The party now repaired on board the second-class boat, where Nat was found installed, waiting impatiently for the appearance of Caunt, of whom nothing could be heard; Dan Dismore also came on board this vessel.
It was now nearly twelve o’clock, and all began anxiously to look for the half-hour, at which time the next train was due at Southend, by which it was, of course, expected that Ben would come. Half-past twelve, one o’clock arrived, the train had been in some time, but still there was no appearance of Ben on the pier. At length an emissary was sent ashore, and he ascertained that Caunt and the ropes and stakes had been embarked on board an opposition tug, singularly enough called the “Ben Bolt,” at Tilbury, and that they were on the way to join the flotilla as quickly as possible. It was two o’clock or nearly so before the “Ben Bolt” hove in sight, with “’tother Ben” on board. By a quarter-past two o’clock, everything being settled, the office was given, and an experienced pilot conducted the flotilla, which now numbered four steamboats, besides innumerable small craft, to the proposed scene of action, within a very short distance of the spot where Tom Sayers and Aaron Jones settled their differences. Against a strong ebb of course progress was very slow, and it was past three before the first vessel arrived off the point. The ropes and stakes were at once sent ashore, and Fred Oliver with due diligence proceeded to erect the ring. Poor Old Tom was sadly missed, and many expressions of regret were uttered at his continued ill health. The number of persons present was extremely large, but of Corinthians there was a lamentable absence, arising, no doubt, from the before-mentioned suspicions as to the men’s intentions. As soon as the arena was ready, the combatants, who were evidently all agog to be at it, tossed their caps into the ring, Nat being the first to uncover his canister, Ben being not two seconds behind him. Both looked hard and healthy, but their mugs bore distinct traces of their being veteran boxers. Ben, of course, looked the older man, his not handsome dial being as brown as mahogany, and looked as hard as a nutmeg-grater. Nat’s phiz was smoother, softer, and of a lighter tint, and there was a hue of health upon it that we had not seen there for many a day. They shook hands, but it was evident that the ceremony was against the grain. As four o’clock was fast approaching, it was hinted that no time ought to be lost, and the men at once proceeded to accomplish their toilettes. Nat Langham was assisted by the Champion (Tom Sayers) and the accomplished Jack Macdonald—certainly the best second out—while Ben Caunt was waited upon (we cannot say picked up, for he never once was down throughout the fight) by Jack Gill, of Nottingham, and Jemmy Shaw, who, between them, could never have carried him to his corner, had occasion required it, in the time allowed between the rounds, indeed they must have inevitably have carried him a limb at a time. How he could have been persuaded to select two such assistants we are at a loss to conceive. Jack Gill could not have had much experience in his new vocation, and Jemmy Shaw will excuse us for saying that, however staunch a friend and good fellow he has proved himself in other ways, his stature and proportions by no means qualify him as a porter to either Gog or Magog, should those gigantic worthies need to be picked up from a horizontal position.
At a quarter to four the seconds proceeded to knot the colours on the centre stake—a blue, with white spot, for Langham, orange with a blue border for Caunt. The betting on the ground was trifling in the extreme; nothing was laid between the men, and but small sums at 5 and 6 to 4 on Caunt. As to Nat’s training, he went first to Dover and then to Stockbridge, in Hampshire, where by steadiness and perseverance he got himself into extraordinary fettle; to our eye, he looked bigger, stronger, and healthier, though of course somewhat older, than when he fought either Harry Orme or Tom Sayers. And now, having brought our men to the “post,” we will start them for
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—On toeing the scratch the disparity between the men was of course extraordinary. Ben Caunt, barring his mug, was a study for a sculptor. His massive frame and powerful legs and arms—the former set off to the best advantage by pink silk stockings and well-made drawers—presented a sight worth going some distance to see; and as he stood over old Nat any one would have agreed with Jerry Noon, who declared that it was “Chelsea Hospital to a sentry-box” in his favour. He smiled good-humouredly, and had clearly made up his mind to win in a trot. Nat was, as usual, clear in skin, and neatly made at all points. His shoulders and arms were well covered with muscle, and for an encounter with a man of his own size he looked all that could be desired; but as to his being a match for Ben Caunt it seemed too absurd to be credited, and few, we think, expected to see him “perform” with anything like effect. His attitude, as of yore, was perfection, and his dangerous left was playing about close to his side all in readiness for one of his neat deliveries as Ben came in. Caunt stood just as he ever stood, very square on his pins, his brawny arms almost straight out before him, which he ever and anon moved backward and forward with all the deliberation of a couple of pendulums. He had come, however, not to spar, but to fight, and after very little feinting he went up to Nat, who retreated towards the ropes, and Ben at length lunged out left and right, just catching Nat with the former on the ribs, and Nat was down laughing.
2.—Both very quick to time. Caunt walked after Nat, sawing the air with both fins, and as he got close he sent out his left, but Nat, quick as lightning, shot out his left on the kisser, drawing first blood from Ben’s upper lip and got down.
3.—After a little dodging Nat feinted, and then let fly his left straight on the jaw. Slight exchanges followed on the side of the wig block, and Nat was again down out of harm’s way.
4.—No time cut to waste, Caunt went to his man and poked out his left, just catching Nat on the chin, and Nat dropped.
5.—Nat fiddled Ben to within distance, and then popped his larboard daddle on Ben’s jaw, a cracker; this led to heavy exchanges, Caunt getting on to Nat’s forehead above the left peeper, and receiving on the cheek; Nat fell.
6.—After one or two passes the men got close, and very slight exchanges took place, when Nat got down by a roll over.