The Noble Art

The Noble Art.

‘Reader, have you ever seen a fight?
If not, you have a pleasure to come.’
William Hazlitt.

Moulsey Hurst, August 1798.

The spectators had come from miles around. This was a day they had all anxiously been waiting for, and it had been the subject of anxious and often heated debate around the taverns, bawdy-houses and drawing rooms of all England in the preceding weeks. The Fancy, those patrons of pugilism from the ranks of the upper classes, had turned out in force for what promised to be an excellent day's sport, an exhibition of pure artistry, a celebration of the manly English spirit that had defeated the Irish Rebellion not long before. The lower orders were there too, of course. Pushing, shoving, cheering and cursing as they jostled for position among the expectant throng.

Traders passed among the crowd hawking their wares. Tobacco, ale, and gin flowed freely among the crowd gathered in the sweltering August sun. Criminals and various other assorted ne’er do wells were at work and play. Pickpockets slipped silently through the throng, plying their trade carefully but anxiously, as the judges of the day would swiftly send them to Newgate, there to publicly swing at the theft of so much as a handkerchief. The legendary highwayman, Jerry Abershaw, nodded cheerily to his fellow villains, joking and laughing, safe in the knowledge that no officer of the law was present, for he too was very much a wanted man.

The illegal bookmakers were out in force. Taking bets and offering odds on everything from the first man to draw blood, the first knockdown, the first serious injury and so on, they did brisk business as usual. All the heavy betting was on the experienced Englishman to send a salutary lesson to the arrogant Irish pup, who dared to think he might upset the odds and score a victory this day.

Suddenly a near-hush descended upon the crowd. Someone shouted loudly "They be comin!'" Heads turned as William Fewterell, a broad-shouldered and thick-skinned brute with a face that bore the scars of many previous battles, made his way to the centre of the gathering. His six-foot of muscle and bone spoke of a savage brawler who much preferred to fight rather than talk. His seconds followed him into the centre of the throng. They were fit looking, lean and muscular men who would tend Fewterell's wounds, lance and stitch his eyebrows, giving advice (and, if necessary, neat brandy) between rounds.

Another shout came from the crowd as his opponent entered the circle. Patrick Lanigan was just starting out in the noble art and lacked Fewterell's experience, but made up for it with strength and courage, what fight-watchers called 'bottom'. Lanigan had arrived in England only a few weeks before, having had a minor role in the Irish Rebellion earlier in the year. He had since made a very hasty departure for England, only one jump ahead of the magistrate, the prison ship and probably the gallows.

His two fights since arriving in England had been valuable lessons in the art, with one victory and a hard-fought draw to his credit only two weeks before. He surveyed the gathering, and looking over at Fewterell and his seconds, called rashly "There's a twenty guinea bet says I'll send him to the floor or his maker in twelve rounds or less. Either that or he'll do for me first!"

"I'll take that bet, young fellow!" shouted Lord Camelford. Lord Camelford was a member of the Fancy, and a well-known member at that. "I'll offer odds of ten to one. That's twenty guineas to win two hundred. Hope that isn't too rich for you?" "No, your Lordship" replied Lanigan, inwardly knowing that he could never afford to lose against such odds, and that there was now no option but to make good his boast, and hopefully avoid Debtors Prison. "I'll take your bet and win it too!"

Lord Camelford turned to one of his many cronies and chuckled quietly.

"I do like a confident young fellow, even if he is bog-Irish."

His cronies smaned among themselves at the upcoming battle. "The bogman doesn't stand a chance against one as seasoned as Fewterell, My Lord. Your stake is quite safe today."

Lord Camelford’s manservant and bodyguard, a respected former pugilist named Bill Richmond, called one of the bookmakers over to him and addressed him in superior tones. ‘His Lordship wishes to place bets upon the first drawing of blood and the first knockdown. Two hundred guineas to be placed on Fewterell to draw first blood and a second two hundred upon Fewterell to score the first knockdown of the day.’

The bookmaker, a small and nervous-looking man named Berks, looked nervously at Lord Camelford, knowing his knowledge of the noble art and his seemingly bottomless reserves of money. He doffed his cap in the direction of Lord Camelford. ‘I’ll give His Lordship odds of three to one on Fewterell for both bets. I can’t go any higher than that.’

Camelford and his cronies surveyed the worried bookmaker and smiled at his timorous nature. This was obviously a man of low class and little money, scarcely worthy of their attention. They looked forward to relieving him of his money at the day’s end. It amused them to think of him destitute and without the funds for his travel home to whatever hovel he lived in.

The two umpires stepped into the ring and called for silence, or as near as the bustling crowd would allow. "This battle is to be fought under Broughton's Rules. No hitting when a man be down, no holding or hitting below the waist, no biting and no gouging of the eyes! Nobody but umpires, fighters and their seconds to be within the squared circle while the bout is fought. If a man be down for more than half a minute, then he be considered beaten and the battle ended. Gentlemen, to your corners, and let's to business!"

The fighters stripped to the waist and entered the ring, both staring grimly at one another as they did so. They tossed for corners, Lanigan winning and electing to fight with the sun at his back, lest its rays interfere with his aim, and tied their sashes to their corners, Lanigan wearing the green of Ireland and Fewterell the red of England. They both held their hands aloft with their palms open to show all present they concealed nothing illicit such as a small piece of metal, bullets or stones, and waited. The crowd fell into near silence.

"Gentlemen, begin!" came the cry from the umpires. The two men moved lightly on their feet as they circled each other. Then the first blow was struck. Fewterell smiled grimly as a straight left crashed into his nose with a sickening "Thwack!” Blood came almost immediately. A cheer rose from the crowd as the blood flew and the bookmaker smiled as he pocketed Lord Camelford’s two hundred guineas. Lord Camelford gave a grunt as he saw the monies disappear into the bookmaker’s capacious pocket.

"That was a good blow, young 'un, but thee'll pay for it yet!" was Fewterell’s reply, immediately letting fly. A snake-like right caught Lanigan below his left eye and almost immediately raised a purple-blue weal upon the Irishman's fair skin.

Lanigan responded, feinting the straight left but instead unleashing a low, looping right that sank deeply into Fewterell's unprotected belly. Fewterell smiled again as he returned the favour, catching Lanigan with a short left to the nose as the Irishman stepped back. With the blows blood from both men sprayed feet into the air, splattering the spectators nearest to the fray, and to the cheers of those at ringside.

They circled once more, each bobbing, weaving, throwing and missing punches. And then it happened. Lanigan slipped on some fresh blood just as Fewterell drove a crushing right that flew straight through Lanigan's guard and exploded into his unprotected jaw. With the knockdown the first round was over. Camelford smiled wolfishly and turned to the bookmaker. ‘Mr Berks, I know you always honour your debts…’ Berks cursed as he dipped into his pockets and returned two hundred guineas, plus Lord Camelford’s winnings.

Lanigan tottered back to his corner, his seconds slapping his face and yelling at him to clear his head. "He were lucky, lad, but you'll beat him yet!" Lanigan looked at his seconds, wiped blood from his face and replied testily "Do I have any choice?" He made his way back to the scratch mark, ready for the second round.

Fewterell came roaring out of his position, itching to finish the fight and claim his purse, swinging wildly. Lanigan felt the sting of a straight left and threw a looping right in return. First his fist and then his elbow cracked into Fewterell's jaw, breaking his rhythm and halting him in mid-stride. More blood came from his mouth, with it came a couple of splintered teeth and an "Mmmph!" as the blow struck home. Fewterell stepped back and lashed out with a chopping blow aimed for Lanigan's throat, a blow that could have ended fight and life together had it struck home…

Lanigan slipped the blow and pushed forward with renewed vigour, sinking a left and right into the pit of Fewterell's belly. Fewterell winced as the blows struck home and went backward against the ropes. Lanigan followed him with further blows until Ingelston came back and grabbed him around the waist. The pressure on Lanigan's ribs was enormous, as Fewterell sought to crush the air from his lungs and render him unconscious. His arms trapped within Fewterell's, Lanigan drew back his head and butted Fewterell square on the nose, drawing a fresh spray of blood and a cry of "Foul!" from Fewterell's seconds. An umpire stepped between them, grabbing Lanigan's shoulder and shouting "One more like that, boy, and you forfeit!" The round ended then and there.

The third round began. This time, Fewterell grabbed at Lanigan almost immediately, knowing that he could ill-afford to butt again. Lanigan slid out of the attempted grab and danced out of harm's way, taunting Fewterell with sneers and laughing as Fewterell swung wildly at him. Fewterell hissed with rage and, feinting a straight left to Lanigan's head, instead sank a vicious right into the ribs instead. He followed with a left uppercut and a right cross before Lanigan, seeking relief, grabbed and held. This time it was Fewterell's turn to fight for breath, a breath that was swiftly knocked out of him as Lanigan applied a brutal cross-buttock throw that would almost certainly have ended the fight had it landed cleanly.

As it was, Fewterell landed heavily on his back and Lanigan followed him down, crushing Fewterell's chest, leaving him fighting for breath. Lanigan stepped back as the count began. Fewterell raised himself to his knees and growled "I'm a long way from beat, Paddy, a long way from beat!"

At the start of the next round he lunged forward until checked by a stiff left that rocked him back on his heels. Lanigan was beginning to dominate until Fewterell came back with a fluid series of punches. Left-right-left to Lanigan's head, followed by a vicious left-right to the body that crashed into Lanigan's ribs and left him gasping for air. Lanigan sank to his knees, winded, as the count began. He rose with relative ease and the round was over.

Lord Camelford surveyed the scene before commenting "This Irishman is not the weakling you thought he was. Just to be sure, I'll offer two hundred guineas on Lanigan to keep his boast." "I'll take your wager, My Lord," cried a local moneylender, "Two hundred guineas to win six hundred, the same as before My Lord"

Lord Camelford smiled contentedly. The apparent size of the bet mattered not, gambling being merely an indulgence to one of his wealth. Just as long as he was seen to win, that was all that mattered.

The fighters left their corners and toed the scratch marks carved in the ground. Both were showing signs of injury. Fewterell with a broken nose, swollen lips, missing teeth and bruised ribs, Lanigan looking only slightly better with a purple-blue weal under one eye, bruised ribs and a badly swollen nose. Both were bleeding freely, and stained both with their own and each others' blood. Both were now breathing heavily.

Lanigan scored early with a short, chopping right as Fewterell stormed forward at the start of the fourth round. As Fewterell checked his stride, Lanigan wrestled him into position for another throw. Fewterell saw it coming and twisted out of Lanigan's grip, coming back with short body punches and a vicious right cross that staggered Lanigan. Fewterell attacked again, this time receiving a series of short, chopping blows that halted him mid-stride. He stepped back, grinning through broken teeth and bloodied lips. "Come on, young 'un! My little girl hits better than you!" "Oh, does she now?" taunted Lanigan. Even as he spoke he launched a vicious right at Fewterell that could easily have killed him.

That was what Fewterell had wanted. He countered the right with a straight left of his own, following through with a savage right that drew a spray of blood from Lanigan's mouth. Lanigan swiftly stepped back, cursing himself as he slipped another blow, countering with a left and then a heavy right of his own.

Fewterell spun around and lashed out as he turned with a wild backhanded swing that caught Lanigan flush on the jaw. Lanigan subsided to the floor. Fewterell used the time to clear his own head as Lanigan stood at the count of twelve, raised his bloody fists and stepped back. The round was over and they returned to their corners.

"Capital fight, My Lord" commented one of Lord Camelford's cronies. "Indeed, indeed" replied Lord Camelford. "It looks to be an even match to me. I'm surprised that the Irishman has lasted this long. Tell me, who is his patron?" "The Irishman has none, My Lord", said another man. Lord Camelford pursed his lips and said to himself "Hmm…"

The sixth round began slowly. Both fighters were by now wary of each other, and both moved more cautiously than before. Suddenly Fewterell lunged forward with a straight right into Lanigan's mouth. Lanigan's head rocked back as blood and a broken tooth splattered the stage floor. Fewterell grinned at Lanigan through his own broken teeth and mumbled "How does it feel, Paddy? Like an elbow?"

Lanigan grinned back and wiped the blood from his mouth. As he raised his hand to wipe away the blood he feinted a left to Fewterell's body. As Fewterell covered his ribs, anticipating the blow, Lanigan instead smashed a straight right into his left eyebrow. Almost immediately a savage cut opened, spraying Fewterell's blood over the grass, and Fewterell's eye began to close.

Lanigan saw the opening and drove another straight right, then another. Fewterell began to totter and then, just as he seemed at his weakest, he grasped Lanigan firmly around the waist and administered a wicked cross-buttock throw, giving it everything. He followed Lanigan down, emptying Lanigan's lungs with an audible rush of air. Lanigan lay, seemingly lifeless, on the ground. He fought to get air into his lungs, gasping for breath, willing himself to respond as the count began. By the count of ten he was up on one knee, by fifteen he was standing and his seconds were helping him back to his corner. Another round was over, with damage done to both men. More suffering beckoned in the seventh.

Lord Camelford looked closely at both fighters as he surveyed the increasingly wild scene. The lower classes were normally of little interest to him, but both fighters held his attention. He had been backing Fewterell with considerable bets for some time, but had lately begun to suspect that his time was passing. After all, why else would he not have finished this novice by now? Lord Camelford decided that, should Lanigan win the bout, that it was time to back a new champion, thus enhancing his reputation as a discerning gentleman and lucky gambler. After all, in the circles in which Lord Camelford moved, one had to keep up one's reputation.

The fighters were in their corners, their seconds giving advice above the frenzied roar of the crowd. Fewterell's seconds hissed "Throw him hard and go for those ribs! He ain't able to take much more!" while Lanigan's men roared "Bash that eye out! He cannot fight if he cannot see!" The noise of the crowd rose in eager anticipation as both fighters took their places for the seventh round. Both were breathing hard.

Fewterell went straight for the grapple. Lanigan saw it coming and side-stepped, firing a stiff right cross into Fewterell's injured left eye. A fresh spray of blood burst from the eyebrow and Fewterell gasped as the bare knuckles rasped along the open wound. Lanigan went in again, driving Fewterell across the ring and leaving a gaping wound in his tattered eyebrow.

Lanigan was growing in confidence now, and again this was nearly his undoing. As he stepped forward to finish his day's work he stopped a wild right cross, and then, as he reeled, a vicious backhanded right followed by a left to the belly that left him winded and dazed. Fewterell followed up, grasping Lanigan around the waist, again applying crushing pressure to his ribs.

Lanigan's vision began to blur as air was forced out of him. With darkness closing in, he forced Fewterell's head back with one hand and smashed a series of four punches into his left eye. As Fewterell's grip loosened Lanigan sucked in as much air as possible.

As the blows landed, Fewterell felt his grip on Lanigan and the fight were both loosening. The pain from his left eyebrow was maddening. He was becoming increasingly desperate and, seeing yet another punch coming, he put his head down and stiffened himself...

There was an audible 'Crunch!' as Lanigan's left fist crashed into Fewterell's bony skull. Lanigan cried out as the knuckles gave way, and pain like a lightning bolt shot up his arm. Fewterell smiled, and a thumping left-right-left combination left Lanigan flat on the ground, cradling his injured left hand in his right and groaning with pain. The count began, and Lanigan was forced to dig deep, summoning his reserves of strength and commitment to make it back to his corner as the count halted.

Lanigan's seconds swiftly poured neat brandy down his throat and stifled his moans with a blood-soaked rag. "I didn't bring thee here to give out! I brought thee to win!" one said as he stifled Lanigan. "You can beat him yet! Or are you just a bog-Irishman with a lily-liver?" Anger flared in Lanigan's eyes as he glared at his seconds. "Bog-Irishman? I'll prove you wrong, and I'll flatten you both as soon as I'm done here!"

He strode out and faced the bloodied Fewterell with renewed vigour. Lanigan was no longer fighting simply to avoid prison; pride and honour were now at stake. The pain in Lanigan's hand diminished as his anger grew to fearsome intensity. He feinted to forward, drawing a left from Fewterell that missed. As Fewterell was off-balance, Lanigan lashed out with a ramrod-straight right that rocked him backwards.

Fewterell's left eyebrow hung loose on his face, blood dripping freely into his eye, blinding him. He grimaced as the blow landed and immediately closed in, preparing for another attempt to throw Lanigan and perhaps gain a victory. Lanigan moved as if to grapple and then shouldered Fewterell in the left eye, finally closing the eye and rendering Fewterell half-blind. Fewterell reeled in pain and Lanigan smashed blows into his head and body. Stiff rights crashed into Fewterell's face while Lanigan, favouring his injured left hand, drove lefts into Fewterell's softer body and ribs.

Fewterell staggered and fell heavily. The count began. Grimly, Lanigan watched as Fewterell forced himself up onto his knees, first both knees and then up on to one. Fewterell groaned with pain as he dragged himself up and hissed a curse at the young Irishman. "You've hurt me boy, and now I'll hurt thee back and more!" If looks could kill then Lanigan would have dropped in mid-stride. As it was, he smiled through his swollen, bleeding lips as he strode back to his corner.

Fewterell's seconds forced a large brandy through his swollen lips and set about repairing his left eye. It had swollen grotesquely and needed lancing and stitching. Fewterell hissed with pain as the needle slid into his flesh, cursing his seconds for clumsy fools who would kill as soon as cure. Lanigan's seconds were smiling as he went to his corner. "You see?" one cried. "You've got him beat! Now start smashing that belly and ribs! He won’t last much longer!"

Lanigan was grim-faced as he looked across the ring. He would never admit it to them, but he had been near defeat until the jibe about his being only "Bog-Irish" had hurt him more than any of Fewterell's blows. It was that which had turned the fight and given him the heart to go on, to fight through the fatigue and pain.

Lord Camelford was by now watching Lanigan intently. While he considered the young man to be little more than bog-Irish, he saw in Lanigan the opportunity for further fame and glory, an chance that only one from the privileged classes had the breeding to handle.

He looked at his current champion and saw only a tired man, fighting entirely on anger and desperate to avoid defeat. Lanigan on the other hand was an opportunity to further enhance Lord Camelford's reputation, and when Lanigan eventually succumbed Lord Camelford would step over his body and greet his successor in the same relaxed fashion.

Fewterell's seconds were urging him to give out, to submit and save himself further torment. "No! Never! I'll not give out to an Irish bogman! Let me up, he'll have to kill me afore I'll give out!" With that, Fewterell limped out to his mark and the next round began.

Lanigan worked hard on Fewterell's body. The pain in his left hand was receding, but still severe enough to make him avoid Fewterell's bony skull, concentrating instead on the softer belly and ribs. Fewterell now winced every time the blows sank into his weakened body, and the punches he threw began to lose their earlier sting. His mind, driven by fear of losing Lord Camelford's patronage, willed him to continue. But his body betrayed him and was refusing to answer his commands.

He glared at Lanigan through his one good eye and summoned his reserves for one last, desperate throw of the dice. He seized Lanigan by the hair and swung a vicious right hand across his face, and then another backhanded blow smashed into Lanigan's bloodied features. The ferocity of the attack shocked Lanigan, and he spun away with the force of the blows.

Fewterell bored in relentlessly, going after Lanigan as though his life depended upon it. Unlike Lanigan, Fewterell was well aware of Lord Camelford's habit of replacing one fallen champion with another, for he himself had profited by it. Defeating Lord Camelford's previous favourite, the unfortunate Joe Bourke, had won him patronage, money and prestige, with plenty to lose.

Lanigan knew nothing of this. As far as he was concerned a beaten man had acquired the aggression of a cornered animal. He had been stung by Fewterell's attack, and knew that he had to break Fewterell's momentum rather than take more punishment.

Lanigan closed in, grabbing Fewterell around the waist and getting in too close for him to strike cleanly. Fewterell didn’t see him coming and suddenly felt a vice-like grip around his ribs. The pain was intense and his head swam, as lack of air fogged his judgement. Fewterell's arms tried to force their way out of Lanigan's grip and failed, as a couple of ribs finally gave way.

Lanigan changed his grip and applied another cross-buttock throw, although it failed to match the earlier ones for power and style. Fewterell crashed to the ground shoulders-first, the air pouring from his lungs in an audible rush, The round was over and Fewterell barely made it up before the thirty seconds were counted.

Lord Camelford was now certain that the usefulness of his current champion had all but expired. He sidled up to Lanigan's seconds, who swiftly doffed their caps at his approach. "Good day, Gentlemen. I come to offer your man my patronage."

Lanigan's eyes widened as he recognised Lord Camelford from a previous bout and he quickly answered "I need your patronage, My Lord. But I ask one favour. Let me get back out there and finish my work, then we can speak freely."

Lord Camelford was amused by Lanigan's apparent impertinence to one of his high standing. He smiled wolfishly and replied "Of course, my good man. Beat him for me and I'll pay you double our earlier wager. That’s four hundred guineas for you." Lanigan grinned through his bloodied mouth, and stepped back out to do his new master's bidding.

They stepped out to their marks, both nearly spent and clearly feeling the pain. Fewterell threw a left and grinned as the blow shook Lanigan's head. He closed in, throwing short, chopping lefts and rights. Lanigan seemed shaken by the force of the blows. He tottered and stumbled, Fewterell following him with further punches.

Lanigan's seconds, not to mention Lord Camelford, became increasingly concerned at their man's apparent lack of fight. The seconds screamed advice, trying in vain to make themselves heard above the by-now-frenzied roar of the crowd. Just as it seemed Fewterell had the round won, Lanigan exploded into life. He had been feigning all along! He stopped Fewterell with a barrage of blows, shifting his attention from the now-closed left eye and smashing at Fewterell's good right eye instead.

The pain in his left hand was forgotten as he relentlessly hurled punches into Fewterell's smashed features. Blood, spit and sweat sprayed Fewterell's face as he felt an assault of previously unrivalled strength and ferocity. His right eye began to swell and was almost closed when Lanigan, beginning to tire, hurled one final blow. It was not to the broken ribs or smashed face, but instead went straight into Fewterell's neck.

Fewterell choked and gurgled, his hands reaching around his throat. He fought desperately to draw breath and failed, dropping to his knees, his heart pounding in his ears as his vision began to blur and the bliss of unconsciousness set in. Fewterell slowly crumpled forward on to the ground.

In that single moment he lost it all. Prestige, patronage, money, all but his life.

The thirty seconds were up. Lanigan grinned through the pain, and raised his bloodied fists in celebration. His hardest battle yet was over and better times beckoned. With Lord Camelford’s patronage, money and glory lay ahead, and Lord Camelford's connections would see to it that his hasty departure from Ireland would not return to haunt him.

Fewterell lay almost unnoticed in the ring. It was not only his second loss in three months. He had also lost Lord Camelford's patronage and the privileges that came with it. He slowly picked himself up and slunk away, muttering hoarsely to himself "I'm done, I'm done." Even as the young victor enjoyed the hard-won plaudits of the crowd, the loser hobbled away a beaten man.

The pigeon men released their birds. The black pigeon signalling Fewterell's defeat would arrive home long before Fewterell did, who would forever face the indignity of whispered comments and snide remarks. He would always, in the eyes of some, be the man who lost in under twelve rounds to a novice, and an Irish novice at that. Of course, no one would say so to his face, but the shame both real and imagined would long outlast the physical pain.

As Fewterell slunk away from the cheering mob, by now all-but forgotten except by his seconds, Lord Camelford strode confidently over to Lanigan. "Capital fight, young man! Simply capital! Of course I now owe you four hundred guineas, but we can settle accounts later. For now, we must head for London and find you lodging."

Turning to Lanigan's seconds, Lord Camelford said disdainfully "You 'gentlemen' may leave us now. Take this and leave us to our business."

The two men replied "Yes, My Lord" somewhat reluctantly, until Richmond, Lord Camelford's manservant and bodyguard, tossed them a velvet bag. They doffed their caps and backed away, bowing as they went. Losing Lanigan had been a blow, but Lord Camelford's superior position, coupled with enough gold to keep even the most avaricious tavern-keeper happy, had convinced them to give in gracefully.

Lanigan stood by swilling a large brandy offered him by Richmond. The departure of his backers was regrettable, but Lanigan was shrewd enough to recognise the advantages offered by the patronage of Lord Camelford. Had he known of Lord Camelford's private disdain for him, Lanigan would have been far less eager, but he knew nothing. Also, Lanigan suspected that his backers had been withholding monies owed from his previous fights.

Lord Camelford made an expansive gesture as he offered Lanigan his patronage. Food, lodgings, clothes and a percentage of any winnings represented to the young Irishman a life better than any he had known, and, without knowledge of His Lordship's somewhat relaxed attitude to loyalty, he eagerly accepted the bargain offered by his new patron.

"Very well, my lad. Let us retire to London. We will begin our association there." Lanigan replied "Certainly, My Lord." They pushed their way through the rapidly diminishing crowd, and the day's work was over.