There was a select muster, with an unusual sprinkling of swells, on that pleasant morning of the merry month of May in the Woolwich Marshes, near the “Old Barge House,” round the newly painted stakes and a new set of ropes, &c. recently presented to Tom Oliver by the F.P.C. (Fair Play Club), through the hands of Tom Belcher. The men were punctual. Carter was waited on by Barney Aaron and Sol. Reubens (who had lately fought Tom Smith, the East End Sailor Boy). Old Jack certainly looked “hard,” and also, as Barney added, “brown and stale, like a well-kept loaf.” He, however, stripped “big,” and showed the outlines of the once boasted “Lancashire hero,” the opponent of Spring, Richmond, Cribb (in a turn-up), Shelton, and Jem Ward. He was neatly got up, but showing unmistakable marks of age, as well he might, for Jack was now entering his 43rd summer, having been born in September, 1789. The Deaf’un, too, was in good trim, deducting the ugly defect of a stiff knee—a serious drawback when opposed to length, weight, and height. Of these, however, the cheerful Deaf’un made no account, and was as lively and quaint as a Merry Andrew, in his grotesque green and yellow kickseys, and striped coverings of his sturdy pedestals.
The fight, though displaying courage, offered little in the way of science. For the first four rounds Carter bored in and drove the Deaf’un against the ropes, where he tried in vain to hold him for a “hug,” the Deaf’un hitting up sharply to the damage of Carter’s figure-head, and then getting through his hands with little damage. The Deaf’un was certainly out of order somewhere in the victualling department, for towards the middle of the short fight he retched and was violently sick from his exertions in a throw. This revived the hopes of the Carter party, against whom the game was evidently going. It was, however, but a passing gleam; the Deaf’un shook off his qualms of indigestion, rattled in without standing for any repairs, old Jack became stiff as a wooden image, then groggy as a sailor three sheets in the wind, and finally, at the end of the 11th round, went down “all of a heap,” and declared he “could fight no more,” at which conclusion it took him only 25 minutes to arrive.
The ring cleared, Josh announced to his patron that he had, foreseeing that the big ’uns might, one or the other, “come short,” provided an after-piece, by then and there getting off a “little go;” said “little go” being the match between Izzy Lazarus[15] and Jem Brown (the go-cart man). This was indeed a rattling and active fight, until, after an hour’s sharp milling, in which capital “points” were made by both men, the Thames police landed from their galleys and compelled a move, at the same time informing them that “it was no use crossing the river, as they should follow them up or down, either to the City-stone at Staines, or to Yantlet Creek.” In this hopeless state of affairs it was proposed to divide the original £10 stakes and the added purse, which was assented to by the Napoleon, of Go-cart men, and his Israelitish opponent, who had had, no doubt, quite enough of each other “at the prishe.” The “swell” division bowled back to the great metrop., well pleased with their day’s outing, though the drop fell rather suddenly on the second pugilistic performance.
The Deaf’un for some months confined himself to the business of an exhibitor and teacher of the art, superintending the sparring rooms at the “Coach and Horses,” and demonstrating at Reuben Marten’s on certain nights in the week. He might also always be depended on (which many men not so good as he were not) to lend a hand in aid of any poor pug in distress or difficulty.
Towards the close of 1832 the Deaf’un formed part of a professional party (organised by his late opponent Jack Carter), who visited Manchester, Liverpool, Bradford, and other towns, to enlighten the Lancashire and Yorkshire tykes upon the true principles and manly practices of the art of self-defence, as taught in the best schools of boxing. These milling missionaries—we have seen less laudable missions since that day—of course awakened more or less a “revival” of “fair play,” the study of the gloves, and the legitimate use of the fist among both the “upper” and “lower” orders. While at Hull an immense specimen of a gigantic North countryman, of the name of Macone, having had “a try with the gloves,” thought “he could lick any of these Lunnoners except Jock (Carter) and he was too old to talk aboot.” The Deaf’un thought quite differently; so £20 a side was put down, and, with only a few days’ training, Macone and the Deaf’un faced each other at Lackington Bottom, near Beverley, on the 8th January, 1833. “Macone,” says the meagre report of the battle, “stood 6 feet 2 inches, and weighed 15 stone, and had polished off several big yokels in first-rate style. The Yorkshireman was in first-rate condition, while the Deaf’un was generally thought not quite up to the mark. He weighed 13 stone (a little too heavy) and stood 5 foot 8.” Of the battle we have scanty particulars, yet the reporter adds, “it was such a fight as would not have disgraced the days of Cribb and Belcher. Burke had to do all he knew to obtain a victory over his large opponent, who turned out the bravest of the brave, and took his gruel without a murmur, until he could no more stand up to receive.”
We have here, for the sake of keeping the chronological order of the Deaf’un’s fights, followed on with his “crowning triumph” over the mighty but unskilful Macone, and shall here “hark back” a few months, just to show how ready Jem Burke was to “negotiate” with any boxer who might be “getting mouldy for want of a bating.” His old adversary Cosens appears to have thought that the Deaf’un’s accident had laid him “on the shelf,” for he kept from time to time firing off challenges, in Pierce Egan’s and other sporting papers. Here is one of them, which certainly savours of “gag,” especially as the writer was then upon a sparring tour, and in the same paper advertises a “benefit” at Brighton:—
“The Editor of Life in London.
“Sir,—I wish to inform Deaf Burke, as he takes upon himself the ‘Championship of England,’ that I am ready to fight him again. Should he think proper to do so, I will meet him at the ‘Wheatsheaf Inn,’ Chichester, within a fortnight, and make a match for £50 a side, to come off within one or two months, as he may prefer.
“Hunston, January 24, 1832. WM. COSENS.”
Immediately beneath this epistle we read as follows:—