The fight, Bell’s Life remarks, did not in any way come up to the expectations of those who had travelled so far to witness it. Bailey is as game a man as ever entered the ring, but he has very little knowledge of the art, and as for countering, it appears such an idea never entered his head. His position is also bad, being too wide and straggling. Ward is a scientific boxer, but he wants determination and the heart to go in and punish his opponent when an opportunity presents itself, many of which Bailey gave him, but they were not taken advantage of. We heard him declare that he had received orders to fight cautiously, but his frequent “dropping” at close quarters cannot, notwithstanding his instructions, be considered commendable. Had the fight been continued, we have no doubt Bailey must have been defeated, although his courage might have protracted the battle for a much longer time, for in each succeeding round he was receiving punishment without returning it with any visible effect. Ward’s left hand was puffed, which, with the exception of the slight cut over the eye, was all the injury he appeared to have met with, while the frontispiece of his opponent was very much disfigured by the continual jobs from Ward’s left hand.
The majority of the spectators left Woking by the three o’clock train, and were conveyed to town, a distance of 33 miles, in about two minutes over the hour.
This affair was followed by another match, and a deposit of £10; but at the second deposit at Peter Crawley’s, on the 14th January, 1840, Ward was announced as “too unwell to fight,” and the stakes down were handed over to Bailey, at Mrs. Owen’s, Belgrave Mews, on the succeeding Tuesday; Bailey on the occasion proposing a match with Deaf Burke, which “ended in smoke.”
In May, Nick Ward was matched for £50 with Brassey, of Bradford, but this also went off in a refusal on the part of Brassey’s friends to allow their man to fight for less than £100.
At length, in July, the long-talked-of tourney between Nick and the Deaf’un took shape and substance, and £50 were down, to be made £100, for the men to meet on the 22nd of September, 1840, over 50 and under 100 miles from London. To that day we shall, therefore, come, without further preface.
“Thayre you air agin,” as Paddy said to the pig in his potato-trench—and sure enough “thayre we were, body and bones,” on Tuesday, September 22nd, in the self-same field, on the borders of Oxfordshire, in which Isaac Dobell (lately defunct) whacked his friend Bailey the butcher, on the 7th of April, 1828; and we can only regret that in modern times we have not had more frequent opportunities of witnessing those manly demonstrations of “fair play” which the sports of the Ring are so admirably calculated to afford. But how did you get there? Why, to tell the truth, as far as we were personally concerned, with tolerable ease—although not without incurring divers dangers by “flood and field”—bekase the Commissary had kindly engaged us a postchaise; and we regret that many of our friends were not equally fortunate. To be plain—the fight was fixed to come off within sixty, and above fifty miles from London, on the Liverpool line, and hence the Deaf’un, who won the toss for choice of ground, named Wolverton, the first “grubbing bazaar” on the Birmingham railway (about fifty-one miles from the Euston Square station), as the point of rendezvous. Thither, on the day before, the Commissary and his deputy (Tom Oliver and Jack Clarke) repaired with their materiel, and it was ascertained that “the Deaf’un and Co.” had taken up their quarters at the “Bull,” at Stony Stratford, while “Nick Ward and Co.” were domiciled in a village not far distant.
The morning broke most inauspiciously, and heavy showers damped the ardour of many a boxing patron, who, instead of advancing to Buckinghamshire, quietly sojourned in Bedfordshire. Still, there was a fair “turn out” of spicy dare-devils, who were not to be scared by trifles from their favourite pastime, hence the morning trains took down a moderate sprinkling of “the right sort.” On reaching Wolverton, however, great was their dismay at finding that there were but two postchaises at that station—both of which had been pre-engaged—and that of other vehicles there was a similar scarcity. Scouts were sent to Stony Stratford, but in vain; for the few that were there had already been secured by the early birds, and thus “a pilgrimage through the Slough of Despond” stared them in the face. Poor Stony Stratford is, alas! not what it was before railroads were in fashion. It is reduced to a mere sleepy, out-of-the-way village, instead of being as, in our time, a centre of bustle and prosperity: indeed, in recent memory it was the high and popular road to Birmingham, distinguished by the number of mails and stage-coaches which “changed” there, and the continuous demand for post-horses. Alas! “The Cock,” the sign of its principal inn, has ceased to “crow,” and the host, like Dennis Bulgruddery, often calls in vain upon his ostler Dan, to know “if he sees a customer coming that way?” Happily, Tuesday’s call enabled Dan to respond—not that there was a customer coming, but many, and thus the ordinary gloom of every-day melancholy was roused into cheerfulness and hope. All the nags were soon engaged, and “the Cock” without and “the cocks” within chuckled with satisfaction. The “Bull,” at which the Burkites were assembled, also became rampant, and “sich a gittin up stairs” had not been witnessed for months.
As the day advanced the bells of the parish church rang a merry peal, “set a-going,” as the facetious Jem Burn said, “in honour of the occasion;” but, as we afterwards learnt, with the double intent of announcing a couple of village weddings. By a singular combination, the face of the clock of the said parish church, in gilt letters, forewarned the travellers of the fact that it was either the handiwork of “T. Oliver and J. Clarke” or had been erected or repaired during the official service of churchwardens bearing those popular names; a fact which produced on the “dials” of the venerable Commissary and his deputy, as they waited for orders, a grin of scarcely repressible self-sufficiency. The “office” was duly given as to “the where,” and away went the Commissary and his pioneers to Deanshanger, about four miles distant, in the county of Bucks, followed by a goodly multitude, horse and foot, embracing a large proportion of British yeomen, to whom the dripping weather gave a timely relief from the labours of the field. On reaching Deanshanger, however, the fact of a couple of mounted “rural blues” being abroad rendered it prudent to move on, and hence the arena was finally formed at Lillingstone Level, on the estate of Colonel Delappe, on the borders of Oxfordshire; the journey to which locality, “through the woods and through the woods,” was trying alike to man and horse. In truth, a more heathenish road never was travelled since the times of the Druids; nor ever did the modern invention of springs undergo a more severe ordeal, while the be-bogged pedestrian railed with bitter inveteracy against the railroads which had subjected them to such unforeseen difficulties, by causing a dearth of the ordinary modes of “civilised conveyance.” However, “barring all pother,” we at length reached our final destination, and there found the lists in fitting preparation.
It was now nearly one o’clock, and all was completed; but, as might have been said to the mob who surrounded Tyburn tree, awaiting the arrival of Jack Sheppard, “there’s no fun till the principals arrive,” so here there was no fun till Ward presented his agreeable mug. It is true that the Deaf’un shied his castor into the ring before one, and claimed forfeit in consequence of the absence of “Young” not “Old Nick;” but as the appointed ground had been changed, and Ward and his friends had to scramble through the bogs with the assistance only of a one-horse cart, sufficient excuse was afforded for his absence, and the claim was premature.
At last the signal of approach was given, and hailed with satisfaction. At a quarter past one Ward was on the ground, and the Deaf’un, who had retired to his drag, was handed forth amidst loud cheers.