29.—Orme again led off, but was well stopped; he tried it yet once more, but from the style of his hitting it was pretty clear he could scarcely see his adversary. He, however, reached Broome’s ribs heavily after one or two attempts, and Broome missed a well-intended upper-cut in return. The latter, however, soon approached his now fast-sinking adversary, delivered his left and right heavily on Orme’s left ogle and smeller, drawing a fresh supply of claret from the latter, and knocking his man down.
30.—Orme came up very groggy and wild, but determined; he led off with his right, but Broome laughingly stepped on one side; he tried again but was stopped, and received heavily on the left eye and mouth, and was again knocked down. His backers and seconds, seeing that it was useless to prolong the contest, wished to throw up the sponge, but the gallant fellow would not hear of it, and he laid on his back until time was called, when he again went to the scratch for the
31st and last round.—It was evident that he came up only to receive, and that he was struggling against nature; he was all but blind, and tremendously punished about the head, but was still tolerably strong on his pins. He led off wildly, but of course was out of distance. Broome then went to him, administered the coup de grâce, in the shape of a gentle tap on the nose, and the brave fellow went to earth almost insensible. Tom Sayers now threw up the sponge, and Harry Broome was proclaimed the victor, and still Champion of England, amidst the vociferous cheers of his friends. The battle lasted exactly two hours and eighteen minutes. All being over, all at once made for the station to which the train had been removed, the vanquished man being conveyed there on a truck. The only personage left behind on the ground was Jem Burn, who, being still a martyr to the gout, declined attempting to walk a good mile along the railway to the station, and intimated his intention of remaining on the field of battle all night. All necessity for his imposing on himself such a penalty as this was, however, avoided by the engineer taking the engine and tender which had been attached to the train down the line to the place where “my nevvy” was located, and bringing him up, sitting on a heap of coke, to the door of the carriage in which his patrons were already seated. All now quickly ensconced themselves in the train, and the homeward journey was commenced about half-past four o’clock, and the Metropolis was reached about eight o’clock, after many stoppages. On the homeward passage a collection was made for the game and resolute Orme, which reached the handsome sum of £22, and this was considerably increased at the giving up of the stakes.
Remarks.—This battle took everybody by surprise. On the one hand, there had been continual rumours that Broome never intended fighting, that he could not possibly get himself anywhere near fit, and that the match would end in a juggle. On the other, it was asserted that Orme had overreached himself, and was flying at too high game; that he would never be able to reach Harry Broome, and must be beaten in half an hour. Our readers will perceive, by the foregoing account, that the “croakers” were far from the mark. The fight was the best we have had for years between two big men. Broome has lost none of his scientific acquirements. He is a good straight hitter, clever at stopping, an excellent wrestler, and quick on his pins. He is, however, remarkably awkward in getting away when in difficulty—instead of jumping back, as we are accustomed to see others do, he turns his back and runs, leaving himself open to severe punishment from a cleverer tactician than Orme. Although he was much out of condition, and was hit very hard, both in the ribs and on the frontispiece, and several times was in great difficulties, he persevered most gamely throughout, and took his punishment like a thorough glutton. Should he make another match, he ought to commence training much earlier than he did on the present occasion, and reduce himself certainly to 11st. 10lb., which is the outside weight at which he ought to fight. If he does this, we think, looking at the way in which he fought on Monday, he will prove himself a tough customer to all comers, and the man who wrests the laurels of the Championship from him will have reason to be proud of his achievement. Orme, since his last battle with Aaron Jones, has wonderfully improved in science and quickness. On Monday, for a considerable length of time, Broome found it exceedingly difficult to get on to him; he could stop well, get away sharply, and, directly he saw an opening, was ready with his dangerous right, which, as will be seen above, proved a dreadful teaser to the flesh-covered ribs of Broome. We consider him to be the severest hitter of the present day, and did he but understand leading off with his left, instead of giving his head, as he must necessarily do when he makes play with his right, would be “hard to beat.” The knock-down blow on Broome’s nose and jaw, and one or two of the punches in the ribs, administered early in the fight, were of such a nature as for the time to reduce Broome to a standstill, and had Orme only possessed the requisite skill to follow up his advantage, things might have presented a very serious aspect as regarded Broome’s chance of winning. By saying that Orme did not possess skill, we do not for an instant impute to him a want of ordinary boxing capability, but a want of tact in knowing when to “force the pace,” and prevent his opponent recovering wind and strength. Had Orme been capable of pursuing that system, the result might have been “a horse of another colour.” This only applies to the earlier part of the contest. After the upper-cut administered on the mark in the 15th round, a great deal of the steel was taken out of Orme, and we are informed that he felt sick during the remainder of the fight, while Broome slowly, but surely, improved his position. Although Orme now and then got again on the damaged ogle and ribs, Broome almost invariably met him on the eyes and mouth, gradually reducing his chance, until, in the last round, he was completely blind, and nature had deserted him. Some remarks were made on the novelty of the men retiring to their corners, and “taking a drink” during the rounds. We do not recollect ever witnessing a similar scene before; but the want of condition on the part of Broome, combined with the heat of the day, was a very good excuse for his adopting such a plan, and as it was resorted to by one, there could, of course, be no reason why the example should not be followed by the other. The battle, from first to last, was a manly, upright struggle for pre-eminence—neither man attempted to take an unworthy advantage—and had it not been for the ridiculous appeals made by the seconds on each side, would have been a model mill in every sense of the word. Such a fight for the Championship has not been seen for very many years.
Once again the Old Tipton made public his “grievance,” declaring that the award of “foul” in their former encounter had deprived him of the honour of the belt and the profit of the stakes, and that the bold Harry held the Championship by “a fluke.” Harry accepted his offer, and articles were entered into, but when £25 were posted, Broome forfeited the money down; his plea being that he had an engagement with Aaron Jones (this went off), and another with Paddock. Forfeits seem to have been in fashion in 1855. On February 20th, 1855, Harry Broome forfeited £180 to Tom Paddock, and on March 12th, £10 to the same. In March, 1856, the Tipton received £70 forfeit from Aaron Jones; and on October 2nd, 1856, he also received £80 forfeit from Tom Paddock. Pleasant times for the bonâ fide backers of men!
It would have been well for Broome’s fame had his hard-won victory over the gallant Harry Orme been the closing scene of his Ring career; his increasing bulk, as was evident to all who knew him, forbade the absolutely necessary reduction of weight which must precede anything like fitness for a pugilistic contest of a prolonged and severe character. Not so, however, thought Harry Broome. On the 12th of December, 1855, he signed articles with Tom Paddock, for £200 a side, for a meeting on May 19th, 1856, and on that day experienced his final defeat, of which the full details will be found in the Memoir of Paddock in our preceding chapter (pp. 294–303).
From this time forth Harry fell out of the rank of claimants for the “blue riband” of the P.R., leaving the struggle for supremacy to Paddock, Aaron Jones, the Tipton Slasher, and the little pugilistic phenomenon of 10st. 12lbs. who successively beat all three of them, and whose exploits form the subject of our next chapter.
Harry left London in 1856, and became the landlord of the Albion Tavern, in Warblington Street, Portsmouth, which was soon famous as a sporting rendezvous. From this house he backed several good men, the best known of whom was the unlucky Bill Bainge, or Benjamin, who as “Broome’s Novice” was twice unsuccessfully brought out to check the upward and onward career of Tom Sayers to the eminence of the Championship. For a few years following Harry was a public caterer and attendant at the principal race-meetings. The last time we met him in the flesh—and he had then too much of it—was at Epsom in 1865, in Gladiateur’s year, when, in reply to an inquiry after his health and prospects, he told us he was “in charge” of the Count Lagrange’s invaluable horse; we suspect as a “watcher,” for which he was formidably well qualified, physically as well as mentally. He was, however, aptly described by a friend as “all to pieces,” and this was shown by his death, which soon followed, on the 2nd of November in the above-named year, at the early age of 39 years.[27]
[27] It may interest some readers to know that we are indebted to Harry Broome’s early opponent, Joe Rowe, for the original of the portrait which faces the first page of this memoir. In our search after authentic likenesses, we learned that “Joe” still flourished as the proprietor of a cigar and tobacco store in Sun Street, Finsbury. Thither we bent our steps, and there we found a pleasant-spoken and young-looking specimen of the fair sex, who, in answer to our inquiries, announced herself as Mrs. Rowe. Our first impression was that we had chanced upon “Young Joe’s” bride; but no, it was the spouse of “Old Joe,” who was “kicking up behind and before,” and in his sixty-second year is proprietor of the lady and the “Sultan Cigar Stores.” A shake of the hand and a recognition, a smoke, and a “liquor-up,” renewed acquaintance; and as Joe has a portfolio of “sporting celebrities,” he cheerfully placed them at our disposal, for which we thus record our thanks.