flabby. A diverting incident marked the preliminary arrangements, for there appeared at the ringside a “not unlikely woman,” as Bell’s Life calls her, a friend of the “Deaf ‘un,” who shook hands with him over the ropes and remained in that position of vantage throughout the battle.

Bendigo fought right foot foremost and in a rather stooping position, whilst Burke’s attitude was more orthodox but a little too square, judged by the standard of Belcher and Spring. The man who stands square to his antagonist offers a bigger target, and it has been reckoned from the beginning of the nineteenth century that “edgeways on” is the better mode.

The first round was a good one. Both fought carefully and hit hard. Bendigo’s left was straight and true, and the exchange of blows was equal. They closed at the end and both went down together. The second set-to was much the same, though it was noticed that Burke breathed the more heavily. In the next round, however, Bendigo went ahead, hitting again and again without a return. Burke seemed to be almost paralysed, unable either to defend himself or to hit back. His left eye was closed and at the end of the round, when Bendigo threw and fell on him, he was evidently feeling ill. He was much marked, whilst Bendigo was quite fresh and with hardly a flush to show that he had been hit. The fourth round was similarly Bendigo’s. Burke fought with dogged pluck, but was clearly out of condition. His seconds shouted to him to go in and fight, and he did his best, but his opponent’s straight and well-judged blows came and returned to the same bad eye and battered nose. Finally Bendigo stepped back rather too quickly, tripped against the lower rope, and fell out of the ring.

Ill-trained men can often fight with pluck, and Burke did this now, but his self-confidence had gone. He hesitated about leading, and whilst making up his mind Bendigo hit him and closed. A little later Burke took a nip from the brandy bottle, but this did him no good. In the seventh round he began by fighting hard, hitting left and right, but was finally thrown. He now accused his man of butting him, and anxiously appealed to the umpire, but no question of foul play had arisen. Bendigo had jerked his head back as he flung Burke down, and had not, as a fact, touched him. Burke was thrown in the eighth round and knocked down in the ninth. The tenth round was the last. Burke was now desperate. He rushed in, got close to his man, and hit with both hands, but he got more in return than he gave. Again he charged at his opponent, forcing him to the ropes, and whilst pinned with his back against them Burke deliberately butted Bendigo with his head. Jem Ward, who was seconding the victim, claimed a foul, which was allowed. Deaf Burke’s umpire could not deny the justice of the decision; so Bendigo was proclaimed the winner after twenty-four minutes’ fighting. There seems to be no doubt that Burke butted openly with this very end in view of being disqualified, so that an end could be made of a battle for which he had lost all taste.

CHAPTER XVI
YANKEE SULLIVAN AND HAMMER LANE

In one respect the most remarkable fight in the whole history of the Prize-Ring was an unimportant affair, so far as title or money goes, between Jack Lane, commonly known as “Hammer,” and Yankee Sullivan, an East-End Londoner born of Irish parents who had emigrated to America. Lane in training weighed 10 stone 10 lb. He was twenty-six years of age, and hitherto his most considerable battles had been with Owen Swift, whom he beat; and a black man who had taken the celebrated name of Molyneux, and who had beaten him. Sullivan was quite unknown in England. He fought at 11 stone 6 lb., and had stipulated that Lane should not exceed 11 stone. The match was for £50 a side, and took place at Crookham Common, on February 2nd, 1841.

Both the men were in perfect condition. Lane was confident and smiling, Sullivan fiercely serious, as befitted a stranger with his career before him. Very little time was wasted in manœuvring. They came to the scratch, and Sullivan led immediately with his left. Lane guarded the blow and sent in left and right in quick succession, both being stopped. They were boxing well and cleanly, and there was not a penny to choose between them. The ground had been covered with snow which had been perfunctorily swept from the ring itself, but a thaw had set in and the grass was very wet. The first round ended by Lane slipping down.

In the next round Sullivan was in less of a hurry to begin, and waited to see what his opponent would do, and, when Lane hit, stopped him. They met in a rally and exchanged blows equally and Lane slipped down again.

The third round began with a couple of hard lefts from either side, one on Lane’s mouth and the other catching Sullivan under the eye. They fought for a minute or so, but Sullivan’s blows were very poor, for he hit with his open hand. Then Lane dashed in and threw his arms round his antagonist and fell, his right arm striking the ground under Sullivan’s head. He at once felt a considerable shock. Something had happened, but he didn’t dare say even to himself, let alone his seconds, what it was. He went casually to his corner. Both men were now considerably marked. Lane hit out with his left with less confidence than in the last round, and Sullivan stopped the blow, countering quickly on the mouth. In a rally it was noticed that Lane was guarding as well as hitting with his left, and he did it with remarkable precision. Sullivan aimed a tremendous upper-cut, and Lane jumped back from it, slipping down again as he did so, but rising again at once and going to his corner laughing.

The fifth round was short and equal. At the end Lane closed and threw his man.

He came up laughing for the sixth and hit out vigorously. It was going to be all right, he said to himself. No one had seen anything odd yet, and he felt that he was Sullivan’s master. He feinted with his left and sent in a very light right on his man’s nose and then quickly sent out the left again. Then Sullivan set his teeth and forced Lane to a corner, and a hard rally began in which Lane hit with both hands. He tried a harder right this time and Sullivan stopped the blow with the point of his elbow. Then at last Lane winced and gave ground. The pain had not been so bad hitherto, but the impact of his antagonist’s sharp elbow on his forearm was agonising. But he was not going to show that he was hurt before he must. He went in again and plugged away at the body with the left. But his right hand dropped to his side, and it was at last plain to the spectators that he had hurt it. But he went to the attack again and again with his left, until Sullivan grabbed hold of it, and closing, threw Lane and fell on him.

What had happened was a rare accident and would have caused nine out of ten men to give in at once and without disgrace. At the end of the third round, as said, Lane threw Sullivan and they came down together with great force, their combined weight falling on Lane’s arm, which was beneath his opponent’s head. That fractured the radius, or outer bone of the forearm. At first Lane felt a severe shock, and guessed what had happened, but the pain was not severe until in the sixth round he hit with his right. But when, hitting hard, the blow was stopped by Sullivan’s elbow, the pain was exquisite, and his forearm, already swollen, became too painful to hold up. The spectators, and no doubt Sullivan as well, did not know how serious the accident was, but it was patent that Lane had suffered some injury, and Sullivan’s friends cheered him on to take advantage of it. Now Lane reckoned to himself that he knew more boxing and could hit harder than his opponent, and that if he could only do it quick enough he could thrash him with one hand. So he went in and smashed Sullivan’s face with his left, drawing blood. Blow after blow he sent home much too swiftly for Sullivan to stop, and his cheek and eyebrow were dreadfully cut. Again the American’s supporters yelled to him to fight. “He’s only got one arm. Go in—go in!” they shouted. And he accordingly went after Lane, who could only retreat, hitting as he went. Sullivan tried to close, and then Lane slipped down. His backers, seeing, as they imagined, nothing else for it, gathered in Lane’s corner and declared that he must give in. Lane laughed the suggestion to scorn. He could beat Sullivan with one hand, he retorted, and utterly refused to throw up the sponge. At the call of time he was laughing again and went straight for his man. This time Sullivan was quicker to guard, and it was some little time before Lane succeeded in landing a blow. The American, to his undying shame, aimed a furious blow at the broken arm. Fortunately he missed, and Lane countered heavily on the body. Then, without moving his feet, he lifted his left twice to the face and hit with all his strength. Sullivan was nearly dazed, and, becoming flustered, missed his own blows, and Lane went down again.

It should be said here that though there was plenty of excuse for his course of action, Lane did continually, after his accident, hit and go down to avoid punishment. The referee, who was Ned Painter, the pugilist, should have been much stricter. A rule is a rule, however much sympathy the breaker of it receives and deserves.

The ninth and tenth rounds found Lane hitting furiously and Sullivan almost maddened with pain. His supporters claimed a foul at the end of the latter round on account of Lane’s going down to avoid a blow, but it was not then, or subsequently, allowed.

And so the fight went on, Lane hitting and hitting again with tremendous power, Sullivan getting much the worst of it, each round ending by Lane’s slipping down directly he saw danger. The sympathy of the onlookers was naturally with the injured man, than whom a gamer never went into the ring.

In the fourteenth round Sullivan was getting wild, and Lane’s heart was high with hope. He drew away, and the American came floundering at him, only to add his own weight to a dreadful straight blow on the eye which knocked him down.

In the sixteenth round Sullivan was almost blind of one eye, but Lane’s hitting was now less accurate. The tremendous exertion of hitting with one hand, to say nothing of the pain in his useless right arm and the effort to protect it from further injury, was now telling on him. He missed one blow, and Sullivan, who had been given some oakum on his hands in order that they should remain shut, sent in a terrible right which knocked Lane down. In the next round Lane was hitting again, but got the worst of it. But his courage never faltered, and he came up with all the ardour of a well-trained and unhurt man beginning a battle. Again Sullivan landed heavily and knocked him down. Lane was now bleeding severely from a cut on his eyebrow. And then quite suddenly he weakened. He was looking white and worn out when he came up for the nineteenth round. He hit with a certain amount of vigour still, but could not stop the counter, and Sullivan, hitting him once more on the cut on his brow, knocked him down again. At that, since, though much damaged, Sullivan was evidently strong still and quite steady on his legs, Lane’s backers gave in on his behalf. This amazing fight had lasted for thirty-four minutes.

As with Jem Belcher, after his second fight with Tom Cribb, Hammer Lane’s chief concern was for his friends and backers who had put their faith in him. After this he did not fight again until 1850, when he had grown stiff and slow, and though Tom Davis, his opponent on that occasion, took over an hour to beat him, he did so decisively.

CHAPTER XVII
BENDIGO AND BEN CAUNT

After this battle with Deaf Burke, Bendigo was given a champion’s belt by Jem Ward, and for a year he remained undisputed Champion of England. In March of 1840, however, whilst skylarking and turning somersaults at some military steeplechases at Nottingham, he slipped his knee-cap and was told by his doctor that he would never be able to run or fight again. For two years he had to remain in retirement. During this time Burke tried to assert himself as champion, but was beaten by Nick Ward, and shortly afterwards died of consumption. Ward won on a foul from Ben Caunt, who, however, came back on him and thrashed him in forty-seven minutes. Then Bendigo, who had taken the utmost care of his injured knee, considered himself strong enough to win the championship back.

But first of all he came from Nottingham to London and practised with the gloves for a time. He then challenged Tass Parker for £200 a side. A match was arranged, but on the eve of it Bendigo was arrested and clapped into jail, and the forfeit money was paid to Parker. The evidence with regard to this arrest is somewhat conflicting. There is no doubt at all but that it was made at the instance of Bendigo’s elder brother, John Thompson: the reason generally given being that he was afraid lest Bendigo should injure his knee again. “Thormanby,” however, assures us that John’s motive was his abhorrence of the Ring. The Thompsons were a family of quite marked respectability: one of their uncles had been a dissenting minister.... Brother John was a well-to-do manufacturer, of the most unctuous rectitude, and there were two great troubles in his comfortable life. One was his prize-fighting and disreputable brother William and the second, sad to tell, was his mother. Mrs. Thompson was not at all the sort of person that you would anticipate in such a family. How she came to be the mother of John (and of other respectable children) passes comprehension. And Bendigo loved her dearly, and she was intensely proud of him. But she was so “coarse,” so violent—a big, jolly, generous creature. On the days when he was fighting Ben Caunt she would sit in her kitchen and listen to the clock ticking, and she would declare that it always ticked “Ben-dy Ben-dy.” “By Gosh,” she said, “if it’d ticked ‘Ben Caunt,’ I’d have oop and smashed its blasted face for it.” And we can see her, sitting there, comfortable, with her hair loose and untidy, her face red, big-mouthed, gap-toothed, with dark, small eyes, immoderately buxom—a jewel of a woman.

After some negotiation (which in the ‘forties of last century were almost as long drawn out and as exasperating as the corresponding negotiations of to-day) a third battle between Bendigo and Ben Caunt was finally arranged for £200 a side and the belt. This encounter was fought out, after principals and expectant onlookers had been hounded by the police from two different places, at Sutfield Green in Oxfordshire.

Now this battle with Ben Caunt has been branded as the most disgraceful affair in all the annals of the Ring, but it is representative of its period, and as such must be described.

Bendigo had been trained at Crosby, near Liverpool; Caunt at Hatfield, to which place Tom Spring used constantly to come from London to see how the big fellow was getting on. Caunt was now thirty-three, and before he began training he weighed 18 stone. During that very arduous process he reduced himself to 14 stone, without actually injuring himself. Bendigo was three years older and only 12 stone 1 lb. Both men entered the ring in fine condition. There were about 10,000 spectators with a remarkably strong leaven of roughs from Nottingham. These gentry came armed with bludgeons and yelled for Bendigo. The betting immediately before the fight was chiefly in the proportion of 6-4 on Ben Caunt.

The men came with their seconds to the scratch and, following the old custom, all four crossed hands in the middle of the ring, the seconds presently retiring to their corners, leaving the antagonists facing one another. Caunt had won the toss for corners, and had his back to the sun. There was a good deal of difficulty about the choice of a referee, and at last much against his own personal inclination, Mr. Osbaldiston—“The Old Squire,” as he was everywhere called—consented to act. Bendigo walked a little lame, but his activity in the ring was not much impaired. Right foot foremost, he crouched with his left shoulder held high in an exceedingly awkward and ungainly position: but his jaw was thus well protected from Caunt’s mighty right. The giant, on the other hand, stood nearly square with both arms well out in the manner of Bill Neate. Bendigo, as befitted the smaller man, circled round, looking for an opening and biding his time. Caunt pivoted about slowly in order to face him. Each time he went round Bendigo got nearer and nearer to his man by imperceptible stages. Then at last Caunt let go, and Bendigo, who had deliberately drawn the blow, ducked it and sent in a heavy counter to his opponent’s eye. For an instant the big man’s face expressed rage and ferocity, and then he grinned. There was always something about Bendigo which made folk laugh. He was ever a merry-andrew, always playing the goat; you couldn’t help but grin even when he hurt you. And then in the next minute he had hit again, this time with a tremendous left which reopened an old scar, and Caunt bled profusely. He lumbered in, trying to land a blow on the smaller man: but Bendigo ducked and dodged and sidestepped and avoided them all.

In the third round Caunt managed to catch hold of his opponent and threw him. But although his training had not exactly hurt him, his strength was not at its greatest, and Bendigo’s speed quite overwhelmed him. He hit him as he liked, smashed his face with left and right, and would get away without a reply: then lest the reply turned out to be belated but sure, Bendigo would slip down.

Once Caunt caught him up against the ropes and leaned on him there, and would most likely have hurt him seriously, but that he overbalanced himself and fell down. Bendigo’s hitting was really terrific. Caunt was much cut about the face from the earliest rounds, but in the thirteenth round Bendigo sent in a left which is famous in the history of boxing. It struck Caunt on the right cheek with such force as to knock him clean off his legs, actually lifting his fourteen stone in the air. For a few seconds he was quite stunned. A little later Bendigo split his man’s upper lip clean through, and the blood poured from it. Caunt was tremendously game, and though utterly beaten, hit for hit, stood up and fought. Bendigo was never a cur whenever he did suffer punishment, but his artful dodge of avoiding it by continually going down was detestable and ought to have been stopped at once. And towards the end of this fight, which lasted for ninety-three rounds and over two hours, Caunt was getting the better of it. Bendigo continued to drop directly he saw danger. Caunt’s supporters again and again appealed to the referee, but in the yelling and confusion about the ring they were either unheard or unheeded. Moreover, the proper way to appeal—according to the rules—was first to the two umpires, who in their turn referred to the higher authority. Backers and seconds frequently forgot this, and referees occasionally took advantage of the fact.

The roughs who had come to support Bendigo were known as the “Nottingham lambs,” and they were indeed a pretty crew. Time and again they tried to cut the ropes when Caunt had forced Bendigo against them, and one blackguard aimed a blow with his bludgeon at Caunt’s head, missed, and caught Tom Spring, who was by the ropes at the moment, on the shoulder. To the last the big man hoped by getting in one frightful smasher to end the fight, but towards the last they were both using foul methods, Bendigo hitting below the belt, Caunt trying to use his knee. In the ninety-third round Caunt knocked Bendigo down—so Bell’s Life tell us—and turned away, naturally supposing that the round was over. Bendigo leapt to his feet, however, and dashed after his man, hoping to be able to hit him at a disadvantage before he could turn. As his arm was poised to deliver the blow Caunt abruptly sat down. An appeal was at once made by Bendigo’s seconds, Ward and Hannan, together with others, direct to the referee, who decided that Caunt had deliberately gone down without a blow, and that Bendigo was the winner. It must be remembered that when Bendigo went down as he did, over and over again, it was in a less obvious manner; that is to say, at the end of a sharp rally when he was close to his man. His position in this way would be more equivocal than Caunt’s.