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Benjamin Caunt, like his noted opponent Bendigo, was a native of Nottinghamshire. He was born on the 22nd of March, 1815, at the village of Hucknall Torkard, his parents being tenants of Lord Byron, the poet, a fact of which the huge, unsentimental Ben in after-life was fond of boasting. His father having been engaged in some humble capacity at Newstead, Ben had some traditions of the wayward genius, more or less apocryphal. According to his own account (he was certainly a first-rate shot) his earliest employment was as gamekeeper or watcher; his Nottingham opponents insisted on his having been a “navvy.” His size and strength might well fit him for either occupation, his height being 6ft. 2½in., and his weight 14st. 7lb.

Caunt appears at an early age to have aspired to pugilistic honours, and acquired some local reputation by being victor in a couple of battles, of which, however, we have no reliable details. His first recorded contest is, therefore, his encounter with William Thompson, of Nottingham, on the 21st July, 1835, near Appleby House, Notts, when he had just completed his twentieth year, wherein he was defeated by the greater experience, shifty tactics, and superior boxing skill of the afterwards famous Bendigo. (See Bendigo, Chap. I., page 6, ante.)

Caunt’s next appearance within the ropes was attended with better fortune. On the 17th August, 1837, he met and defeated a local celebrity, William Butler, at Stoneyford, Notts, in fourteen rounds, for a stake of £20 a side. In this battle his opponent, a 12-stone man, was beaten by weight, strength, and resolute, though by no means scientific, fighting.

In like manner Boneford, a big one, was polished off in six rounds by “Young Ben,” at Sunrise Hill, Notts, in November of the same year.

In the interval his former opponent had been rapidly rising in fistic fame. He had defeated Brassey, of Bradford (May 24th, 1836), Young Langan, of Liverpool (January 24th, 1837), and Bill Looney, another big one (June 13th, 1837).

These exploits could not fail to attract public attention, and the patrons of the P. R. were anxious to bring the antagonists together once again, an anxiety fully shared by Caunt and Bendigo themselves.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” so in this case preliminaries were arranged with much greater facility than in after-times. The stakes were posted to £100 on each side, and the day, Monday, April 3rd, 1838, fixed for the encounter, the field of battle to be in the neighbourhood of Doncaster.

BENJAMIN CAUNT, Champion 1842.

As a record of times and manners, and modes of travel, we shall give a sketch of how and in what company the representative of Bell’s Life in London, then, quâ the Ring, the only sporting “oracle,” was wont to make his way to distant battlefields, ere the steam steed had rendered the mail coach, the “Highflyer,” the “Red Rover,” the “Age,” et hoc genus omne, obsolete as public conveyances:—

As “Sheffield, or within 100 miles thereof,” was the mysterious “fixture” for the big tourney, on Saturday evening, at half-past seven, we threw ourselves into the Glasgow mail, on our route to Doncaster, between which town and Selby we had the “office” the affair was to be decided. Adventures in stage-coaches have often afforded topics for amusing detail; but we confess, from the laborious duties which fall to our lot to perform, private as well as public, every week of our lives, the last day, or rather the last night, of the week is not the one we should select as that most propitious to collect materials (if such materials were wanting) for filling a column in our ensuing publication. In taking our place in the mail, therefore, we looked forward rather to the enjoyment of an occasional snooze than to the hope that we should discover any subject on which to dilate at a future period, whether as to the character of our fellow-travellers, the general appointments of the “drag,” or the peculiarities of the coachmen or guards—​of the former we had four, and of the latter two, in the course of the journey—​and these we will at once dismiss, by stating, at the outset, that they did their duty admirably—​taking care, as “in duty bound,” to seek the usual mark of approbation by farewell hints in the common-place terms of “I leave you here, gentlemen”—​in other words, “tip” and “go”—​a laconic mode of address which by all travellers is well understood, however coolly appreciated when spoken at an open door on a cold frosty night, as that night of Saturday was, and at a moment when you may perhaps have been dreaming of the “joys you left behind you.” Quietness and repose being our first study, we soon placed our hat in the suspending-straps at the top of the mail, and our travelling-cap over head, and then, quietly reclining in the corner with our back to the horses, waited for the “start” from the yard of the “Bull and Mouth.” We found one old gentleman had taken his seat before us, who subsequently followed our example in taking the same side of the coach with ourselves, and was not less careful in guarding himself against the chilling influence of a hard frost. A third gentleman soon after joined us, and thus, “trio juncta in uno,” we were whirled round to the Post Office, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, whence we shortly commenced our journey at a slapping pace. On reaching Islington, a fourth passenger, of colossal size, filled up the vacant seat. Few words, if any, were spoken; and the only interruption to the monotony of the night’s travel was the frequent popping out and in of the last-mentioned gentleman to comfort his “inward man” with “drops of brandy,” with which he so perfumed our “leathern convenience” on his return that if we were as sensitive as some Frenchman of whom we have heard (who dined upon the effluvia of the good things he could not otherwise enjoy) we should certainly have been “pretty jolly” before he took his leave of us at peep of day. His departure gave occasion for the first indication that our companions were gifted with the power of speech. Their words were few, and these only had reference to the “spirited” propensities of the gentleman who had just vacated his seat. On this there could be no difference of opinion, and consequently no argument—​so that we soon relapsed into the appearance at least of sleep, which we maintained with great perseverance till a brilliant sun shining through the ice-covered windows called forth a remark on the fineness of the morning. This, to our surprise, for we thought ourselves incog., was followed by a remark of recognition from the third gentleman who had entered the coach at the “Bull and Mouth,” and who, alluding to quick travelling, recalled to our mind some feats of this sort in which we had been engaged in the course of a twenty years’ connection with the Press. The ice once broken, conversation commenced, with apparent satisfaction to us all, the venerable gentleman on my right joining, and contributing as well as exacting his proportion of information on all manner of topics—​public men and public measures, and the public Press, forming prominent subjects of remark, upon all of which our friend on the right seemed agreeably conversant. We soon discovered that our opposite neighbour was going to Leeds, to and from which town he was a frequent traveller; but respecting the other we could form no opinion. Regarding ourselves our secret had been divulged, and we stood forward the confessed “representative of Bell’s Life in London.” Sporting of various descriptions opened new sources of gossip, and here we found “the unknown” as much at home as ourselves. It came out, in fact, that he had been a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the Turf for pleasure, but not for profit—​that he had been steward at Newmarket, and that, in fact, he knew all the leading Turfites of the age, and was familiar with all the recent important events on the Turf. All this led us to surmise that he was “somebody,” but who, we confess, we did not attempt to speculate. We found him a most pleasant associate, and with that we were content. Upon the subject of our own trip to Doncaster we were silent, for we considered that was “nothing to nobody.” The Ring as connected with our British sports was but slightly alluded to—​and against the objections that were made arising out of the late fatal issue of the combat between Swift and Brighton Bill, we argued it was a casualty purely the result of an accident, which might have occurred on any other athletic competition in which no personal animosity existed, and wound up by saying that there was one unanswerable argument even to the opponents of prizefighting, that as by them the principals were invariably considered worthless and deserving of punishment, in becoming the instrument of punishing each other, they were only fulfilling the ends of justice, without the necessity of legal interference. We referred, of course, to the recent painful exhibition of the frequent use of the knife, and the strong remarks which the increasing extent of this treacherous mode of revenge had called from the judges; but upon these points our unknown friend, as we take the liberty of calling him, did not seem disposed to break a lance, and the subject dropped. At last we reached Grantham, where our fellow-travellers forewarned us we should have an excellent breakfast, and certainly one served in better taste or in greater profusion we never enjoyed. Here we met in the same room the Quaker member for Durham (Mr. Pease), on his way to the north, between whom and “the unknown” there was a friendly recognition, but we still made no effort to lift the veil by which he was enshrouded. On again taking our seats in the mail, we were alone with the old gentleman, our Leeds friend having mounted the roof, so that we had it all to ourselves. The chat was as pleasant to us as before—​new topics were broached, and the description of the localities through which we passed—​the “Dukery” (a sort of concentration of ducal seats), &c.—​afforded us both amusement and information. Now, for the first time, when conversation flagged, on watching the physiognomy of “the unknown,” we imagined there was a meaning smile on his countenance, which seemed to say, “This fellow does not know to whom he is talking,” and we confess we began to try back and see whether we had said anything to which exception could be taken; and more especially whether anything had dropped from us whence the intent of our journey could be collected; for we began to suspect we had been talking to a beak, who was going down expressly to spoil sport, and who was chuckling within himself at the disappointment we were sure to incur. But all was safe—​we had kept our secret, and from anything that had dropped from us everything was as “right as the day;” indeed we dismissed the thought of treachery from our mind, and we are now glad we did so, for it would have been most unjustly adopted; for, although a beak of the first magnitude was in truth before us, we are persuaded he had no sinister feeling towards us or the sport we anticipated. But we have spun our yarn longer than we had intended, and will come to the dénouement at once. We now rattled into the clean and quiet town of Doncaster with the customary flourish of the horn, and reached the “Angel” safe and sound. As we had collected that our companion was going no further, we were satisfied our doubts as to his real character would soon be removed; they were, sooner than we expected; for scarcely had he stepped forth when “My lord!” was congratulated on his safe arrival. My lord! thought we, and following his example, our first effort on stretching our cramped limbs was by a respectful touch of our tile to acknowledge the honour we had enjoyed—​an honour, by-the-bye, which confirmed us in the good old maxim, “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” An answer to a simple question soon put us in possession of the “great secret.” It was to a noble Baron who was about to preside at the Pontefract sessions we were indebted for a pleasing relief to a tedious journey; and while we acknowledge his lordship’s kindness and urbanity, permit us to add that there was not a sentiment uttered by him in our presence to which we do not heartily respond. We are sure it will be gratifying to our milling readers to hear that although the fight which has given occasion for this episode was announced to take place in the district of Pontefract, formerly represented by a milling member,[12] neither our noble companion nor any of his sessional coadjutors offered any interference.

At Doncaster we had our “tout” (we hope he will excuse the use of a professional title), for whom we immediately sent, but he was profoundly ignorant of the all-important place of rendezvous—​a fact at which we rejoiced, as it was clear the necessary secrecy had been observed. However quiet at Doncaster, at Sheffield, Nottingham, and all the surrounding towns, even to Manchester and Liverpool, all was bustle and commotion. The Fancy, of all degrees, were on the alert, and the roads, on Sunday evening, leading to Doncaster, were thronged, not only with pedestrians, including no small proportion of “hard-ups,” but with vehicles of every imaginable description—​flies, phaetons, gigs, and fish-carts, all laden to dangerous excess, and with a perfect disregard to the qualities of the horses engaged in the service; it seeming to be an admitted principle that on such occasions the tits were not only “warranted sound and free from vice,” but masters of any indefinite proportion of weight. As Doncaster was the grand débouche through which the cavalcade must necessarily pass towards the “fixture,” the innocent inhabitants were soon enlightened respecting the approach of some extraordinary event, the character of which was quickly divulged. The whole night long the rattle of wheels, the pattering of horses’ feet, and the shouts of the anxious throng, proclaimed the interest which was felt, and the wild spirit which was abroad. “The Selby road!” was the cry; and on crossing the Don, at the foot of the town, a short turn to the right threw the nags into the right direction, to the no small gratification of the collector at the turnpike gate, although rather to the discomfiture of many who had the “bobs” to “fork out;” but fights are of rare occurrence nowadays, and for such a luxury expense is no object.

Askerne, or Askeron, a neat little village seven miles from Doncaster, on the Selby road, celebrated for its sulphurous spring—​which rises from a fine piece of water called Askerne Pool, and which is much visited by patients afflicted with rheumatism and other diseases—​was the first grand halting-place, and here, at the “White Swan,” had Bendigo, under the surveillance of Peter Taylor, of Liverpool, taken up his abode. In and about this house an immense multitude had assembled. Caunt had travelled further afield, and at the “Hawke Arms,” a new inn about two miles further, had pitched his tent, attended by young Molyneaux, the black, his honoured parent, and divers other staunch and sturdy friends. The ring was formed in a field a short distance from the road, about half way between the “Swan” and the “Hawke,” by the Liverpool Commissary, and all looked well. Soon after ten o’clock we made our appearance at the “Swan” in a post-chaise, and drove up to the motley group in front of the house. Our appearance was no doubt suspicious, and from the scowling looks of some of the “hard-ups” with whose private signs we were unacquainted, we were evidently regarded with more fear than affection. At last, recollecting that we had seen Izzy Lazarus down the road, and knowing that he is regularly installed as a publican in Sheffield, we asked for him, in order that he might be our cicerone to his friends. The “poy” soon made his appearance, being a full stone heavier than when he left town, and recognising us, he made known the agreeable intelligence that “’twas t’editor of Bell’s Loife in Lunnon”—​an announcement so unexpected, and apparently so agreeable, that when we descended from our trap we verily believe the sudden appearance of a hippopotamus would not have excited more astonishment. “What,” cried one, “is that t’editor of Bell’s Loife? Well, I’m dom’d if I didn’t take un for a gentleman!”—​while another declared he “thought it were summat worse, for he took un for a beak, or summat o’ that koind.” Our opinion was not asked as to our notions of these critics; but certainly had we been put to our oath we should have said they were some of the “unwashed from the Hardware Country,” who had come thus far to perform their ablutions in the Pool of Askerne—​a ceremony which the dust of the roads, and the hasty manner in which they had performed their toilets preparatory to their “stopping up all night to be up early in the morning,” rendered requisite.

We did not wait to bandy civilities, but proceeded direct to the dormitory of Bendigo, whom we found, like a bacon sandwich, comfortably encased between two slices of flannel, vulgarly called blankets. It was the first time we had the honour of an interview, and we made our salaam with due reverence, while the object of our embassy was duly announced by Peter Taylor. Bendigo appeared uncommonly well, and was in high spirits. He is a rough, handy-looking fellow, very muscular, and as we were informed weighed but 11st. 10lb. His seconds, we were informed, were to be Taylor and Nick Ward, and, judging from his manner, he seemed to have booked victory as already secure. To all present we enjoined the expediency of getting early into the ring, as there was a gentle whisper before we left Doncaster that the constables were on the alert. From the “Swan” we proceeded to the “Hawke,” where our presence was not less a matter of surprise. We soon obtained an introduction to Caunt, who was assuming his fighting costume. He expressed his joy at seeing us, but proceeded sans cérémonie with the adornment of his person. His father sat by his side, and if having a gigantic son is a source of pride he has sufficient to render him doubly so, for the hero of the day proved to be a fine young fellow, two-and-twenty years of age, standing six feet three inches in height, and weighing fifteen stone and a half, apparently active, strong, and full of confidence. Comparing him with Bendigo, it was a camelopard to a nylghau; and yet Bendigo was the favourite at five and six to four—​a state of odds which seemed unaccountable when the disparity in size was considered. Having here also urged the wisdom of taking time by the forelock, we returned towards the ring, which by this time was surrounded by a most numerous and heterogeneous crowd, many of whom carried sticks of enormous size, and presented aspects which to eyes polite would have been far from inviting. We knew, however, that “rough cases often cover good cutlery,” and we were not disposed to form our opinion from the outside alone, and more especially when we were aware that many of these hardy ones had toddled the whole way from Sheffield or Nottingham, or places equally distant, to witness the prowess of their favourite champion.

The adage of “the cup and the lip” was in this case, as in many others before, again illustrated, for just as we were about to enter the field some half-dozen horsemen rode up, and in an authoritative manner forbade, not the banns, but the fight, in terms, however, so persuasive and agreeable that it was impossible to be angry: in fact, there were so many doubtful-looking sticks performing evolutions in the air, and so many grim visages watching those evolutions, that their worships (and they proved to be veritable J.P.’s, attended by a posse of constables well mounted) evidently thought that the suaviter in modo was the safest game, and therefore, while they indicated their determination to preserve the peace, they assured the mobocracy they would not do more, provided the combatants “mizzled out of the West Riding.” Some were for bidding defiance to legal authority so weakly supported, but Jem Ward, who now came up, assured their beakships that due respect should be paid to their behests, and with this assurance a mutual feeling of confidence was established.

The men were now in their respective carriages in the main road, waiting for the “office,” when Jem Ward, who assumed the friendly character of director, after consulting with persons well acquainted with the localities, determined that the next move should be to Hatfield, about seven miles distant, and within a short run of Lincolnshire. This he publicly declared to be the final resolve, and, sending a horseman to the Commissary and the men, started forthwith for his destination, to prepare a suitable and unobjectionable spot. He was attended by Young Langan, who carried Bendigo’s fighting-shoes, Hackett, who was to have been Caunt’s second, and a numerous cavalcade of charioteers and horsemen, who reached the “Bell” at Hatfield in quick time. Had his arrangement been adopted all would have gone off well, but unfortunately there were too many masters and too little of system. A new leader sprang up in the person of Grear, the sporting sweep of Selby, who, being perfectly well acquainted with the localities of the country, as well as anxious to take the fight nearer his own quarters, led the way towards Selby, followed by a prodigious crowd, and, from some misunderstanding, by the combatants in their carriages. The new commander gave hopes that the ring might be formed before they reached the Ouse, which divides the West from the East Riding, but although several attempts were made it was no go, for the constables kept up with the vanguard, and the passage across the Ouse became indispensable, many of the company in the rear—​horse and foot as well as charioteers—​falling off dead beat. Those who were able to keep up their steam, however, crossed the bridge over the Ouse into Selby pell-mell, to the no small astonishment of the inhabitants, and the crowds of market people who were assembled with their wares. One old lady, almost petrified at such a sudden incursion, in great agitation inquired what had brought so many “gentlemen” into the East Riding. “Oh,” said a wag, “there’s a rebellion in the West, and we’re all driven over the river.” “Lord help me,” cried the old lady, “I live at Ricall, and ye’ll eat us all up!”

Grear, undismayed, pushed on, and knowing every inch of the country, did not halt till he got nearly four miles beyond Selby, when he turned down a romantic lane to the left, opposite Skipworth Common, and in a large field a few removes from the main road, near the bank of the river, the ring was, with great labour, formed; and the crowd, which had received fresh accessions from the town of Selby and surrounding country, collected round it. There were but few of the original followers able to reach this distant point, and thousands were thus deprived of the object of their long and wearisome journey, as well as dissatisfied with a move which, had Ward’s directions been obeyed, would have brought them nearer home, with a more certain chance of proceeding to business without interruption.

“What cannot be cured must be endured;” and Ward, as well as his unfortunate companions, had only to console themselves with the cold consolation of having been made “April fools.” Among others to whom the change was productive of unforeseen enjoyment were several members of the Badsworth Hunt, who came up in scarlet, headed by Captain B., one of the right sort, who backed Bendigo at six to four, with a well-known sporting whip, “wot drives the London mail,” and whose mackintosh cape formed no disagreeable recommendation to the Captain, by whom it was borrowed at “shent. per shent.” interest. Having taken breath, all prepared for action, and the ring was beaten out with as much effect as so sudden and unceremonious an assemblage would permit. The men entered the ring about half-past four o’clock, Bendigo taking the lead, attended by Peter Taylor and Nick Ward; he was in high spirits, but on calling for his spiked shoes, it was “all my eye,” for they had unfortunately been sent on to Hatfield, and thus he had the disadvantage of adopting less suitable “crab-shells,” a circumstance which did not seem, however, to disturb his equanimity. Caunt then came forward, waited upon by Young Molyneaux and Gregson. On peeling, as we have before stated, their condition seemed admirable, and the flush of expected victory animated their “dials.” Two umpires and a referee having been chosen, all was ready, and then commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—​On setting to, the gigantic size of Caunt, as he stood over his antagonist, excited general surprise, and, as a natural result in such disparities, produced a feeling of sympathy towards the smaller man; but Bendigo displayed perfect self-possession, and commenced manœuvring without delay. He dodged backward and forward several times, with a view of drawing his man, having his right ready for a fly as he came in, but Caunt was not to be had at that game—​when Bendigo, making a feint with his right, let go his left and caught him a tidy smack on the left ogle. Caunt instantly closed, and a struggle ensued, in which the superior strength of the “big one” was sufficiently apparent, and Bendigo, finding he had no chance at this work, went down.

2.—​Caunt was now on his mettle, and on coming to the scratch went straight in to his work, hitting out left and right; Bendigo got away, but napped a nasty one or two. Steadying himself he caught Caunt a crack on the side of his head with his left. Caunt did not choose to stand these pops, but rushing after his shifty antagonist, caught him in his arms, and threw him after a short struggle.

3.—​Both men came up steady, with no great harm done. Bendigo again pursued the dodging system, and, after a little in-and-out work he succeeded in planting his left on Caunt’s “’tato trap,” and drew first blood. Caunt felt indignant at this liberty, rushed to his man, literally lifted him up in his arms, and forcing him against the stake, gave him such a hug that, after a severe struggle, he got down, Caunt falling heavily upon him.

4.—​Bendigo showed symptoms of distress from the Bruin’s hug he had received in the last round, but, keeping at a distance till he had recovered his wind, he became as lively as ever. After some time devoted to sparring, Bendigo, evidently having no desire to get within grasp of his man, let fly with his right, but did not get home. A little more time being devoted to play, Caunt let fly left and right, but his blows did not tell. Bendigo, on the get-away system, at last brought himself to a steady point, and caught Caunt a tremendous crack on the cheek, which opened “mouth the second,” and drew claret in abundance. Caunt instantly rushed to work; a severe rally followed, in which several hits, left and right, were exchanged. In the close Caunt again had it all his own way, and in the end threw Bendigo and fell on him. When both men were picked up it was seen that their nobs had been considerably damaged; Caunt bled profusely from his nose and a cut under his left eye, while the side of Bendigo’s pimple was swollen from a visitation from Caunt’s right, but their seconds soon brought them in “apple-pie order,” and they were ready when “time” was called.

5.—​After some sparring, Caunt, who took a distaste to Bendigo’s system of popping and shifting, went in right and left, and at once closing, seized his man as if in a vice, holding him on the ropes till nearly strangled, amidst cries of “Shame!” After a violent struggle by Bendigo to get away, he was at last thrown; Caunt fell heavily on him.

6.—​From this to the 11th round the fighting was very quick on both sides, Caunt leading off left and right, Bendigo meeting him as he came in with severe jobs, and then getting down to avoid—​a shifty mode of fighting, far from agreeable to the spectator, but rendered almost indispensable from the great inequality in the size of the men. In the closes Bendigo had not a chance, but his pops at Caunt as he rushed to the charge told dreadfully on his head, which he gave to get what he expected to be a home hit on his adversary, but in which he was nearly every time disappointed.

12.—​Both as fresh and ready as ever—​Bendigo, from his generalship the favourite; still Caunt was bold as a lion. Bendigo now changed his system, and finding he often missed the “head-rails” of his opponent, he commenced peppering right and left at the body, the whacks sounding like the music of a big drum. Cries of “Go in, Bendigo!” at length induced him to get closer to his man, and he popped in a stinger with his left under the right eye. Caunt instantly closed, and a violent struggle for the fall succeeded, when both fell.

13.—​Bendigo led off well with his left; but Caunt was for close work, and rushing to his man, hit right and left, and grappled, when, catching Bendigo in his arms, he carried him to the ropes, and there held him with such force as almost to deprive him of the power of motion. The spectators, disgusted at this mode of fighting, cried out “Shame!” and exclaimed, “Thou big ugly twoad, dost thou call that foighting? whoy, the little ’un would lick thee and two or three more such if thee’d foight.” Caunt was not, however, disposed to listen to these hints, and stuck to his man like wax, till at last fears were entertained that Bendigo would be strangled, and a cry of “Cut the ropes!” burst from all directions. This suggestion was adopted, and the ropes were instantly cut in two places, when down went both, Caunt uppermost. The mob then rushed to the stakes, and the most dreadful confusion followed—​umpire and referee and all forced into a dense mass. Still the interior of the ring was preserved, and cleared, and an attempt was made to repair the ropes.

From the 14th to the 38th round the greatest confusion prevailed. Bendigo persevered in his getting-down system after he received the charge of Caunt, and popped him in return; he had had enough of Caunt’s embraces, and studiously avoided them.

During this portion of the battle a magistrate made his appearance, if possible to put an end to hostilities, but he was “baying the moon,” and he was forced to retire, no doubt feeling that amidst such a scene the dignity of his office would not be properly vindicated. About the 50th round a wrangle arose from an allegation that Bendigo had kicked Caunt as he lay on the ground. Caunt claimed the fight. An appeal was made to the referee, who declared he saw nothing that was avoidable, and the fight proceeded up to the 75th round, during all which time the crush was overwhelming. Bendigo’s hitting was terrific, but still Caunt was game to the backbone, and although heavily punished, fought with him, and when he caught him gave him the advantage of his “Cornish hug.” Both men were alternately distressed, but the powerful hitting of Bendigo made him a decided favourite; in fact, he showed but little appearance of injury, although he had received some heavy body hits, and was somewhat exhausted by Caunt’s hugging and hanging upon him; still he rallied, and was well on his legs.

In the last round, on “time” being called, both men came ready to the scratch; when Caunt prepared for his rush, Bendigo slipped back, and fell on his nether end, “without a blow.” This all his friends ascribed to a slip, but Molyneaux, the second of Caunt, cried “Foul!” and claimed the battle, evidently anxious to save his man from the “fire.” An appeal was immediately made to the referee, who seemed to be a stranger to the laws of the Ring; and on being enlightened as to the fact of “going down without a blow” being deemed “foul,” he decided that Bendigo had so gone down, on which Molyneaux instantaneously threw up his hat and claimed the battle.

An indescribable row followed, the friends of Bendigo declaring he had gone down from accident, owing to his substitute shoes being without spikes. Bendigo was indignant, and ready to fight, but it was all U.P. Wharton would not throw a chance away, and took his man out of the ring, while Bendigo seized the colours, and in turn claimed a win.

The scene that followed beggars description. Caunt, who was conveyed to his carriage, was brought out to renew the fight; but this he declined, and being placed on a horse, he was pulled off, and but for the protection of his friends would have been roughly handled. He had to walk to Selby, whence he was conveyed back to the “Hawke Arms,” where his wounds were dressed and every attention paid him. He was dreadfully punished, but still strong and vigorous.

The fight lasted one hour and twenty minutes.

No sooner had the astute “Morocco Prince” snatched his verdict, and got his man away, as he was entitled to do, than we discovered, on reentering the ring—​from which we had been glad to retire during the disgraceful disorder that followed the appeal—​that the umpires had never been asked if they differed as to the “foul” at all; in fact, Bendy’s umpire declared he had been separated from the referee and shut out of the ring in the confusion, so that the issue depended upon the judgment of the referee, who, in such an uproar, added to his inexperience, had indeed a most difficult duty to fulfil. Of course, according to the then new practice, a lawyer’s letter was immediately posted to the stakeholder warning him not to part with the stakes until the matter had been thoroughly sifted, as both parties claimed them.

It must be admitted that Bendigo, in the course of this battle, exhibited extraordinary powers of punishment; his hits were terrific, as Caunt’s condition after the battle testified, his head and body being dreadfully shattered, but still, from the specimen thus afforded, we should not regard Bendigo as a fair stand-up fighter; he was shifty, and too much on the get-away-and-get-down system. With Caunt, however, it must be admitted there was every excuse for this course, for with four stone extra to cope with in weight, and six inches in height, it required no common nerve and caution to escape annihilation. Caunt, who claims the “Championship,” is anything but a well-scienced man; he hits at random, and has no idea of self-defence. His great attributes are game and strength, which he possesses in a pre-eminent degree. Throughout the fight there was not a single knock-down blow, which, when Caunt’s length and weight are considered, is the strongest evidence that the big one lacked the gift of hitting at points, or, as John Jackson expressed it, “judging time and distance accurately.” When we look back at the recorded battles of Mendoza, Jackson, Dutch Sam, Gully, and Randall, and remember the fights of Spring, Crawley, and Jem Ward, the pretensions of Caunt to the Championship must point the moral of the Ring’s decline. Pulling, hauling, squeezing, and hugging, the grand offensive manœuvres of Big Ben’s style of boxing, would have been scouted as a disgrace to all but pitmen, navvies, and provincial “roughs.”

Bendigo, after the battle, proceeded to Selby, where he remained for the night. He appeared little the worse for the encounter, so far as hitting was concerned. The only marks of punishment were a flush under the right eye, a swelling under the left ear, some marks of hits on the lower part of the right shoulder-blade, and sundry excoriations and abrasions of the cuticle, bearing full evidence of the severe squeezing and scrapings on the ropes inflicted by the Bruin-like hugs of his huge antagonist. To us Bendigo expressed his readiness to meet his giant opponent “anywhere, anyhow, on any terms—​to-morrow, next week, or next month, anything to accommodate the big chucklehead”—​which, as we afterwards knew, was Bendy’s uncomplimentary but characteristic epithet, not only in speaking of, but in personally addressing, his gigantic rival.

Much correspondence of the “’fending and proving” order followed this debateable conclusion. Mr. Lockwood, the referee, however, declared his adherence to his “decision that Bendigo went down without a blow,” and thereupon the stakeholder handed over the battle money to Caunt, with the observation:—​“The referee’s decision must be upheld, and if in his judgment Bendigo went down (he says, ‘in fact, fell to avoid’), then, whatever might have been his chances—​and it is admitted he had the best of the battle—​Caunt is entitled to the stakes, and pro tem. to the title of ‘Champion.’” The next week Bendy was as good as his word, for articles were entered into for a third meeting, for £100 a side, to come off on the 30th of July; but when £40 a side had been deposited, a forfeit took place, under the following circumstances:—

The “Deaf ’un,” as Jem Burke was usually called, had returned from America, in the height of his popularity, and his challenges to “any man in or out of England,” especially “Mister Bendy,” proved too strong a “red herring” across the trail for the Nottingham hero to resist, so he forfeited £40 cash down, to grasp at what proved, for a time, a fleeting shadow, as the Deaf ’un, after his challenge and its acceptance, went on a Parisian tour (see the Life of Bendigo, ante, p. 12); and it was not until Shrove Tuesday (Feb. 12th), 1839, that Bendigo and Burke had their “cock-shy,” at Appleby, and Bendigo thereafter received a much disputed “belt” from Jem Ward at Liverpool.

The remainder of 1838, and the whole of 1839, passed without Caunt sporting his colours in the lists. In August, 1840, we find our old friend Ned Painter, at Norwich, and honest fat Peter Crawley, in London, made the channels of the challenges of Brassey and of Caunt. Ned Painter writes thus, on the last day of July:—

“Mr. Editor,—​In answer to an observation made in last week’s paper, that ‘providing Brassey’s friends will sustain their promises,’ allow me to say that ‘corn,’ not ‘chaff,’ is the answer of Brassey to Caunt. Brassey went to Liverpool to make the match with Hampson; when he arrived there neither man nor money was to be seen. When Caunt challenged the whole world, Brassey and his friends accepted the challenge, and to meet Caunt’s wish, sent £25 to Tom Spring a week previous to the day appointed. I went myself on the very day, but Caunt and his party were invisible. If Caunt means a fight, and not a farce, he must go to Leeds or come to Norwich, and match at his own expense this time, as neither Brassey nor myself were allowed even the £2 for expenses promised. I am, Mr. Editor, for work, not mere words or wind.

“NED PAINTER.

“Norwich, July 30th, 1840.”

To which Peter Crawley thus practically replied on behalf of Caunt:—

“Sir,—​My having placed £25 in your hands will, I hope, remove all doubt as regards Caunt’s money being ready; and it remains with the friends of Brassey alone to appoint a day, either Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday week, through the medium of your paper, to meet at my house, to draw up articles and put down their dust; and unless this be attended to, for my part I shall consider they do not mean business. I have taken the responsibility on myself of detaining the money a little longer; that would give Brassey time to join his friends at Norwich, which, I understand, is all that prevents the match being made now.

“I am, &c., “P. CRAWLEY,

“‘Queen’s Head and French Horn,’

Duke Street, West Smithfield.

“August 21st, 1840.”

All difficulties were now smoothed, and a match for £100 a side was made, to be decided on the 26th October, 1840. As the deposits were made good, and the day approached, the interest in sporting circles rose to an intense height, and at the last deposit Tom Spring’s “Castle” was literally stormed by eager crowds.

As a relief from these prosaic matter-of-fact proceedings, we will here enliven our page with a few rhymes in the shape of—

“AN HEROIC EPISTLE FROM BRASSEY TO BIG CAUNT.”

To thee I send these lines, illustrious Caunt!

Of courage tried, and huge as John of Gaunt,

To thee my foolscap with black ink I blot,

To tell the big ’un Brassey fears him not,

And that in battle, should the fates allow,

He means to snatch the laurels from his brow,

At all his boasted pluck and prowess smile,

And give him pepper in superior style.

Yes, gallant Caunt, next Tuesday will declare

If you or I the Champion’s belt shall wear;

And be assured, regardless of the tin,

I’ll go to work, and do my best to win,

Prove that in fight one Briton can surpass ye,

And if you ask his name, I thunder—​Brassey!

What proof of milling prowess did you show

In your two scrambling fights with Bendigo?

When of your foeman’s punishment aware,

You roughly squeezed him like a polar bear,

Nearly extinguished in his lungs the breath,

And almost hugged him in your arms to death—

Such a base system I pronounce humbugging;

Don’t call it fighting, Caunt, I call it hugging,

And if bold Brassey with that game you tease,

The bear may soon be minus of his grease,

And for a practice cowardly as foul,

Receive a lesson that may make him growl.

But bounce I bar—​plain dealing is my plan,

And in the ring I’ll meet you man to man,

And do, most certainly, the best I can.

May no base beak, or trap with aspect rude,

Upon a comfortable mill intrude—

A mill between not enemies, but friends,

And upon which a lot of blunt depends;

A mill, I trust, which, as in days of yore,

Will honest fighting to the ring restore;

A mill which, whosoe’er may win the same,

Will show the British boxer’s genuine game,

Unkind aspersions on the Fancy crush,

And put accurs’d knife-practice to the blush—

A practice which, with bold and fearless face,

In bloody letters stamps our land’s disgrace!

But let that pass, while we, like boxers bold,

Shall manly contest in the ring uphold,

And settle matters, not with slaughtering knives,

But well-braced muscles and a bunch of fives.

What tho’ in battle with some Fancy lad

An ogle should in mourning suit be clad?

What tho’ profusion of straightforward knocks

Should for a while confuse the knowledge box?

Why, these are trifles which a cur may scare,

But teach good men hard punishment to bear;

And as they pass this earthly region thro’,

All men will have a clumsy thump or two,

And there’s no doubt ’twill lessen their complaining

To meet hard knocks to get them into training;

But Time, my worthy, warns me to desist,

So for awhile farewell, my man of fist;

Of your conceit on Tuesday I will strip ye—

On Tuesday next “I meet you at Philippi;”

Till then believe me resolute and saucy,

A foe without one hostile feeling—

“Brassey.”

Six Mile Bottom, Cambridgeshire, distinguished in former times by the contests of dons of the olden school, under the patronage of men of the highest rank in the kingdom, was named. Although inferior in stamp and action to bygone heroes, the present competitors were not less great in their own estimation, and certainly quite as great in bulk—​for Caunt stood 6ft. 2in., and weighed 14st. 7lb., and Brassey, two inches shorter, weighed 12st. 1lb. (a standard which, according to the best judges, is sufficient for all useful purposes in the P. R., all beyond that being deemed surplusage). In point of age they were pretty much upon a par, and in the prime of life, Caunt having been born in March, 1815, and Brassey in the month of January in the same year.

The opinion of Bendigo as to the merits of the two men was naturally sought, and he, without hesitation, gave the “palm” to Brassey, whom he pronounced the better tactician, if not the gamer man. As provincial champions they were held in high estimation—​Brassey at Leeds, Bradford, and those districts, and Caunt at Nottingham, Sheffield, and the surrounding country. In London, however, their pretensions as scientific men were viewed with little favour—​and, in fact, in that respect their acquirements were but of an inferior character—​as their sparring displays with the accomplished Tom Spring sufficiently demonstrated. Still, although “rough,” they were deemed “ready,” and a slashing fight was anticipated.

Brassey went into training under the auspices of Ned Painter, of Norwich, and Caunt claimed the attention of “the Infant” (Peter Crawley), by whom he was placed “at nurse” in the neighbourhood of Hatfield. More competent mentors could not have been selected; and all that judgment and good advice could effect was accomplished—​for it was impossible for men to have been brought to the “post” in better condition, or with a stronger feeling of personal confidence. The articles specified that the belligerent meeting was to take place halfway between Norwich and London, but by mutual consent (although Crawley won the toss for choice) the locality we have mentioned was eventually agreed upon—​thus combining a double object of attraction—​the mill and the races—​and being alike convenient to the training quarters of the combatants.

On Monday both men neared the point of rendezvous, Brassey being installed at the “Queen Victoria,” Newmarket, and Caunt at Littlebury, in Essex.

In the former town, too, the Commissary had lodged his matériel as early as Saturday, being provided with new and substantial stakes for the purpose—​a precaution which the herculean proportions of the men rendered judicious.

As on all these occasions the betting was influenced by local prejudices; and while at Leeds, Bradford, and their vicinities, the “Yorkshire tyke” (Brassey) was the favourite at five to four, in Sheffield, Nottingham, Newmarket, and London Caunt had the call at six and seven to four, and finally at two to one and five to two, at which price large sums were laid out.

With a view to prevent interruption, and to gratify the “sporting nobs” of Newmarket, it was stipulated in the articles that the men should be in the ring between eight and nine o’clock a.m.—​an arrangement which proved most judicious, although it shut out a numerous class to whom early rising and long trots of an autumnal morning are not agreeable. The whisper, which was anything but soft, of the forthcoming event, soon extended far and wide; and the arrivals from distant quarters at Newmarket proved that the office had been very extensively circulated and promptly obeyed—​as the unusual muster of fighting nobs on Newmarket Heath, on the Monday, including all the élite of the corps pugilistique, sufficiently evinced. During the night the contributions from the provinces increased; all the coaches passing through the town were loaded, and the clatter of fresh arrivals in various equipages proved the interest which had been excited.

Unfortunately a fine day had been succeeded by a night of heavy rain, and the drenched appearance of the early birds, as they shook their feathers, fully sustained the established rule that there are few human amusements without alloy, or, as Sir G. Cornewall Lewis philosophically put it, “Life would be tolerable were it not for its pleasures.” Still, among the Fancy, these vicissitudes were of little moment, and were submitted to with becoming philosophy. The morning was not more propitious than the night, but there was, nevertheless, no lack of bustle in Newmarket; in fact, hundreds were seen in busy preparation for “the start,” and vehicles of every description were called into requisition, while all classes, from the Corinthian to the humble stable-boy, were full of lively anticipation. The troop of equestrians which went forth showed the excitement that prevailed, while the carriages, gigs, and carts which followed produced a cheerful commotion in the direction of the appointed fixture, which was about six miles from the town.

A hostile declaration of a reverend parson of Cheveley, on the Monday, led to an apprehension that an interruption was not unlikely. Indeed, we believe it was intended, but happily his reverence, by some unfortunate accident, was put on the wrong scent, and proceeded in an opposite direction, towards the borders of Suffolk, where, attended by a posse of special constables, he waited with creditable patience for the expected arrival of the “misdoers.” He watched, however, in vain; in the interim the belligerents had settled their differences elsewhere, to his infinite mortification, as well as to the imminent danger of his health, from so long and unprofitable an exposure to the warring elements. On his return to Cheveley, his forlorn aspect induced strong expressions of commiseration; but we are inclined to doubt the sincerity of those by whom they were uttered, who obviously thought the worthy divine should not have forgotten the old maxim, “Charity begins at home,” where, in all probability, he would have found abundant opportunity for the exercise of his Christian virtues without wasting them idly on the “desert air.”

An agreement having been made that both men should be in the ring precisely at eight o’clock, by that hour the lists were completed, and were quickly surrounded by the coming throng, who formed a circle of ample dimensions round the all-important arena, which every moment increased in density, and included in its motley features several foreigners of distinction; a large contribution from the University of Cambridge (who came in style in drags and fours, all “lighted up” in such profusion that many were disposed to think, from the halo of smoke which fumed from their fragrant havannahs, an engine had broken loose from some distant railroad); a vast concourse of the Turf aristocracy, and not a few of the right sort, who had posted from London to participate in the amusements of the day. The remainder, to the extent of 2,000 or 3,000, was of that mingled character which it would be difficult to particularise, many of them being so disguised in their north-westers and storm-defying protectors as to give them the advantage of perfect incognito, combined with personal protection. We did hear of a stray magistrate or two being present, yet for this we cannot vouch; but we must remark, if the fact were so, it showed their good sense. This we do know, that one or two proved by their conduct “none are so blind as those who will not see;” and upon the appearance of the parson of Cheveley at the magisterial divan in Newmarket on the same day, after the fight, to deplore the hoax of which he had been made the victim, his vicissitudes produced a good deal of fun, and not a little commendation of the ingenious concocter of the “secret despatch” to which he had fallen so simple a victim.

Brassey was first on the ground; and as the rain fell in torrents impatience was manifested for the arrival of Caunt. Unhappily, however, he did not reach the cheerless scene till within five minutes of nine. Come he did, however, at last, and the thrill of pleasure soon dissipated the melancholy forebodings of disappointment; for it was feared that Brassey would have been allowed to walk over the course and claim forfeit. An inner circle of the privileged was soon formed by those who chose to “qualify” by taking out “certificates” at 5s. each from the Commissary. For the accommodation of these a quantity of straw had been spread a few yards from the ring, but such was its saturated state, from the continued rain, that it afforded little protection, and carriage seats and gig cushions were in general request, often with little regard to the laws of meum and tuum. Never was the modern invention of waterproof wrappers more prized; and when we witnessed the aristocratic groups thus recklessly reposing on the slimy soil we could not withhold the expression of our delight at finding the spirit of olden times still unsubdued, notwithstanding the inroads of pantilers and teetotallers. We recognised among the mass many old soldiers, who good-humouredly remarked it was but a memento of the past, and reminded their young friends the time might not be far distant when even such inconvenience would be a luxury compared with what they would have to endure in maintaining the fear-nought reputation of John Bull on the “tented field.” Beyond the privileged stood rows of perpendicular spectators, and behind them again were the carriages and other vehicles, covered with not less anxious gazers.

At last, soon after nine o’clock, the heroes of the day made their appearance; Caunt under the care of Peter Crawley, and attended by Dick Curtis and a Liverpool friend as bottle-holder and second; Brassey escorted by Ned Painter, and officially accompanied by Jem Hall and Johnny Broome. On entering the lists Caunt, who wore a large Welsh wig, approached Brassey, and offered to lay him a private bet on the issue of the contest; but Brassey regarded this as a piece of bounce, and turned from him. The umpires and referee having been chosen, the yellowmen—​for both sported the same colours—​were tied to the stake, and all prepared for action. On stripping, the gigantic frame of Caunt struck the uninitiated with surprise. His superior height and weight left no room for nice calculations, and the fate of his adversary was already foretold; his broad back and muscular developments had a most formidable aspect, while his long arms and proportionate supporters showed him as a giant among pigmies, in which light Dick Curtis, and some of his little friends who stood beside him, could alone be regarded. There was, however, something ungainly in his huge frame, and more of awkwardness than symmetry in his configuration. Brassey, although less, was still “a man for a’ that,” and if not in juxtaposition with such a Goliath would have been regarded as an excellent specimen of the Grenadier fraternity. His figure was muscular and his limbs well knit, exhibiting appearances of strength and vigour not to be despised, while his mug displayed fearless determination. The preliminaries having been adjusted, at twenty-five minutes after nine “business” commenced.