TOM SAYERS AND THE BENICIA BOY
The fight between Tom Sayers, Champion of England, and Heenan, the giant American, was about the last conspicuous affair with bare knuckles fit for place in any history of the Prize-Ring. There were, no doubt, good bye-battles, but there is no record of them as such. From first to last, in the oldest days of all, just as to-day, we look to championship contests for representative form—and seldom find it. One or both of the champions may be as good men as it is possible to find, but the show that they put up when pitted against each other is frequently poor when compared to the performance of a couple of “unknowns.” But this battle, viewed from various angles, was a good one.
Tom Sayers, Champion of England, was challenged by the American, Heenan, who came over with a bevy of supporters. The fight was arranged to take place on Tuesday, April 17th, 1860; but the utmost secrecy had to be preserved in order to avoid the police.
The following paragraph appeared in The Times for April 2nd (This was before the days of sensational and prominent headlines, and the reader had to search for the news which interested him):—
“The Forthcoming Prize-Fight.—Hertford, Saturday. This afternoon Colonel Archibald Robertson, chief constable of the Hertfordshire Police Force, made application to the justices assembled in petty session at Hertford for a warrant to apprehend Thomas Sayers, the ‘Champion of England,’ 108 and John Heenan, the American pugilist, in order that they might be bound over to keep the peace....”
The gallant colonel failed to apprehend the delinquents, and at 4 a.m. on the great day an enormous special train steamed, under sealed orders, as it were, out of London Bridge Station, carrying about a thousand people, which number was more than trebled on the field of battle. This was at Farnborough, near Aldershot. The actual meadow was cunningly chosen, for it was practically surrounded by double hedges and ditches, and was a difficult place to come at in a hurry: the idea in the minds of the organisers being that if any body of men did try to interfere, due notice would be given of the fact to the principals and officials.
The fight began at 7.25 in the morning. A twenty-four foot ring was formed. The men shook hands, and tossed for corners, Heenan winning and naturally choosing the slight advantage of the higher side in a gently sloping space and a position which put the sun in his antagonist’s eyes. The American was the first to strip, and was seen to be an enormous fellow, 6 feet 2 inches in height, with very long arms, a fine deep chest, and perfectly trained. He combined with these magnificent proportions much grace and freedom of movement. Sayers had a good look at his man, nodded his head quietly, and then stripped himself. He was only 5 feet 8 inches. His chest was not specially broad or thick, nor did his arms give the appearance of unusual development. Only his shoulders suggested where his wonderful hitting power came from. But he was a hard little man, and he, too, was in perfect condition. On the face of it, and to those spectators who were unacquainted with Sayers’s previous performances or the history of the Ring (with its records of Tom Johnson and Jem Belcher), it appeared once again to be an absurd match. Heenan towered over his man and seemed to be about twice his size in every dimension.
They took up their positions, and laughed at each other as they moved round, each man to his right in order to avoid the other’s right hand. Then Heenan led and just reached Sayers’s 109 mouth, getting a hard reply which, amidst loud applause, drew first blood. They sparred for a little longer and then closed, when Sayers, as they used to say in these days, “got down easily.” A man was not allowed by the rules to go down without a blow, except in a close, in order to avoid punishment.
Their seconds sponged them down, gave them water to rinse their mouths with, and they came up again. This time they were quicker to work. Sayers looked at his huge adversary with perfect confidence in himself, and the coolness of long experience and a great capacity. Mere size troubled him not at all. He had fought and beaten big men before. Heenan led and led again and then a third time, but on each occasion Sayers threw back his head, and all three blows fell lightly. Then the big man got closer and sent home one on the mouth which made the English champion reel. But he returned at once to receive a whack on the forehead which knocked him down in his own corner. This, the first knock-down, did not trouble him in the least, though the Americans at the ring-side naturally shouted their delight.
After the half-minute Sayers came up quite fresh, though he had a big lump coming up on his forehead and his mouth was swollen. His footwork was brilliant. He nipped in and out, avoiding the long arms and always, when a blow did land, managed to be on the retreat, so that its force was lessened. But the sun shining in his eyes was a trouble, and he frowned and tried to work Heenan round so that he had his share of it. Heenan, however, grinned, and held his ground. Then Tom Sayers darted in to plant a hard body-blow, but caught a severe right which knocked him down. Once more Sayers tried to get out of the sun, and failing, closed and slipped down.
By this time he was a good deal marked, and there was a severe cut over his eyebrow. Both remained excessively cautious, and all at once the humour of it seized them and they put down their hands and roared with laughter, again—small wonder it is that foreigners used to think us a race of madmen, until—that is—the French began to play the same game. (Only for the most part, the French take boxing very, very seriously.) 110 Suddenly Heenan steadied himself and shot out a straight left which fairly caught the champion and, for the fourth time, knocked him down. A large number of the spectators believed that Sayers was a beaten man. For a large number of them had not seen him fight before, and had no idea how much he could take. More experienced ring-goers watched, patiently suspending judgment. And presently the inexperienced folk were startled. Heenan sent out a smashing blow which Sayers entirely avoided, jumping right back from it, instantly bounding in again and delivering a terrific blow on his man’s eye. It was one of those sliding, upward hits which almost split the American’s cheek before it reached his brow, and it sent Heenan staggering away.
The rest did little to improve his appearance. He was bleeding profusely, swollen and disfigured. Sayers was getting comfortably set. He stopped a hard lead with his forearm, and dashing in, dealt out a harder one; and then another which seemed almost to crush Heenan’s nose and very nearly lifted him off his legs. Five-foot eight and six-foot two. Not bad going.
In the seventh round, Sayers hit Heenan an awful blow which sent the blood spurting from his nose. Heenan grabbed hold of his man to put an end to this punishment, and Sayers got in some damaging body-blows before he fell underneath.
“As well as can be expected,” thought Sayers to himself. Yes: he was doing very nicely, but he was not quite as happy as he looked. How long would it be before Heenan or his seconds spotted the truth. Hadn’t they noticed yet that he was extremely shy of hitting with his right—had been shy for the last two rounds? And in his previous battles it was his right upon which he had depended for victory. One really good right-hander from Sayers was commonly reckoned to be enough for anybody. But he couldn’t use his right now. He had tried and it was useless. That tremendous whack that he had stopped with his forearm had numbed it at the moment, and he had thought nothing of it until he tried to use it in offence. And then he knew that his right was out of action. He thought at the time that the bone was broken. As a matter of fact it was not, 111 but a tendon was, which (for such intensely practical purposes) was just as bad. The arm was also one mass of inter-running bruises and fearfully swollen. So he held it across his chest in its orthodox position, and it was all he could do to keep it there: and he kept his face wooden and innocent and went on fighting with his left. The enemy shouldn’t know before they must.
And round after round the little man came up smiling, relying on his feet for defence and his left for attack. Heenan also grinned. They were a good-humoured couple, as these couples of the Prize-Ring so often were. Once he landed a horribly severe smasher on Heenan which knocked him down, and instead of taking his rest for half a minute, he went prying into Heenan’s corner to watch his seconds wiping away the blood. He might learn something in that way, he thought, which would be more valuable than thirty seconds on an another fellow’s knee. Heenan, however, could take plenty of punishment, too, without complaining.
After this they fought a tremendous round which lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, and at the end were so exhausted that both of them had to be carried to their corners by their respective seconds. It had been foolish, Sayers now realised, not to take the rest he was entitled to. He must not play tricks like that again. He was greatly knocked about. His mouth and nose seemed as though they had been knocked into one, but his trick of throwing back his head as Heenan’s huge fist caught him had done much to preserve his eyes.
Only once did he show a sign of anger. He drew back after a rally to spit out blood, and the American onlookers laughed. That stung him, and he dashed in again and gave Heenan a left which sent him reeling back, and another and another. A fourth hit made Heenan reel where he stood, so that with his right to follow up with Sayers might have knocked him out of time. As it was, he dared not come too close, for he feared being thrown upon his bad arm. But he shot out his left twice more, and one on Heenan’s ribs sounded (so said The Times correspondent) “all over the meadow as if a ............