Remarks.—The game of Oliver brought him through triumphantly, to the surprise and expense of the knowing ones, many of them paying dearly for their mistake. The conduct of Oliver was a perfect specimen of a thorough-bred Englishman, and finer courage was never displayed, nor more manliness and generosity. The “stale one,” as Tom was termed, defeated in style a much better fighter than himself. Shelton, on being stopped, appeared to lose his confidence, although he took a great deal of punishment, and exerted himself even after his last chance was gone. The success of Oliver was greatly due to the able seconding of Randall, whose advice at critical periods was invaluable. Shelton fell with honour, for a more gallant battle could not be fought. On being put to bed at Harlow, Shelton said, “My heart is not beat, that’s as good as ever; but I’m sorry for those who have backed me.” On Shelton’s return to town a medical certificate was shown to the effect that two of his ribs were broken.
Shelton solicited his friends to allow him another chance with Oliver for £100; and they not only presented him with a handsome gratuity, but proposed to post the money for a new trial; but this was interfered with by the match we are about to notice. Although Tom Spring had been beaten in a second battle by Painter (August 7, 1818), that excellent judge, Tom Belcher, contrasting the styles of the men, declared he thought Oliver a good match for the Norwich hero, whom, as we have already seen, he had defeated four years previously, and purposed to back him for £100. The friends of Painter, though refusing Spring a new trial, thought the present “a good thing,” and Painter sharing their opinion, articles were quickly agreed on. See Life of Painter, in the preceding chapter. In this fight, at North Walsham, near Norwich, July 17, 1820, Oliver suffered defeat. Still his friends adhered to him, and that their confidence was not withdrawn a striking instance was soon given. Tom Spring—although he had beaten in succession Henley, Stringer, Ned Painter (and been beaten in turn by him), and afterwards conquered Carter (who had beaten Oliver), Ben. Burn, Bob Burn, and Josh. Hudson—was declared by many to be “a sparring hitter,” and it was urged that this “fine fighting” would never dispose of the gallant Tom. At any rate opinions differed, and accordingly Oliver was backed for 100 guineas, the tourney to take place on February 20, 1821. How Oliver struggled against length, weight, skill, and superior judgment, is told in the memoir of Spring, his conqueror, whose merits Oliver, during his long life, has often warmly descanted upon. He once said to us, “It’s no use arguing—Spring was too long, too clever, and too strong for any of us. I tried his strength, but found out my mistake. Lord bless you, he never let nobody see how much he could fight till it was wanted, then he just served out the quantity. He had a head for fighting, and a man only wins by chance if he hasn’t a head.” Oliver experienced this, and acknowledged it. His argument, however, received an adverse illustration shortly afterwards, when he met Hickman, the Gas-light man, as yet unconquered, on Tuesday, June 12, 1821, at Blindlow Heath, Surrey, and was defeated in nine rounds. Oliver was virtually beaten in the first round. He was stale, slow, and could not in any way parry the onslaught of his opponent; yet here again he kept untarnished his fame as a courageous man. See Hickman, post, Chapter VI.
Tom seems, like many other high-couraged men, not to have been at all conscious of the important axiom that “youth will be served,” and once again, for his last appearance but one, made a match with a powerful young boxer, Bill Abbott, for the trifling sum of ten guineas. The affair was considered a “bubble,” and that a forfeit must follow. Abbott, however, meant it, and so did Oliver, and they met November 6, 1821, on Moulsey Hurst, when Oliver was beaten by a heavy hit under the ear in the thirtieth round, the odds immediately before the blow being four to one on him. How this fight was lost and won will be seen under Abbott in the Appendix to Period VI., Abbott’s last fight being in 1832.
Years now rolled by, and Tom was generally known and respected. Being appointed to the charge of the ropes and stakes of the P.R., he was a constant attendant at the ring-side as commissary, and at sparring benefits. At length, in 1834, the “old war-horse” was neighed to by another old charger, no other than “Uncle Ben” (Burn). “My Nevvy” (Jem Burn) had removed from the Red Horse, Bond Street, to the Queen’s Head, Windmill Street, Haymarket, and there the commissary, “Mine Uncle,” and many of the old school, as well as the aspirants of the new school, nightly held their merry meetings, and talked over “deeds that were done and the men who did them,” with an occasional interlude of a new match between the active pugilistic practitioners of the day. For a long time “Uncle Ben” had amused himself and the listeners by somewhat disparaging opinions, not of Tom’s game, but of what he called his “wooden fighting,” and at length, half in jest, half in earnest, Tom, in his matter-of-fact style, informed “Mine Uncle,” that his opinion of the family was that they had produced only one “fighting man among the lot,” and he was his very good friend Jem Burn. This was “most tolerable, and not to be endured;” and “my Nevvy,” who loved a bit of fun, “as an alderman loves marrow,” tarred on the old uns by siding with the Commissary. Ben. hereupon produced his pouch, and offered to post a deposit to meet the veteran in battle array. The joke went on, but the old heroes were in earnest, and meant the thing they said. Articles were drawn, and the day fixed for Tuesday, the 28th of January, 1834. Oliver having won the toss, he named Coombe Warren as the place of rendezvous, and on Monday evening Uncle Ben took his departure from his training quarters at Finchley to the Robin Hood, at Kingston Bottom, where he arrived safe and sound, in the full anticipation of covering himself with glory on the ensuing day. Oliver, who was not so fortunate in patrons, had not the advantage of training beyond what he could obtain by his daily walks from his own domicile in Westminster, and on Thursday morning took the road towards the appointed place in a cab, accompanied by the Deputy Commissary, Jack Clarke, who had the care of the ropes and stakes. He made a halt at the same house as “my Uncle,” only occupying a separate apartment.
The crowd assembled in front of the Robin Hood at twelve o’clock would have been characterised by Dominie Sampson as “prodigious!” and it was not till “the office” was given that the ring had been formed by Deputy Commissary Clarke in a field at the back of Coombe Wood, that a move took place and the blockade of the Robin Hood was raised. The moment the where was known, a simultaneous toddle took place up the hill, and the ring was shortly surrounded by an extensive circle of panting prads and loaded vehicles; but scarcely had the anxious coves time to congratulate themselves on having obtained a good berth, when a “Conservative” beak, one of the enemies of the sports of the people, who had stolen from his counter in the town of Kingston, attended by a noted distributor of religious tracts, poked his ill-omened visage into the ring, and addressing Jack Clarke, who was viewing his handiwork with the eye of an accomplished artist, said, “My good man, you have your duty to perform and I have mine; I am a magistrate, and will not permit any fight to take place in this county, and I trust I shall not be molested.” Jack looked as civil as a gipsy at the tusks of a farm-yard dog; but he was too good a judge to “kick against the pricks.” He saw it was no go, and assuring his worship he was as safe as if he were wrapped up in a ball of his own flannel, he saw him safely through the surrounding multitude. An immediate retreat was beaten up the main road, and Jack lost no time in undoing what he had done, and packing his traps, as before, under the wings of a cab, with which he followed his friends.
A consultation now took place as to what was to be done. Some were for a flight to Hayes, in Kent, while others looked towards Middlesex, and at last the latter course was taken, and “to Hampton” was the word of command. The cavalcade set off helter-skelter, taking the course over Kingston Bridge, to the unexpected but great satisfaction of the toll-keepers, who were thus put into a good thing, not improbably for good reasons, by the pious Kingston beak. But here a new difficulty and some jarring arose, for the cabs in those early days not being entitled to go more than eight miles from London without paying an additional duty of 1s. 9d. to the excise, the impost was demanded, and the gate shut till it was exacted. The stoppage produced not only great resistance, but much ill-blood, and at one time there was a string of not less than three hundred carriages on the stand-still, all impatient, and each fresh cabman producing fresh arguments in favour of a right of passage. At last foul means took the place of fair: the gate was opened by the “friends of liberty,” and away went the whole line pell mell, many of them not even condescending to pay the ordinary toll. Thus the imprudent resistance (when the number of the cab might have been sufficient) led to the loss of much which would otherwise have been bagged to the positive advantage of the Trust. The way was now clear to Hampton, with the exception of a few accidents by “flood,” for the waters being out on the road between Hampton Court and the Bell, many immersions took place; and, in not a few instances, “old Father Thames,” with the pertinacity of an exciseman, walked through the bottoms of those drags which happened not to be at least two feet from the surface of his waters. These were, however, “trifles light as air,” and in due course the motley assemblage were collected round the roped arena once more, a convenient field having been found, of which possession was taken without the ceremony of saying to the proprietor, “by your leave.” All now went smoothly; the men arrived on the field “ripe for action;” and by a quarter to three o’clock the dense mass was all alive for the commencement of business, a straw rick in the vicinity affording ample material for forming a dry resting-place for the “Corinthians” close to the stakes. Such was the crowd, however, that great difficulty was experienced in preserving order, and hundreds were altogether shut out from a view of the sport which they had encountered so many difficulties to witness. At ten minutes to three the men entered the ring; Oliver attended by Frank Redmond and Owen Swift, and Burn by Young Dutch Sam and Anthony Noon. Oliver sported a bird’s eye blue, and Burn a yellow man, which were tied to the stakes in due form. Burn, on entering the ring, seemed to be a good deal excited, and some thought he had been sitting too near the brandy bottle; but his subsequent conduct showed that he had lost nothing by the aid of artificial spirit. Oliver was quiet and easy in his manner; and although he was aware of the importance of the contest upon which he was about to enter, exhibited as much coolness as if he were engaged in his ordinary occupation of Commissary. He wore a tarpaulin hat, which gave him much the appearance of a veteran tar, instead of a veteran of the boxing school. On stripping, it was clear that Burn had the advantage of height and weight, as well as in freshness, although his flesh shook within his skin, as if the latter had been made too large, or the former had shrunk from its natural rotundity, the inevitable effect of training upon an old frame. Oliver looked sleek, and in good case. He was, however, stiff in the pins, which, although not “gummy,” as might have been expected from his frequent attacks of the gout, wanted that elasticity of muscle requisite to the display of activity, an important essential in getting away from the rush of a heavy and determined antagonist, as he discovered in the course of the mill. The odds on setting-to were six and seven to four on Oliver.
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—The men eyed each other à la distance, Oliver smiling, Ben as serious as Newton solving a problem in astronomy, their hands well up, and Tom waiting for the attack; but Ben was in no hurry. Tom tried a feint—no go; Ben steady. After a short pause Ben let out his left, caught Tom on the canister, and stopped the counter with his right. Neat stopping, followed by counter hits with the left, which raised a blush on the cheek of each. Good straight hitting and stopping, and no flinching. Tom caught Ben on the pimple with his left, but had it on the mark from Ben’s left in return. A sharp rally, give and take in good style; no getting away or mincing matters, it was all hard work. Both became flushed and got to a close, but little was done at in-fighting; mutual efforts to chop and fib, when they broke away. Ben was all alive, and popped in his left straight as an arrow on Tom’s mouth. Tom returned, but was short. (Cries of “First blood” from Sam, and Tom showed claret from the mouth.) Burn again put in his left, and stopped the counter. Oliver was slow, but sure, and stealing a march, gave Ben a poke on the snout. Ben had him on the noddle in return. Oliver threw in a blow on Ben’s ribs with his right, but he was rather short. Ben countered on his pimple; good manly fighting, and neither retreated an inch. Ben flung out his left as swift as lightning, and catching Oliver between the chin and the lip, gave him a “snig,” from which the blood flowed copiously. (“No mistake about blood now,” cried the Burnites, while Sam said “it was a certainty.” “Aye,” cried Ben exultingly, “I can lick him and Tom Spring in the same ring!”) Oliver smiled, but was not dismayed; he went to his man and tried his left, but was short. Hit for hit, and no dodging. The men stood like Trojans, fearless of consequences, depending solely on science in stopping or hitting. A spirited rally and some heavy exchanges, when Oliver put in his left upon Ben’s throat, and downed him in good style. This was “trick and tie,” first blood for Ben and first knock-down for Tom. The friends of the latter, who were not prepared for so admirable a display on the part of Burn, revived. The round lasted eleven minutes, all fighting, and both were a little fagged.
2.—Ben came up as confident as ever, while Tom smiled as if unshaken in his own good opinion. After a short pause Ben caught Oliver a swinging hit with his right on the side of the head, just above the ear. Tom popped in his left twice on Ben’s smelling bottle and cigar trap, drawing blood from the latter. Some good manly hits and neat stopping, when both closed, but in the struggle neither could do much. They appeared to be incapable of getting the lock or giving a cross-buttock. Each fibbed by turns, and at last Oliver succeeded in getting Ben down and falling upon him. Both got up bleeding, and the spectators were agreeably surprised by the manly and straight-forward manner in which the men continued the contest.
3.—Oliver came up a little groggy on his pins, but ripe for action. He let go his left, but Burn stopped him beautifully, and made a pretty counter in return. A brisk rally, in which heavy hits were exchanged, and Burn was again floored with a poke as he was on the retreat. This was given as a second knock-down blow.