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.