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.Nulli Secundus -
'Second to None'
by Terence Cardwell
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Chapter Four -
Butchers Block
Alathea and Joseph walked together; the boys skipped
away in front. Joseph wore his grey rough woollen
sleeveless shirt and long trousers. He was wearing his
work boots, carrying his boxing boots, towel and sweat
cloths in a canvas bag.
Although he looked totally calm on the outside, he felt
somewhat nervous about this fight.
His
opponent was a butcher from Huddesfield called
Partridge, a burly man of substantial weight and size
who was also carrying a fair amount of fat. His fists
were huge and had been known to do serious damage to
more than one man’s face and body. His one weakness was
his lack of stamina, being a firm believer that
exercises and running weakened a man. A good feed of
meat and bread was much better.
 As Joseph walked he considered his tactics and confirmed
in his own mind the best moves to make. ‘Stay away from
those fists. Keep moving around and wait till he tires—
if he don’t knock me out first! One hit from those fists
could send any man senseless,’ he concluded.
The fight was to take place in the middle of the village
common, located in the valley between the hills. It was
a large grassy field surrounded by wooden pit posts that
were used as a fence. There was a roped-off square area
in the middle where the fight was to take place.
Scattered around the field were crudely erected stalls
with food and home-knitted goods for sale. Three stalls
were occupied by men with bags in their laps. They had
the usual miner’s Sunday clothes on; these were the
local bookmakers, eager to make a shilling.
‘Let’s have yer bets, put yer money here to win.’ They
called out.
A small horse and cart was trotting around the outside,
taking children for a ride for a h’penny. Other children
sat in front of a tall, brightly-covered box where a
Punch and Judy show was being performed. They were
transfixed by the puppets, screaming with laughter and
shouting each time Judy laid into poor old Punch with a
stick. Punch would yell and squeal and the children
would squeal with him. Jack and Thomas ran to the puppet
stand and sat down to watch as Joseph and Alathea walked
across to the boxing ring.
A crowd had collected around the boxing ring. Joseph and
Alathea eased their way through the crowd, the
spectators calling out words of encouragement as they
neared the ring. Two of Joseph’s work mates, acting as
his assistants, were at the ringside waiting for him.
They had placed a crude stool made from boxwood in the
corner and had a bucket full of water with a cloth in it
standing nearby.
‘Aah, there yer are, me lad,’ said Mick Maltby, one of
his assistants. ‘We thought you might have changed your
mind,’ he added with a grin.
‘Not much bloody chance of that,’ Joseph growled back.
‘But I admit I must be mad to do this just for a bob or
two.’ He leaned on the ropes.
Alathea picked up the canvas bag Joseph had dropped and
removed the boxing boots. She loosened the laces and
handed them to Joseph one at a time as he put them on.
‘Thank you love,’ Joseph said as he leaned over and
kissed her cheek. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘You don’t need luck.’ She smiled at him. ‘You’re as
good as that Tom Cribb any day.’
Joseph’s idol was a bare knuckle fighter called Tom
Cribb, a famous champion with a lengthy career of
seventeen years, twelve of them as bare knuckle world
champion from 1812 to1824. Joseph had based himself on
his style of fighting, aggressive but steady, taking his
time and wearing down his opponents.
Joseph climbed through the ropes into the ring, took off
his woollen shirt and handed it to Mick. He leaned
against the corner post, his arms stretched along the
ropes, and observed his opponent in the far corner.
Partridge looked back with a leer, a look of pure hatred
and malice. He punched the air a few times with his huge
fists as if to put fear into Joseph. But Joseph had met
his type many times before. The theatrics had little
effect, except to put a smile on his face.
A man in a battered suit climbed through the ropes.
Holding his arms in the air he addressed the crowd.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, today we have one of the last of
the bare knuckle Champions— Mister Joseph Cardwell
defending his title of heavyweight champion of Yorkshire
against George Partridge of Huddesfield, butcher, a
fighter of some repute.’
He lowered his arms and waved the fighters to the middle
of the ring.
Joseph’s body was well proportioned with broad muscular
shoulders falling to a small waist, kept thin by hard
physical work and the meagre fare of a miner’s diet. In
contrast, Partridge was bulked out from rich foods and
meats that would never grace a miner’s table. As he
moved towards the middle of the ring Joseph flexed his
shoulders to loosen them up.
‘You will fight by the Marquis of Queensbury’s rules and
anyone breaking those rules will be disqualified. No
hitting below the belt. No biting or kicking. No
shouting and no obscene language,’ the referee bellowed
so all could hear. He sent them to their respective
corners and moved away.
The time keeper hit the gong to indicate the beginning
of round one. The crowd immediately started shouting
encouragement to their favoured boxer. Jack and Thomas
raced across from the Punch and Judy show to watch the
fight, squeezing their way through the dense crowd until
they were alongside their father’s corner.
Partridge rushed forward to the middle of the ring,
eager to engage Joseph, and led with a left hook
followed by a right aimed at Joseph’s head. Joseph was
expecting this type of aggressive fighting and deftly
stepped back and sideways. Partridge grunted, brought
his fist in to cover his face and jabbed with his right
hand. Joseph danced backwards and sideways, the other
fighter following him in a stumbling gait.
‘Stand still, ya bugger, so I can hit ya,’ Partridge
snarled. Joseph smiled and moved to his left, starting
to swing his left hand towards the side of Partridge’s
head
Partridge thought he was clever in seeing it coming and
moved his head to his left. But the blow never arrived;
Joseph had already switched to his right, bringing it up
to meet Partridge’s evading head.
Thwack! The blow landed on Partridge’s ear and the side
of his head. Joseph felt the impact on his knuckles and
right up to his elbow. Partridge let out a roar of pain
and stepped back two paces. The crowd cheered in support
and called out encouragement.
Partridge, having learnt the hard way not to take Joseph
lightly, spent the rest of the round chasing a
retreating, or so he thought, Joseph.
As round two began Partridge rushed out again, eager to
attack, convinced that Joseph was backing away. He swung
blows rapidly at Joseph and finally connected with his
right ribs. He saw his opponent sag a little and moved
in for the kill. Joseph felt the heavy impact of blows
on his arm muscles. Partridge tried to land a fatal
blow. Joseph continued to dance around with Partridge
following him with tiring steps.
The next three rounds were spent in avoiding each
other’s blows and continual moving around by Joseph. By
this time Partridge was losing his temper and snarling
like a madman. He rushed in, not caring about being hit,
swinging rapid left and right blows at Joseph’s head.
The sudden attack caught Joseph off guard and he
received three heavy blows to the side of his head
before recovering enough to move out of Partridge’s way.
His head felt light and the people around him became a
blur, the noises around him disappeared and his legs
felt as if they were no longer there.
‘That’s it, I’m finished,’ he thought to himself. ‘Oh
well, I can give up fighting now.’ But he was determined
to at least stay standing. Through the haze he could see
Partridge snarling at him, saying something, ‘Why isn’t
he hitting me?’ he thought/ ‘He should be in for the
kill.’
He started backwards and felt someone’s hand on his
shoulder pulling him back. He looked at Partridge who
was moving away for some odd reason, then turned to who
was pulling him.
It was his second Bob Suthers, pointing towards the
stool, and he realised the round had finished, although
he had not heard the gong. Thankful, he sat on the stool
and shook his head.
‘Bugger me, I thought you were a gonna that time,’ Bob
said, wiping Joseph’s face down with a dripping wet
cloth. ‘Can you carry on, or should I throw the towel
in?’
Joseph’s hearing was coming back and his vision was
clearing.
‘You throw that towel in and you’ll bloody well get
thrown in after it,’ he replied, only half serious. He
felt someone else pulling at his arm and turning saw
Jack and Thomas standing close by.
Jack grabbed his left arm with both hands and said,
‘Good on ya, you can do it, Dad, I know you can.’
‘Yeah. You’re the best,’ Thomas added.
Joseph felt a rush of pride in his children and this
gave him new strength. He jumped up in response to the
gong.
He punched in a defensive mode for the next two rounds,
allowing his head to clear, and managed to avoid most of
Partridge’s blows, some of which were wild and easily
anticipated. He had not landed any telling blows and
Partridge believed he had the fight won. But Joseph was
biding his time, allowing his head to clear and building
up his strength, waiting as Partridge slowly tired.
Partridge again attacked with a flurry of blows, trying
a repeated left, right combination, but the blows did
not have the same strength as before. Joseph was ready
for him, and as the blows came he ducked and swung his
right fist up, slamming into Partridge’s midriff with
all his power. There was a whooshing sound from
Partridge as the wind was forced out of him, blowing his
cheeks out, and his eyes opened wide. Joseph saw his
chance. He swung his left fist with all his shoulder
behind it. It impacted on Partridge’s temple like a
miner’s pick on a coal face. Partridge’s head swung
sideways and he started to stagger.
‘It’s time,’ thought Joseph. He stepped back, observing
Partridge trying to regain his composure and balance. He
leaned to his right then brought his right fist up as
hard as he could. It roared up to strike Partridge
squarely under his chin.
Partridge’s head flew back. His eyes glazed over. He
toppled slowly to the ground, bounced on the grass with
a thud and lay still.
The referee stepped over him and started counting. By
the time he had finished, Joseph was standing in the
neutral corner with his arms resting on the ropes.
‘The winner, and still the heavy weight champion of
Yorkshire, Mister Joseph Cardwell!’ the referee shouted,
pointing to Joseph, who waved casually to the cheering,
ecstatic crowd of mine workers.
His supporters were mostly from his own mine or close
by, and were cheering loudly. Some, with great faith in
Joseph’s ability, had risked a few shillings and
increased their wealth, much to their pleasure. The
procession home was noisy, with supporters cheering the
family on their way. A few pressed the occasional coin
into Alathea’s or Joseph’s hand in appreciation of their
winnings, and they accepted this not as charity but as
their due for a battle won.
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