I received a message from Sir Anthony Pardington, telling me of a great prize-fight soon to be held at Harley Green, a village a few miles to the north-east of Brackenridge hill. He had invited all the local gentry to the event, and had himself put up a purse of twenty guineas for the winner. He suggested that I might ride over to meet him at the fight, and then continue onwards to stay a few days at one of his houses, which was not far away. Chancing to meet Sir James Wilbrahim, I mentioned said in jest that he should be pleased that I was visiting a place sharing its name with our last Tory prime minister. “But he betrayed us in the end.” was his response. So, on a fine bright morning, I set forth on Alexander for my first experience of prize-fighting.
The fight took place in a ring (for such it was called, though it was square in shape) that was marked out with ropes in a field. A disorderly crowd pressed on this arena, while a group of gentlemen watched from a nearby mound, and it was there that I met Sir Anthony. The two prizefighters, I learned, were Chesney Harris, who came from our county, and Tom Maguire, who was billed as “The Irish Champion”, though I was told he actually hailed from Cronley, a coal-mining town some fifteen miles away. Many of his supporters had walked to Harley Green that morning to cheer for their hero.
The gladiators stood in opposite corners, conferring with their seconds and occasionally turning to glare fiercely at each other. Both were stripped to the waist. Their faces bore the scars of earlier battles. Both fighters took the same stance: leaning back slightly with the chin tucked in, the left arm extended, the right held back in defence. A young gentleman I did not know, who had been appointed referee, called them to the centre of the ring and the great contest began.
I was not familiar with the sport, but Sir Anthony, who was viewing the proceedings with much excitement, explained the rules: kicking the opponent was not permitted, neither were punches delivered below the belt; and when a man was down, his seconds had half a minute to get him back on his feet and to the mark. It made me think of what I had been told concerning the Pankration in the ancient Olympic Games, in which anything was permitted with the exception of eye-gouging.
Maguire was short and stocky, and looked very strong; Harris was taller, with long legs and arms. I was soon able to see how these qualities dictated the different tactics of the two men; for Maguire strove to close in and grapple, whereas Harris sought to keep him at a distance by delivering blows to the head and chest.
The fight continued for seemed like many hours, and I quickly lost count of the number of rounds as the two men pummelled each other almost to a standstill. Both were bloodied and bruised on the face and chest and neither looked fit to continue: even remaining upright on their feet appeared difficult. Their rival teams of supporters, far from being satiated with so much blood, became more and more animated.
Then Maguire attempted to seize his opponent’s wrist and draw him in close, but Harris jumped backwards, causing Maguire to lose his balance and stumble so that he had to place his right hand on the ground to support himself. As he went down, Harris felled him with a savage blow to the head. Seconds rushed on with buckets of water, but Maguire was unable to rise beyond a crawl on hands and knees, and the young referee proclaimed Harris the winner.
The part of the crowd where Maguire’s partisans were congregated erupted in fury, crying foul, since Maguire had already fallen, and demanding that Harris should be disqualified and their man should be awarded the victory. Curses and abuse filled the air, and the Cronley men were shaking their sticks in a most threatening manner. Regardless of the result, there were many ruffians present who wanted yet more blood. The young referee precipitately fled from the arena and sought refuge with us. Fear was on his face as he gabbled that he had been persuaded to fulfil the position against his better judgement, and that he was resolved never to attend prizefights again. By my side Sir Anthony was obviously worried. He was a magistrate, but what could he do in the face of a hostile mob?
Suddenly a Herculean figure vaulted the ropes into the ring. The crowd fell silent as he cast off his hat, wig and coat and strode towards the contestants in his shirt. He advanced on Harris, who was shorter by a head and, shouting so that all could hear, challenged him to fight, at any time or place of the latter’s choosing, for a purse of two hundred guineas: more if his opponent’s backers were prepared to put up the money! The crowd forgot for a moment their differences as they watched this new development.
“Who the devil is that?” Sir Anthony asked.
“His name is George Davies,” I replied, “I met him in London. He is a friend of Lord Staines”.
“Well, it is easy to see why Staines should idolise him. Do you think he really would fight Harris?”
“He might. He is mad enough for anything.”
“He is a brave fellow in any case,” said Sir Anthony, “and with more intelligence than some might give him credit for. See how he has caused the mob to forget their quarrels and look at him instead!
“Now it is incumbent on us to support him”, he added. To my astonishment, he bellowed, at the top of his voice, “A hundred guineas on Davies to win!” There were cheers.
“And a hundred of mine on Harris!” I shouted, taking the hint. Davies turned round and bowed to the crowd.
Following our lead more bets were shouted from different parts. Gradually the crowd, discussing the prospective combat among themselves, began to disperse, and Sir Anthony thought it was now safe for us to withdraw. We were followed by the other gentlemen, with the young referee relieved to accompany us. We afterwards heard that the Cronley miners ransacked a nearby inn and, very drunk, left a trail of wreckage on their march home.
The fame of the memorable contest soon spread even to London. Not long after, I heard a hawker of ballads singing of it in the street, and I was curious enough to buy it from her. It began well enough:
“Chesney Harris and Tom Maguire
Both champions they
Fought till dusk on Harley green
For a purse of gold one day”
And then proceeded to a description of the contest, which, though dramatic enough, did not appear to have been composed by someone who actually watched it. Further interest was added by telling how that the vicar of the parish, portrayed as a jolly sporting clergyman, had offered the victor the hand in marriage of an orphan girl under his care, together with a dowry; and how Harris took her and then discovered she was the long-lost heiress to a great fortune. I fear, however, that this romantic tale was the purest fiction.
George Davies’s challenge was not mentioned at all by the balladeer, which led me to conclude that not only had this unnamed hack not been present, but that he had not even spoken to those who were there. Such neglect was only too common among the laureates of St. Giles.
But did Davies ever fight Harris? If so, I never hear mention of it. I did not see him again for more than a year, by which time more pressing events had intervened.
