Knuckles and Gloves

Reviewing the evidence, it certainly does seem that the referee made an error of judgment. Having made it, he stuck to it, as he should. He was, of course, accused of being intimidated by the ruffians whose heavy sticks were close about his head. The facts of the case were presented to “The Old Squire” afterwards, especially Caunt’s quite natural supposition that the round had ended. The referee replied that he had given his decision to the best of his ability from what he saw. His view of the proceedings was constantly being interrupted, and it was quite possible that he did not see everything. He pointed out, further, that against his wishes he had been chosen as referee by both the parties.

It is perfectly useless to make any comment other than that the referee should certainly have been stricter in the earlier stages of the fight. On this occasion the principals themselves, especially the winner, were not blameless: but the chief fault, of course, lay with the person or persons who organised the band of ruffians from Nottingham. These men had no silly idea of putting money on the chances of Bendigo and backing their sanguine opinion. They intended to subscribe a certainty.

Caunt and Bendigo were bitter enemies for a long time after this, but in 1850, they had a great joint Benefit, at which they at last shook hands and became fast friends.

Bendigo was a bit of rapscallion, certainly; but he was a born clown, with the keenest sense of fun, which lasted almost to his dying day. His acrobatic feats even when he was an old man were the astonishment of his contemporaries and the delight of children. He was, as you might say, a funny mixture: a great gardener, a patient fisherman, in bouts a drinker who, with very little liquor in him, went clean off his weak head, and once cleared a butcher’s shop in his drunken rage, hurling legs of mutton at the jeering crowd upon the pavement. At the considerable risk of his own he saved a man’s life from drowning in the Trent, and indignantly refused a material reward. In 1870, some revivalists seeing the peculiar possibilities of this brand if he could only be snatched from the burning, “converted” him; and “Thormanby” tells the story of how Lord Longford, his old backer, once meeting him in a London street dressed in a black coat and a white tie, stopped him and asked, “Hallo, Bendy! What’s your little game now?”

“Truly, my lord,” Bendigo answered with an impeccable unction, “I am fighting Satan now, and Scripture saith that victory shall be mine.”

“Hope so, Bendy,” said his lordship, “but if you don’t fight Beelzebub more fairly than you did Ben Caunt, I’ll change sides.”

Like other converts Bendigo occasionally fell from grace: but the family bias towards evangelical assiduity swung him periodically towards uprightness till his death in 1880.

CHAPTER XVIII
NAT LANGHAM AND TOM SAYERS

Tom Sayers was the last of the great champions of England under the old dispensation. And, as champions go, he was a little man, standing 5 feet 8 inches and usually weighing about 11 stone. He was born at Brighton in 1826, and as a lad was apprenticed to a bricklayer there. At the age of twenty-two he came to London to work on the London and North-Western Railway. He was known from a lad as being fairly handy with the gloves, and in more than one pot-house brawl he had shown more than that he could take care of himself. In all his fights, with one exception, he gave away weight. His first battle was in 1849, with Abe Crouch, who was two stone the heavier and whom Sayers decisively thrashed. He fought for two and a half hours with Jack Grant of Southwark, and just beat him after an extraordinary display of pluck.

Sayers’s only defeat was at the hands of Nat Langham, in October of 1853. And this beating was certainly due to over-confidence, not during, but before the fight. The men were nearly equal in weight and Langham was six years older. As he had been used to giving other opponents as many stone as he was giving Langham pounds, he took very little trouble with his training, and entered the ring somewhat soft. Langham, on the other hand, had got into excellent condition in the hands of Ben Caunt.

Bell’s Life tells us quite frankly in its issue just before this battle that the “Blues” were to be outwitted, that the rendezvous for the combat was being kept a strict secret, but that information as to the place and time could be obtained at Ben Caunt’s or Alec Keene’s. In the event a train left Bishopsgate Street Station for an unknown destination, when, while the day was still young, a ring was formed and the men set to.

For once in a way youth was not served. As soon as he stripped it was seen that Sayers was flabby and fat about both body and face, and as time went, not only was his wind affected, but his eyes swelled much more easily than if he had been in hard condition. Langham had the advantage in height and reach, and he was a better boxer than Sayers in those days. The first round ended in a knock-down to Sayers, but the ground was slippery and Langham was none the worse. A few rounds later Langham improved, using the blow that was known as his “pickaxe,” a chopping left designed to blind his opponents by hitting them just below the eyes in such a way that they swelled and blinded them. Also he began in the fifth round to put in many straight blows over his man’s guard. Sayers grinned good-humouredly, though his face was covered with blood. In the next round he flung himself at Langham and hit him thrice on the jaw, finally sending him down hard. But how he regretted the slackness of his training! Throughout the seventh and eighth rounds Sayers followed up his advantage and gave his antagonist a terrible time. How long would he be able to last at this pace? He knew that Langham was said to be delicate, but he was thoroughly game. Had Sayers been in perfect training now he could have won, and won quickly—he was sure of it. As it was his wind was already touched, and the prolonged effort of attack gave him a sickish feeling which was worse than his opponent’s hardest blows.

Langham saw how it was with Tom Sayers, and, smiling to himself, he went for him, leading with his left again and again on the mouth and eyes. The tenth round was overwhelmingly in Langham’s favour. In the twelfth both were winded and for several rounds they took things easy. In the twenty-first Sayers in a close threw his man and fell on him, and he kept up a general improvement. He said to himself that he would win yet, Langham was getting weak. But he must hurry. His own blows seemed wretchedly poor—seemed, but were not. He was still hitting hard. A spent boxer often believes that his blows are mere taps when they are really powerful. The betting had risen in Sayers’s favour again—5-4. By the twenty-eighth round an hour had gone by, and both men, though weary, seemed to have settled down to a jog-trot method of fighting which, with what is known as a “second wind,” seems to last almost indefinitely.

Nat Langham had a beautiful straight left, only equalled by Sayers a few years later, when the little man was at his best, and he made full use of it now, plugging his man in the eye whenever he came near, and thus keeping him from getting too near. By the thirty-second round Sayers’s left eye was nearly closed, by the forty-seventh he was almost blind of the right eye too. The rounds were short and he was getting much the worst of it now. With splendid gameness he kept on leading, but Langham propped him off and countered on every occasion. At about this point in the battle, Sayers’s seconds had recourse to a desperate remedy to prevent their man from becoming totally blind, and they lanced the swellings beneath each of his eyes. This caused only temporary relief, and Sayers, of course, lost a lot of blood when Langham hit him on the wounded places again. Between the fiftieth and sixtieth rounds all hope for Sayers had gone. His eyes were so swollen that he could hardly see at all. And yet, despite his lack of training, he was now stronger than Langham, and the fight resolved itself into a race with blindness. The sixty-first round was the last. Sayers was now very groggy, and practically sightless. His hits were wasted on the air. His friends called out to have him taken away. Finally Nat Langham with a weak left and right completely closed Sayers’s eyes and knocked him down. Thereupon Alec Keene threw up the sponge from Tom’s corner. The fight, which was Langham’s last, had occupied two hours and two minutes.

CHAPTER XIX
TOM SAYERS AND THE TIPTON SLASHER

Unequal fights always engage both our sympathy and our interest, and Tom Sayers was hardly ever matched with a man of anything at all near his own height and weight. William Perry, commonly called the Tipton Slasher, from the place of his birth in the Black Country, was Champion of England. He had fought ten big battles and had beaten good men, including Tass Parker twice. He had held the championship for four years when Sayers challenged him.

It was looked upon as an absurd match. Sayers was a lightish middleweight of 5 feet 8 inches. The Slasher now weighed about 14 stone and stood over 6 feet. He laughed at Sayers’s challenge. He was utterly confident, knowing that he was bigger, stronger, and heavier, and believing that he was the better boxer. Nevertheless, Sayers found backing, and on June 16th, 1857, they fought for £200 a side and the belt.

These were the days when it was not sufficient in the interests of sport merely to pitch a ring on the boundary of two, or possibly three, counties, so that while the magistrates of one county might interfere, the principals and their followers had only to slip over the border into the next. In the fifties, and earlier, the law was much more stringently enforced, and vast expeditions used to leave London by special train to destinations unknown. In the present instance, an enormous crowd packed the train at Fenchurch Street Station. Tom Sayers was on it, but disguised, in case the police, who knew perfectly who the combatants were, searched the train. William Perry was picked up at Tilbury on the journey eastwards. At Southend the crowd left the train and embarked on a steamer which proceeded to mid-channel, and then altering her course, put down her freight of sportsmen, fighters, and ruffians at the Isle of Grain. Two more steamers now arrived, and a ring was made, out of sight of the river, in a field beneath a dyke. The first stake had hardly been driven in, when the police appeared—in what to us, now, would seem the picturesque costume of blue coats, white trousers, and glazed toppers. The crowd of 3000 men rapidly re-embarked in the waiting steamers, and the two boxers, hidden like leaves in a forest, escaped. They crossed the river, and, disembarking once more on the Kentish coast, were so lucky as to find a sporting farmer who gladly let the officials have the use of one of his fields in return for a place at the ring-side, which was joyfully awarded him. Here, behind the farm buildings, which hid the proceedings from passing ships, the ring was once more pegged out: the colours were tied to the stakes, blue with large white spots for Sayers, blue birds’ eye for the Slasher. The two men were each seconded by old opponents who had become friends; Nat Langham and Bill Hayes in Sayers’s corner, Tass Parker and Jack Macdonald in Perry’s.

People said that there had been nothing like this since the days of Johnson and Perrins. For the Tipton Slasher was a magnificent giant, with the enormous shoulder-blades which stand for hard hitting, though a slight deformity in one leg had given him the nickname of “Old K Legs.” But there was not an ounce of tallow on him. He was thirty-eight years of age, and looked more, for all his front upper teeth had been knocked out and his face was covered with the scars of old wounds. Little Tom Sayers was neatly built, clean-limbed, and in superb condition, but every one present when they saw the two standing up, facing one another, wondered how, with his comparatively short reach, he was going to hit the Slasher at all.

There are two ways of beginning a fight, and Perry chose the wrong one. Directly they had shaken hands and their seconds had retired to their respective corners he lunged out, aiming a tremendous hit and wasted it on the air. Not once nor twice did he misjudge his distance and throw away his strength in this manner, while Sayers nimbly jumped aside, or back, leading him round the ring. The Slasher was furious. “Coom and fight me,” he said. “Don’t ’ee go skirling about like a bloody dancing master.” And Tom laughed at him. He knew perfectly well what he was about. He would make the giant tire himself out and then he would hit him at his own leisure. The Slasher, on the other hand, believed that one hit from him—one really good hit such as he alone could deliver—would finish his little opponent, and he tried again and again to put in such a blow. At first Tom Sayers was content to avoid them and leave well alone, but after a while he saw a perfect opening as he slipped his man’s ponderous left, and he sent his own left in, straight, with all his might. It landed on the Slasher’s nose and he snorted and gasped. That was a wonderful punch for so small a man. He began to feel a little uncomfortable. He couldn’t be beaten, surely, by this monkey of a fellow. Still, it was disconcerting. And the more uncertain he became the wilder he grew. He was soon puffing and blowing from his frantic exertions to land just that one beauty which should knock Sayers out of time.

Then quite suddenly Tom Sayers reached the point when he could resist fighting no longer. It was all very well dodging and jumping out of harm’s way and putting in an occasional counter-hit: and it was the right way to tackle a giant like William Perry. But Sayers was a fighter and he loved to “mix it.” And so he restrained himself less and instead of running away he stood up to the Slasher. Tom ducked from the next mighty blow which swished through the air over his head, and again he ducked and this time the Tipton Slasher followed up one failure with several, and sent blow after blow into thin air. There came a chuckle of delight from behind him, and swinging round he saw Sayers dancing about and laughing at him. The big man looked extremely foolish. His seconds now roundly swore at him for wasting his strength, and told him that he ought to wait. But Perrins was angry and he went on beating the air. After a while, however, he did manage to land a good blow, which caught Sayers on the forehead and knocked him down flat. The onlookers gasped, for they thought that such a blow would kill the little man. But when time was called up he came still grinning and none the worse save for a bump like an egg. Now the Slasher was much happier. Two or three more like that and the fight would be over. But Sayers knew every trick of his trade, though he never descended to the dirty ones. He pretended now to be really frightened, and instead of slipping and laughing, he kept running away round the ring. But he was ready all the time and perfectly cool. He kept his right foot behind his left and never crossed his feet. Lumbering after him and playing the game he wanted him to play, came the Tipton Slasher. Then to save his breath Perry at length pulled up. Instantly, Sayers stopped also and plugged him in the face.

In the ninth round the Slasher came up to the scratch slowly. His seconds had done their best for him, but his strength was going. It is very exhausting to dash about a grassy ring and hurl ponderous blows at nothing. Once more he tried, but he couldn’t get near Sayers. But now he was too tired to keep running after his opponent, and Sayers stood his ground. The next time the mighty fist shot out he ducked under it again and sent in a smashing blow on the Slasher’s face. In that round he put in at least three perfect hits with every ounce of his weight behind them. At the third the Tipton Slasher staggered, and fell over. It was not a severe knock-down because the big man was badly balanced at the moment, but the spectators could see that he was beaten all the same. Then Sayers hit him as he liked, left and right: no dancing or running away now. The Slasher’s seconds begged him to give in. They saw that it was hopeless, but this he refused to do. He would fight as long as he could see and stand. It is terribly humiliating to be thrashed by a man half your size, but William Perry was brave, and he faced that fact as well as the more pressing one. For he was dreadfully cut about. His seconds carried out all the usual receipts for bringing their man to the scratch again, biting his ears and sluicing him with cold water. The onlookers called out to have the Slasher taken away, but he would not be taken away. Tom Sayers stood in the mid-ring with his arms folded, waiting for his antagonist. He did not in the least want to hurt him, but what was he to do? At last Owen Swift, who was prominent amongst the Slasher’s supporters, got through the ropes into the ring and held up his hand. The sponge was then thrown up from the Slasher’s corner, and Tom Sayers was proclaimed Champion of England.

The battle had lasted for an hour and forty-two minutes. The Slasher wept bitterly when Sayers came over to shake hands. He had staked every penny he had on the fight, and was, besides being beaten, utterly ruined. “Something” was done for him afterwards, so that he was able to take the inevitable inn and spent the rest of his days in comparative comfort. He answered the final call of “Time” in January, 1881.

CHAPTER XX
The Last Great Prize-Fight
TOM SAYERS AND THE BENICIA BOY

The fight between Tom Sayers, Champion of England, and Heenan, the giant American, was about the last conspicuous affair with bare knuckles fit for place in any history of the Prize-Ring. There were, no doubt, good bye-battles, but there is no record of them as such. From first to last, in the oldest days of all, just as to-day, we look to championship contests for representative form—and seldom find it. One or both of the champions may be as good men as it is possible to find, but the show that they put up when pitted against each other is frequently poor when compared to the performance of a couple of “unknowns.” But this battle, viewed from various angles, was a good one.

Tom Sayers, Champion of England, was challenged by the American, Heenan, who came over with a bevy of supporters. The fight was arranged to take place on Tuesday, April 17th, 1860; but the utmost secrecy had to be preserved in order to avoid the police.

The following paragraph appeared in The Times for April 2nd (This was before the days of sensational and prominent headlines, and the reader had to search for the news which interested him):—

“The Forthcoming Prize-Fight.—Hertford, Saturday. This afternoon Colonel Archibald Robertson, chief constable of the Hertfordshire Police Force, made application to the justices assembled in petty session at Hertford for a warrant to apprehend Thomas Sayers, the ‘Champion of England,’ and John Heenan, the American pugilist, in order that they might be bound over to keep the peace....”

The gallant colonel failed to apprehend the delinquents, and at 4 a.m. on the great day an enormous special train steamed, under sealed orders, as it were, out of London Bridge Station, carrying about a thousand people, which number was more than trebled on the field of battle. This was at Farnborough, near Aldershot. The actual meadow was cunningly chosen, for it was practically surrounded by double hedges and ditches, and was a difficult place to come at in a hurry: the idea in the minds of the organisers being that if any body of men did try to interfere, due notice would be given of the fact to the principals and officials.

The fight began at 7.25 in the morning. A twenty-four foot ring was formed. The men shook hands, and tossed for corners, Heenan winning and naturally choosing the slight advantage of the higher side in a gently sloping space and a position which put the sun in his antagonist’s eyes. The American was the first to strip, and was seen to be an enormous fellow, 6 feet 2 inches in height, with very long arms, a fine deep chest, and perfectly trained. He combined with these magnificent proportions much grace and freedom of movement. Sayers had a good look at his man, nodded his head quietly, and then stripped himself. He was only 5 feet 8 inches. His chest was not specially broad or thick, nor did his arms give the appearance of unusual development. Only his shoulders suggested where his wonderful hitting power came from. But he was a hard little man, and he, too, was in perfect condition. On the face of it, and to those spectators who were unacquainted with Sayers’s previous performances or the history of the Ring (with its records of Tom Johnson and Jem Belcher), it appeared once again to be an absurd match. Heenan towered over his man and seemed to be about twice his size in every dimension.

They took up their positions, and laughed at each other as they moved round, each man to his right in order to avoid the other’s right hand. Then Heenan led and just reached Sayers’s mouth, getting a hard reply which, amidst loud applause, drew first blood. They sparred for a little longer and then closed, when Sayers, as they used to say in these days, “got down easily.” A man was not allowed by the rules to go down without a blow, except in a close, in order to avoid punishment.

Their seconds sponged them down, gave them water to rinse their mouths with, and they came up again. This time they were quicker to work. Sayers looked at his huge adversary with perfect confidence in himself, and the coolness of long experience and a great capacity. Mere size troubled him not at all. He had fought and beaten big men before. Heenan led and led again and then a third time, but on each occasion Sayers threw back his head, and all three blows fell lightly. Then the big man got closer and sent home one on the mouth which made the English champion reel. But he returned at once to receive a whack on the forehead which knocked him down in his own corner. This, the first knock-down, did not trouble him in the least, though the Americans at the ring-side naturally shouted their delight.

After the half-minute Sayers came up quite fresh, though he had a big lump coming up on his forehead and his mouth was swollen. His footwork was brilliant. He nipped in and out, avoiding the long arms and always, when a blow did land, managed to be on the retreat, so that its force was lessened. But the sun shining in his eyes was a trouble, and he frowned and tried to work Heenan round so that he had his share of it. Heenan, however, grinned, and held his ground. Then Tom Sayers darted in to plant a hard body-blow, but caught a severe right which knocked him down. Once more Sayers tried to get out of the sun, and failing, closed and slipped down.

By this time he was a good deal marked, and there was a severe cut over his eyebrow. Both remained excessively cautious, and all at once the humour of it seized them and they put down their hands and roared with laughter, again—small wonder it is that foreigners used to think us a race of madmen, until—that is—the French began to play the same game. (Only for the most part, the French take boxing very, very seriously.) Suddenly Heenan steadied himself and shot out a straight left which fairly caught the champion and, for the fourth time, knocked him down. A large number of the spectators believed that Sayers was a beaten man. For a large number of them had not seen him fight before, and had no idea how much he could take. More experienced ring-goers watched, patiently suspending judgment. And presently the inexperienced folk were startled. Heenan sent out a smashing blow which Sayers entirely avoided, jumping right back from it, instantly bounding in again and delivering a terrific blow on his man’s eye. It was one of those sliding, upward hits which almost split the American’s cheek before it reached his brow, and it sent Heenan staggering away.

The rest did little to improve his appearance. He was bleeding profusely, swollen and disfigured. Sayers was getting comfortably set. He stopped a hard lead with his forearm, and dashing in, dealt out a harder one; and then another which seemed almost to crush Heenan’s nose and very nearly lifted him off his legs. Five-foot eight and six-foot two. Not bad going.

In the seventh round, Sayers hit Heenan an awful blow which sent the blood spurting from his nose. Heenan grabbed hold of his man to put an end to this punishment, and Sayers got in some damaging body-blows before he fell underneath.

“As well as can be expected,” thought Sayers to himself. Yes: he was doing very nicely, but he was not quite as happy as he looked. How long would it be before Heenan or his seconds spotted the truth. Hadn’t they noticed yet that he was extremely shy of hitting with his right—had been shy for the last two rounds? And in his previous battles it was his right upon which he had depended for victory. One really good right-hander from Sayers was commonly reckoned to be enough for anybody. But he couldn’t use his right now. He had tried and it was useless. That tremendous whack that he had stopped with his forearm had numbed it at the moment, and he had thought nothing of it until he tried to use it in offence. And then he knew that his right was out of action. He thought at the time that the bone was broken. As a matter of fact it was not, but a tendon was, which (for such intensely practical purposes) was just as bad. The arm was also one mass of inter-running bruises and fearfully swollen. So he held it across his chest in its orthodox position, and it was all he could do to keep it there: and he kept his face wooden and innocent and went on fighting with his left. The enemy shouldn’t know before they must.

And round after round the little man came up smiling, relying on his feet for defence and his left for attack. Heenan also grinned. They were a good-humoured couple, as these couples of the Prize-Ring so often were. Once he landed a horribly severe smasher on Heenan which knocked him down, and instead of taking his rest for half a minute, he went prying into Heenan’s corner to watch his seconds wiping away the blood. He might learn something in that way, he thought, which would be more valuable than thirty seconds on an another fellow’s knee. Heenan, however, could take plenty of punishment, too, without complaining.

After this they fought a tremendous round which lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, and at the end were so exhausted that both of them had to be carried to their corners by their respective seconds. It had been foolish, Sayers now realised, not to take the rest he was entitled to. He must not play tricks like that again. He was greatly knocked about. His mouth and nose seemed as though they had been knocked into one, but his trick of throwing back his head as Heenan’s huge fist caught him had done much to preserve his eyes.

Only once did he show a sign of anger. He drew back after a rally to spit out blood, and the American onlookers laughed. That stung him, and he dashed in again and gave Heenan a left which sent him reeling back, and another and another. A fourth hit made Heenan reel where he stood, so that with his right to follow up with Sayers might have knocked him out of time. As it was, he dared not come too close, for he feared being thrown upon his bad arm. But he shot out his left twice more, and one on Heenan’s ribs sounded (so said The Times correspondent) “all over the meadow as if a box had been smashed in.” Blows given with boxing gloves which sound loud and draw involuntary “Oh’s!” from the spectators usually mean nothing at all. But sounding blows with a naked fist, particularly on the body, may mean a good deal.

Now Sayers could no longer raise his arm, and it hung limp at his side. Fortunately for him, Heenan was not an adept in the use of his own right. It was maddening to him to stand there and hit and hit again and to be able to make so little apparent impression on a man so much smaller and with but one arm in action. And Heenan was now a terrible sight. His face looked as though it were gashed with deep wounds, and indeed Sayers’s sharp knuckles had lacerated the skin and the American was bleeding terribly. And then he managed to land a very hard left, which he shot in over Sayers’s awkward left-handed guard, and the champion was knocked down. Then Heenan in the next round picked his man clean off his legs and threw him. And immediately afterwards they were both laughing at each other, neither in derision nor affectation. It was a rare fight, and good fun in its somewhat rough way, and worth laughing over. But one of the American’s eyes was now completely closed. And he was getting hard put to it to see. But he knocked Sayers down once more.

Up and at it again. Sayers hit his opponent with tremendous force, and Heenan closed and then for the first and only time, forgetting his arm for the moment, Sayers exerted himself and threw the giant down. And he kept cool, watched his opportunities, and gave no chances. Nevertheless, the twenty-first and twenty-second rounds ended in his being knocked sprawling on the grass.

Heenan was fast going blind, and his backers yelled to him to keep Sayers in the sun and to throw him. With those shouts of encouragement in his ears he dashed at the champion and planted a tremendous body-blow which knocked him down and nearly beat the senses out of him.

It was at about this time that several of the police found their way through the crowd and began to come near the ring. But the huge crowd did their utmost to make that approach a difficult one. Sayers was getting weak, Heenan blind. It was really a race between the one failing and the other. Once when Sayers retreated fast round the ring with his man after him, Heenan managed to catch him and close and hit him when on the ground. Cries of “Foul!” went up, but the referee ruled that the blow was “struck in the heat of fighting” and was not to be regarded as a foul. That excuse would not “wash,” as they say, nowadays.

Heenan’s sight became worse, and once in his own corner he gave his own second a stinger in mistake for Sayers. In the thirty-ninth round he got Sayers’s head under his left arm when in a corner. He was too weak to hit him severely whilst “in chancery,” but leant upon the stake and held on to Sayers as though trying to strangle him. The champion could not move his head, try and pull and twist it as he would, but with a great effort he got his left free and from his awkward position planted a couple of blows. Heenan then twisted round so that Sayers’s neck was tight against the upper rope, and he leaned hard on it. The Englishman gradually grew black in the face, and it was evident that he could not breathe. Both the umpires called out, “Cut the rope,” and this was promptly done. By the rules they should have directed the seconds to separate the men, but no doubt they believed that this method was, in the circumstances, hardly quick enough. The police at this moment appeared at the broken ring-side, and the crowd surged in, leaving only as much room as the men could stand up in face to face. Each now knocked the other down, and then the police stopped the fight.

Heenan’s sight was bad and he had to be led away by the hand; but both he and Sayers walked quite steady; Sayers declaring that he could have gone on for another hour.

The fight had lasted for two hours and twenty minutes and the result was declared a draw.

We are always brought up to believe that Sayers would have won without any sort of doubt at all if they had been allowed to go on for a few minutes longer. Naturally enough, that is the popular view, and the one promulgated (to quote a voice that, so to put it, is still heard) by William Makepeace Thackeray.

“I think,” he wrote in the Cornhill, “I think it is a most fortunate event for the brave Heenan ... that the battle was a drawn one. The advantage was all on Mr. Sayers’s side.... Now when the ropes were cut from that death-grip, and Sir Thomas released, the gentleman of Benicia was confessedly blind of one eye, and speedily afterwards was blind of both. Could Mr. Sayers have held out for three minutes, for five minutes, for ten minutes more? He says he could.”

Thackeray is generally supposed to have been present at this fight and indeed was reported so by at least one newspaper. In this article in the Cornhill, he denies it, though in a somewhat involved fashion. His indignation in the matter was much more forcibly expressed in Punch for April 28th, 1860, to which he contributed (anonymously):—

The Fight of Sayerius and Heenanus
A LAY OF ANCIENT LONDON

(Supposed to be recounted to his great-grandchildren, April 17th, A.D. 1920, by an Ancient Gladiator)

Well, never mind about the canting rogues: we have seen Thackeray’s opinion of the men’s chances and the popular opinion. Let us now see what may be said on the other side.

A few days afterwards a correspondent, signing himself “Heavy-weight,” wrote to the Times pointing out that Heenan’s behaviour in the thirty-ninth round was fair by the Rules,3 though the Rules were quite unnecessarily barbaric. He goes on to show that Heenan’s partisans were in the proportion of one to every ten of Sayers’s, and that the American had not been fairly treated. “If,” he says, “the English party, the stronger, had been anxious that the fight should go on, I think the doctrine of probabilities leads us to suppose that it would have gone on; if the American party, the weaker, fearing their man would be beaten, had wished it to be stopped, I think the same doctrine points out to us that their wishes would not, in all probability, have been gratified.”

And when we remember that the police first appeared on the outskirts of the crowd, just at a time when Sayers was getting a good deal the worst of it, and a very long time before they finally forced their way to the ring-side, and that they did so just at the moment when Sayers was under Heenan’s arm, we are bound to admit the force of “Heavy-weight’s” contention. It is quite possible that Sayers would have won the fight if it had been allowed to continue, but I don’t fancy that his backers thought so.

It is interesting to know that after this battle the editor of The Times received many anonymous contributions to a testimonial for Sayers. The amounts received varied from a shilling’s worth of stamps to notes for £25, and many of the subscribers wrote to say they had never seen a prize-fight, but desired to express their gratification at the splendid courage of the champion in defending the belt.

PART II
GLOVES

CHAPTER I
PETER JACKSON AND FRANK SLAVIN

It is appropriate to begin the second part of this book, which deals with Boxing in its modern sense, with an account of a fight described by all who saw it as the best ever seen. It took place thirty years ago, and things that happened thirty years ago are apt to be, superlatively, the best or the worst according to the point of the story. There seems to be no doubt, at all events, that the encounter between Frank Slavin and Peter Jackson was the best ever seen at the National Sporting Club.

Frank Slavin, as we have seen, was one of those boxers of the transition period who overlapped. He had fought both with bare knuckles and with gloves. Both he and Peter Jackson were Australians, and both claimed the championship of that country. The contest at the National Sporting Club was said to be for the World’s Championship, but that is a phrase which on no occasion means very much. All that matters for our present purpose is that the match was an important one between two fine and evenly matched men.

Peter Jackson has been called the “first black Gentleman.” He was born in the West Indies in 1861, and went as a lad to Australia, where, in Sydney, he was a fellow-pupil with Slavin of Larry Foley, who in turn had sat at the feet of Jem Mace. Indeed, in the past, Slavin had himself given Jackson lessons in boxing. The black had only once been beaten, and in 1891 he had fought a draw of sixty-one rounds with James J. Corbett. In those days an unlimited number of rounds—that is, a fight to a finish—had not been prohibited in all the states of the Union, and this remaining custom of the Prize-Ring was much abused. The battle took place at the California Athletic Club, at San Francisco, for a purse of 10,000 dollars. It was a poor affair. Jackson hit straight, Corbett crocked. But the white man was cleverer than the black at avoiding punishment by clinching at the psychological moment. Often he refused to break away until the hissing of the crowd became a positive menace. For the last fifteen rounds there was no boxing at all. The men were utterly exhausted: Corbett had hurt an arm, two of Jackson’s ribs were broken. The referee at last declared the fight a draw. He might just as well have done so much earlier.

Every one who came in contact with him liked Peter Jackson for a quiet, well-behaved, sportsmanlike fellow without the slightest brag or bounce about him, which in their worst manifestations are so characteristic of his race. He was known for a first-rate boxer, and Mr. Eugene Corri, the well-known referee, declares that he was the best boxer he has ever seen. He stood 6 feet 2 inches and weighed 13 stone 10 lb. in perfect condition, against Slavin’s 6 feet 1 inch and 13 stone 6 lb. There was only a year’s difference in their ages: both men had been finely trained, though some, disappointed in the result, say that Slavin was a shade over-trained. He was a big-boned, square-jawed rock of a man, hairy and ferocious: while Jackson’s skin shone like black marble.

The match took place on May 30th, 1892. The National Sporting Club had not been long founded, and its theatre was packed to its extremest limit. The contest was to be one of twenty three-minute rounds, and four-ounce gloves were used. Jackson’s chief physical advantage was a slight superiority in reach, but it was known that Slavin’s strength was prodigious, and his right-hand punch on the ribs, his best blow, was famous and terrific. He was a harder hitter than Jackson, and though up to the end of the sixth round his blows were not so many as his antagonist’s, they meant more. Before the men entered the ring that night, Slavin said (Mr. Corri tells us in his book, Thirty Years a Boxing Referee): “To be beaten by a black fellow, however good a fellow, is a pill I shall never swallow.”

It is unwise to say that sort of thing.

It has been said, too, that Slavin taunted Jackson in the ring. However that may be, the splendid black man was confident in his quiet, unassuming way, and he at all events held his tongue. His method of fighting too, was orthodox and cool. When at the beginning of the first round Slavin came charging at him, Jackson put out his long straight left, and the white man was shaken by the blow. It was his policy to get close to Jackson so that he could bring off his tremendous body-blow. It was Jackson’s policy to keep him away and to box at long range, and he did this. Some young man had once said to Jackson at the club: “They tell me you black chaps don’t like being hit in the stomach?” “Can you,” Jackson replied, “tell me of any white man who does?” But there is no doubt that negroes are, as a rule, weaker in the stomach than white men, unless like Jack Johnson, the more recent champion, they especially cultivate the abdominal muscles. No doubt Jackson knew, too, that one of Slavin’s blows was worth two of his: but he boxed with quiet assurance and defended himself with vigilant care. Again and again Slavin rushed at him and tried to force his way close in: again and yet again Jackson propped him off, reserving his strength while Slavin dissipated his. Slavin was the favourite when the men entered the ring, but it is notorious that the greatest gamblers will, in boxing, back a white man because he is white.

Peter Jackson did not entirely avoid all the white man’s blows, but his footwork was wonderfully good, and even when he failed to guard against them, he generally managed to be moving away when a blow landed, so that most of its power was lost. He seldom gave Slavin a chance to put in one of his regular smashers. And in the meantime the accumulated force of the black’s many but lesser hits, together with the energy wasted by Slavin in futile charges across the ring, weakened the white man. Up to the sixth round it was any one’s fight, though Peter Jackson was an easy winner on points up to that time. But what are points, after all, against one punch whether it is deliberate or “lucky,” which ends a fight? And Jackson very nearly fell a victim to just such a punch. He had never relaxed his vigilance, he never presumed on his opponent’s weakness. He attacked when he saw a safe opening, and for the rest contented himself with holding Slavin well away with that beautiful long straight left. And yet at the end of the sixth round he was all but beaten. Frank Slavin was getting desperate. The men were fighting for a big money prize, but it is unlikely that the £1750 which would be the winner’s share was foremost in the white man’s mind as he strove in the ring. Jackson was a good black fellow, but he was black, and Slavin’s pride of race was very strong in him. Rightly or wrongly, he felt that there was a peculiar shame in accepting defeat from a nigger. But he knew that he would have to make haste. Good as his condition was, these six hard rounds had taken much of his strength. He drew every breath with labour: and though many of a boxer’s movements, whether in offence or defence, are instinctive, the work was very hard work, his light boxing boots were like the boots of a diver, his knees shook a little as he stood still. He was very weary. But he meant to win. He gathered himself up and hurled himself at Jackson, and by sheer determination and weight forced the black across the ring to the ropes, and then with all his weight behind it he sent in his tremendous body-blow. Mr. Corri, who was sitting near the ring-side, tells us that it “seemed to spring from the calves of his legs and upwards to the muscles of his right shoulder and right arm.” And, “I have never seen such an expression of consummate deadliness upon a human face as that which spread across the features of Slavin at this crucial stage.”

The blow doubled Jackson up “like a knife.” It caught him just under the heart and the sound of it was heard throughout the hall. The black man gasped and reeled. The onlookers were completely silent save for an involuntary “Oh!” which here and there forced itself to utterance. Had Slavin hit Jackson but half a minute earlier in the round he must have won. The black was helpless. Slavin must have finished him. As it was, before the white man could follow his advantage, the round ended, and Jackson had a minute in which to recover. In his corner, and loud enough for Mr. Corri to hear him, Jackson said to his seconds, “If he hits me like that again, I’m done.” And his seconds worked on him, sponging, massaging, fanning, doing all that they could to restore him. When time was called for the seventh round Jackson, though no doubt weak, had recovered. He appeared to be strong and fit again, and appearances in these circumstances are beneficially deceitful. And in despite of his momentary elation in the last round, Frank Slavin came up tired.

But Jackson had to be careful, and he knew it. He did not lead, but kept his guard rigid, and “used the ring”—that is, by brilliant footwork he kept out of danger, avoiding the ponderous and slackening rushes of his adversary. When the eighth round started, Peter Jackson had quite recovered, and Slavin was slower and more weary than ever. His weakness was evident. But it must not be thought that his was a mere exhibition of brute strength run to seed. Far from it. The white man boxed well, and he, too, kept out of danger. In the next round, however, Jackson sparred with great brilliancy, piling up many points, while just before the end he shot out a particularly good left. Slavin was obviously desperate now, and grew careless of the punishment he received, staking everything upon the chance of bringing off another mighty blow.

And yet weary as both were by now, they came up quite jauntily for the tenth round. Slavin shot out a fierce left, but it only just touched Jackson as he moved back. He rushed at the black man again, and this time Jackson avoided him altogether. Thrice Slavin dashed in with furious left and right quickly following each other. And the third time he tried this, instead of stepping back, Peter Jackson came in to meet him, and ducking Slavin’s blows, planted his own left, followed by the right in immediate succession, on the white man’s jaw. The second blow came over with terrific force, and Slavin reeled. But he still stood and swung wildly at his man without thought of guarding, his senses almost gone, and only a desperate pluck to keep him from falling. Jackson followed him and rained blows upon him, until Slavin stood still hardly able to lift his hands. Whereupon Jackson, good sportsman that he was, turned to Mr. Angle, who was refereeing the match, and raised his eyebrows. “Experience,” say the Annals of the National Sporting Club, “has repeatedly shown that there is always a punch left in a big man, even when he appears disabled. Dallying at such a crisis is dangerous. Jackson, however, turned round in the most chivalrous manner and looked at the referee. The rules of the game were beyond dispute. Mr. Angle said: “Fight on.”4

There was nothing more to be said: “I must finish him, then—sorry, Frank,” and with obvious distaste he went in. Even then in his anxiety not to hurt the man he did not hit hard, and Slavin took five blows before he went down. His courage was exemplary. He could so easily have fallen. He stood, however, and took the blows like the man he was. At the fifth he fell forward on his knees and in a blind, instinctive effort to rise again, not knowing what he was doing, he clutched Peter Jackson round the legs. But he could not rise. The ten seconds were counted. For the first time in his life Frank Slavin was beaten, for the first time knocked out.

And Peter Jackson took his victory quite calmly. Without a trace of swagger he returned to his corner, and, later, helped to carry Slavin, who was really ill, out of the ring.

CHAPTER II
JAMES J. CORBETT AND JOHN L. SULLIVAN

The last three years of the nineteenth century were rich in great encounters, or so, at any rate, it seems to us now. The transition period, when bare-knuckle fighting had degenerated into the most sordid and secret ruffianism, had passed; and a virtually new sport had taken its place. And of all the giant names associated with Boxing as we understand the word, those of Corbett and Sullivan are immortal.

A boxer’s life, as a boxer, is a very short one, so that though both of these men have long since passed into the mythology of the Ring, both of them, were both alive, would be, at the time of writing, but of middle age.

James J. Corbett was a highly skilled heavy-weight whose title to fame as a scientific boxer has been much obscured by the fact that he began life by being a bank clerk. This genteel avocation had not formerly been mentioned in conjunction with the Ring, and much was made of the coincidence both in America and England. Corbett was not behindhand in fostering the impression of social superiority. And his nicknames of “Pompadour” and “Gentleman Jem” given him for the arrangement of his hair and his charm of manner, tended rather to overshadow his real merits. This is generally the case with boxers who assume or have assumed for them (by their business managers) airs which have nothing to do with the matter in hand. It is very amusing, when you think of it, how the lovers of boxing have always made implicit apologies for the sport by drawing attention to the extrinsic merits of its exponents. It is perfectly true that far more professional boxers have been blacksmiths or porters or dockers—“working-men,” in fact—than bank clerks or actors, but at this time of day such comparisons are surely irrelevant.

What matters most to us now is that Corbett was a first-rate boxer. He was a Californian, born in San Francisco in 1866. During the period of clerkdom he won various amateur competitions, and at the age of eighteen, turned professional. In 1889 he beat Joe Choynski—a very powerful slogger—thrice. The first of these battles lasted for twenty-eight rounds and was a particularly fierce one. Corbett was now generally recognised as a supremely scientific boxer. For so big a man his speed was prodigious, and the skill with which he used his feet amazing. He had the build of an all-round athlete, stood six feet one inch, and weighed thirteen stone in hard condition. He belonged to the new generation of boxers, of men who had never fought with bare knuckles. He had the distinction of being what is called a “scientific pugilist” and not a “prize-fighter.” And, as already explained, he was a person of some consequence, not a mere hewer of wood or shifter of barrels, but a bank-clerk. No end of a fellow, in fact ... but he was a good boxer.

His encounter with Sullivan took place at New Orleans on September 7th, 1892. It was supposed to be for the Championship of the World (as well as some £9000), but the title should be qualified by the word “white.” John Laurence Sullivan had not earned the full title of Champion, because he had, one imagines for his own convenience, refused to fight Peter Jackson. He “drew the colour-line,” as the saying is.

Sullivan was a mighty slogger, who had fought a great deal with his naked fists, and was a man of tried courage and endurance, but he was not a man of exceptional scientific skill. He was 5 feet 10½ inches in height, and weighed a good deal over 14 stone. He was thirty-four years of age.