34.—Caunt rushed in to mill, but Ward had obviously made up his mind to be satisfied, and down he went without a blow.
35, and last.—Ward was “kidded” up once more by his second and bottle-holder; but it was clear that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men could not draw him to the scratch with anything like a determination to protract the combat. Caunt let fly right and left at his mug, and down he went for the last time. His brother ran to him, but it was all up; and as the only excuse for such a termination to the battle, Nick pretended that his ribs were broken from the heavy right-handed hits of Caunt, and that he was incapable of continuing the contest. Caunt was thus proclaimed the conqueror, and “THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND,” amidst a general cheer, and expressions of contempt towards Ward—so strongly emphasised that the usual collection for the losing man was omitted by Holt, who shook a hat with a few halfpence he had himself dropped into it, and then put them in his pocket with a laugh.
We examined the supposed fracture in his ribs, but could discover nothing beyond severe contusions. It will be recollected that Brassey closed his labours with Caunt upon similar grounds, though perhaps with better reason. Nick was immediately conveyed to his omnibus, where he became prostrate in mind and body, exciting but little sympathy in the breasts of the general body of spectators. The fight lasted forty-seven minutes. The ceremony of girding Caunt with the Champion’s Belt then took place, and it was put round his loins, with a hearty wish from those who witnessed his unflinching courage from first to last, as well as his manly forbearance amidst cowardly provocation, that he might long retain it. He afterwards went to Ward’s carriage, and offered him all the consolations of which he was susceptible, hoping that they might hereafter be the best friends, a feeling which Jem Ward, who evidently blushed for the pusillanimity of his brother, good-naturedly reciprocated. Caunt, he said, had proved himself the better man, and should always be an acceptable guest at his house. We ought to have mentioned that Caunt, on quitting the ring, disdained to do so in the usual way, but leaped clear over the ropes, a height of four feet six, and on his way home ran a pretty fast race against a “Corinthian” across a piece of ploughed land for a bottle of wine, which he cleverly won.
Remarks.—The report of this fight tells its own tale. Nick Ward’s conduct completely confirmed the suspicions of his chicken-hearted pretensions. He wanted that one requisite of all others indispensable to a pugilist—courage; and although his science was unquestionable, it can only be displayed to advantage in the sparring school. As he said himself after his fight with Sambo Sutton, he “was not cut out for a fighting man;” and the best advice we can give him is to retire altogether from the Ring. Caunt, who from the first booked victory as certain, sustained his character for bravery, and left off as fresh as when he commenced, although somewhat damaged in the frontispiece. His right eyebrow and cheek were much swollen, and the back of his head displayed a prominent bump of combativeness from the fall against the stakes. His hands were little damaged, but the knuckle of his right hand showed that it had come in ugly contact with Nick’s “pimple” or ribs. He was much improved in his style of fighting since his former exhibitions in the Ring; instead of hitting over the guard, as was his former practice, he hit straight from the shoulder, and having learned to lead off with his left, was enabled the more effectively to bring the heavy weight of his right into useful play. He still, however, hit round with his right, and the most severe blows which Ward received during the contest were those which were planted on the ribs and side of the head with this hand. These blows, with the heavy falls, to which was superadded the weight of his antagonist, no doubt tended to extinguish the little courage he might have possessed. Caunt was carefully seconded by his aged uncle and Atkinson, and although, had it been necessary to carry him to his corner, they might not have been able to afford him the requisite assistance, as that necessity did not arise no fault was to be found. Throughout the battle excellent order was maintained, and there were none of those irregularities observable on the former occasion. Jem Ward and his friends conducted themselves with great propriety, and submitted to defeat as well as to the loss of their money with as good a grace as could well have been expected. To the amateurs and patrons of British boxing the conduct of Nick Ward was most displeasing, and they one and all declared that they had never seen a man whose pretensions to the Championship had been more disgracefully exposed. Caunt came to town the same night, accompanied by Tom Spring, and on reaching the “Castle” was received with universal congratulations.
Caunt now resolved, after the fashion of our great public performers, to make a trans-Atlantic trip, to show the New World a specimen of an Old World champion, and to add another “big thing” to the country of “big things;” though in this America sustained her eminence by sending us a bigger champion than our “Big Ben” himself, in the form of Charles Freeman, of whom more anon.
Ben’s departure was thus announced on the 10th of September, 1841—“Ben Caunt, Champion of England, sailed from Liverpool for New York on Thursday, taking with him the Champion’s Belt, for which, he says, any Yankee may become a candidate.”
In the New York Spirit of the Times of November 13th we find this paragraph:—
“Caunt, the ‘Champion of England,’ arrived on Monday week last in the packet ship ‘Europe,’ bringing with him the Champion’s Belt. He has appeared several times at the Bowery Theatre, in ‘Life in London,’ being introduced in the scene opening with Tom Cribb’s sparring-room. He is an immensely powerful man, two or three inches above six feet in height, and well proportioned. Caunt’s reputation at home is that of a liberal, manly fellow; prodigious strength and thorough game have won him more battles than his science, though he is no chicken. The following challenge has appeared in some of the daily papers: ‘Challenge—To Caunt, the Champion of England,—Sir, I will fight you for 500 dollars, three months from this date, the forfeit money to be put up at any time and place you may name. You can find me at 546, Grand Street.—Yours, James Jerolomon.”
This challenge, of course, was mere “buncombe.” After a profitable and pleasant tour, in which, as he declared on his return, he met nothing but hospitality and civility from our American cousins, Ben returned to England early in 1842, accompanied by a magnificent specimen of humanity named Charles Freeman, dubbed, for circus and theatre purposes, “Champion of the World;” and truly, if bulk and height were the prime requisites of a boxer, Charles Freeman was unapproachable in these respects.
The first mention of Freeman is in a letter from Caunt, dated from New York, December 20th, 1841, in which we suspect the hand of some Yankee Barnum, rather than the fist of burly Ben, may be detected. Caunt says, “I declared my intention of not fighting in America, but if anything can tempt me to change my intention, it will be the following circumstance:—