This version attempts to mimic Datas' book. The paging and text follows
the book's layout as far as possible.
CHAPTER III
MEMORIES OF JEM MACE
I was in Melbourne when for the third time I
met dear old Jem Mace. I found him in proud
proprietorship of the Old England Hotel in
Bourke Street, Melbourne. Just the same old
Jem he was----silk hat and all. He had retired
and settled down there. His merry old face lit
up when he saw me, and he again told me what
a narrow escape I had from being shot up, or
as he put it, "bumped off," that night.
"I want to take you across to meet one of the
old-timers," he said. "Larry Foley lives over
the way, and we'll take a bottle across."
Larry Foley was the last of the Australian
bare-knuckle fighters, and at the time of this
introduction he was the proprietor of a very
flourishing "house-breaking" business. In his
day he had been a great fighter, and was the
hero of the last bare-knuckle fight in Australia
in i885, at Euchador, when he fought Abe
31
32 DATAS: THE MEMORY MAN
Hicken, another good boy. The fight lasted
thirty-nine rounds, and was looked upon as one
of the epics of the old-time ring. Larry had
been a barman at Jem's hotel, and, as was
natural, Jem had soon spotted him as a likely
lad. Jem at that time was drawing custom to his
hotel by combining the peaceful pursuit of
playing the violin to his customers, and teaching
boxing. Larry showed such promise that he was
soon in the forefront of Aussie boxers under
Jem's tuition, and the pair had remained
friends ever since. Naturally I was very glad to
meet him, and I was able to glean still more dates
and facts to store up in my head for future
reference.
"Larry was one of my best barmen," said
Jem after the introduction, and then with a
wink: "It may surprise you to know, Datas,
that all my barmen turn out proprietors in the
end. I haven't got a cash register. That's right,
isn't it, Larry ?"
Larry gave a big grin, and explained that as
there were only gold and silver coins in Australia
and no check on the takings when Jem hap-
pened to be away at the races as he nearly always
was, it was not to be wondered at that a barman
helped himself on occasions.
Larry had got his little pile from his fights.
MEMORIES OF JEM MACE 33
It was in the Old England Hotel that the miners
of Bendigo and Ballarat, real hard-swearing,
hard-drinking, hard-living old-timers from the
gold diggings, presented Jem with his famous
gold brick. It was a brick of solid gold, made
from the dust which had been taken from the
locality. When they came down to Melbourne
for a burst they always stayed with Jem, and
throughout the whole of the gold-mining
country he was as popular as he was over here.
The miners, as a token of their regard, had
this brick made, and on it was inscribed the
words with which they presented it to him :
"This is a brick and so are you."
But there came a time when Jem----through
his own generous folly----had to sell the brick
to get a few pounds. Then he had to sell all the
medals which he had won during his long
record of great fights. What a tragedy! And
I don't suppose with all his wonderful victories
he made in his whole lifetime a fraction of what
one of our present-day champions makes in one
fight of a considerably less number of rounds
than Jem and his antagonists used to go.
Jem was born in a caravan on a Good Friday,
the 7th April, 1831, at Beeston, near Norwich.
His early life was very hard and he started his
boxing career, like so many old-time champions,
34 DATAS: THE MEMORY MAN
in the old boxing booths which were one of the
most popular features of the fairs.
"Funny thing about my birthday, Datas,"
he once told me. "It fell on a Good Friday, and
it has only fallen on a Good Friday once since
then. That was back in the 'sixties."
He told me of his fights in the booths, too.
"Sometimes as many as twelve in an hour, taking
on all comers," he said. "You never knew when
you were going to get a hiding, and God help
you if you did, for the old man would curse and
blind you for letting him down, and you prob-
ably got no money. I trained for my very first
big fight by running behind a cart. That was with
Bill Benjamin, and then when we got all fixed
and the fight was going my way, damn my eyes
if the police didn't come along and chase us off .
"That was the worst of our troubles in those
days. It was the same with my next fights. I
fought Baldwin the giant, and was disturbed
again, and then when I had a go at Joe Goss,
we were again chased off. We used to fix our
fights on the borders of two or even three
counties whenever we could, and everything was
arranged as secretly as possible. Sometimes a
river would be the borderline between two
counties, and perhaps after fighting something
like a score of rounds, the police would descend
MEMORIES OF JEM MACE 35
upon us, having got wind of what was going on,
and there would be a hell of a scramble taking
up the stakes and the ropes, and scuttling across
the river to the other county, where we would
stick up the ring, and go on with the fight.
"The funny part about it was that whilst the
police of the one county were ready to chase us
off their territory, I have often seen the super-
intendent sitting on his horse, surrounded by his
men, keenly watching the fight going on in the
neighbouring county, and enjoying it to the full.
And then maybe before we could finish it off
there was no limit either as to time or rounds
then, remember----perhaps the other county
police would appear in the offing, and that would
mean another scramble for safety."
I asked Jem which was the greatest fight he
had ever had, and without hesitation he replied:
"The one with Sam Hurst. He was called `The
Stalybridge Giant', and there wasn't much of a
mistake in the description. He was a huge
fellow, well over six feet in height, and big in
proportion. When he came at me his arms were
waving in the air like windmills. That was at
Long Reach, near Molesey. He had huge hands
and arms, and could have felled an ox with one
blow.
"Eleven rounds that fight lasted, and it was
36 DATAS: THE MEMORY MAN
the toughest eleven rounds I ever fought, I
reckon," Jem went on, and then described the
fight to me in that graphic manner which only
one who had taken part in it could be expected
to use.
"Sam was a second edition of the Tipton
Slasher, only a darned sight uglier. He was a
gigantic wrestler from Lancashire, and he first
came into prominence after he had smashed
up old Tom Paddock in five rounds. I only
weighed ten stone at the time, and Sam weighed
fifteen, but I challenged him, and a fight was
arranged down the river. Sam was the ugliest
thing I had ever been up against, and he looked
more terrible because he had a bent leg, and he
used to pivot round on this. The betting was
ten to one on him, so you can guess the sort of
proposition he was.
"I knew there was only one way to get him
down, and that was to keep out of his way, and
get in whenever I could. I simply made patterns
round him at the start, avoiding every one of his
bull rushes. Once he caught me, however, and
it was a good thing for me it was not at full
strength, else I should never have fought again,
I guess. After that I danced round him,
landing a beauty straight on the nose and draw-
ing first blood. In those days it was frequently
MEMORIES OF JEM MACE 37
the case that bets were settled on first blood, so
I felt very bucked with myself.
"I did not take any liberties though, and
fought carefully. He got me, however. Got
me with one that shook me to the toes, and
again I felt that things were going to be serious.
So I danced prettier than ever, flashing in and
out and landing the hardest I could whenever a
chance arose. If he had only been a bit more
skilful I should never have lived, for he was
getting more savage with every minute, and
hitting out like a steam hammer. In the ninth
round Sam Hurst was half blind, and could
scarcely stand. He was wobbling about trying
to get me, and by this time I was playing with
him. I turned to Bob Brettle, who had promoted
the fight, and asked him to stop it. Bob
asked Sam's backers to throw in the towel, but
they had paid their money, and they ordered
him to go on. Another two rounds followed,
and then I floored him with a left which shook
the ground. I never expected to see him on his
feet again, but he staggered up, floundering
about the ring. I could not hit him. I turned
to Bob and again asked him to stop the fight,
but the angry cries of Sam's backers caused him
to order me to go on. There was nothing for it.
I simply strolled over and smashed him right
38 DATAS: THE MEMORY MAN
out. That made me the champion of England,
and it was just at that moment that the police
dashed up, and tried to nobble me; but I got
away in a boat.
"After this I challenged Tom Sayers, and
Heenan, but could not get a fight, and so I took
on Tom King the Stepney boy. He was a good
lad, and knew how to use them. We had a job
to arrange things because the authorities were
trying to stamp out prize-fighting, and even the
railway companies refused to take us down to the
various places where we staged the fights. The
old guard got together and we were smuggled
away, and it was there that I came unstuck. This
must have been one of the last bare-knuckle
fights in the country I should think, and it lasted
for forty-three rounds. One hour and thirty-
eight minutes we fought, and then I slipped on
some blood and Tom knocked me clean out.
I challenged him again, but he refused to fight
and I claimed the belt."
It was great to hear the old man recount the
details of his fights, and there was only one
occasion when I saw a look of shame in his
eyes. That was when he told me how, after
winning fight after fight in his early days, he
"laid down" to Bob Brettle----who had backed
him against Sam Hurst----in the short space of
MEMORIES OF JEM MACE 39
three minutes. "I could have eaten him," Jem
told me bitterly, "but I wanted the money, and
I went down to him. That's the dirtiest thing
I ever did."
He once explained to me that different fighters
had their different ideas of tackling a man.
Sayers' idea was to blind them by repeatedly
hitting them between the eyes. " I always used
to go for the side of the jaw. Not the point of
the chin," Jem explained to me, and then
illustrated what he meant. "If you hit them
either side of the jaw, they cannot help their
heads swinging round with a jerk, and you can
follow up with anything you like."
I saw Jem in what was possibly his last fight.
It was not in any ring, and it was not under any
specified rules. It was there in the Old England
Hotel one night when I had gone along to see
him. He had been to see the show, and I went
back with him. There were a whole bunch of
"diggers" around, and there were also some
ladies in the company. One of the diggers who
was new to the place let out a foul word. Jem
went across and told him that he did not allow
that sort of language when there were ladies
about. The big fellow grinned back, and asked
him who Jem thought he would get to stop him.
"I thought I'd just mention it to you," replied
40 DATAS: THE MEMORY MAN
Jem almost meekly, and the other lads, scenting
a bit of fun, crowded round. "And if you should
want to know who'll stop you I'll just mention
that I shan't get anyone to do it for me, but I
shall do it myself."
The digger was a giant of a fellow, and at this
he let out a roar of laughter, and then calling on
his pals to "watch this", he gave vent to a string
of bad language at the top of his voice.
Jem's fist shot out like a flash, the man
attempted to guard, but he was too slow, the
blow landed, and he literally sailed through the
air for a foot or two, landing on the bunch of
fellows who had crowded round, bringing eight
of them to the ground with him. Before he could
get to his feet of his own accord, Jem had jerked
him up, and run him clean out of the house.
I gathered from that little scene that Jem had
not lost so much of his cunning. The last time
I saw poor Jem was not so very long before he
died in 1910. He had fallen upon his bad times,
but he still wore the inevitable high hat, and
he still stuck to his favourite drink, which was
port wine with an egg in it.
One of my most pathetic memories of Jem
was an occasion when I took him down to the
Crystal Palace Gas Works, where years before I
had been employed as a stoker, and I remember
MEMORIES OF JEM MACE 41
Jem turning to me with wonder in his eyes, and
saying: "My God----how you ever managed to
remember anything except how so-and-so hot it
was."
I had landed back from my first Australian
tour in 1906, and found that Jem had come over
in the meantime. He was not too flourishing
then, having sold his hotel, and spent the
money in the way that he could spend money.
Many a pound I gave him during the years that
followed before he died at Jarrow-on-Tyne in
November, 1910.
He was buried at Armfield Cemetery, Liver-
pool, on the 4th December, 1910, his son, by his
third wife, who was a clergyman, officiating at
his father's funeral. Whenever I am in the
vicinity, I always make it a practice of putting
a few flowers on this great old fighter's grave.
Poor Jem had a pretty hard time of it towards
the end, I believe, and another memory comes
to me of him, when he was the guest of honour
at a special dinner given at the National Sporting
Club by "Peggy" Bettison. I was appearing at
the Palace Theatre at the time, and had been
invited to the dinner. There I gave out all the
dates and details of old Jem's fights, some of
which he himself had forgotten, and I recall
him asking how the devil I managed to get hold
42 DATAS: THE MEMORY MAN
of the facts. I explained that I always made it a
rule to read the old Umpire, which eventually
became the Empire News, for I found that gave
more details about sport past and present than
any other newspaper.
"Peggy" Bettison was very interested, and I
remember him saying: "I suppose you know
something about me ?"
"You were born in 1862," I told him, "and
won the light-weight championship in 1882."
I may add that he died in December, 1927.
On that occasion Jem put up a number of his
treasured photographs for auction. Pictures
showing him in various positions during his
fighting days. And it was that night that he
told me that when he was down and out----but
still wearing his silk hat----he ran across Peter
Jackson in Fleet Street. They got talking, and it
did not take Jackson long to discover that things
were not too well with the ex-champion.
He called a cab. "Jump in," he ordered Jem
and together they drove to Jackson's bank. He
drew a cheque for œ50, cashed it, and handed it
over to the surprised Jem. "He was a real gent
was Peter," said Jem, for he never forgot a kind-
ness, and years afterwards he used to remind
me of a "beautiful steak and kidney pudding"
which he had enjoyed at my mother's house.
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