The spot was admirably selected, and the ropes and stakes pitched upon a piece of sound, elastic turf that delighted the cognoscenti. The immense multitude, as they arrived, arranged themselves in a most orderly, methodical manner. The day was beautiful, the country around green, fresh, and odoriferous with the blossoms of the may. Everything was conducted in a style to ensure general satisfaction.
Caunt made his appearance first, with an oddly assorted pair of seconds as ever handled a champion in the P.R. They were old Ben Butler, his uncle, well known in after times in the parlour of the “Coach and Horses;” a man well stricken in years, and a cross-grained old curmudgeon to boot. With him appeared Atkinson, of Nottingham, a 9½ stone man, whose disparity of size with the man he was supposed to pick up excited the risibility of old ring-goers. Benjamin himself, however, seemed particularly well satisfied, and remarked laughingly, in reply to a jocose observation of a bystander, “Never thee mind—I’m not goin’ to tummle down; he’s big enow for me!” Had the fight which ensued been of the desperate character of Ben’s late encounter with Brassey, the ill-assorted pair could about as much have carried Colossus Caunt to his corner as they could have carried the Achilles in Hyde Park. Nick had with him, as on the former occasion, Harry Holt and Dick Curtis, certainly the two ablest counsellors on the Midland, Northern, or any other Circuit. Tom Spring, who was in friendly attendance upon Caunt, addressed an emphatic warning to the big one to keep his temper, cautioning him not to play into the hands of his opponent by allowing himself to be irritated by his shifty dodges. Caunt listened with a grim, self-satisfied smile, and nodded his head, as much as to say he was not going to be caught this time. Each man, in reply to a question, declared he “never felt better in his life,” and their looks justified the assertion. Caunt was a little “finer drawn” than at their previous meeting, and weighed, when stripped, exactly 14st. 6lb. He never went to scale so light before—indeed, it was not an excessive weight for a big-boned man measuring 6 feet 2½ inches. He had, however, a narrow escape in his training, for, on the Sunday week previous, in his walking exercise, he trod on a stone, and turned his foot aside with such suddenness as to strain the muscles of his leg and ankle so severely that he was unable to walk for several days, exciting the serious apprehensions of his friends; with rest and constant surgical care, however, he overcame the mischief, and was as well as ever. Ward looked to us a trifle too fleshy. He weighed 13st. 6lb., 10lb. more than when he fought in February.
Some time previously a subscription had been raised to produce a “Champion’s Belt,” to be given to the victor on this occasion, and to be hereafter transferable, should he retire from the Ring or be beaten by a more successful candidate for fistic honours. This belt, under the superintendence of a committee, was completed, and now for the first time was held forth as an additional incitement to bravery and good conduct. Previous to the commencement of the battle, Cicero Holt, the well-known orator of the Ring, and second of Nick Ward, approached the scratch, and silence being called, held up the belt, pronouncing that in addition to the stakes this trophy had been prepared by a number of liberal gentlemen, as a spur to the honest and manly feeling which it was desirable should ever pervade the minds of men who sought distinction in the Prize Ring. “Honour and fair play,” it was their opinion, should be the motto of English boxers, and it would be their proud gratification to see this belt girded round the loins of him, whoever he might be, who entitled himself in spirit and principle to the terms of that motto. They were influenced by neither favour nor affection, nor by prejudice of any kind; all they desired was that the best man might win, wear this trophy, and retain it so long as he was enabled to maintain the high and distinguished title of Champion of England. On resigning, or being stripped of the laurels of Championship, it would then be his duty to transfer this proud badge to his more fortunate successor, and thus a prize would be established which it would ever be the pride of gallant Englishmen to possess, and its brightness, he trusted, would never be tarnished by an act of dishonour. It was to be finally presented, he said, when complete, at a dinner to be given at Jem Burn’s, where the subscription originated, on Monday, the 31st instant.
The belt was then exhibited to the gaze of the curious; it is composed of purple velvet, and lined with leather; in the centre are a pair of clasped hands surrounded by a wreath of the Rose, the Thistle, and the Shamrock, entwined in embossed silver; on each side of this are three shields of bright silver, at present without inscription, but on these are to be engraven the names of all the Champions of England which the records of the Fancy preserve, to conclude with the name of the conqueror on the present occasion. The clasps in front are formed of two hands encased in sparring-gloves. It is due to state that this belt is altogether very beautifully executed, and highly creditable to the motives and good feeling to which its origin is attributable. Its inspection afforded general pleasure, and the oration of “Cicero” was received with loud cheers. Caunt, on taking it in his hand, significantly said to Nick Ward, “This is mine, Nick,” to which Ward replied, “I hope the best man may win it and wear it.”
These preliminaries, so novel in the P.R., having been concluded, the colours of the men were entwined on the stake, and umpires and a referee having been chosen, no time was lost in preparing for action.
The betting at first was 5 to 4 on Ward, though we never could understand the quotation, and did not see any money posted at the odds. At twenty minutes to one all was ready, and the champions toed the scratch for
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—The men faced each other with an expression of good humour on their countenances that could hardly be expected by those who knew how they had expressed themselves at former meetings. Caunt’s rough lineaments bore a grin of satisfaction, that seemed to say he had his wishes gratified. Ward, though he also smiled, it was a vanishing smile, and he looked eagerly and anxiously at his antagonist. Ward’s attitude was scientific and well guarded, his left ready for a lightning-shot, as he poised himself on his left toe, with his right somewhat across, to parry the possible counterhit. Caunt stood erect, as if to make the most of his towering height, but a trifle backward. Ward moved about a little, as if measuring his distance, and then let go his left. It was not a determined hit, and did not get home. Caunt dashed out his left in return, but Nick stopped it prettily. However, as he meant it for a counter, his friends were pleased at his quickness, and cheered the attempt, especially as he almost instantly followed it with a lunge from the right, which just reached Ward’s neck. The big one now bored in for a close, meaning mischief. Ward bobbed his head aside, delivered a slight job, and was down on his knees. It was clear that Nick meant to fight in the evasive style of their former encounter, but it was also clear from Caunt’s coolness that he was likely to have more trouble over this day’s business, and we heard no more about odds upon Ward.
2.—The men faced each other as before, no harm as yet having been done on either side. Caunt now began manœuvring in rather an ungainly manner; but as some of his movements suggested a plunge in, Nick was resolved to be first, and let go his left on Caunt’s mouth, who heeded not the blow, but dashed out left and right. The blows were wild, but his right reached Ward’s cheek; and Caunt was pulling himself together for heavy punching, when once more Ward slipped his foot, and was on both knees. Caunt threw up both hands, and gave a sort of guttural “Hur, hur!” as he looked at the cunning face of his opponent, then walked to his own corner. The big one’s friends were delighted at this proof of caution, and cheered lustily.
3.—Ward came up with a keen and anxious look at his opponent. Ben nodded, and flourished his long arms like the sails of a windmill. He seemed ready to let Ward lead off and then take his chance of going in for the return. Ward drew back at arm’s length, and Caunt hit short more than once, but Nick did not get near enough for an effective return. Caunt, with a grim smile, almost rolled in, sending out left and right as he came. His right just reached Ward’s head, who hit up sharply and then slipped down, as though from his own blow. It was a very questionable get-down, but there was no appeal.