Chapter III · (continued 3)
Reading edition
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37 and last.—The Deaf’un pursued his waiting game, and was clearly gaining strength; Castles also paused and was in no hurry to begin; the Deaf’un rubbed his chest, and then his thatch with both hands, and grinned, as much as to say, “I’m in no hurry.” Castles tried a feint with his left, but if would not do; the Deaf’un was wide awake, and showed that he was determined not to throw a chance away. Castles tried his left at the body, but the blow was not effectual, at last he let go at the Deaf’un’s head, and a brisk rally followed, when the Deaf’un finished the round by giving Castles, for the first time, a heavy fall. This was the closing act of the drama. Castles found his opponent the stronger man, and, from the state of his left hand, feeling that he had not a chance, he prudently determined to give in at once, declaring that fortune was on the side of his opponent, and he had not the power to turn the scale. The Deaf’un immediately approached, they shook hands, and all was over in one hour and ten minutes.
Both men were immediately conducted to the contiguous public-house, where every attention was paid to them, and where their wounds were dressed, and their contusions reduced as much as possible. Poor Castles was heavily punished, his left eye in total eclipse; his face exhibited not a square inch without a mark, and a deep incision over the right eye showed the severity of the Deaf’un’s hitting. His left hand, too, had become perfectly useless; in truth a more perfect specimen of a courageous and undaunted submission to hard hitting we have never witnessed—the best evidence that if by nature timid, by force of mind he resisted all approach to the charge of cowardice, a species of valour even more creditable than that which mere instinct and the gift of creation has planted in the carcases of many animals. Burke had also what he called his “shares;” but with a hardier and more robust frame than Castles, as well as a head that might vie in quality with the rind of a cocoa-nut, his sufferings were not so severe. Yet we doubt whether in any of his former encounters his receipts were of so severe a character; he confessed he got much more than he expected, and was disagreeably surprised at finding “Mister Bobs so dangerous a customers.”
Castles lost this battle principally from his eagerness in the latter part of the fight, and a want of judgment in not hitting and getting away. He was too fast, while the Deaf’un cunningly waited and popped him as he came in, thus giving a sort of double impetus to his deliveries. Had Castles rattled in with more determination when Burke was amiss, about the eighth round, the issue might have been different. Burke felt his position, and had recourse to all the strategems of an old soldier, husbanding his strength, getting down, and never attempting to wrestle or unnecessarily exhaust his powers; by this means he preserved his physical energies, and made the best use of them at the proper time. Castles, on the contrary, was always first to the call of “time,” and till the last few 155 rounds “made all the running,” thereby realising the fable of the hare and the tortoise. In trying to throw the Deaf’un, too, he diminished his powers; still, with all this, we are inclined to think, had his left hand not given way, a result almost inevitable from the frequent repetition of heavy hits on the Deaf’un’s granite nut, he would have come off victorious; as it is, with all his faults, he proved himself superior in pluck and moral courage to most of the modern men of his weight, and deserved the generous consideration of those who prize such qualities. The Deaf’un showed unflinching game throughout, and fighting up-hill as he did, with his right arm seriously, though not fatally damaged, he proved that “all was not lost that was in danger;” and that in confiding in his tact his admirers were not trusting to “a broken reed.”
The battle money was given to Burke at Young Dutch Sam’s, the “Old Drury Tavern,” Brydges Street.
The re-embarkation followed in good order, and all reached Waterloo Bridge at seven o’clock—the combatants proceeding under the care of their friends to their respective quarters. As an appropriate pendant to the prosaic version of this “crowning victory” we append
A TRIUMPHANT EPISTLE FROM DEAF BURKE TO BOB CASTLES.
My sarvice, friend Castles, once class’d with the nobs, We’ve finished our fights, and we’ve settled the jobs; I founds you a customers ugly and stout, And I’m blest if my works wasn’t neatly cut out. We’ve both of us passed, and no doubts on’t, our prime, And good sarvice we’ve seen in the Rings in our time; Fortune’s smiles and her frowns we’ve been destin’d to weather, But ne’er, as I knows on, displayed the white feather. Your friends chose to say I’d no relish for whopping, And censure as currish my systems of dropping, Declare by good men such a course was abhorr’d, And a leafs I had prigg’d from the books of Nick Ward. Now I humbly begs leave at sich nonsense to grin— One objects I had, and that there was to win; And who’er at my tictacs may fancy a fling, Such dodging’s all fair by the Rules of the Ring. On strengths and on plucks do men place sole reliance? Is nothing allow’d for manoovers and science? The systems of getting away would you fetter? Why, Bobbys, my tulips, you knows a deal better? Too fast with your rush you were constantly in, Till I gladly observed you had damaged your fin; Now, says I to my pals, you may alter your tones, For I see clear as muds that the games is my owns. 156 And yet I received of hard hitting a gluts, You pepper’d my pimples, and damag’d my nuts; I never suppos’d you could come it so rough, And well pleased was I when you sing’d out “enough!” I’m sure you’ll allow, after triumphs achiev’d, I wasn’t so stale as some folks has conceived; Who swore that my powers pugilistics were spent, And I couldn’t inflict in fresh butter a dent. That I’ve not the same powers I’m free to deplore, As when I floor’d Byrne and a great many more; All out-and-out fancy boys, fearless and free, Then the Deaf’un aspired to be top of the tree. But lush and late hours, ’twould be folly to doubt, For a time wore my frame and my energies out; First Bendigo gave me a punishing dose, And I then by Nick Ward was consign’d to repose. Yet tho’ peaceful the course which for some time I shap’d, I felt that my gas had not wholly escap’d; My luck once again I was anxious to try, And with a true trump to turn out for a shy. The rest, Bobs, we knows, and I scorn all self praise, And I’d troubles sufficient the needful to raise; And, faith, I had almost despaired of a fight, When Young Dutch Sams came forward, and made it all right. Then we’ll meet at his cribs, Bobs, and go the whole hogs, In despatching his malts, his Virginny, and grogs, And as the pure drinkables mount to our brain, In “luck to the Rings” the bright pewters we’ll drain. And I’ll teach you to hact, both abroad and at home, The statutes of Greece and the statutes of Rome! I’ll teach you, Bob Castles, to understand traps, And make you a classical sorts of a chaps. And whether clean’d out or well breech’d with the stump, In wars or in peaces you’ll find me a trump, And whoever agin you foul slanders may hazard, Shall have from this mauley a tap on the mazzard. Then good-bye for the present—I wish you all mércies; You see I’m no bad one at tagging of werses, And ready at all times for going to vork, I’m yours, without any more gammon, Deaf Burke.
This was the last “flare-up” of the Deaf’un’s pugnacious spirit. Late hours and long fasts, alternated with creaming sillery, lobster-salads, devilled biscuits, ditto kidneys, and a deluge of meaner liquors, soon reduced poor Burke to a shadow of his former self, and he died of consumption on the 8th of January, 1845, in Francis Street, Waterloo Road. His good qualities were his own, his vices the grafting of his so-called “betters” in society.
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