23, and last.—He was evidently all abroad, and staggered about the ring. Sayers went up to him, delivered his left on the right cheek, and following this with a right-hander on the nose, down went Martin for the last time, and Sayers was proclaimed the winner after fighting 55 minutes. Sayers, although severely handled about the mug, was still fresh on his pins; both his eyes were fully open, and it was evident that, had it been necessary, he was good for many more rounds. Martin, on being conveyed to his corner, was laid upon the ground, and every effort made to restore consciousness, but it was fully five minutes before he could be made to understand what had happened. As soon as possible he was conveyed on board the steamboat, and made as comfortable as could be expected under the circumstances.
Remarks.—A few more such battles as that we have just recorded would go far to restore the fallen fortunes of the Prize Ring. It was, in truth, as we have styled it above, a mill of the old school. More punishment was inflicted in 55 minutes than we have seen in two hours in any encounter during the last few years. There was not a single appeal to the referee, nor was there a single action on the part of either man throughout the fight at which the greatest stickler for fair play could take exception. Both had evidently made up their minds to a fair and manly struggle for victory, and their friends ably supported them in their laudable resolution, by rigidly abstaining from any interference. In fact, the only thing at which we felt inclined to cavil was the manner in which Jerry Noon seconded the losing man. A good second always remains quiet until the round is over, then picks his man up, carries him to his corner, and cleans him as tenderly as possible. Roughness, or interference during the round, only tends to confuse a man’s ideas and lead him into jeopardy. As to the merits of the men, there cannot be two opinions. Martin was clearly overmatched. He was opposed to a taller, longer and stronger man, one, moreover, possessing greater knowledge of the art of self-defence than himself. That he (Martin) is a game, resolute fellow no one will deny. A greater glutton we have seldom seen. He is, also, an exceedingly fair fighter, scorning to take the least advantage, and is possessed of that greatest of all requisites to a boxer—unwavering good-temper. The terms of praise in which he was mentioned by all clearly showed that his conduct was appreciated as it deserved to be. Of Tom Sayers, and his manly, good-tempered style of fighting, we have before spoken in the highest terms, and it is only necessary for us to state that his conduct was as upright and his tactics were as fair as ever. He, on several occasions, refrained from punishing his adversary when he was down on one knee only—a position in which he was perfectly entitled to strike him, and one in which he might have administered pepper with effect. He used his left hand with greater precision than in his battle with Grant, and his deliveries appeared altogether heavier than in that encounter. As we have before observed, the ring was exceedingly well kept throughout, and all had an uninterrupted view of the encounter from its commencement to its conclusion. As soon as possible after the event was decided, the crowd that had assembled took its departure—some returning by the boat, while others, who did not fancy a return trip up the river in the dark against an ebb-tide, struck across the marshes to Dartford, and thus reached town at seven o’clock by the North Kent Railway. Among the latter was our eccentric friend, Bendigo, who quite put out the pipe of the milling orator and poet, Charley Mallett, as, while waiting at the station, he composed and sung a long extempore poem, descriptive of the day’s sport, and laudatory of the heroes and of himself, which elicited uncontrollable laughter and applause from his Corinthian auditors, and sent all back to the Metropolis in perfect good humour, caused as much by the ready wit and “hanky-panky” performances of that eccentric individual, as by the extraordinary treat they had enjoyed on the field of battle.
The year 1853 was not to expire without witnessing the first and last defeat of the gallant Tom.
Nathaniel Langham, for many years known as “mine host” of the “Mitre,” in St. Martin’s Lane, Leicester Square, whose biography illustrates a former portion of this volume, was, as the reader is already aware, of that unlucky weight, 11st., which is so difficult to match when accompanied by first-class pugilistic capabilities. Too heavy for the light men, whose average lies between 9st. and 9st. 10lbs., and too light for real “big-uns,” provided they possess skill and pluck, men of this size can find fair competitors only among men of their own weight and inches. Nat’s earlier combats, therefore, as we have already seen, were with heavy men; and his only defeat had been by Harry Orme, his superior by more than half a stone, under circumstances fully detailed at page 244 of this volume. Two years had elapsed since Nat’s defeat, and public talk had prophesied in fistic circles of “the coming man” in the person of the conqueror of Jack Grant. “Ould Nat,” who seemed for the moment laid on the shelf, pricked up his ears when he heard that Tom, whose motto was “Excelsior,” was ready to make a match with the “Champion of the Middle-weights.” Nat picked up the gauntlet, and all was soon arranged. At Lakenheath, Suffolk, on the 18th October, 1853, they met, with the result already recorded.
Defeated, but not disgraced, Tom lost no time in challenging Langham to a second trial; but the latter, for good and sufficient reasons, which we have fully set forth in our memoir of that boxer (ante [p. 251]), declined the invitation.
Sayers was, therefore, on the look-out for a new competitor, and although Tom “proposed” to several of the provincial “ten stunners” and upwards, none listened to his suit.
One evening, after some “chaff,” George Sims, a long-limbed professor of the art, immensely fancied by some of the “locals,” threw down the gauntlet to Tom, professing regret that £25 was all he could raise for the experiment, and that Tom could easily post £50. Finding that the professor was serious and “meant business,” Sayers, who declared himself “blue mouldy for want of a bating,” accepted the chance, as he said, “to keep his hand in.”
The day fixed was the 2nd of February, 1854, and on a miserably foggy morning the principals and their friends took steamer to Long Reach, below Gravesend, and soon were face to face, near the river wall. Sayers, who weighed 10st 6lbs., looked remarkably well. Sims, who stood over him, was 5 feet 10 inches, and said to be under 11st. We doubt if he were so light, despite his leanness. Sims was waited upon by Jemmy Welsh and Harry Orme, so that he had talent behind him; Sayers had Jemmy Massey and Bob Fuller as counsel. 7 to 4 and 2 to 1 on Sayers.
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—Sims was so much taller than Sayers that he seemed quite a lath before him, and, as soon as he held up his hands, displayed such awkwardness that it was evidently “sovereigns to sassingers” on Sayers, and Dan Dismore immediately offered 4 to 1 on him, which was taken by Jem Burn on the off chance. Sims, after a little unartistic squaring, lunged out awkwardly, and caught Tom on the chest with his left. Tom, who was evidently waiting to find out what his adversary could do, returned smartly on the mouth, and in getting back fell on his corybungus.