17.—Belcher summoned up all his efforts to put in a blow, but the Chicken again followed him to the ropes, and threw him.
18.—Belcher could not move his left arm from his side; he, however, stood up to fight the eighteenth round, but finding himself totally disabled, he resigned the contest, after fighting thirty-five minutes. The Chicken immediately leaped over the rope out of the ring, and entered it again in the same manner, displaying his agility by a somersault.
“On this day the wreath of victory, which had so long encircled the brow of Belcher, was torn off by the powerful grasp of the very man for whose success Belcher had evinced so much anxiety. Envy appeared the principal excitement in the mind of Jem to the contest, and to that passion he undoubtedly sacrificed his honours, and fell a pitiable victim. Under a mistaken impulse, after having successfully triumphed over such formidable opponents as Paddington Jones, Bartholomew, Gamble, Berks, and Firby, his well gained fame expired. It was evident, independent of the great disadvantage which Belcher unhappily sustained in the loss of an eye, that neither his strength nor constitution at this time could enable him to encounter with any chance of success, an opponent possessing such an astonishing degree of skill, agility, wind, muscular power, and, in short, every requisite that the most theoretic mind could suggest for a pugilist. Belcher, in the course of the combat, put in several of his favourite blows, and got off in his accustomed happy manner; but the longer the fight lasted, so much the greater became his disadvantage, and every one conversant in boxing allowed, that had he planted more hits, instead of employing his time in unavailing and useless sparring, he would have stood a better chance of gaining a victory. Pearce, throughout the combat, without a doubt, aimed the generality of his blows at Belcher’s good eye, well aware of the result of closing it, and in closing, Pearce gave him some tremendous falls.
“Upon the whole, if the combat was not so obstinately contested as might have been anticipated, there was in it a display of science perhaps unprecedented. Those, however, who had witnessed Belcher in any of his former battles, could perceive a deficiency in his fighting in many points, notwithstanding he displayed all his former courage. After they had fought a quarter of an hour, Belcher displayed marks of some violent hits in his face, and his firm bright eye rolled in the briny flood. The loss of his eyes was a greater disadvantage to him than à priori was supposed; it rendered him unable to judge the length of his opponent, nor could he perceive the hits coming towards him until it was too late to guard against them. With respect to his own blows, as he himself observed, after the fight, they were merely casual attempts, for his sight was not sufficiently quick and strong to plant them judiciously. Every one who had on former occasions admired with enthusiasm the unexampled courage and skill of Belcher, felt deeply for his unfortunate situation, and in many an eye was seen the sympathetic tear to start. His spirits were good to the last; and after its conclusion he exclaimed, not without seeming to feel the assertion, ‘I don’t mind for myself, but I’m sorry for a friend of mine, who has lost everything he had.’ A subscription was set on foot by Jackson, and very liberally supplied. Belcher was taken to a surgeon’s and bled, where, upon examination, they found the rib expected to have been broken was perfect.”
The Game Chicken retired to the Blue Bell Inn, at Barnby Moor, and seriously declared that once or twice he had it in his power to have killed Belcher. Elated with his victory, he cried out in the Somersetshire dialect, “Dang it, I’m not hurt, I have only cut my crook against his teeth;” and pulling out of his pocket a new blue silk handkerchief, spotted with white, tied it round his neck, and laughing, said, “Since I’ve won it I’ll wear it; no more Belchers now.” After taking some refreshment, they set off for Grantham, where Captain Halliday had ordered dinner for a large party.
The Chicken had now entirely proved himself thorough game; and was without a competitor for a while. A man of the name of Ford, a stalwart gamekeeper from Leicestershire, came up to London about this time, and challenged Pearce for fifty guineas. The Chicken offered to accommodate him for 200 guineas, as a minimum stake for the champion. Ford came to town in April, 1807, while Pearce was at Bristol, and vapoured greatly of his willingness to fight the absent champion for a glass of Liptrap.[[96]] It was probably fortunate the Chicken was not there, or Mr. Ford might have found himself out of his depth. We hear no more of “Master Ford,” who showed better wisdom in minding “buck-washing.”
Pearce, like too many of his predecessors of pugilistic notoriety, foundered on the same rock on which they had split. Examples, advice, and lessons, it should seem, all lose their effect upon persons, who, in the bloom of youth, health and vigour, laugh at the idea of incurring any serious consequences from intemperance, till they find it out for themselves, when, generally it is too late to be remedied. The Chicken during his residence in the metropolis had made rather too free with his constitution; yet we have authority for observing that it originated more from circumstances and place, than sheer inclination. His health became impaired, and he retired to his native city, to enjoy the comforts of domesticated life; and by the advice of his friends, he relinquished the calling of a pugilist for that of a publican.
We have now arrived at an episode in the life of Pearce, which we would earnestly recommend to the perusal of the calumniators of pugilists and pugilism; we doubt if a similar deed can be recorded of many of the canters who decry prize-fighters as “inhuman savages!”
In the month of November, 1807, a fire broke out at Mrs. Denzill’s, a silk-mercer, in Thomas Street, Bristol, and the flames had made such rapid progress, that the servant in the house, a poor girl, who had retired to rest in the attic story, was nearly enveloped in flames before she awoke to her dreadful situation. Frantic with despair, she presented herself at the window imploring help—her screams pierced the hearts of the spectators, who appeared riveted with terror to the spot, expecting every moment her threatened destruction. But none move; all are petrified with fear and horror. At length, Pearce (“the prize-fighter by profession and the savage by nature,” according to “Craven,”) appears in the crowd; he sees the life of a human being in danger, and feels prompted to the perilous endeavour of an immediate rescue. By the aid of the adjoining house, he reaches the parapet, and, hanging over it, firmly grasps the wrist of the wretched girl—the multitude are lost in astonishment, and never did a more interesting moment present itself—hope, fear, and all the stronger emotions are on the rack at the intrepidity of a man losing every thought of self in the hope of delivering a fellow-creature from a dreadful death. The additional weight, added to the height from the parapet, was almost too much for the nearly exhausted energies of Pearce.
“Cowards die many times before their deaths,