Chapter II: Jem Mace, of Norwich (champion) (2)

6.――Brettle’s left daylight was nearly obscured, and
the right showed a distinct mouse. His mouth too, was
out of symmetry, and his nose, naturally of the Roman
order, resembled a “flat-fish.” Notwithstanding, he
went in, and got it on the nose and mouth, returning in
a wild and ineffective fashion, until a hot left-hander
brought him to his knees in anything but a cheerful
condition. At this point a cry of “Police,” was
followed by the appearance of a posse of “blues,”
headed by a magistrate from Didcot. Hostilities were
immediately suspended, and all returned to the train.
On a council being held, the “manager” who had
deprecated this landing, declared that there was now no
hope of pulling up at any part of the line; so there
was nothing for it but to order the men to meet the
referee on the following morning. “Book agen” was the
_mot d’ordre_, which was doubly vexatious for the
Birmingham division, who _nolens volens_ had to journey
to London, with very doubtful prospects of getting back
their money at the next meeting.

After some discussion, all parties agreed to a renewal of the combat on the 20th of the month. The day proving exceptionally fine, the men and their friends started at an early hour from Fenchurch Street, concluding the rail part of the journey at Southend, where a couple of steam-tugs were in waiting, and a voyage to ground on the sea-coast of Essex, never before visited by the Fancy, was chosen. The odds on Mace were not taken, Brettle’s friends being few, and lacking confidence. At five minutes to one, all being in order, the men stood up.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――Brettle had not entirely got rid of the marks
of the previous week’s encounter; besides a cut under
the left eye, the right optic was “deeply, darkly,” but
not “beautifully blue,” and his face looked somewhat
puffy. Mace had no more than a skin-deep scratch or
two. No sooner had Brettle toed the scratch, than
instead of forcing the fighting he stepped back, as if
to try whether an alteration in tactics might change
the fortune of war. Mace appeared fora few seconds
doubtful, then drawing himself together, he slowly
followed his man. Getting closer, Brettle let fly his
right, and got home on Mace’s head, too round to be
effective, while Jem’s counterhit caught him flush on
the dial. Brettle broke ground, Mace after him; Bob got
home on Mace’s body, but fell at the ropes in
retreating.

2.――Mace came up smiling, and was met cheerfully by the
Brum. Mace was no sooner within distance than he made
his one two on the nose and eye, Brettle’s returns
being short and ineffective. As Bob shifted position he
slipped down on one knee, but instantly rising renewed
the battle. In the struggle at the ropes, Mace was
under, and a “foul” was claimed, on the allegation that
Brettle had tried to “gouge” his man. The referee said
“Go on.”

3.――Mace came up with a slight trickle of claret from
his proboscis. Brettle’s face looked as if Mace “had
been all over it.” Brettle fought on the retreat, but
Mace was too clever at long shots for him to take
anything by that manœuvre. As Bob broke ground, Mace
nobbed him so severely that his head nodded like a
mandarin, and on a second visit down went Bob,
staggering from something very like a knock-down.

4.――The Brum came up bothered; yet he faced his man
boldly――it was observed that he hit with the right hand
open. Mace timed him with a straight prop and
retreated. The Brum bored in; the men got across the
ropes, when Brettle, lest Mace should fib him, slipped
down, as quickly as he could.

5th and last.――Brettle came up quickly, but Jem,
perceiving he had got his man, stood to him, and
delivered both hands with marvellous rapidity. Bob hit
away desperately, fighting his opponent to the ropes,
where Jem delivered two more punishers, and Bob was
down “all of a heap.” His seconds carried him to his
corner. “Time” was called, when Mace sprang rapidly
from Johnny Walker’s knee. Brettle’s seconds were still
busy at their man, until, the given eight seconds
having expired, Jem Hodgkiss threw up the sponge, and
Mace was hailed the conqueror; the second fight having
lasted seven minutes, the first twelve――nineteen
minutes in all.

REMARKS.――These shall be as brief as the battles. From
first to last Brettle was out-classed, over-matched,
and out-fought, Mace fully proving that once on a
winning track, at a winning pace, he was not to be
beaten.

In the summer of 1860, a gigantic Lancashire wrestler, 6ft. 2½in. in stature, and balancing 15 stone, put forth a claim to the Championship, and to do battle with this Goliath no better man was found than the once-hardy Tom Paddock, now on his last legs. They met on November 5th, 1860, when poor Tom was knocked out of time by the clumsy Colossus in the 5th round (see _ante_ p. 307). With Sam Hurst――having formed a very low opinion of his boxing capabilities――Jem was most anxious to try conclusions, rightly estimating that a triumph over such a “man mountain” would dissipate any lingering doubts in the public mind of his personal pluck and prowess.

Accordingly, articles were drawn for a fight for £200 a side, Waterloo Day, the 18th of June, 1861, appointed for this interesting combat, and a trip down the river agreed to by both parties. It was determined that, to avoid interruption, an early start should be effected, and so well was this arrangement carried out that at a quarter before nine o’clock the queerly-matched pair stood facing each other in a marshy field on the river-shore, in the centre of a well-surrounded ring; Bos Tyler and Woody being entrusted with the care of Mace, Jem Hodgkiss and Jerry Noon nursing the North Country “Infant.”

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――The old comparison of “a horse to a hen,” was
not so fully verified as might be supposed, there being
five stone difference in their relative weights, though
the discrepancy in size was certainly remarkable. There
was another point of contrast which, to the eye of the
initiated, was fully worth consideration in any
calculation of the chances of victory, and that was,
the condition of the men. The Norwich champion’s
compact symmetrical figure, well set-on head, bright
keen eye, and finely-developed biceps, with tendons
showing like knotted whipcord, muscle-clothed
shoulders, square bust, flat loins and rounded hips,
the whole supported by a pair of well-turned
springy-looking pedestals, looked a model gladiator.
Hurst, on the other hand, loomed big, heavy, clumsy,
while a slight lop-sided lameness, the result of a
broken leg, which accident had befallen him since his
battle with Tom Paddock, did not improve the naturally
ponderous slowness of his movements. His skin, though
clear, seemed loose in parts, and the flesh looked
flabby on his back and sides. There was an ungainliness
in every movement, too, which suggested a second
edition of the Tipton Slasher, considerably enlarged.
His face, however, was tolerably hard, and he had a
look of determination which augured well for his own
opinion of success. His friends depended much upon the
effect of any single blow he might get in in the course
of the mill, feeling a kind of confidence that any
damage he might incur from Mace he would put up with
without a murmur, and that he certainly possessed an
amount of game which, had it been backed by an ordinary
share of the other attributes of a pugilist, must have
rendered him invincible. On taking position Hurst at
first stood well, with his left rather low, and, if
anything, his elbow a little too close to his side; his
general attitude, however, was good, and all fancied he
had improved since his appearance with Paddock. This,
however, lasted for a very brief period. Mace appeared
steady, serious, and cautious, and fully aware of the
difficulties he would have to face. He sparred round
his man, in and out, feinting with all the skill of a
perfect master of the art, but for some time did not
venture near the gigantic arms of Hurst which swung
like the sails of a windmill. At last he crept up, and
after a quick feint led off on Sam’s left eye, but not
heavily. Hurst made a chop in return, but out of
distance. Jem again crept near, feinted then hit Sam
heavily, left and right, on the cheek and nose, without
a return. Hurst, not liking this, lumbered after his
man, and a sharp exchange followed, Mace on the cheek
and Hurst on the ribs. Mace retreated, looking serious,
walked round his man, jobbed him swiftly on the nose,
and got away laughing. Hurst tried another rush, and
made one or two chopping hits which Mace easily avoided
and then planted a straight right-hander on the nose,
gaining “first blood,” amidst the uproarious cheers of
his friends. Hurst still bored in, but only to receive
another smack on the left eye; he just succeeded in
reaching Jem’s lips, and the latter fell, laughing.

2.――Sam came up with the claret trickling from his
nose, and his left eye swollen and discoloured; he
commenced business at once by rushing at his man,
slinging out his arms with no sort of precision. He
caught Mace on the ribs and back, close to the
shoulder, rather heavily with his right, which made the
latter look very solemn, and caused him to retreat
awhile, stopping right and left, and avoiding close
quarters. At length he shook himself together, and
again playing round, put in a heavy hit on the left
cheek, and then got home with great force on the nose,
drawing more blood; this he followed with a straight
job in the mouth, drawing the ruby from the giant’s
lips. The spectators were astonished at Sam’s
inertness. Hurst let go both hands, when Mace with ease
stepped between his arms, and delivered both hands with
the quickness of lightning, and with tremendous force,
upon the nose and eye. Again and again did he do this,
and then step away, inflicting fearful punishment, and
laughing defiance at Hurst’s ungainly attempts at
retaliation. Hunt, who was clearly a mere chopping
block to Mace, seemed bewildered by the severity of the
hitting, but still persevered, only, however, to be
jobbed heavily on the mouth, nose, and left eye, which
latter was quickly shut completely up. Still the game
fellow persevered, until it seemed perfectly cruel to
let him go on. Mace did exactly as he liked without a
return, and at length in a close both were down. It was
a dog fall (side by side), but it proved that Hurst’s
supposed superiority of power was destroyed, probably
by the weakness of his leg. Mace was almost scatheless
at the end of the round, while Hurst, as may be
imagined, was fearfully punished.

3.――Hurst, notwithstanding his injuries, was first to
the scratch, his left eye closed, and the whole of the
left side of his cheek bruised and cut; his nose too
was swollen and bleeding. Mace, with the exception of a
slight scratch on his mouth, was little the worse for
wear. Hurst, in desperation, immediately rushed at his
man, but Jem met him with a stinger from his right on
the nose, drawing a fresh stream, and jumped back,
covering his head completely. Sam, furious, persevered,
but the more he swung out his arms the more did he lay
himself open to an attack. He hit round, he sawed the
air, he chopped, and, in fact, did everything that a
perfect novice would do, but it was only to expose him
to more attacks from his artistic foe. At length he
succeeded in planting a heavy blow on the jaw, which
almost knocked Mace down, but Jem steadied himself, and
returned desperately on Goliath’s mouth. Mace got away,
stepped quickly in again, and hit Hurst severely in the
face, left and right, without a return. Hurst,
thoroughly confused, tried another rush, but Mace
retreated all round the ring, repeatedly jobbing him
with impunity as he lumbered after him. At length Jem
caught his foot against a stake, and fell, but was up
in an instant, and after a feint or two got home on
Sam’s good eye twice in succession. Hurst’s returns
were ridiculously short; in fact they were not like
blows at all, and never seemed to come from the
shoulder. At length he got a little right-hander on the
body, but received two heavy left-handed hits in quick
succession on the cheek. Sam, in rushing in, here
stepped on to Mace’s toe, the spike in his boot
entering the flesh, and inflicting a severe wound. Jem
drew back his foot in pain, and pointed to it, but
Hurst shook his head, as if to say it was
unintentional. After Mace had inflicted a little more
punishment he slipped down; poor Hurst, who was
completely blown by his exertions, panting like an
overdriven dray-horse, stood in the middle of the ring.
Some influential friends of Hurst’s wished him here to
give in, but his principal backer would not bear of it.

4.――Jem merely showed a slight bruise under the left
arm, while Hurst was awfully punished about the face,
but was still strong. He rushed at his man at once, who
laughed, got away, and then, after leading him a dance,
turned, and delivered another tremendous hit on the
blind eye. Again and again did Hurst follow him, and as
repeatedly did Mace hit him with stinging effect in
every direction. Mace at last seemed tired of his
exertions, and stood for a short time with his arms
down. Hurst also rested a little from sheer exhaustion;
at length he made another rush, and Jem, in getting
away, slipped down. Hunt pointed at him, as much as to
say it was deliberate, but Jem was up at once, and
offered to resume the round, but Hurst’s seconds took
him away. Thirty minutes had now elapsed.

5.――Sam, whose face was coloured all over, made another
rush and got slightly home on the body, when Jem again
slipped down. Once more he jumped up to renew the
round, but Sam walked away to his corner at the call of
his seconds.

6.――Jem made the fighting, and planted heavily on the
cheek and nose, getting quickly and easily away. Again
did he do this, and then again, hitting Hurst with
stunning force in the middle of the head with both
hands, until the poor fellow turned away completely
bewildered. Nevertheless, he quickly rallied, and again
tried his rush, but only to get into more difficulties,
until everybody round the ring cried “Take him away!”
(Hodgkiss here appealed to his backers to be allowed to
throw up the sponge; they refused, indeed, it was
evident that Sam himself would not yet consent to own
that he was licked.) Sam made another rush, and after
slight exchanges, closed; a brief struggle took place,
when both fell, Hurst undermost. It was claimed by
Mace’s friends as a cross-buttock, but it scarcely
amounted to that, although Jem certainly had the
advantage in the fall.

7.――Bob Brettle now appealed to Sam’s backers to give
in, but in vain. Bob tried to get into the ring, and
did throw up his hat, but was forced away by Sam’s
backers. Mace offered to shake hands, and seemed
unwilling to inflict more punishment, feeling that it
was useless cruelty. Sam would not hear of surrender,
but made his rush, and succeeded in getting home his
right on the body, when Jem fell.

8th and last.――Hurst came up staggering, his face much
disfigured; Mace also seemed rather tired. Sam made a
final effort, letting go both hands, but was short, and
received two more very straight hits on the cheek and
nose, drawing claret in fresh profusion. Sam blundered
in almost blind, and Mace pushed, rather than hit him,
several times in the head, looking at him steadily and
stepping back after each delivery. The “big ’un” was
evidently powerless, and Jem was commendably
forbearing. Another attempt was made by Brettle to
throw up the sponge, and the referee stepped into the
ring to remonstrate with Sam’s principal backer, but
neither he nor Hurst would listen to reason. The
consequence was that Jem was reluctantly compelled to
hit him again, which he did with perfect impunity; and
finally Jem Hodgkiss, finding it useless to reason with
either Sam or his backer, took the responsibility upon
himself, and threw up the sponge, forcing the unwilling
giant to his corner, where Mace went up to him, and
shook hands, although sorely against Hurst’s will, who
could not even now reconcile to himself his defeat by
one upon whom he looked with contempt. Mace was then
proclaimed the victor, after fighting for _fifty
minutes_. He bore his honours modestly, and as soon as
possible went round with the hat, and collected the sum
of £35 for his unsuccessful antagonist.

Scarcely was this done, when the police made their
appearance, fortunately too late to prevent a
satisfactory conclusion.

REMARKS.――Volumes could not prove more demonstratively
the value of skill in the art of boxing as turning the
scale against mere weight and strength, than this
one-sided contest of Mace and Hurst. Poor Hurst, who
had been trained by Turkish Baths, instead of hard
work, ought not to have fought this battle. Apart from
his want of condition, however, it was quite manifest
he was not cut out for a fighting man. He had little
knowledge of the art of self-defence, could not hit
straight from the shoulder, and it was obvious that a
man of his build and gait――even when endowed with the
uncommon powers he displayed as a receiver――cannot hope
to contend with success against extraordinary
cleverness and activity, even though possessed by a man
of far lighter calibre than himself. The unfortunate
Sam was, however, a remarkably straightforward fellow,
and from the first it was clear he had the interests of
his friends more at heart than his own, and the
greatest credit is due to him for his manly
perseverance. No credit, however, is due to those who
allowed him to go up after every possible chance of
success had vanished.

As to Mace, his fighting was faultless; he was not
called upon to display any great amount of gameness,
though the mere facing such a giant and exchanging
shots at close quarters involves a confidence and
coolness that shows no small amount of personal
courage. As to Mace’s attack and defence, they were in
every respect indicative of the master. It redounds to
his praise that he abstained from making a more rapid
finish, as he certainly might have done, unless
restrained by a desire to spare his almost helpless
antagonist. This battle elevated to the Championship of
England one of the most finished boxers who had ever
gained the title.

Jem Mace was now on the pinnacle of success, and as――

“Envy doth merit as its shade pursue,
And by the shadow prove the substance true,”

so the newly fledged Champion was carped at, criticised, challenged, and unfavourably compared with all sorts and sizes of preceding and even contemporary heroes of the Ring. As to the unconquered little Champion, who had, after his great battle with John Heenan, in April, 1860, finally bid farewell to the fistic stage, he had left no immediate successor; so “the world seemed left” for Jem Mace “to bustle in,” and the question of the cynical Cassius was for a time unanswered――

“When went there by an age since the great flood,
But we were famed with more than with one man?
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide walks encompassed but one man?”

“Time and the hour,” however, never fail to bring “the man,” and in these latter days of the Ring he came, in the person of Tom King, whose first appearance in November, 1860, and subsequent career, will form the subject of the concluding chapter of our history.

The form displayed by King in his first two battles, although neither of his opponents stood high in the pugilistic roll, was thought to give promise that the belt might again revert to a Champion of the traditional 12-stone calibre and stature.

There can be no dispute that after the retirement of Tom Sayers, the public sympathy with the Ring and favour with its professors had completely faded away, just as, in the preceding century (in 1760), after the defeat of Slack by Stevens “the Nailer,” the title of Champion was dragged through the dirt by a set of unworthy “knights of the _dirty_ cross,” until its restoration by the brave Tom Johnson. At a later period came its reestablishment in more than its former renown by John Jackson,[34] George Humphries, Mendoza, John Gully, the Belchers, Tom Cribb, and Tom Spring, and their successors, who live only in these pages which record its “decline and fall.”

To return from digression, we may state that the challenge of Tom King, and the signing of articles for £200 a side, for a meeting on the 28th of January, 1862, excited but faint interest even in those circles where a struggle for the Championship was wont to set all upon the _qui vive_. Indeed, those who were anxious that a change for the better should take place, and a removal of the disgraceful disorder which had driven from the ring-side those on whom both pugilism and pugilists depended for their existence, were fain to confess that pugilism was dead――dead by the hands of its own pretended friends, and the misconduct of prizefighters themselves. Still a few of “the old guard” rallied round the colours; and the good character of Tom King, with the now well-earned reputation of Mace, gave them hopes of a revival of honesty, manliness, skill, and “a fair field and no favour” for both men.

The morning of the 28th of January, 1862, dawned――if such dim light as struggled through the dense masses of dark clouds deserved the name of dawn――wet, cold, cheerless and miserable, and to add to this unpromising look-out, there were added unpleasant rumours that the “authorities” of half a dozen home counties had taken sweet counsel together how to frustrate the fight; that the magnates of the railway boards had been notified and communicated with on the subject of sinful “specials,” and the complicity of conveying company to the field of blood; that every police inspector and superintendent had been put on his mettle by the solemn warnings of “My Grandmother,” the _Record_, _Watchman_, and a host of “unco guid” newspapers and puritanical preachers, of “the awful responsibility to God and man” they incurred in not “stamping out” this “national sin.” We quote from a Sheffield print and preacher, who thus charitably described a fair and manly contest for the belt――the symbol of skill and courage in the exercise of the most humane mode of often unavoidable encounter between man and man, especially among the lower orders. We name Sheffield, because it was not long after infamous for the “organised assassination” council of Messrs. Broadhead and Co.; whilst its “public instructors” were denouncing and suppressing an art which certainly does not include ginger-beer bottles charged with blasting-powder placed under the beds of the wives and children of obnoxious parents; cylinders of dynamite thrown through the fanlights or windows of humble dwellings; the use of loaded bludgeons and fire-arms from street corners or behind dead walls; the splitting of grindstones; or the cutting of driving-bands, as modes of settling personal or popular disputes. Yet from all these murderous and treacherous cruelties the anti-fistic teachings of the Reverend Mr. Lilyliver failed to wean and guard his “lambs.” We return from this digression to our own “muttons,” whom, we opine, even in their last and worst days, were as unlike “lost sheep,” and perhaps less like “goats,” than their saintly slanderers.

Thus pleasantly forewarned by the croaker pessimists, the “managers” prudently declined to give any hint of the “whereabouts” until the Monday night previous to the encounter (January 28th), when tickets were purchasable at Jem Mace’s house (Jem was now landlord of the “Old King John,” Holywell Lane, Shoreditch), and at Nat Langham’s new house, the “Mitre,” St. Martin’s Lane, merely conveying the facts that the rendezvous was at London Bridge, and at the unusually early hour of six o’clock. The difficult point of choosing a referee was also judiciously arranged for. Arrived at the terminus of the South Eastern, we found a more numerous gathering of the “right sort” than we had anticipated; a proof that “still in their ashes lurked their former fires,” and that a well-conducted mill had yet attractions for the legitimate patrons of the sport. The last two championship battles (those between Tom Paddock and the Staleybridge Infant, Hurst, and Jem Mace and the same clumsy giant) were not, viewed as battles, anything but exposures of the lamentable lack of good men; while the disgraceful confusion, and double interruption of the police, of the yet more recent fight between Bob Brettle and Rooke, almost extinguished the last hope of the survival of the Provincial Ring.

It was nearly seven when the bell rang for departure, and the train steamed away on its journey. Owing to the excellent arrangements of Nat Langham, who acted for King, and Mr. Moss Phillips, who attended to the interests of Mace, all parties were duly deposited at their destination at a little after eight o’clock, Mace attended by Jack Hicks and Bob Travers the Black, his late opponent, and King by Bos Tyler and Jerry Noon. King, who had trained at Mr. Packwood’s, at Hammersmith, was in first-rate fettle; nor was Mace, who had taken his breathings near Norwich, and latterly near Newmarket, one whit behind him in respect of condition; each was “fit to fight for a man’s life.” “It is a long lane that has no turning,” and as we looked at the orderly array of the inner and outer ring, and the attentiveness of the ring-constables, armed with their brass-bound whips and their badges, we flattered ourselves for a time that the turning-point had been reached, and that “a fair fight and no favour, and may the best man win,” might once again be a phrase with a meaning. Thus dreaming, as “hope told a flattering tale,” we addressed ourselves to the duty of observing the fight we here chronicle.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――Having gone through the customary friendly
salutation at the scratch, each man drew back and threw
himself into position. There was at this moment a
silence that might be felt, and the eager glances
directed by all toward the combatants evinced the
interest with which every movement was being watched by
those surrounding the ring. There was undoubtedly much
to rivet the attention of the patrons of the art; for
though both were unquestionably fine fellows, yet there
was that disparity between them which could not fail to
impress itself even on the uninitiated. Mark the
towering height of King, standing a clear 6 feet 2
inches in his stockings, and, as he faces his opponent
with attentive watchfulness, but without a sign of
nervousness or anxiety, how immense and preponderating
appear the advantages in his favour. Tom, we were
informed by Langham, when he last scaled, pulled down
12st. 8lbs., and taken for all in all must be declared
a model man, although some judges of athletes declared
his loins too slender for a man of his height Tom, like
Mace, has a bright, keen eye, but he lacks the
square-out jaw bone and hard angular contour which some
judges of “points” declare to be always found in the
“thoroughbred” boxer. Be that as it may, King’s length
of reach, firm, round muscle, skin ruddy with the glow
of health, and cheerful, courageous aspect gave promise
of a formidable opponent, even to the scientific
Champion, Jem Mace. As to the Champion, who pulled down
11st. 4lbs. on the preceding Monday, he was “all
there,” and as he himself said, felt “fit as a fiddle.”
After keeping on guard a few seconds, during which Mace
was keenly scrutinising him, Tom dropped his hands,
resting his left upon his left thigh; Jem, being out of
range, and seeing that Tom had lowered his daddles,
followed suit, and the position of the pair at this
moment caused some astonishment. Tom rubbed his left
forearm with his right hand, and Jem, who also felt the
chilly effects of the morning air on coming out of his
flannels, rubbed his breast with his right palm. Tom,
in shifting, had got nearer his own corner, when Jem
advanced, and, from the manner he gathered himself
together, evidently intended mischief; his left was
admirably poised, while his right played with firm
elasticity, ready as a guard, or, if occasion presented
itself, a shoot. Tom, however, was on the alert, and
Mace, after putting out a feeler or two, sprung back to
tempt Tom to follow. King, who at first seemed a little
puzzled, smiled and retreated, cool as a cucumber in an
ice-well. There was more than one repetition of the
movement we have here described, the men shifting,
changing position, and manœuvring all over the ring
without coming to business. King had heard so much of
the ability of Mace that he felt he was standing before
the best tactician of the day, and would not lead off.
Mace, on the other hand, with the perception of a
practised general, found that he had before him a
dangerous and determined antagonist; one whom it would
not do to treat in the style he had made an example of
big Sam Hurst. At length, after a display of almost
every sort of drawing and defensive tactic, Mace got
well in, delivering a neat nobber with the left,
stopping the return, and getting away. King dashed at
him, his height enabling him to hit over Jem’s guard,
and Tom got one in on Mace’s head with the right; the
men closed and fibbed, then getting on to the ropes,
both went down. The seconds were instant in their
attendance, Bos Tylor claiming “first blood” for King,
which was admitted, as the cochineal was trickling from
a cut on the Champion’s shin. King’s partizans were in
ecstasies, and “Who’ll lay 2 to 1 now?” met no
response.

2.――The cold rain now came down in earnest, and did not
much abate throughout the rest of the mill. With ready
alacrity each man came from his corner and scratched
simultaneously with his opponent. Mace, who was still
bleeding, looked flushed. After a little sparring, Mace
popped in his left. His second hit was prettily
countered, but notwithstanding King’s length, Jem’s
blow seemed hardest, reaching home a “thought” before
his adversary’s poke. Another exchange, Tom getting on
the side of Mace’s head, but not severely, and Jem’s
smack in return sounding all round the ring. In the
close both were down.

3.――The ball had now been fairly opened, and each bout
improved the spirit of the performance, on which even
the pitiless rain could not throw a damper. Jem, on
coming from his corner, was still distilling the
_elixir vitæ_ from the old spot, which as yet seemed
the only mark made. King went dashing in to force the
fighting, and the hot haste of the onslaught marred the
pretty position of Jem. Tom, who seemed to hit from the
forearm rather than the shoulder, got home his left on
the jaw, and then, with the right, reached Jem’s head;
his superiority of length of reach being fully
demonstrated. Jem, however, quite balanced accounts by
two severe props in the nob; King closed, and Mace got
down easy.

4.――The rapidity of King’s fighting seemed somewhat to
surprise Mace, and he moved right and left in front of
his man, his point well covered. Tom dashed in left and
right, and went to work, his counsel advising the
forcing principle; King, in hitting out, had his left
hand partially open; Mace cross-countered with the left
a smasher, but a second attempt passed over King’s
shoulder. Jem broke away, and in retreating got to the
centre stake. Tom, following, dashed out his right,
when Mace ducked his head and slipped down, thereby
escaping a rasper.

5.――Mace first to scratch, King promptly facing him. As
Tom tried to lead off with the left, Mace showed how
well he was fortified by his left-hand guard, and then
retaliating with the right. King, in turn, retreated.
Tom, in shifting, got to the ropes, when Jem weaved in,
getting both hands on head and body. Tom lashed out
both hands defensively, but could not keep Jem off
until he chose to retire to his own corner, where he
got cleverly out of difficulty and was down.

6.――King had evidently got home at the close of the
last round, for Jem came up with his proboscis tinted
with the carmine. Tom dashed at his man with more
determination than judgment, hit from the forearm
without doing execution; Jem, hitting up as he made the
backward break, gave Master Tom a straightener, who,
persevering, got his man down at the ropes; no harm
done.

7.――Jem advanced to the scratch with a firm step and
determined bearing, as if the difficulties of his
position had only produced a concentration of the
resolute “I will.” The men stood eyeing each other in
the pelting rain; Jem rubbed his chest, which had a
large red mark as though a warm plaster had recently
been removed. After manœuvring round the ring, Mace got
to range, delivering a well-aimed shot on King’s
cranium. As Jem broke ground he nearly lost his
equilibrium from the slipperiness of the grass, but
quickly steadied himself. After a feint or two, they
got well together and countered splendidly, Mace
sending home his left on Tom’s right cheek, King
getting his right on the Champion’s left peeper,
raising a small bump, and causing him to blink like an
owl in sunshine. The men, with mutual action, broke
away, and manœuvred all over the ring. At last Jem,
measuring his man accurately, gave him such a
left-hander on the snuff-box that claret _du premier
crû_ was copiously uncorked. As Mace retreated after
this smack Tom went in rather wildly, and closing, got
his left leg between Mace’s and threw him. (Cheers for
King.)

8.――Tom no sooner faced his man than he made play, and
got his right arm round Mace; he then tried to lift him
by main strength for a throw, but the Champion put on
the head-stop, with his hand on Tom’s face, and King
had to let him go down an easy fall.

9.――King, by the advice of his seconds, again forced
the fighting, slung out both hands, and closed, when
Mace cleverly put on the back heel, and down went Tom
undermost.

10 to 14.――The ropes had now got slack, and Puggy White
busied himself in driving the stakes deeper, and
tightening them. In this and the following four rounds,
King still led off, and though his hits did not seem
severe, he had got as often on Jem’s eye and nose, that
his friends were confident of his pulling through.

15.――The odds seemed melting away like butter in the
sun, and the backers of the Champion were just becoming
“knights of the rueful countenance;” while Tom’s
partisans were as merry and chirpy as crickets; Jerry
Noon, especially, dispensing an unusual and unseemly
store of chaff among the despondent patrons of Mace.
King once again went at his man, and both were down at
the ropes. King’s seconds claimed the battle for a
“foul,” alleging that Mace had tried to force his
fingers into King’s eye in the struggle at the ropes;
the referee crossed the ring to caution Mace, who
indignantly denied any intention of so unmanly an
action.

16.――King seemed determined to lose no time. He rattled
in, and Mace, nothing loth, stood up and hit with him,
certainly straightest and swiftest. In the close both
were down at the ropes.

17.――In sparring, the combatants changed positions, and
paused in the centre of the ring. King had been
fighting very fast, and wanted a breathing time. On
resuming, he went in, and after some exchanges Mace got
down easy at the ropes.

18.――Sharp exchanges, left and right, on the cheek,
mouth, and jaw, when Jem, in shifting, dipped down. His
seconds ran to him, but he motioned them away, resumed
his perpendicular, and beckoned Tom with a smile to
renew the bout. The challenge was cheerfully accepted,
and fighting into a close both were down.

19.――The men were admirably seconded in both corners,
and both came up clean and smiling, though each had the
contour of his countenance seriously altered by his
opponent’s handiwork. In a close both fibbed away
merrily and both were down.

20.――There was an objection by Jerry Noon that Mace had
some “foreign substance” in his left hand, King opened
his hands before the referee, and Mace, following his
example, merely showed a small piece of paper in his
palm, which, however, he threw away. Mace’s left hand
seemed somewhat puffed, and Tom’s leading counsel,
observing this, told King that his adversary’s “left
was gone,” which it was not, for Mace, this time, took
the initiative, and landed the left sharply on Tom’s
cheek. As Mace broke ground Tom followed, and when near
the stake he landed a round hit from the right on Jem’s
left jaw that sent him to grass――a clean knock-down
blow.

21.――Tom, eager to be at work, went in, but he did not
take much by his motion; after several exchanges, Jem
retreated. Mace slipped and got between King’s legs in
a defenceless position, holding himself up by the
handkerchief round Tom’s waist. King gallantly withheld
his hand, threw up his arms and smiled, walking to his
corner amidst general cheering.

22.――King was now the favourite, odds being offered on
him of 6 to 4, but no takers. King, as before, began
the business, and Mace was down to close the round.

23.――This was a harmless bout. King bored in; Mace
missed as he retreated, backed on to the ropes, and got
down.

24.――Both men came up with alacrity, despite the
pelting rain which streamed down their faces and limbs.
King was evidently slower, and Mace tried a lead. He
did not, however, get quite near enough, and Tom
pursued him round the ring until both were down, Mace
undermost.

25.――A curious round. Tom dashed at Mace, who stopped
him, then twisted round and got away. Tom followed, and
Mace propped him; at the ropes, when down, both men
patted each other in a good tempered manner.

26.――Mace came up determinedly, but exhibited ugly
punishment off the left eye and mouth. Still he was
steady, and met Tom’s onslaught cleverly. King closed
and tried to hold up Mace, but he slipped through his
hands.

27.――Tom administered a right hander on the jaw, and
down went Mace against his will for the second time.

28.――Mace recovered from the effects of his floorer in
an amazing manner. Tom had now a serious bump on his
right eye the size of a walnut, and had otherwise lost
his facial symmetry. His friends were, however, more
than sanguine, and urged him to keep his man at it. Tom
tried to do so, but got nothing at it, and in the fall
hit the stake.

29.――King got a round right-hander on Mace’s back of
his head, and both were down――a side fall.

30.――Mace seemed wonderfully steady, and in good form.
King, as before, made play; the ground was so soddened,
cut up, and pasty, that a good foothold was impossible.
Tom sent in his right, and Jem, with well-judged
precision, returned with both mauleys, when King
embraced him, but Mace put on the back-heel, and threw
Tom cleverly on his back; as Mace rose first from the
ground he patted King in a good-tempered manner, amidst
cries of “Bravo, Mace!”

31.――King, as he sat on his second’s knee, seemed much
distressed. His sides heaved like a forge-bellows; his
seconds were most assiduous, and sent him up clean and
fresh. Tom came slowly from his corner; not so Jem, who
advanced quickly to the scratch, and then tried to
entice his man to lead off. At last he did so, and gave
King as good as he sent, when Tom forced Mace to the
ropes. The latter turned himself round, reversing their
positions, and, after a short wrestle, threw Tom with
the back-heel a fair fall.

32.――Exchanges; King on the body, Mace on the head, and
both down.

33.――King still forcing the fighting; Mace as lively as
a grasshopper. After some pretty exchanges, Mace got
home the left on his opponent’s right cheek――a
cutter――a close, some fibbing, and both down, King over
the lower rope, and partly out of the ring.

34.――Mace first from his corner, but had not long to
wait for his opponent. Tom hit out with better
intention than judgment, and failed to do execution. A
close, Mace again got King with the back-heel, and
threw him heavily.

35.――The sun of success was brightening in the East,
though the clouds were pouring heavily. King was
suffering from his protracted exertions, and “bellows
to mend” was the case in his corner. His heart was
good, and he fought gallantly into a close, catching
pepper; Mace, after delivering a flush hit, falling in
the middle of the ring.

36.――After a little manœuvring, the men got on the
ropes, when King slipped down by a pure accident. As
King’s friends had objected to Mace’s style of getting
down, there were derisive counter-cheers and cries of
“foul!” followed by enthusiastic cheers for both men.

37.――Tom’s seconds found that their plan of forcing the
fighting had miscarried, and now gave opposite advice.
King waited for Mace, who manœuvred and feinted, until
Tom let go his left, and was countered artistically.
Mace then stepped in and delivered his left full in
King’s dial and in an exchange both were down in the
middle of the ring.

38-40.――King, finding Mace his master at out-fighting,
resumed his plan of going to work just as he was
getting second wind. The rounds again were of the old
pattern; King got the larger and heavier share of the
hitting, and both were down, Mace choosing his own time
to end the round. In the 40th round, King complained of
Mace using him unfairly, but the referee saw nothing
calling for his notice.

41, 42, 43 and last.――King was visibly distressed in
the first two of these three final rounds. In the last
of these bouts the combatants closed in the middle of
the ring, when Mace, who had delivered a heavy thwack
on King’s neck, struggled with him for the fall. In
going down, King, who was undermost, struck the front
of his head with great force on the ground. Tom’s
seconds had him in his corner in an instant, as the
position was critical. The die was however, cast.
“Time!” was called in vain. Mace, who was eagerly
watching his opponent’s corner, advanced to the
scratch. The referee entered the ring, watch in hand.
The eight seconds were counted; but King was still deaf
to the call of “Time!” and Mace was hailed the winner,
after one hour and eight minutes of rapid fighting on
both sides. Scarcely had the fiat gone forth when a
posse of police made their appearance, who, to do them
justice, seemed glad that the affair was over before
their arrival.

REMARKS.――The principal point to be noted is the
admirable manner in which both the loser and winner
fought out this gallant contest. The superiority of
Mace as a scientific pugilist alone enabled him to
contend with and finally defeat his brave, powerful,
and in size and physique formidable antagonist; while
to Tom King, the loser, the credit must be awarded of
doing all that man could do towards victory, and
yielding only to absolute physical incapability to
continue the contest. Although, however, the majority
were satisfied that the best man won, there was one who
entertained the opposite opinion, and that was Tom King
himself, as we shall presently see.

In April, 1862, some curiosity was awakened in fistic circles by the return of John Heenan to England, preceded by an _annonce_ in the American newspapers that he had “gone over to fetch the old belt, and to fight Mace, the so-called Champion.” Hereupon Messrs. Moss Phillips and John Gideon waited upon Heenan, on Mace’s behalf, offering to find £500 or £1,000, if needful, to make a match. Heenan repudiated the newspaper buncombe, saying that he had come over with the sole object of fulfilling an engagement with Messrs. Howe and Cushing’s Circus Troupe, and that he had “cut pugilism,” at least for the present. Jem, who was now a London “pub.,” and host of the “King John,” in Holywell Lane, was also on tour with Ginnett’s Circus, while in _Bell’s Life_ he declared his readiness to “meet any man for £1,000, barring neither country, colour, nor weight.” In reply to this, Bob Brettle, still sore from defeat, and, as he declared, “the ungrateful conduct of Mace,” undertook to back “an Unknown” for £200 and the belt against the Champion, and this Mace accepted. Hereupon King came out with a statement that Mace had requested him not to challenge him “at present,” for reasons which he gave, but now, as he had accepted a challenge, he (King) claimed first turn. It may be proper here to remark that King had joined Mace, at his request, in a sparring tour early in 1862, which lends strength to King’s statement. Mace’s backer having offered Brettle’s “Unknown” £25 to indemnify him for his forfeit and expenses, articles were signed at Nat Langham’s, on June 18th, for a fight for £200 a side and the belt, to come off within six months, the precise day not to be divulged until the night before the battle, which was to take place in November or December. How Tom King reversed the former verdict in 21 rounds, occupying 38 minutes, on the 26th November, 1862, may be read in the Memoir of King in the ensuing Chapter.

King having publicly declared his retirement from the Ring, Mace resumed the style of “Champion,” with whatever honours might still attach to that tarnished title.

In December, 1862, Joe Goss, of Wolverhampton, an unbeaten pugilist, weighing 10st. 10lbs., boldly offered himself to the notice of Mace for “any sum from £200 to £500 a side;” and although the Wolverhampton man waived any claim to the belt as the result of the battle, it was said by his friends that they did not see why, if Mace alone barred the way, their man should not claim the trophy. The match, though made in December, 1862, had a most unbusiness-like aspect in some of its details. The time of meeting being named as “nine months after date”――a most suspicious period of gestation for such an affair――September 1st, 1863, was the day. Nor was the amount of stakes less calculated to tax belief, £1,000 being set down in the book; Mace to post £600 to Goss’s £400, of which the Norwich’s man’s backers were to table £330 to Goss’s £220 at the final deposit.

Match-making, at this time, appears to have got “considerably mixed.” In May and June, Bill Ryall, of Birmingham, a twelve-stone man, “seeing that Goss, though articled to fight Mace, did not pretend to the Championship,” offered himself for “the belt and £200 a side, to the notice of the Norwich hero,” after he had disposed of Goss. Mace assented, and articles were signed, but before the decision of the affair now under notice. Ryall’s friends appear to have repented of their rash engagement, and forfeited the £25 or £30 down, as the penalty of their indiscretion. The Brettle party’s choice of Ryall as the man to lower the pretensions of Mace will seem the more surprising when we state that Goss had beaten Ryall on September 24th, 1860, and had fought him to a stand-still in a drawn battle for £100, February 11th, 1862. We will now return from this brief digression to the first encounter of Mace and Gross.[35]

On the making good of the last deposit of £330 to £220, and the announcement that it was duly “banked” in the hands of the Editor of _Bell’s Life_, the almost dormant interest of many of the incredulous was awakened, and crowds of anxious West End inquirers thronged to the “Mitre” (Nat had shifted from the “Cambrian”), the “Three Tuns,” the “Horseshoe,” the “Rising Sun,” the “Queen’s Head,” and the “Blue Boar’s Head;” while the East Enders were as eager in their endeavours to obtain the “straight tip” by looking in at Harry Orme’s, Joe Rowe’s, Jemmy Welsh’s, Jem Cross’s, Jem Ward’s, Billy Richardson’s, and the Champion’s own crib in Holywell Lane, Whitechapel.

Mr. Tupper having won the toss for Goss, the men went to scale at his house, the “Greyhound,” Waterloo Road, when both were found within the stipulated 10 stone 10 lbs., and, as we can safely affirm, from ocular demonstration, in the perfection of condition.

In the face of a vigilant and hostile magistracy and police, the managers necessarily adopted unusual precautions to confine the knowledge of the time and place to none but “safe men.” Accordingly, not only was the day kept secret, but it was not until the overnight that even the line of rail and amount of fare were disclosed to intending “excursionists.” When the “office” was given to those who were prepared to invest £2 2s. in cardboard, the rendezvous was stated to be the Paddington terminus of the Great Western, and the time _two o’clock_ a.m., on the morning of St. Partridge, September 1st, 1863; and thither, at that unreasonable and unseasonable hour, did the “sheep destined for the shearing” eagerly repair.

Unhappily for the fortunes, nay, the very existence of the P.R., it had become the practice of the floating fraternity of thieves, mobsmen, and “roughs”――the latter too often combining the two former in the same ruffianly individual――to stream to the railway station whenever they got scent of a Ring “excursion,” instinctively knowing that there plunder might be perpetrated. As where the carcase is, there will the birds of prey be gathered, so on this 1st of September in the darkness and gloom of a cloudy morning, a riot was got up outside the entrances to the noble building, and many persons hustled, robbed, and occasionally personally ill-treated, by a disorderly crowd which, we can of our own avouch declare, did not comprise in its whole body one single known pugilist. Yet more than one of our “best possible public instructors” informed the public that “a mob of prize-fighters and other ruffians robbed and maltreated the intending travellers with lawless impunity.” Passing the baseless imputation that “prize-fighters and other ruffians” were personally engaged in this nocturnal _mêlée_, we must declare that of all the scenes of riot and disorder we have witnessed, that at Paddington was the most disgraceful, and marked the lowest stage in the downward journey of the Ring, unless we accept the wrangles and rows of the partisans of the men at some minor fights as exemplifying the Miltonic paradox――

“Beneath the lowest deep a lower still.”