Sharpe’s old antagonist Alec Reid, having set up a sparring-booth at Epsom Downs, as was the custom of those days, and a difference of opinion having occurred on a bout with the mufflers, the Bishop proposed a match, in which he said he could get backers for £50, and would “bet a hundred.” To this the bold Alec replied by doubting the latter, but offering to meet the Smuggler in the roped lists for “a hundred, if he could get the money.” The parties met on the following Monday at Josh Hudson’s, and there and then signed articles for a mill on the 15th of July next ensuing. How the Bishop fell before the arm of the conquering Alec, after ninety-one rounds of “the most game and determined fighting we ever witnessed” (we quote Bell’s Life, of July 20th, 1827), may be read in the memoir of the victor.
From this time the Bishop, after an unsuccessful attempt to get backed once more for £100 against Reid, who declined to fight for a less sum, fell into obscurity, his name only appearing in sparring benefits, or as a second in minor battles. Bishop Sharpe died in 1861, aged sixty-two years.
CHAPTER XII.
TOM BROWN (“BIG BROWN”) OF BRIDGNORTH—1825–1831.
Big Brown of Bridgnorth, as he was appropriately styled, for a short period attracted the attention of the pugilistic world by his bold claim to the title of “Champion of England,” pretentiously put forward by his friends upon the resignation of that honourable distinction by Tom Spring. Indeed, it would appear that Big Brown, who had for some time held a local supremacy in wrestling and boxing on the banks of the Severn, was first fired with the ambition of earning a name and fame in the P.R. by a visit, in the year 1824, of the ex-Champion, “with all his blushing honours thick upon him,” to that part of Salop in which Bridgnorth Castle “frowns proudly down o’er sedgy Severn’s flood.” Brown was at this time thirty-one years of age, being born in 1793—certainly too late in the day to reverse and make an exception to the axiom of antiquity, “Ars longa, vita brevis,” so far as the art pugilistic is concerned. Nevertheless, his introduction to Spring so favourably impressed the Herefordshire hero that he declared Brown “fit to fight anything that ever trod upon shoe-leather.” On this dictum Brown left his friends in Shropshire and repaired to the “mart for all talent,” the great Metropolis.
Brown’s trial match, for £100 a-side, with old Tom Shelton (see ante, Chapter VIII., Period V.), was made in a very quiet manner, without any parade of newspaper letter-writing, or the sporting-crib “chaff” too prevalent in those days. Articles were entered into at the “Ship,” in Great Turnstile, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the day fixed for July 12th, 1825. Now, as the “Ship” was not a “sporting-crib,” and Mr. Pierce Egan was not duly advertised of the proceedings—indeed, was told nothing about what was going on—Tom Brown’s battle ran a very good chance of not being reported at all—so far as Pierce Egan was concerned. Had this occurred, poor Brown, like “the brave men who lived before Agamemnon,” might have gone down to oblivion; “Carent quia vates sacro.” But there was another reason. Pierce Egan and all the amateurs were “full” of the fight for the following Tuesday (the 19th July, 1825), between Jem Ward and Tom Cannon; which accounts for “the historian” nodding, like another Homer, and leaving to a rival paper the only report that week of the battle, which took place at Plumbe Park, six miles from Stony Stratford, and about sixty miles from London, on the 12th of July, 1825.
The attendance was not numerous, nor was it desired by Brown’s backers; but the Londoners who were there backed Shelton, as against “a countryman,” five to four, on the ground of the old ’un’s tried game and capabilities. Brown, beyond his Shropshire and Worcestershire conquests over stalwart yokels, was unknown to public fame. True, he had been heard of in a forfeit of £20 to Phil Sampson, of Birmingham. Brown, however, had a high character from those who knew him for activity as a jumper and runner, unusual with men of his weight and inches; and above all Tom Spring, the native of an adjoining county, had reported his quality to the swells in the terse and graphic style already cited.
Shelton, who trained anywhere and anyhow, had arrived at Stony Stratford on the previous day, putting up at the “Cock.” Late on Monday night Spring and Brown arrived, and took quarters at the same well-known hostelrie. The men here met each other, and in true English style exchanged greetings and shook hands. Peter Crawley and Josh Hudson also arrived from London as the appointed seconds of Shelton.
Brown, a good-looking, gentleman-farmer sort of man, was a general object of interest as he walked about the town in the early morning; his stature, six feet one inch, and his weight, a solid fifteen stone of bone and muscle, seemed big enough and heavy enough for anything. The friends of the countryman became yet more confident when they saw Shelton, who certainly was not above twelve stone, and whose height wanted quite four inches of that of his opponent. Among the rurals Brown was now at the odds of five and six to four. At twelve o’clock the men and their seconds and friends started in four post-chaises for Plumbe Park, the general public making their way in the best style they could. Brown, attended by Tom Cribb and Tom Spring, was first to throw his hat within the ropes; Josh and Peter followed quickly. “Come, Spring, get ready,” cried Josh; “my man is dressed and waiting in the chaise.” Shelton now made his appearance, but threw his hat so far that it went over on the farther side of the ring, where it was picked up by Young Gas (Jonathan Bissell), who dropped it within the ropes. “That’s a bad omen,” said a bystander. The colours were now tied to the stakes—blue for Shelton, by Hudson, and crimson and white for the Bridgnorth giant, by Tom Spring. “Never mind how you tie them, Josh,” said Shelton, “I shall want you to take them down for me.” “Of course,” replied the John Bull Fighter, “so I have fastened them with a reef-knot.” The men now stood up for
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—On getting rid of their togs Brown looked like Hercules without his club. Shelton had trained off; his face was thin—his neck did not appear to possess that strength which characterises a fighting man; his frame was not so robust as heretofore; and his calves, in the phrase of the Ring, had “gone to grass.” Nevertheless, Tom’s heart was in the right place; and like a good “ould one,” he thought of nothing but winning, in spite of the ravages which Master Time had made. “A countryman lick me, indeed!” exclaimed Tom, early in the morning; “I’ll be carried out of the ring first—I will never live to see that day!” On preparing for the attack, Brown stood over Shelton, and the latter, aware that he had a good deal of work to perform, set about it with pluck. Tom’s right hand was stopped by the novice; and in return Brown put a “little one in” on Shelton’s mug, which dropped him. (The milling coves looked blue, while the Chawbacons were outrageous in their manifestations of joy at the success of the countryman. Spring said, “First blood!” but Josh said, “No!” Six to four on Brown; but no fanciers of the odds.)