25.—The tide was turned against Hampson. He retreated before the Deaf’un, who now assumed the offensive, and in a rally the Liverpool man was fairly hit down in his own corner.
26–40.—In all these rounds it was clear that Hampson’s defeat was a mere question of time. In the 40th round he was thrown heavily, and his friends proposed to give in for him; he, however, refused, and came up for the 41st round, when Burke hit him on to the rope, and then let him get down, walking away to his own corner. Hampson’s backer stepped into the ring and desired the sponge to be thrown up, saying it was useless to expose a brave man to further punishment. Time 44 minutes. The Deaf’un crossed the ring, shook hands with his opponent, and then indulged in a sort of hornpipe-step in his own corner, putting on his clothes with little assistance. Hampson was carried to his carriage, severely punished, complaining that he lost his power of wrestling from an injury to his leg in the 5th round.
Remarks.—This battle tells its own tale. The Liverpool man’s friends had much overestimated Hampson’s scientific attainments, and equally miscalculated his opponent’s cunning defence, backed as it was by extraordinary powers of endurance, indomitable pluck, and cool courage. “Hampson was, up to a certain point, the cleverer man, but, that point passed, his chance was gone, and he was beaten by toughness, readiness, and strength. The Deaf’un by this battle has shown himself a dangerous competitor for any 12-stone man on the list. He is now the winner of seven fights, mostly with big men, and must not be meddled with by any mere sparrer. However flash and wide-awake he may think himself, he will find the Deaf’un knows a thing or two that will astonish him when it comes to real work. The 200 and 300-pounders, though ‘great guns,’ will do well to take our hint.” These last remarks, which we transcribe from a contemporary sporting paper, show the good opinion which Burke was fast gaining among the most competent judges of boxing merit. Of course the 200 and 300 pounders mean the men who fixed £200 or £300 as the price for a Ring appearance.
We have just seen that our hero fought and won two sharp battles within three weeks, and we have now to record yet another arduous conflict within the three weeks next ensuing, namely, on November 16th, 1830, on which day he met Tim Crawley at the well-fought field of Whetstone, for a stake of £50.
Mister Timothy was a stalwart Milesian coalwhipper, aged twenty-three, hard upon six feet in height, and balancing 13 stone, and though no relation to “Peter the Great,” was only a shade less than the fighting weight and stature of that ponderous ex-champion. Tim was “presented at the Castle,” not of Dublin, but in Holborn, by a distinguished Hibernian field-officer, who intimated to Tom Spring his readiness to post the “needful” for Tim in a trial with any man Spring might select. There was the Deaf’un, rough and ready, “standing idle in the market place;” and as he said, when he was asked as to when he would be ready if a match were arranged, “Well, you see, Misters, I’se ready at any time—the sooner the better—but where’s the moneys to come from? I’ll put down five of my own, buts——” a well-known member of the Stock Exchange struck in immediately, “and I’ll find the second five, and perhaps some more, if it’s wanted.” So the articles were there and then drawn, and Tuesday, the 16th, set down.
East Barnet was the fixture, and on the appointed morning, despite a heavy storm of wind and rain, a numerous cavalcade thronged the roads from Finchley and Southgate to the rendezvous. Crawley came down in a brand-new white upper-benjamin, on the swell drag of his military patron. Tim was radiant, if the weather was gloomy, and assured his friends that “He thought mighty little of Misther Burke’s foightin”—(Tim had seen his battle with Hampson)—“if all he could do was what he did with that tumble down carpenther from Liverpool. By jabers,” he added, “I’m the boy that’ll tache him quite another sort o’ fun.” The storm increased in violence, the time was come, and all were waiting with what patience they could command. Crawley alighted from his vehicle and claimed the stakes, when Reuben Martin hastened up breathless and covered with mud, to announce that the Deaf’un would be there immediately. The Deaf’un had left Soho in a hired gig; the horse had proved a “bolter,” and after a gallop along the Finchley Road, and up a bye-lane into which he had been turned, had smashed the gig and deposited the Deaf’un and his pal in a clayey ditch, the former pitching on his head with no other damage than a mud-bath. The Deaf’un now hove in sight, attended by Welsh Davis (afterwards called “Birmingham”) and Ned Stockman; Crawley had the services of Harry Jones and an Irish “friend.” The colours were tied to the stakes, the ring whipped out, and amid a pelting shower of rain the men stood up for
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—Crawley stood over the Deaf’un by at least three inches, and topped him in weight by about a stone. He was, indeed, a fine muscular specimen of humanity, though some critical anatomists pronounced him too thick about the shoulder-blades, and, therefore, what is technically termed “shoulder-tied,” a defect which detracts both from the distance and the quickness of a man’s blows. The Deaf’un’s solid, trunk-of-tree look, was by this time familiar to all ring-goers, as he stood with his comparatively short arms, the left slightly in advance, and the right across covering his side and mark. Crawley lost no time in letting his adversary know his “little game,” for in he went, swinging out his left arm rather than hitting straight, and following it with a lunge with the right, both of which would have been ugly visitations had they got well home; but the first was stopped, and the second only just reached the Deaf’un’s ribs as he shifted ground; Crawley followed up his charge with more round hits, or rather misses, in exchange for which the Deaf’un, getting within his guard, hit up so sharply, the right on Tim’s eye and the left on his mouth, that he paused a moment before he renewed his hitting out. The Deaf’un had broke away, and now led Mister Tim a short dance round the ring, during which he propped the big ’un several times. Crawley lost his temper, and made a furious grab at Burke with his open right hand, catching him round the neck, when, to the surprise of all, the Deaf’un, throwing his arms round Crawley’s waist and butting him in the breast with his head, heeled him and threw him a clear back fall, adding his own weight to the concussion, which would have been far more serious but for the fact that the ground was about the consistency of a half-baked Yorkshire pudding. (2 to 1 on Burke.)
2.—Crawley came up with his face painted the colour of the sign of the “Red Lion,” and the claim of first blood for the Deaf’un was admitted. Tim was, however, nothing daunted, and smiled contemptuously at his opponent, who nodded his nob in reply. At it again went Tim, in the style which we at a later day recognised as peculiar to Ben Caunt, whom Crawley (though better looking and not so tall) much resembled in his bust and mode of hitting. The onslaught was again but partially successful, the Deaf’un hitting up at close quarters with unusual precision, while Mister Tim pummelled away, often at the back of Burke’s head, neck, and shoulders, until they closely embraced, when the Deaf’un got his man down somehow.
3.—Crawley came up strong on his pins, but already much disfigured. His left eye was nearly closed, his lips swelled and bleeding, and his cheek-bones and forehead full of “bubukles, and knobs, and whelks;” yet he went to work as before. After a stop or two, the Deaf’un again got his length, and sent in a smasher on Crawley’s damaged kissing organ, but could not escape such a right-handed “polthogue” from Tim’s bunch-of-fives on the top of his head as sent him staggering across the ring, amidst the shouts of the Emerald party. Crawley tried to follow up his advantage, but the Deaf’un recovered himself, was “all there” after a few exchanges, and finished the round by slipping through Crawley’s hands as he tried to grab him at the ropes.