Chapter V: Nicholas (nick) Ward (1)

1835-1841.

The claim of Nick Ward to a chapter in a History of the Ring is, though certainly slender, of a twofold character. In the first place, as another and more recently fallen warrior was described as “the nephew of his uncle,” so Nick Ward may be signalised as “the brother of Jem;” the second, and more cogent, reason is the high flight of his ambition, and the consequent eminence of his adversaries, he having beaten Deaf Burke, and, by a fluke, won a fight for the Championship with the modern “Big Ben.” These things premised, we proceed to a brief sketch of his quasi-pugilistic performances.

Nick Ward was born on an ominous day, the 1st of April, in the year 1811, in St. George’s-in-the-East, London; and on February 24th, 1835, having previously acquired a reputation in the sparring-schools of the Metropolis, he stripped at Moulsey Hurst, to face John Lockyer, of Cranbrook, a yokel bruiser of about 12st., whose only scored victory was a win with one Bridger, of Maidstone, in February, 1833. Jack Lockyer (named “Harry,” in _Fistiana_, under WARD) was a mere chopping-block in the skilful hands of Nick, his longer-reached and more artistic antagonist; and being “satisfied” at the end of 18 rounds, gave no criterion by which to judge of Young Nick’s game or endurance. It was pretty evident, however, that his brother and friends were not much taken with this initiative display of his qualities, for the next match looked out for Master Nick was with a 11st. man, Jem Wharton (afterwards celebrated as “Young Molyneaux,” and “the Morocco Prince”[22]) for £15 a side. The deposits were made good, and the day, May 12th, 1835, fixed Nick Ward’s backer having won the toss for choice of place (within thirty miles of London) named the well-known Moulsey Hurst as the _champ clos_ of combat.

On the appointed Tuesday, the patrons of the fistic art were on the _qui vive_ to witness the tourney between “the brother of the Champion” and the aspiring “Young Molyneaux”――a worthy, albeit a miniature, counterpart of the dusky gladiator of the same name, who, in times gone by, twice fell beneath the all-conquering arm of Cribb, as may be read by those who are curious in the first volume of this work.

Nick went into training at Norwood, putting up at the “Rose and Crown,” our old friend Ned Neale’s hostelrie, and, as we thought, making himself rather more of a public character in the neighbourhood than was either prudent or desirable. Nevertheless, all looked, thus far, promising. Of betting there was little or none; for such was the confidence in favour of Ward, that three to one was offered, but no takers――a circumstance attributable to his superiority in science, length, and weight (for he weighed 12st. 10lb., while the Black was more than a stone under that standard, as well as being much shorter). It was still thought there would be excellent sport afforded, and there were those who, although not disposed to risk their rhino, yet entertained “a shrewd suspicion” that the Black would win. The necessary preparations were made for conveying the men to the scene of action on Tuesday morning; but, unluckily, on the evening before a “stopper” was placed upon Ward, who was apprehended (on the authority of a warrant issued by the magistrates at Union Hall), and taken before Mr. Ellyard, a local magistrate at Norwood, by whom he was held to bail to keep the peace towards all his Majesty’s subjects in general, and the Black Prince in particular. The unpleasant intelligence was soon conveyed to town, and produced no small panic in the minds of those to whose knowledge it came; but a vast number remained in ignorance of the fact till the next day, when too late to save them the expense and trouble of a long trot. The road to Hampton on Tuesday presented the customary bustle, and it was not till the throng congregated in hundreds in view of the Hurst, that the rumours with which they were assailed on the road were confirmed. Great indignation was, of course, expressed, and various speculations were afloat as to the author of the mischief; some attributing the step to Jem Burn or his party, and others to the malice of some secret enemy of the sports of the Ring. There was, however, no help for it, and as it was found that orders were also given to prevent “any breach of the peace” on Moulsey Hurst, it was resolved to seek consolation in a minor mill, which was yet to the good, in a meadow about two miles from Hampton, whither the ropes and stakes were conveyed, followed by a countless succession of go-carts, and vehicles of a more aristocratic description, which joined in the motley cavalcade.

This “little go” we may note in a parenthesis. It was between Evans (nicknamed “the Pumpborer”), and an aspirant who contented himself with the title of “Jack January’s brother.” These “obscurities” having punished each other for seventy minutes, Evans was hailed the victor.

We ought to state that Wharton was driven on to the ground in style, looking bright as “Day and Martin’s Japan,” and jauntily tossed his hat into the ring, his “soul in arms and eager for the fray.” This was, however, a mere matter of form, as “magisterial interference” having placed his antagonist out of harm’s way, no forfeit could be claimed. The mischance, of course, excited much speculation among the disappointed, as to the author of the interruption, some attributing it to the friends of the Black, and others to the partisans of Ward; while a third party laid the blame, and not without fair ground of suspicion, to some dog in the manger, who, disliking the sports of the Ring himself, determined to deprive others of a pleasure in which he did not choose to participate. There was nothing in the character of the match to warrant a belief that the backers of either man had a sufficient motive for declining the contest. The stakes were trifling, and made up by subscription, so that the loss in this way could not have been worth consideration. The expenses of training had already been incurred, handkerchiefs bought, and vehicles to take the men to the ground engaged. Both men were in first-rate condition, and both, notwithstanding the disparity in their size, equally confident, and more especially Wharton, who booked winning, and nothing else; and then, as to the betting, there were no bets made which could have influenced any of the contracting parties to contrive a “draw.” The real cause of the fiasco, which was never clearly made out, may be surmised, when read by the knowledge acquired by subsequent events; and, without much damage to young Nick’s reputation, we may conclude that he had “no stomach for the fight,” and was secretly glad that the affair had a bloodless termination by “magisterial interference,” and his being formally bound over, for a whole twelvemonth, “to keep the peace towards all her Majesty’s subjects.”

From this time (May, 1835), Nick merely exhibited with the gloves, in “brother Jem’s” saloon, or at other “assaults of arms,” for benefits, &c., though his name appears as “challenged by Burke, Hampson, Brassey, Fisher, Bailey, and other “big ’uns.”

On the 24th May, 1836, Bendigo beat Brassey at Sheffield, and three days afterwards, on Friday, the 27th, Jem Ward, Brother Nick, Jem Burn, Bendy, and an aristocratic assemblage of “swells,” were at Tottenham, where, at a private farm, there was some “cocking.” The facetious Sambo Sutton, too, was among the company; and as a sequel to the sports of the pit, at a merry meeting at mine host Harry Milbourne’s, there was some lively chaff about the late “black job;” the said chaff being specially promoted by Jem Burn, who was retorted upon (he being the patron of “Young Molyneaux,” and now of the eccentric “Sambo”) as a dealer in sable specimens of humanity. Some reflections on Nick’s pluck being of a very “pale complexion,” led to an offer to match him against Burn’s latest “new black,” and on Massa Sambo enthusiastically declaring how delighted he would be “jest to hab a roun’ or two,” Nick “screwed his courage to the sticking-place,” and a “purse” being at once subscribed, “a field near Finchley” was offered by a sporting gentleman present, and off the whole party started. At this time Sambo was only known, beyond some sparring capabilities, to be a merry mountebank of the original Ethiopian order, and is described in a contemporary paper as having “a head like a cow-cabbage, a mouth laughing all across his face, and possesing an extraordinary faculty of standing upon his flat head, with his flatter feet flourishing in the air, dancing and singing for an hour together, and varying the fun by drinking miscellaneous liquors in that uncomfortable position.” To these accomplishments, says the writer, “he adds great bodily strength, long arms, and such a gluttonous appetite for ‘towelling’ that nobody can give him enough with the gloves.” The affair was really got up as an experiment to try Nick’s mettle, and such was the consequence drawn from his “blood and breeding,” that two and three to one on him were offered, but no takers.

The fight did not take place until seven in the evening, when the real P.C. ropes and stakes were got down from town, and pitched in an excellent spot, hidden from the North Road, Finchley, by a rising ground. Jack Adams and Fitzmaurice waited on Ward, Byng Stocks and Jack Clarke on Sambo.

For the first ten rounds Nick took the lead in good style, nobbing his man neatly, stopping his attempts at returning, and gaining first blood in the third round. Sambo also made some very clever stops, and now and then got home a sort of swinger on Nick’s ribs; nevertheless, he was down anyhow at the end of each round. Still, he rolled about like an india-rubber tombola, and when he did get in a “little ’un” the “big ’un” seemed to jump away, and fight very shy till he could himself “get on” again. Ward came up, once or twice, “blowing” in a manner that did not indicate first-rate condition. In the eleventh round, Sambo being pretty considerably cut about the head, Adams called on Nick to “go in and finish him;” Nick tried to obey orders. He caught the Nigger a slashing hit on the head, which Sambo took kindly, merely shaking it; and, darting in, he drew Ward’s cork from his smelling-bottle so suddenly that a gush of claret followed; Nick made an involuntary backward step, and Sambo bustled him down. The “clerks of St. Nicholas” looked blank.

Ward came up slowly for round 12, when Sambo went in furiously. Ward met him a hot ’un on the nob; but the darkey would not be denied, and in a wild sort of rally Sambo caught Master Nick such an awful chop on the smeller, as they were both going down, that Ward was under, by his own consent, and the tap again copiously turned on. This was enough. Nick declared he would “have no more of it.” Remonstrance was useless: “he would fight no longer,” and the sponge was thrown up. Sambo, shaking his head like a black and red rag-mop, cut a “break-down” caper, and sang a song of triumph which defied the art of stenography, while Ward hurried off, amidst the laughter and cheering of the assembly, like a “trundle-tailed cur,” declaring, “it was no use, he was not cut out for a fighting man!” an assertion, in the words of the old song, “Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny.”

After this public manifestation that whatever “devil” there may be in “Old Nick” his young namesake was endowed with none of that fiery quality, “the Champion’s brother” confined himself to “attitude,” the horse-hair pads, and, in the words of pugilistic M.C.’s., to “walking round and showing his muscle.” Meantime the “cow-cabbage hero” kept continually challenging him to another bout “in the reg’lar ring,” while starring it on sparring tours at Cambridge, Oxford, and elsewhere――for Sambo was an immense favourite among the “’Varsity men.” At last the smoke kindled into a flame, and out came Nick, with a declaration that he would “no longer stand this black buffoon’s bounce.” Articles were accordingly signed, a match made for £50 a side, and the stakes deposited in the hands of old Tom Cribb. Tuesday, the 27th March, 1838, was named as the day, half-way between Birmingham and London as the place of battle; for though the deposits were made in town it was not a metropolitan match. Nick Ward’s money was found by brother Jem and certain Liverpool supporters; while the funds for Sambo were readily raised, principally by some Oxford friends. Ward went into training at Crosby, near Liverpool, under the immediate eye of his brother and Peter Taylor. Sambo did his breathings and gymnastics at a village near Oxford city. Both men were reported to be in tip-top condition, and eager for the fray――Nick to refurbish his tarnished reputation, and rub off the stain of pusillanimity, and Sambo, as he said, “’cos him like to hab anoder slap at Massa Ward, him so clebber at get away――but p’raps not dis time;” and he shook his woolly nob like a black Burleigh. It was the desire of the London division that, under the shadow of the untoward result of the encounter between Owen Swift and Brighton Bill (March 13th, 1838), a postponement of the meeting should take place; but time would not permit, in those days of slow communication, to have a conference on the subject, so matters took their course. Ward, having won the toss, named Bicester, in Oxfordshire (the recent scene of the defeat of Byng Stocks, of Westminster, by Hammer Lane, of Birmingham), a town distinguished for the jovial character and sporting propensities of its inhabitants. Thither were the ropes and stakes sent. The Commissary being laid up with the gout, and unable to accompany them, Jack Clarke was deputed to officiate, he being on the spot, and acting as trainer to Massa Sambo. As we feel best satisfied when we write from personal observation, we may note that on Monday afternoon we found ourselves comfortably seated in a room at the “King’s Arms,” Bicester, a house distinguished for solid customers, and them boasting a host of high sporting quality. There was no bustle in the town, which at that time was quiet as a Quakers’ meeting; none of the “old familiar faces” were visible. The London Fancy――and we think they were right――had determined that all matches should be postponed for a certain period. Hence, not a single familiar phiz graced the scene. It is true the town was enlivened by the presence of Sir Henry Peyton, with his spicy four-in-hand, and there, too, was Lord Chetwynd, on his cover-hack; but we could not help thinking, as his lordship gave us a sly nod of recognition, that there was a curious expression in his jolly face, as he made us aware that there had been “magisterial business” at the Town Hall, as a sort of reason _why_ we saw him there. This was soon confirmed by a sporting friend, whom we fearlessly set down as that _lusus naturæ_, “an honest lawyer.” He told us, with regret, that “the Philistines were abroad,” and that the Home Office, urged on by the twaddle of “My Grandmother” (the _Morning Herald_), and the goody-goody papers, with the awful denunciations of the supineness or complicity of the magistracy of Cambridgeshire and Herts in the melancholy affair of Swift and Phelps, had sent down warnings and counsels for extra vigilance to the police and magistracy of Oxford and Bucks. That “all this was sooth” we had afterwards reason to find. Sambo, we learned, had been at Lainton, about two miles from the town, but, as a measure of precaution, he was moved from a public to a private house, and in the domicile of an honest yeoman met with that kindly hospitality by which this class of our countrymen was characterised. Here he was thought perfectly safe, and all that was now wanting was the arrival of Jem Ward, or some emissary from him, to agree upon some less dangerous point of meeting. It was understood that Ward had been advised to stop short of Bicester, but it was fully expected that he would appear at head-quarters to settle upon preliminaries. Every avenue was watched, yet up to nine o’clock no tidings of him were heard, and although the country was scoured over a circuit of three-and-twenty miles, after nine o’clock, in search of him, and every village visited, his presence could not be discovered, for the best of all reasons, that he had stopped short at Banbury, and did not come forward till the morning, nor send any person forward to announce his proximity. This was more than mortifying, for it was soon seen that the magistrates of Buckinghamshire became more active, and a constable was despatched by the venerable and amatory Sir John Chetwood, with a warrant for the apprehension of Sambo, which was backed by an Oxfordshire magistrate. The constable thus entrusted was more than usually active in his vocation, and endeavoured, by every means in his power, to ferret out his sable prey: an activity, no doubt, very praiseworthy, but which led him into an adventure far from agreeable, and certainly likely to remain impressed on his memory. While grunting about, like a boar looking for a pig-nut, he met with a wag who informed him, on a solemn promise of secresy, that Sambo was stowed away in a _badger-box_, which he knew to be placed in an enclosed paddock behind the house of the honest lawyer to whom we have already alluded, and whose zoological collection was known, far and near, as being of an extensive and curious description. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse,” so Mister Constable, cock-sure of having marked down his game, silently stole into the paddock, where stood the long badger-box, of which he determined, from that instant, never to lose sight until its occupant should disclose himself. Night was fast approaching, but it was clear and fine, so, after duly reconnoitring, the “copper” cautiously approached the box, and, tapping on the lid, in soothing terms invited Mister Sutton to come out and surrender, as he was “wanted,” or else, badger or no badger, he must be “drawn.” As Sambo was about two miles off he made no answer, so the invitation was repeated in more peremptory tones, but with no more success. “Bobby” became irate at what he considered nigger obstinacy, so he turned the button and thrust his hand into the sacking, and so into the round hole at the top, with the view of lifting the lid. Rash experiment! the lawful tenant――a badger, not of African, but of British breed――was “at home,” but not to Home Office visitors. Without growl, bark, or other warning, the sharp-toothed “varmint” revenged the violation of his sanctum by seizing the digits of the assailant of his castle, and nearly severing the top joints of at least three of his fingers. The luckless constable raised so loud an exclamation that forth rushed a favourite old retriever hight “Nelson,” who gave tongue so loudly that, though “his bark was worse than his bite,” it was lucky he was on the chain, or, perchance, the seat of the rural’s inexpressibles might have been absent without leave before he succeeded in clearing the low wall into the high road, whence he lost no time in making his way to the village surgery, and thence, his dexter fin, as the police-reporters say, “enveloped in surgical bandages,” he hastened to “report” himself and his adventure to his superior officers. The mischievous author of the hoax did not fail to spread the story of the success of his severe practical joke, and for some time it was dangerous, but not uncommon, for labourers and impertinent boys to address the query to the Buckinghamshire constables of “Who drew the badger?” without receiving a civil or satisfactory answer.

On Tuesday morning Sambo was still at the house of his friend, few knowing his whereabouts; when it transpired that every route from Bicester into Northamptonshire was closely watched to prevent the escape of Sambo, or the approach of Ward. It was therefore determined to cover his retreat by a “ruse,” which was thus arranged. A countryman was engaged by a bribe to allow his face to be blacked with cart-grease and soot, his neck encircled by Sambo’s colours (white with a blue border), wrapped in a white box-cloth driving coat, and sent off towards Oxford at as good a pace as a pair of posters could carry him. But alas! great conceptions often meet with untoward interruptions. One of the Buckinghamshire “badger-drawers” discovered from a chawbacon lout the exact hiding place of the sable-fox, and carried the intelligence to Sir John Chetwood; then returning, with the baronet close at his heels, he boldly knocked at the door of the house, which was opened by a servantgirl. Demanding to see her master, and the wench stoutly refusing him admittance, he gallantly pulled out a pistol, and presenting it, marched on in triumph. Walking into the back-parlour, “from information he had received,” he at once recognised the real Sambo, and, producing his warrant, made a quiet capture of his prisoner. At this moment Lord Chetwynd, with attendants, rode up and joined Sir John Chetwood, so that “the majesty of the law” was fully represented at the capture of his Sable Highness. On reaching the front of the house, however, Sambo made a cunning and bold attempt at an escape from his “buckra” enemies. In vain; he was quickly overtaken and secured, and forthwith conveyed to Buckingham. Our friend the “honest lawyer” was not far off. He went back to Bicester, took a postchaise and pair, enlisted a friend and “householder,” and without hesitation followed the captive “Black Prince,” put in the required sureties, and restored him to freedom. Meantime the first news was received of Ward, that he and his friends were at Middleton, a village three miles off, and were awaiting Sambo’s arrival. It was now too late. A Mercury was despatched to Nick and Co., advising him to make himself scarce, as he too might be “wanted;” a hint which was in season, for, in an hour after, Lord Chetwynd and company were on the road to Middleton, where they arrived in time to find that the bird had flown. Ward, his brother, and friends, of course returned to Liverpool, and Sambo, though “bound over,” was at liberty to dance, sing, tumble, spar, and “jump Jem Crow,” a free man in all things but a “free fight.”

Another twelvemonth of rustication ended in a match with Jem Bailey, a 12 stone Irishman (not “Bailey of Bristol”), and the fight was fixed for January 14th, 1839, the stake £25 a side. This went off in a forfeit by Bailey, as did another match made by Ward himself. In October, however, after some clever and vicious “gloving,” and a very strong expression of opinion by Bailey of Nick’s mode of “cutting” it when “tackled,” two spirited gents, in the habit of frequenting Alec Reid’s sparring-room, Frith Street, Soho, expressed a willingness to back Bailey for £25 against Ward, who immediately found backers to that amount among some amateurs in the art of self-defence, at Owen Swift’s, in Tichborne Street. As the match was only made about a week before the day fixed――October 18th, 1839――there was not much time allowed for training. Ward went to Acton for two or three days, but Bailey, we are informed, did not employ his leisure hours quite so profitably as many considered he ought to have done under the circumstances.

On the Thursday the whole of the stakes were deposited in the hands of Owen Swift, at the “Coach and Horses,” Frith Street, Soho, in the presence of a numerous assemblage of the Fancy, when a long discussion ensued respecting the place where the fight should come off. On the part of Ward it was contended that “down the river,” would be preferable to any other place, inasmuch as they were the less likely to be interfered with in that quarter than if they went out of town per railroad, as the partisans of Bailey wished. It was, however, decided that Ditton Marsh should be visited, and the majority of those who were in the secret repaired to the Southampton terminus at Nine Elms, by nine o’clock on the following morning (Friday), while some who possessed fast “tits” preferred the road. The Fancy having comfortably seated themselves in the train, in the full expectation of not meeting with any annoyance by the presence of a “beak,” were not a little flabbergasted by observing Mr. Hedger and several other magistrates of Surrey enter one of the first-class carriages.

“What could they do there at that early hour?” was the very natural inquiry, which query was not satisfactorily solved till the gentlemen in Her Majesty’s commission took their departure at Kingston, where it appears their presence was necessary at the Sessions. Never did the lovers of boxing part company with their travelling companions with a greater degree of satisfaction than they did with their worships. Ditton Station having been announced by the attendants of the railway, the train was nearly cleared of its passengers, and the veteran Commissary and his coadjutor, Little Jack, were not long in fixing the stakes and ropes at the further end of the common, on the left of the station. Some delay, however, ensued in consequence of the articles not stating that the men were to fight in accordance with the new rules of the P.R., and the circumstance of several parties refusing to take office under the old regulations. Alec Reid, who wished the fight to proceed in accordance with the articles, at length gave way, and it was agreed the new, and certainly more manly and humane laws, should be adopted. All the necessary preliminaries were then adjusted, and the men entered the ring.

Previous to the commencement of hostilities a good deal of betting took place at 6 to 4 on Ward, and Bailey accepted those odds with an eagerness which showed he had great confidence in himself.

Bailey, a native of the Emerald Isle, in height 5 feet 11 inches, weighing 12 st. 2 lb., aged 28, was well known in the neighbourhood of Norwich, where they thought him good enough to match him against the renowned Brassey, of Bradford, on two occasions, on both of which he was, of course, thrashed.

King Dick and Harry Holt, the “Cicero” of the Fancy, attended on Ward; the Essex Youth and a gallant son of Mars waited on Bailey. All being in readiness, the men peeled, and at twenty minutes past ten commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――Neither, from the circumstances above stated,
looked quite up to the mark as regards condition, but a
smile of confidence played on the features of both.
Ward’s attitude was easier and more scientific than
Bailey’s, who stood in a straggling and ungainly
manner. They kept at a respectful distance from each
other for some time, when Ward let fly with his left,
and caught his man on the top of the head; an exchange
of blows ensued, when they broke away from each other.
Bailey, however, soon made play, and in the close Ward
went down.

2.――No damage done. Bailey came up smiling to the
scratch. He tried it on with his right, but the hit was
too round to take much effect on Ward’s side; the
latter then went to work, but neither in their
exchanges did any mischief. In the close Bailey tried
for the cross-buttock, but he slipped and fell.

3.――Both quickly resumed business, and as quickly
closed, when some fibbing ensued, which Bailey had the
best of, and both went down together. [Loud shouts for
Bailey, from whose mouth, however, a little claret
appeared.]

4.――The smile on Bailey’s mug soon disappeared on Ward
popping in his left on the nob sharply, and another on
the sinister ogle. In the close Bailey was under.

5.――Bailey made play, but received a clean counter-hit
just above his right peeper, which evidently severed
one of the small veins, for the crimson stream spurted
forth in profusion; Bailey then closed on his opponent,
who went down.

6.――The left hand of Ward was evidently damaged from
coming in contact with the knowledge box of Bailey, who
made play with his right, but was admirably stopped; a
close, Bailey bored to the ropes, when Ward tried the
upper-cut, but missed his man, who dropped down at the
corner.

7.――Bailey came up smiling, and a good fighting round
took place in favour of Ward, who again went down at
the close to avoid any punishment he might receive at
infighting.

8.――After some sparring Ward shot out his left bang on
the mug of Bailey, and kept countering him till they
closed, when Nick cut work for a time by going down.
[Much dissatisfaction was expressed at Ward’s conduct
in dropping.]

9.――The frontispiece of Bailey exhibited marks of
severe punishment, and in addition to other hits, his
left cheek-bone had received a nasty one, still he came
up to his man courageously, and in trying it on with
his right received a counter-hit, which however, missed
the intended spot, and fell on the shoulder; a close,
when Nick released himself in the usual way by going
down.

10.――Ward again at work with his left, which slightly
fell on the nob; a close, and before Bailey could get a
good hit at him, Nick dropped.

11.――Bailey made play, but missed his antagonist, and
in a scramble Ward fell.

12.――The expressions of disapprobation at Ward’s
continually going down were now so general that Ward
smilingly exclaimed on coming up to the scratch
“Bailey, don’t find fault; why should you?” Ward tried
his left, but was stopped; he then put in his right,
which slightly took effect on the nob; a rally, when
Ward dropped on his knees, and Bailey was very near
hitting him in that position.

13.――Ward put in a chin-chopper; a rally to the ropes,
and both down together, if anything, Ward under.

14.――The left hand of Ward quickly visited the
headpiece of Bailey, who rushed in, but it was “no go,”
for his man went down as formerly.

15.――Ward led off, but missed the intended visitation,
when Bailey went in, and for once succeeded in giving
Nick the upper cut, which made a slight incision over
the eyebrow.

16.――Bailey again felt Ward’s left on the canister, and
the latter got away without a return, and was quickly
down.

At this point, twenty-five minutes having elapsed, a policeman well mounted was seen in the distance, and the combatants had the office to “cut,” which they quickly did. The man in blue on arriving at the ring pulled out his “toasting fork,” and requested an old farmer, named Weston (who was also mounted, and had previously appeared to take extreme interest in the battle), to point out the fighting men. The jesuitical veteran, with evident pleasure, was about doing so, but both men escaped unperceived to a barn opposite. As the policeman expressed his determination to follow the parties, and prevent hostilities, a council of war was held, and it was decided that the train should be again had recourse to, and Woking Common the place of rendezvous. The Woking station was reached a little after one, and in less than half an hour the stakes were fixed in a retired spot at the end of the lane across the Common.

Here seventeen more rounds were fought in about thirty minutes, when the same style of fighting ensued as that above described, Ward, however, not going down _quite_ so frequently as heretofore. Bailey received additional pepper on his mug, while Ward scarcely exhibited any marks of punishment. Many of the rounds were remarkable for their non-effect on either side, and their scrambling struggles were more like those of two big boys at school than men in the P.R. In the 12th round Bailey had the best of it, but “bad was the best.”

A dispute arose in the 15th round, Bailey having slipped down without a blow, but the fight was ordered to be proceeded with. In the next bout, after a short rally, Ward dropped to avoid in-fighting, when Bailey certainly struck Nick on the ribs while he was on his knees. The referee, however, gave a contrary opinion, and the men came to the scratch for the 17th time at this place, and the 33rd in the whole. They soon went to work, and immediately after closing Ward went down, when Bailey, it was said, again struck him foul.

The referee was once more appealed to, who decided that Bailey, although evidently accidentally, had hit his man when down. Ward immediately proceeded to the corner to untie the colours, which was resisted by Bailey, who “pitched into him,” and bored him with his neck against the ropes. They were soon separated, and Ward left the ring with his friends, Bailey reluctantly following.

The fight, _Bell’s Life_ remarks, did not in any way come up to the expectations of those who had travelled so far to witness it. Bailey is as game a man as ever entered the ring, but he has very little knowledge of the art, and as for countering, it appears such an idea never entered his head. His position is also bad, being too wide and straggling. Ward is a scientific boxer, but he wants determination and the _heart_ to go in and punish his opponent when an opportunity presents itself, many of which Bailey gave him, but they were not taken advantage of. We heard him declare that he had received orders to fight cautiously, but his frequent “dropping” at close quarters cannot, notwithstanding his instructions, be considered commendable. Had the fight been continued, we have no doubt Bailey must have been defeated, although his courage might have protracted the battle for a much longer time, for in each succeeding round he was receiving punishment without returning it with any visible effect. Ward’s left hand was puffed, which, with the exception of the slight cut over the eye, was all the injury he appeared to have met with, while the frontispiece of his opponent was very much disfigured by the continual jobs from Ward’s left hand.

The majority of the spectators left Woking by the three o’clock train, and were conveyed to town, a distance of 33 miles, in about two minutes over the hour.

This affair was followed by another match, and a deposit of £10; but at the second deposit at Peter Crawley’s, on the 14th January, 1840, Ward was announced as “too unwell to fight,” and the stakes down were handed over to Bailey, at Mrs. Owen’s, Belgrave Mews, on the succeeding Tuesday; Bailey on the occasion proposing a match with Deaf Burke, which “ended in smoke.”

In May, Nick Ward was matched for £50 with Brassey, of Bradford, but this also went off in a refusal on the part of Brassey’s friends to allow their man to fight for less than £100.

At length, in July, the long-talked-of tourney between Nick and the Deaf’un took shape and substance, and £50 were down, to be made £100, for the men to meet on the 22nd of September, 1840, over 50 and under 100 miles from London. To that day we shall, therefore, come, without further preface.

“Thayre you air agin,” as Paddy said to the pig in his potato-trench――and sure enough “thayre we were, body and bones,” on Tuesday, September 22nd, in the self-same field, on the borders of Oxfordshire, in which Isaac Dobell (lately defunct) whacked his friend Bailey the butcher, on the 7th of April, 1828; and we can only regret that in modern times we have not had more frequent opportunities of witnessing those manly demonstrations of “fair play” which the sports of the Ring are so admirably calculated to afford. But how did you get there? Why, to tell the truth, as far as we were personally concerned, with tolerable ease――although not without incurring divers dangers by “flood and field”――_bekase_ the Commissary had kindly engaged us a postchaise; and we regret that many of our friends were not equally fortunate. To be plain――the fight was fixed to come off within sixty, and above fifty miles from London, on the Liverpool line, and hence the Deaf’un, who won the toss for choice of ground, named Wolverton, the first “grubbing bazaar” on the Birmingham railway (about fifty-one miles from the Euston Square station), as the point of rendezvous. Thither, on the day before, the Commissary and his deputy (Tom Oliver and Jack Clarke) repaired with their _materiel_, and it was ascertained that “the Deaf’un and Co.” had taken up their quarters at the “Bull,” at Stony Stratford, while “Nick Ward and Co.” were domiciled in a village not far distant.

The morning broke most inauspiciously, and heavy showers damped the ardour of many a boxing patron, who, instead of advancing to Buckinghamshire, quietly sojourned in _Bedfordshire_. Still, there was a fair “turn out” of spicy dare-devils, who were not to be scared by trifles from their favourite pastime, hence the morning trains took down a moderate sprinkling of “the right sort.” On reaching Wolverton, however, great was their dismay at finding that there were but two postchaises at that station――both of which had been pre-engaged――and that of other vehicles there was a similar scarcity. Scouts were sent to Stony Stratford, but in vain; for the few that were there had already been secured by the early birds, and thus “a pilgrimage through the Slough of Despond” stared them in the face. Poor Stony Stratford is, alas! not what it was before railroads were in fashion. It is reduced to a mere sleepy, out-of-the-way village, instead of being as, in our time, a centre of bustle and prosperity: indeed, in recent memory it was the high and popular road to Birmingham, distinguished by the number of mails and stage-coaches which “changed” there, and the continuous demand for post-horses. Alas! “The Cock,” the sign of its principal inn, has ceased to “crow,” and the host, like Dennis Bulgruddery, often calls in vain upon his ostler Dan, to know “if he sees a customer coming that way?” Happily, Tuesday’s call enabled Dan to respond――not that there was a customer coming, but many, and thus the ordinary gloom of every-day melancholy was roused into cheerfulness and hope. All the nags were soon engaged, and “the Cock” without and “the cocks” within chuckled with satisfaction. The “Bull,” at which the Burkites were assembled, also became rampant, and “sich a gittin up stairs” had not been witnessed for months.

As the day advanced the bells of the parish church rang a merry peal, “set a-going,” as the facetious Jem Burn said, “in honour of the occasion;” but, as we afterwards learnt, with the double intent of announcing a couple of village weddings. By a singular combination, the face of the clock of the said parish church, in gilt letters, forewarned the travellers of the fact that it was either the handiwork of “_T. Oliver_ and _J. Clarke_” or had been erected or repaired during the official service of churchwardens bearing those popular names; a fact which produced on the “dials” of the venerable Commissary and his deputy, as they waited for orders, a grin of scarcely repressible self-sufficiency. The “office” was duly given as to “the where,” and away went the Commissary and his pioneers to Deanshanger, about four miles distant, in the county of Bucks, followed by a goodly multitude, horse and foot, embracing a large proportion of British yeomen, to whom the dripping weather gave a timely relief from the labours of the field. On reaching Deanshanger, however, the fact of a couple of mounted “rural blues” being abroad rendered it prudent to move on, and hence the arena was finally formed at Lillingstone Level, on the estate of Colonel Delappe, on the borders of Oxfordshire; the journey to which locality, “through the woods and through the woods,” was trying alike to man and horse. In truth, a more heathenish road never was travelled since the times of the Druids; nor ever did the modern invention of springs undergo a more severe ordeal, while the be-bogged pedestrian railed with bitter inveteracy against the railroads which had subjected them to such unforeseen difficulties, by causing a dearth of the ordinary modes of “civilised conveyance.” However, “barring all pother,” we at length reached our final destination, and there found the lists in fitting preparation.

It was now nearly one o’clock, and all was completed; but, as might have been said to the mob who surrounded Tyburn tree, awaiting the arrival of Jack Sheppard, “there’s no fun till the principals arrive,” so here there was no fun till Ward presented his agreeable mug. It is true that the Deaf’un shied his castor into the ring before one, and claimed forfeit in consequence of the absence of “Young” not “_Old Nick_;” but as the appointed ground had been changed, and Ward and his friends had to scramble through the bogs with the assistance only of a one-horse cart, sufficient excuse was afforded for his absence, and the claim was premature.

At last the signal of approach was given, and hailed with satisfaction. At a quarter past one Ward was on the ground, and the Deaf’un, who had retired to his drag, was handed forth amidst loud cheers.

Now came “the tug of war.” The belligerents entered the ring in high spirits, the Deaf’un attended by Harry Preston and Sutton, the pedestrian; Nick Ward by Dick Curtis and Levi Eckersley. They shook hands with mutual good will, and having tied their _fogles_ to the stake (blue and white spot for Nick, and fancy white and green for Burke), they tossed for choice of corners, which was won by the Deaf’un. Each immediately proceeded to his toilette, and, “in the wringing off of a door-knocker,” was prepared for action. This was at twenty-five minutes to two, and as the rain had ceased, a “comfortable mill” was anticipated by a vast multitude, horse and foot, which surrounded the magic circle, and which was every moment swelling from fresh arrivals through cross-country paths.

On presenting themselves at the scratch the fronts of the heroes were duly scanned and criticised. Burke, for an old ’un, who had contended in seventeen prize battles, of which he had won fifteen and lost but two, looked remarkably well. His condition was quite up to the mark, and easy confidence sat proudly on his veteran phiz. His ample muscle was finely developed, and his weight was close upon 12st. 4lb. His nether extremities were clothed in a pair of drawers, composed of green and white, the combined remnants of bygone uniforms in which he had figured as the victor. Nick Ward was also in beautiful condition, and, in appearance, was all his friends could desire. His weight was about 12st. 10lb., and he had the advantage in height and length, as well as youth and freshness, over his opponent. Burke was born in December, 1809, and Ward in April, 1813, so that there was nearly four years’ difference between them. Previous to setting-to the current odds were 6 and 7 to 4 on Ward; but 2 to 1 had been laid, and his friends booked success as certain.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――The Deaf’un came up smiling, and Ward quiet,
but serious. After a good deal of dodging, in which
neither seemed inclined to commence, Nick tried his
left, but was neatly stopped. Burke had evidently made
up his mind to the “waiting game,” foreseeing that if
he “led off,” the long left-handed prop of Nick, which
was always ready, would be inconvenient to his
frontispiece. Ward seemed as little inclined to go to
close quarters, but again tried his left, which was
again stopped. In the third attempt he touched the
Deaf’un slightly on the cheek. Again did the Deaf’un
stop the left, and Ward, putting his hands down, looked
as if he would if he could, while the Deaf’un,
following his example, grinned and exclaimed “It won’t
do, Nick.” Into position again, but Nick extremely
cautious, and evidently not desirous of close quarters.
Burke beckoned him to come, but the hint was more civil
than welcome. Nick let fly with his left, but the
Deaf’un caught it on his elbow. More hitting and
stopping, when Nick crept in and let fly with his left,
but was admirably countered. Nick’s knuckles, however,
reached home first, and a slight tinge of blood was
visible on the Deaf’un’s left cheek (first blood for
Ward). The mark of the counter-hit of Burke also became
apparent on Nick’s left cheek, and this was “trick and
tie.” Again did they counter-hit with the left, and the
Deaf’un showed blood from his mouth. Ward put his hands
down again, and they looked at each other with
patience. Burke clearly determined not to play Nick’s
game, but to wait for his onslaught. Nick recommenced
his manœuvring, but found the Deaf’un so well covered
that he dared not try it, and he dodged about as
before, trying the patience of the spectators, who
repeatedly cried, “Go in and fight” Out went his left,
but Burke stopped it neatly. Nick drew back, and the
Deaf’un amused the folks with a few of his “hankey
pankey” antics, and shaking his head, exclaimed,
“’Twon’t do dis time, Nicks.” Long sparring; Nick hit
short, and the Deaf’un popped his thumb to his nose.
Curtis called on Nick to shoot with his left, but it
was no go, and the Deaf’un, who can hear when he likes,
cried out, “You knows all about it betters as we can
tell you.” The Deaf’un stole a march and popped in his
left on Nick’s cheek (cries of “Bravo, Deaf’un!” from
his friends). Long pauses and mutual stopping.
(Twenty-three minutes had expired, but no mischief
done; Jem Burn called for a pillow, and Tommy Roundhead
told the Deaf’un he had ordered a leg of mutton to be
ready by eleven at night.) Nick at last nailed the
Deaf’un on the jaw with his left and got away (cheers
for Nick). A jackdaw, which flew close over the ring
several times, now relieved the monotony of the sport,
but on seeing his big brother, Molyneux, he cut it.
Mutual stopping and waiting, but no business done. The
Deaf’un put in his right on the body, and at last they
got to a rally; heavy hits were exchanged, and the
Deaf’un closed for in-fighting; but Nick fell, the
Deaf’un on him. (This round lasted thirty-seven
minutes, and excited general displeasure, from its want
of animation.)

2.――Both men showed marks of pepper from the close
contact in the last round. Burke bled from the mouth,
and Ward a little from the ear; but there was no real
mischief done. Again did Burke wait and Ward stand off,
still disinclined for close quarters. “Why don’t you go
and fight?” resounded from all sides. “I’m ready,”
cried the Deaf’un; “why don’t he come?” Fifty minutes
had elapsed. The men approached and retreated several
times, till at length heavy counters with the left were
exchanged, and away; more dodging. The Deaf’un crept in
and caught Ward under the left arm with his right; had
it been over the shoulder and reached the ear, it would
have told tales. Jem Ward exclaimed, “The day’s long
enough, take your time, Nick.” “Ay,” cried the Deaf’un,
“it will be long enough for me to lick him, and you
afterwards.” Nick now got closer, counter-hits were
tried, but stopped; each brought up his right at the
jaw and closed, and the Deaf’un was disposed to
continue his work, but Ward fell on his knees. The
round lasted twenty minutes, and fifty-seven minutes
had passed away.

3.――Again was the long and tedious system of waiting
adopted. Each dropped his hands, and Nick scratched his
head, and rubbed his breast, but did anything but go in
to fight, although Dick Curtis assured him the Deaf’un
would “stand it” The Deaf’un laughed and shook his
head, tried his right, but was short; in a second
attempt he was more successful, and caught Ward on the
jaw, just under the old cheek hit. Ward looked serious.
At last Ward rushed in left and right; blows were
exchanged, but the round was closed by Ward getting
down. He was clearly playing the safe game of caution,
and had no desire to throw a chance away. One hour and
forty-three minutes had elapsed.

4.――Cries to Ward of “Go in,” but he was deaf to the
incitement, and “bided his time;” finally he stole upon
the Deaf’un, hit left and right, and for a moment there
was some tidy in-fighting, and a few exchanges; in the
close the Deaf’un was down. Nick, we thought, hit
open-handed. On the Deaf’un rising his “bellows
heaved,” and it was clear this long sparring delay was
searching his wind, while his damaged right leg seemed
to get weak from long standing.

5.――The Deaf’un let fly with his right and caught Ward
on the shoulder――well meant, but too low. Counter-hits
with the left, when Ward planted three left-handed hits
in succession on Burke’s nob. Burke slightly countered,
but was getting slow, and bled from the mouth and nose.
Ward improved his advantage and again popped in his
left three or four times. The Deaf’un went wildly to
work, but was short with his right, and his
counter-hits with the left did not get well home. In a
scrambling close Ward was down, and Burke was evidently
distressed and not firm on his pins (4 to 1 offered on
Ward).

6.――Ward, seeing the condition of his man, determined
to improve his advantage――popped in a left-hander on
the Deaf’un’s eyebrow, which he cut; a rally followed,
and good hits were exchanged; in the close Ward down. A
blow from Ward’s right, below Burke’s waistband,
excited some discontent, but it was not objected to by
the umpire.

7.――Burke stopped Nick’s left, and planted his right
counter-hits with the left, and a smart rally. Nick hit
with his hand open, but the returns were rapid, and in
the close Ward went down.

8.――Both showed punishment, but the Deaf’un had the
balance against him and his left eye was swollen. A
spirited rally, although wild; the Deaf’un was slow and
short with his right. In the close Ward fell on his
hands and knees. He still continued to play the careful
game.

9.――Burke steadied himself, stopped Nick’s left with
great precision, popping in his right heavily on Ward’s
body. Nick popped in his left and got to a close; the
Deaf’un fibbed, but Ward soon got down, the Deaf’un
falling by his side.

10.――The Deaf’un hit short with his right, but Nick
planted his left, when the Deaf’un bored in and fell on
his knees――Ward withholding an intended blow in time.

11.――(Two hours had now elapsed.) Nick hit short with
his left, and the Deaf’un nodded. Counter-hits on the
masticators. The Deaf’un planted his right on Nick’s
nose, and drew claret. Nick made play with his left,
and the Deaf’un fell on his knees. The visit to Nick’s
smelling organ seemed anything but acceptable.

12.――Ward’s proboscis bleeding; but he seemed not to
have lost his spirits, and let fly his left, which
Burke stopped. Heavy counter-hits with the left, and
the Deaf’un delivered a good body-blow with his right;
Nick in with his left, and went down. It was now
thought to be anybody’s fight, and the odds were
reduced to 6 to 4 on Ward; but still it was apparent
that the Deaf’un was distressed, while Ward was fresh,
and careful of his corpus.

13.――Nick led off with his left, and followed the
Deaf’un to his corner. The Deaf’un stood on the
defensive, but received two or three heavy hits right
and left. In the close he fell under the ropes, and
Nick also went down.

14.――Nick saw his man was abroad, and the moment he was
up set to work left and right. The Deaf’un fought
boldly, but was slow, and had the worst of the
punishment; still he made some good round hits, and
Ward was down.

15.――Nick went to work left and right; the Deaf’un
became groggy, and fought wildly, missing several
blows. Both down, Ward under.

16.――Nick now saw it was all in his favour: he hit as
he pleased left and right; the Deaf’un, all abroad, hit
wildly. In the close Ward down, and the Deaf’un on him,
weak.