A Giant's Tale, Part Two: An International Sensation of Prodigious Proportions
Across the Medicine Line: Tales From the 49th Parallel.
The articles in ‘Across the Medicine Line’ are written in hopes of learning more about how North America came to be. How our peoples lived, ate, drank, travelled, loved, fought and thought during the time between the discovery, founding and solidification of our long partnership and our current society. We believe that learning these stories can further strengthen the many ties that bind our two nations and better understand – or even heal! -- the divisions that still separate us.
In Part One, we explored Charles Freeman’s upbringing in Middlesex County, Ontario in the early part of the 19th century. We followed him from his unremarkable birth in Smoke Hollow to his growth into a young man of prodigious size, and his discovery by bare-knuckle boxer Ben Caunt. That alliance would grow into a partnership as they toured North America, becoming a fixture on the circuit of spectacles that included freak shows, circuses and dodgy museums, before becoming a cause célèbre in England. There, Freeman would compete for what was billed as the first world heavyweight championship.
During their tour of the eastern United States, a circuit that included New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, Caunt and Freeman performed in demonstrations, exhibition matches and circuses. When they visited Boston, Freeman was exhibited at Jonathan Harrington’s Museum in Boston. Harrington was a ventriloquist and magician, who briefly established ‘Dr. Harrington’s Museum’ in rooms within the former New England Museum, which was partially owned by a man named Moses Kimball, a close associate of showman Phineas Taylor (PT) Barnum.
Moses Kimball’s New England Museum. Briefly home to Dr. Harrington’s Museum, where Freeman was exhibited, it was typical of the ‘dime museums’ of the era.
Harrington’s was typical of the era’s ‘dime museums’, part of the overall entertainment complex of the day – which included circuses, music halls, and sport spectacles like prize fights – which would all evolve into vaudeville, magic lantern shows, pro sports, and ultimately, cinema.
With an affordable ten-cent admission, dime museums were very popular with the expanding industrial working class and European immigrants alike. They combined natural history, scientific models, wax figures, animal menageries, and lectures with sensational freak shows, chimeras and hoaxes like P.T. Barnum's Feejee Mermaid or the Cardiff Giant. Many famous performers of the era—including Harry Houdini—got their start on dime museum stages. Other famous dime museums included Kohl & Middleton’s in Chicago, the Wonderland Dime Museum in Detroit, and Barnum’s American Museum in New York.
The ‘Feejee Mermaid’, as Advertised and as Displayed. In reality, it was a mummified monkey with a fish tail sewn on, but it vividly demonstrates the liberties promoters took when advertising their exhibitions.
The ‘Cardiff Giant’, a Petrified Man Supposedly Dug Up in Cardiff, NY. Another hoax, in reality it was a sculpture carved from a five-ton block of gypsum.
Other exhibitions would take place in raucous music and assembly halls, in scenes similar to the shows depicted in the movies ‘Gangs of New York’ and ‘Tombstone’. No matter the entertainment value, the packed, poorly ventilated venues would be suffocating, the odour of stale alcohol, pungent tobacco, unwashed bodies and burning gas overwhelming the senses. Spilled ale and gin made the floors slick, and with almost everyone in the audience smoking pipes or cigars, a blue cloud would envelop the air.
Music Hall as Depicted in ‘Gangs of New York’ (2002). It would be hard for modern sensibilities to comprehend the sounds and smells experienced by patrons of the Victorian-era venues in which Charles Freeman performed.
It was during these exhibitions that Freeman’s origins were completely rewritten by a savvy promoter, if not by Caunt himself (who was by now Freeman’s manager). His new biography was very much in keeping with the inflated claims surrounding popular attractions of the day, whose promoters were more interested in attracting ‘marks’ than telling the truth.
As we already established, the press of the day was not much more interested in objectivity. It invented for him an American origin, more likely to appeal to the nativist crowds than a birth in an obscure corner of the British colony to the north. This was the origin of Freeman’s Michigan Giant nickname.
Newspaper clippings in North Carolina provide a good example of the kind of puffery that surrounded these exhibitions, calling him “…a Hercules, and an Apollo Belvidere combined in one person. There is now exhibiting a young Goliah (sic), by the name of Charles Freeman, who stands some seven feet four in his stockings—lifts a dead weight of fifteen hundred pounds, and is the most perfectly proportioned being imaginable. The best of the joke is, that the young varmint is not yet out of his teens, and expects to grow a foot or two taller yet.".
The Carolinian newspaper said of Freeman “the greatest man living is said to be a modern Goliah [sic] named Charles Freeman, now at Boston. He is a native of New York State, but 19 years old, measures 7 feet 3 inches in height, and weighs 300 pounds. He is double jointed, a very Sampson in strength, is well proportioned, and formed with the most perfect symmetry."
During performances, the giant was capable of stunning feats of athleticism that amazed the varied crowd. In 1901, the sporting newspaper ‘Famous Fights, Past and Present’ wrote that:
“He could throw an astounding number of somersaults in succession, he could jump and run like a deer, and his great feat in the circus was riding two horses at a time while holding a man balanced with his arms above his head as he galloped around the arena.”
The superlatives and propaganda weren’t limited to the popular press, either. No less prestigious a publication than The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal was happy to uncritically boost the fictitious biography invented by his promoters, but went further, throwing their scientific weight behind the dubious claims about his measurements. Given how closely details like his supposed height match Freeman’s press kit, it’s clear that the journal was merely re-printing what they were given.
“Charles Freeman, significantly called The American Giant, and with much propriety, too, was born in the city of New York, July 16, 1821, and will therefore be 19 years and six months old on the 16th of the present month. In height he measures seven feet and three inches, and weighs three hundred and twenty pounds. Around the chest the girth is fifty-four inches.”
Throughout their tour, Caunt spent time coaching Freeman, teaching him the finer points of the boxing trade. At each exhibition, Freeman would take on any brave soul interested in a challenge. We’re told that the only exhibition that was even close was held in New York City, between Freeman and Caunt himself. Freeman knocked Caunt out in five rounds.
By now, Caunt was sold on the exhibition value of his apprentice, and the pair decided to travel to London, at the time the most populous city in the world, to challenge William 'The Tipton Slasher' Perry. None of our sources can offer any clarity as to why Perry was specifically chosen. He was not at the time a champion (although he would become one later). Indeed, the de jure English champion was Caunt himself!
Ben Caunt was the Reigning Champion, Shown With the Cup. So why was Slasher Perry chosen as Freeman’s opponent?
Born in Staffordshire in 1819, and so only two years older than Freeman, by age 16 Perry was said to have been employed in London as a ‘navvy’ – a labourer who worked building canals and roads. The USA Boxing News says that
“Such intense manual labor regularly produced muscular men and, as sometimes happens with people who work in said profession, it also produces individuals who are known for being vulgar. Thus, it’s not surprising that Perry was a bit of a neighborhood hooligan, who was well-known for being able to beat up anyone stupid enough to challenge him to a fight.”
The same source tells us that Perry began his boxing career at age 16, in 1835. So by 1842, he was still in the early stages of his career. Nevertheless, the brash young brawler from the Midlands was not shy about his capabilities. USA Boxing News again:
“Perry was what we would call today a loudmouth: rude, gregarious, loud, a vulgarian. He also used to love to proclaim that he was the British boxing champion even when he was not and even though no sanctifying boxing club or organization then existed which could grant him such an honor.”
At this time, The Tipton Slasher was managed by Johnny Broome, himself a successful lightweight with an undefeated record. Broome was transitioning to becoming a financial patron, matchmaker and manager, and by all accounts was quite gifted at promotion.
Given these facts, it seems logical to conclude that Broome, in response to articles about Caunt’s overseas tour, was the one who challenged for the match. In any case, claims about Perry’s champion status have to be taken with a large sack of coarse-grained salt.
Even today, arguments exist over which sanctioning body is the most legitimate in the realm of boxing, leading to title disputes. Formed in 1921, The World Boxing Association (WBA) is the oldest, but in 1963, the World Boxing Council (WBC) gained status by launching improved safety measures and regulations. Since then, they have sanctioned bouts by superstars including Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao.
When it was launched in 1983, the International Boxing Federation (IBF) gained mainstream status by supporting the concept of mandatory challengers, and subsequently recognized champions like Larry Holmes and Marvin Hagler.
The World Boxing Organization (WBO) was formed as a breakaway organization from the WBA in 1988. It gained credibility by focusing on lower and middleweight divisions, featuring champions such as Oscar de la Hoya.
Today, to become an ‘undisputed champion’ boxers must hold belts from all four bodies simultaneously.
In the time of Ben Caunt, Johnny Broome, William Perry and Charles Freeman, communications were dramatically less efficient, and claims much harder to verify. It would have been easier to separate Barnum’s famous Siamese twins Chang and Eng than to tell fact from fiction. Outrageous championship claims were furiously debated in a volatile media environment already prone to exaggeration.
In the case of Freeman, The American Giant and ‘U.S. heavyweight champion’, promotional circulars and letters to newspapers were distributed in advance his arrival in England. Anticipation build like pressure in one of James Watt’s revolutionary steam engines. All of England was clamoring to see Caunt’s ‘Hercules’ battle Broome’s ‘Slasher’.
As Bell’s Life reported:
“These announcements created considerable sensation in the sporting world, and when the pair arrived in Liverpool so great was the eagerness to see this wonderful new importation from the States that the Queen’s Theatre, in which Ben and the giant opened their show, was crammed during every night of their stay, and money turned away from the doors. The Londoners were equally anxious to see this tremendous specimen of humanity, and Caunt’s house in St. Martin’s Lane was crowded with sportsmen all agog to see the new giant.”
Caunt and Freeman arrived in Liverpool on March 10, 1842, boarding a London and North Western Railway passenger train in Euston Station and travelling the five hours to London Euston Station. To young Charles Freeman from rustic Smoke’s Corners, it must have been a stunning sight, even after having had a taste of urban living in New York and Boston. In that year, London was the world’s largest and most modern city, and Greater London was home to a population of more than 2.2 million. It was the heart of the British Empire, then at its Victorian peak.
The rails on which they comfortably rolled were part of a vast web of steel exploding across the island, accommodating wood-panelled rolling stock pulled by the steam engines which had been introduced less than 30 years earlier. The Stephenson’s Rocket, the most modern engine of the day, operated on the Liverpool-Manchester line, reaching speeds of 36 miles an hour. It was the Rocket that had proved, during the Rainhill Trials of 1829, that locomotives were superior to the competing concept of stationery winding engines (essentially a winch, similar to those used to hoist miners and coal up long underground shafts).
The UK Science+Industry Museum writes “…the technology applied to the design of Rocket was soon extended across the entire railway network, paving the way for the modern rail network and shaping the course of the history.”
It’s safe to say that modern transportation in the 20th century, especially in North America, would look much different if a winch were chosen to power trains instead of a locomotive!
But, back to our story….
Stephenson’s Rocket. The high-tech steam engine was a modern mechanical marvel, capable of speeds up to 36 miles per hour.
As they chugged nearer the capital, they entered a maze of suburbs of wildly varied styles and architecture – standardized building codes would not be adopted for another 16 years, when the Local Government Act of 1858 was passed – all being built to service an exploding population now able to commute by rail.
Crossing into the city, Freeman would have witnessed the most horrendous, wretched and unyielding deadly poverty, lined with a soft velvet blanket of impossible-to-imagine wealth. Charles Dickens wrote about the conditions of the day extensively, and one of his most scathing commentaries, Oliver Twist; or The Parish Boy’s Progress, had completed its serial run in Bentley’s Miscellany only 3 years earlier. A popular contemporary of Dickens, George W.M. Reynolds, was equally critical of Victorian society, writing of the conditions at the time:
"The most unbounded wealth is the neighbor of the most hideous poverty...the crumbs which fall from the tables of the rich would appear delicious viands to starving millions, and yet these millions obtain them not! In that city there are in all five prominent buildings: the church, in which the pious pray; the gin-palace, to which the wretched poor resort to drown their sorrows; the pawn-broker's, where miserable creatures pledge their raiment, and their children's raiment, even unto the last rag, to obtain the means of purchasing food, and – alas! too often – intoxicating drink; the prison, where the victims of a vitiated condition of society expiate the crimes to which they have been drive by starvation and despair; and the workhouse, to which the destitute, the aged, and the friendless hasten to lay down their aching heads – and die!"
A million chimneys spewed smoke from the cheap soft bituminous coal Londoners burned in their parlours. Sulphur dioxide and soot mixed with the natural fog of the Thames Valley to congeal into a greasy, acrid mist: the infamous greenish-yellow pea-soup London fog Dickens would describe in Bleak House (1853):
“…smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun.”
When a “pea-souper” was at its worst, gas streetlamps needed to be lit, creating a supernatural glow and adding methane, carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide to the foul air. Respiratory illnesses like bronchitis, pneumonia and tuberculosis were widespread, and under cover of the fog, gangs and pickpockets easily slipped the clutches of the top-hatted constables of the 13-year-old Metropolitan Police Force – the ‘Peelers’ – named after the force’s founder, Sir Robert Peel.
London Metropolitan Police. These ‘Peelers’ are depicted in a 1842 cartoon in Punch magazine. Often the prisoners shown here escaped into the pea-soup fog.
Those who could afford to do so hired ‘link boys’, youths with torches (called ‘links’) to light their way for a farthing per trip. There was no guarantee, though, since some of their guides were in the pay of the pickpocket gangs.
Led to Safety or Led Astray? Torch-bearing London ‘link boys’ were necessary in the worst of the fogs, but they were often viewed with mistrust.
Disembarking from the train, the pair would have chosen a Hansom cab or a Hackney carriage from among more than 3,000 licensed cabs. Travelling to their accomodations, their cab would have been one minnow in a school, joining a sea of thousands of private carriages, coal-wagons, and tradesmen's vehicles which combined to create London’s legendary traffic jams. The sound of iron-rimmed wooden wheels and steel-shod hooves clattering on cobbles must have been enough to wake the dead.
Worse, if their driver turned onto Euston Road or Marylebone Road, they might encounter drovers guiding herds of cattle, sheep or pigs on their way to Smithfield Market in central London. The primary livestock market since 1253, the slaughterhouse processed more than 100,000 cattle and 750,000 cattle each year – all to feed the growing capital’s insatiable appetite for meat, leather, and tallow.
A London Traffic Jam in the Temple-Tower Area in the 19th Century. From an engraving by Paul Gustave Louis Christoper Döre.
Immediately upon arrival Caunt engaged Freeman in a series of exhibitions and demonstration matches much as they had done in the United States. They appeared at raucous musical halls and taverns as they had done at the United States, as well as at the glittering gin palaces that had become a fixture of Victorian London in recent years.
Interior of a Victorian Gin Palace. More upscale than a mere tavern, The Fancy in a gin palace would have been the biggest bettors and offer an exhibitor a more lucrative return.
Gin palaces emerged in the 1830s. Still catering to the common man, they were glittering, well-lit and being standing-room only – patrons were encouraged to down their beverages while standing at the bar in order to stimulate consumption and sales – they were designed to separate the rising working class from the meagre wages they were beginning to accumulate as participants in the industrial revolution.
In a 2021 article called ‘The Gin Palace’ by Lee Jackson he describes the ambience:
“Typical decoration included illuminated clocks; etched plate-glass windows; over-sized gaslights; extensive bars of polished mahogany. Behind the bar stood vast barrels of branded liquor, the likes of ‘Old Tom’ and ‘Cream of the Valley’. The American author Theodore Sedgwick wrote back to his countrymen, awestruck, ‘Everybody has heard of the gin palaces in England; few, however, can have any adequate conception of them.’ The superabundant use of gas was a great source of amazement: ‘at one [establishment], a revolving light, with many burners, playing most beautifully over the door; at another, about fifty or sixty jets in one lantern, throwing out their capricious and fitful, but brilliant gleams’.”
They usually featured large plate-glass and mirror installations, and prismatic or etched glass that multiplied the glow and created a theatrical atmosphere. Many were illuminated further in daylight with stained-glass windows, which some considered scandalous since those were considered appropriate only for churches. While public houses had women working in serving roles, women of ‘quality’ were not permitted entry. This held true for the gin palaces as well, although the barriers of social roles were beginning to fray as the earliest suffragist movements were emerging. Women were reading about exhibitions like Freeman’s in the popular press, and were starting to believe they had a right to experience them for themselves.
In his landmark 1906 multi-volume Pugilistica: The History of British Boxing – an outstanding source of information about Freeman’s time in England, complete with a blow-by-blow description of the bouts – Henry Downes Miles wrote:
“Freeman, during several months, not only exhibited at the Queen’s Theatre, Lyceum, Olympic, Adelphi, Victoria, and other theatres, halls, and assembly rooms, where a great feature of the entertainments was a caricature of boxing by the giant and Big Ben, but the non-sporting papers were flooded with ridiculous paragraphs, several of them offensively setting forth the wonderful powers and prowess of the American gladiator, and in some instances asserting the ‘scare’ produced among English prizefighters by the advent of the New World Goliath. We need hardly say that Freeman himself was entirely innocent of this silly braggadocio, which emanated from the Barnum managers of these performances, and the speculators who at this time degraded the character of the decadent ring, and prostituted its true aim – the encouragement of courage and skill – to their own profit and plunder.”
Sparring by Isaac Cruikshank, 1817. An authentic depiction of a bare-knuckle bout being staged in a tavern in London.
One result of the “silly braggadocio” accompanying the fight’s promotion was a general belief amongst the public that the bout would be for the ‘World Championship’. There was, of course, no such official title…not to mention that neither man held his country’s title, or – in Freeman’s case – any experience or record beyond exhibitions. Still the hype worked, a date for the match was set in accordance with the following terms, and both opponents set themselves to training.
Articles of Agreement
“Articles of agreement entered into this 29th of September, 1842, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, between Charles Freeman and William Perry of Tipton. The said Charles Freeman agrees to fight the said William Perry, a fair stand-up fight, in a four-and-twenty foot roped ring, half minute time, according to the New Rules, for £100 a side, on Tuesday, the 6th of December, half-way between Tipton and London. In pursuance of this agreement, £20 a side are now deposited in the hands of the stakeholder; a second deposit of £10 a side to be made on Thursday, the 6th of October, at Johnny Broome’s; a third deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 13th of October, at Johnny Walker’s; a fourth deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 20th of October, at Jem Burn’s; a fifth deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 27th of October, at Tom Spring’s; a sixth deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 3rd of November, at Johnny Broome’s; a seventh deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 10th of November, at Tom Spring’s; an eighth deposit of £10 a side on the 17th of November, also at Tom Spring’s; and the ninth and last deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 1st of December, at Johnny Broome’s. The said deposits to be made between the hours of 8 and 10 o’clock, p.m., or the party failing to forfeit the money down; a toss for choice of ground to take place on the night of the last deposit. The men to be in the ring between the hours of twelve and one o’clock, or the man absent to forfeit the whole of the stakes. Two umpires and a referee to be chosen on the ground, the decision of the latter in the event of dispute to be conclusive. In case of magisterial interference the referee, if chosen, to name the next time and place of meeting, or if the referee be not chosen then the stakeholder to name the next time and place if possible on the same day; but the money not to be given up until fairly won or lost by a fight; the winner to pay for the ropes and stakes. Should any money be given for the privilege of the fight taking place in any particular locality, such money, if agreed to be accepted, to be equally divided between the men.
“(Signed) “Charles Freeman.
“John Broome (for W. Perry).”
Promotional Poster for the Bout. Sourced from the New York Almanack.
For training, Pugilistica tells us they based themselves in taverns, which were often the sponsors of prize fights of the day. Freeman trained at Frank Key’s public house, the Duke of York, and Gannick Corner near the London borough of Barnett; for his part, William ‘The Tipton Slasher’ Perry trained at Jemmy Parsons pub in Hampton on the north bank of the Thames, and at Ould Tom Owen’s at Northfleet, Kent. One imagines their spirits were fortified between workouts by…well…spirits.
The Duke of York, One of the Public Houses Where Charles Freeman Trained. Opened in 1791, it is still operating and can be visited today.
When not training or carousing, Charles Freeman enjoyed walking the streets of London, which must have seemed marvellously modern compared to the muddy trails of Smoke’s Corners and Yarmouth Township. Reported to be a humble man of “…unassuming conduct, civil deportment, and good temper…”, the giant made many friends, and became a darling of the locals. Pugilistica tells us that Freeman exhibited:
“…the appearance of a walking monument, to the no small alarm of the squirrels in Squire Byng’s park, into whose dormitories he occasionally casts a squint of recognition. By his good humour and playfulness of disposition he has won all hearts, and has been a welcome guest on whatever premises he has cast anchor in his walks, which have seldom been less than twenty or thirty miles a day.”
‘Squire Byng’s Park’, Where Freeman Often Walked. Formally known as Wrotham Park, it still remains in the Byng family, and has served as a location in numerous films and tv series, including Downton Abbey, The Crown, and Bridgerton.
Just days before the fight Pugilistica reported that “…he has been extremely attentive to his training, and has been much reduced in flesh, while his muscular developments stand forth with additional symmetry. On his arrival in this country he carried some twentythree stone ‘good meat,’ but we doubt whether on Tuesday he will much exceed eighteen stone. His drawers and fighting shoes have been built with a due regard to ease and elegance, and the latter have been seasonably aired by being lent to a cat and kittens as temporary nursery.”
The First Bout
Pugilistica tells us that the venue for the first fight changed multiple times on the morning of the event, testing the patience, both of the fighters’ parties and the many members of ‘the Fancy’ who had arrived via rail from Tipton and London, respectively.
“The superintendent of police…had received orders from London to prevent hostilities, and to this was added the fact that Mr. Phillips, a Hertfordshire magistrate, was in readiness to keep the peace.’ ”
The entire crowd, numbering in the hundreds, if not thousands, grumbled as they collectively moved four miles to Hatfield Heath, a swampy ground that was identified as a possible alternative site. When they arrived – in carriages and many on foot, complaining about the hike – they were met once again by the superintendant and the magistrate. And once again they were moved along.
“The Sawbridgeworth police superintendent and Mr. Phillips, the magistrate, once more presented their ill-omened countenances, and plainly declared their determination to prevent the fight taking place either in Essex or Hertfordshire.”
Determination notwithstanding, apparently the authorities considered their efforts to keep the peace were sufficient to demonstrate conduct of their duty, since at this point they disappear from the narrative. The fighters and ‘The Fancy’ all travelled in a mob, once again plodding the four miles back to the original location. All of this back and forth meant that much of the day allotted for the bout had evaporated, and the ring was readied sometime between 4:00 to 4:30 pm.
When the fighters entered the ring and shook hands, they were reported to be “in high spirits and eager for business. Umpires and a referee having been chosen, the ring was cleared out, and the ‘privileged’ dropped contentedly to the damp earth.”
Pugilistica goes on:
“…the towering height of Freeman presented a most formidable aspect, while the muscular development of every limb, and the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, gave him the appearance of herculean strength…the Slasher also wore a cheerful smile on his mug, which betrayed the fact that he had already lost some of his head rails. From his hips up his bust displayed great muscular power, but being in-kneed, there was less of symmetry in his figure than in Freeman’s. On throwing himself into position, however, this was scarcely perceptible, and he may be described as a model of burly strength. He appeared to be, and said he was, in excellent condition, and, judging from his cheerful index, there was no want of self-confidence…of betting there was but little—5 to 3 was offered but not taken, and the only bet we heard laid was one of 6 to 4 on Freeman.”
Newspaper Cartoon of Freeman Knocking Perry to the Ground. Source: The Ogden (Utah) Standard-Examiner, 1934.
From the perspective of aficionados of ‘scientific fistics’, the 70-round bout was largely disappointing, according to contemporary reports. The Slasher used his agility and footwork to largely avoid Freeman’s devastating blows. The wily brawler’s sporadic attacks – flurries of blows to the giant’s shoulders and arms – had virtually no effect.
For his part, Freeman repeatedly threw or knocked Perry to the ground, but the suspicion among ‘the Fancy’ was that as the fight wore on, the Slasher began purposely throw himself to the ground. This was an illegal tactic calculated to end a round and allow the fighters a 30-second rest. If adjudicated by referee to be on purpose and not a mis-step or a knockdown, such a maneouvre would be considered a foul. Pugilistica again:
“In the last few rounds there was an evident attempt to draw Freeman into the Slasher’s corner, round which a desperate set of ruffians had collected, who, by the most offensive vociferations, endeavoured to intimidate and alarm him. He, however, kept his temper, and came up every round cool and collected, grumbling only at the Slasher not standing up to fight.
In the 69th round the Slasher exclaimed, “I’ve got you now, old fellow!” but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when Freeman hit him down with his left. The darkness, combined with a fog, now became so intense that it was impossible to see what was doing from one side of the ring to the other…it is much to be regretted that this curious encounter was not brought to a more satisfactory conclusion, inasmuch as the merits of the men still remain undecided.”
The re-match took place on December 20, two weeks later, at Cliffe Marshes, Gravesend. This time the crowd travelled on board the steamer ‘The Father Thames’, evidently determined to avoid the exhausting and muddy slog that characterized the first bout.
We’re told that “the company on board, about four hundred in number, was truly representative of the Ring patrons of the day. A Scotch marquis, two or three scions of the peerage, a sprinkling of military men, a veteran ‘salt,’ sundry hunting and university men, doctors, barristers, with some sporting clubbists from ‘the sweet shady side of Pall Mall’ and the dingy smoking snuggery of the now resplendent ‘Limmer’s,’ formed the ‘upper-crust.’ ”
Compared to the shenanigans surrounding the Sawbridgeworth debacle, the voyage to Cliffe Marshes was a luxurious affair. Among the passengers on The Father Thames was one William Bishop, a gun-dealer and legendary sporting character nicknamed ‘the Bishop of Bond Street’. Bishop was the London agent of the legendary firearms manufacturer and retailer Westley Richards and Co.
“…with the forethought gained by long experience, had brought on board a capacious hamper, accompanied by a handsome basket of white willow, which [contained] a wealth of game-pie, pigeon-pie, chickens, ham, tongue, salad, and the various comestibles for which Fortnum and Mason are renowned. That the white willow basket was a worthy auxiliary of the big hamper ‘goes without saying’. Schnapps, in several square-shouldered and short-necked bottles and flasks, cognac, sherry, and a battalion of silver and gold-necked champagne, came forth at intervals in such succession as made us think that the Bishop had really the supernatural gift boasted by Glendower, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep,’ [he is said to have commented] and that ‘they do come when I do call them…’ ”
Following in the wake of the laden steamer, like a flock of ducklings, came a fleet of small craft. We’re told that by the time the armada arrived at Lower Hope Point, six miles from Gravesend, there was a large ‘mosquito fleet’ as well as a ‘tail” of Gravesend wherries, or light rowboats, which were permitted to hang on to the stern tow-rope of ‘The Father Thames’.
A More Luxurious Journey. River Thames steamboat paddle-wheelers circa 1854, similar to the ones on which ‘The Fancy’ travelled to Freeman’s second bout.
The ring was set up in on the riverbank, beneath a ridge. The crowd came equipped with folding chairs, assembled trestle tables for snacks and liquor, and carried picnic baskets and bundles of straw on which to sit. Entrepreneurs brought barrels of beer for the masses, and privileged ticket holders, members of the press and various officials were seated on stools. Meanwhile, “…the outer circle was soon after materially increased by a crowd of East Enders, conveyed by sundry steam-tugs, which, at a very low tariff, conveyed the multitude”.
The fight began at precisely 12:13 pm, and the spectators took note of the appearance of the fighters. The Slasher wore a long white jacket of a coarse wool and a fur cap made from a wild cat whose head was intact. This style was a very early example of the Victorian Taxidermy Hat craze, which would not peak for another 30 years. With hats sporting kitten’s heads and stuffed squirrels, it would eventually be nicknamed ‘murderous millinery’; it would have been very fashion-forward for Perry to wear it in 1842, and a symbol of status. It also happened to dovetail nicely with his promoted reputation as a ‘wild man’.
Murderous Millinery. By the 1880s, taxidermy on hats was all the Victorian rage. Freeman was clearly in the avant garde of fashion.
Freeman, upon removing his own robe, stunned the crowd with an even greater bulk than he had exhibited in his earlier bout, only two weeks earlier. The weigh-in confirmed his weight as 18 stone, 12 lb, or 264 pounds. Pugilistica, again:
“His confidence, too, seemed to have increased in a corresponding degree. The Slasher, on stripping, looked thinner, and certainly paler than when he last peeled in Cambridgeshire; but he had lost none of that careless, “dare-devil” expression for which his countenance is remarkable.”
Once the match got underway, it was clear that the contest was unequal. Once again Perry employed his trademark evasive tactics, but Freeman seemed to dominate the ring, even though he “…missed most of his well-intentioned but ill-directed blows from the shifty character of his opponent, as well as from his own wild and uncertain mode of delivery.”
William ‘The Tipton Slasher’ Perry collapsed after thirty-eight rounds (37, according to some accounts), and Freeman was declared the winner on account of a foul, the referee judging that Perry’s falling to the ground was neither a slip or the result of a blow.
Drawing published in The Ring Magazine, September 1931. Source: the New
York Almanack.
The second contest went on for 37 rounds before Perry fouled himself out of the contest after he threw himself to the ground without being hit.
Despite the victory, and the billing of the match notwithstanding, no world title was awarded Freeman, for the many reasons we’ve already listed. Nor did Caunt or Freeman insist upon it, either because the fight ended on a foul, which usually meant no title could change hands, or because both men were well aware that the title claim being amplified by the popular press was more hype than reality.
The verdict of the sporting press at the time was that both contests were considered “long and rather boring affairs”.
Pugilistica’s final assessment on Freeman as a modern marvel of the boxing ring is summarized by the following quote:
“That he is a game man we have no doubt, but he is unwieldy, and possesses too much of ‘the milk of human kindness’ ever to become a ‘star’ in the Ring, even if his equal could be found. We are inclined to think, however, that this will have been his last appearance in the P.R. [Prize Ring], and should recommend him to choose some more suitable occupation—although as a sparrer, from his great size, he will always be an object of curiosity.”
Promoter Johnny Broome, when awarding Freeman his prize money, would applaud Freeman’s character, giving him credit for:
“…his unassuming conduct since his arrival in this country, as well as for his strict observance in the ring of those principles of fair play which formed the groundwork of the rules of British boxing…he entered the arena without the most remote hostility towards his opponent…the issue had shown that “the Giant” was too much for “the pigmy,” but as the experiment had been fairly tried, there was no ground for censure on either side.”
Freeman must have agreed with those who assessed him as having no future in the fight game, as he retired from the ring undefeated, never to fight again. Nor did he return to the rustic pastures of Middlesex County.
Instead, enticed by the numerous attractions of life in the world’s largest city, and having acquired a taste for its gin palaces, he became a barman at the Lion and Ball tavern in Red Lion Street, Holborn, central London. There, we’re told he appeared on stage giving exhibitions of strength, athleticism and acrobatics which “entertained the regulars and attracted many new patrons.” Other accounts suggest he actually became owner/operator of a tavern.
But all agree that he continued performing, even appearing in theatrical parts tailored around his size. In 1843 we are told he had a part in a play at Birmingham’s Royal Theatre, Hotel and Tavern, entitled ‘The Son of The Desert’. After the play, he posed for patrons in an exhibit called ‘The Grecian Statues’.
Strongmen posing as ‘Grecian Ideals’ would be popularized later in the 19th century by Eugene Sandow, who – at the instigation of impresario Florenz Zigfeld who hired him to perform at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exhibition in Chicago – would re-create figures from famous paintings and statues. The poses, which Ziegfeld dubbed ‘muscle display performances’ would become the basis for those common in bodybuilding competitions today.
The Royal Theatre Hotel and Tavern (1774-1956). Freeman appeared in a play at this Birmingham landmark a year after his fight with Perry.
Strongman Eugene Sandow’s ‘The Dying Gaul’. Later in the 19th century and into the 20th, Sandow and other strongmen would expand on Charles Freeman’s more ‘artistic’ exhibitions. Today, Sandow is considered the father of modern bodybuilding, which owes a debt to Freeman.
It was these ‘high-brow’ artistic exhibitions that ultimately became accessible to women of the gentry and provided them with a place to congregate without (much) scandal. Creative fig-leaves were duly applied, and suddenly women had collective access to strongmen and their physiques. The private ‘ladies clubs’, physical academies, salons, dinner clubs with carefully curtained-off women’s sections, and upper-class theatres that emerged all served as venues in which ladies to could congregate, observe – and even touch! – these amazing specimens.
An engraving in the 1889 London National Police Gazette shows a Victorian lady appreciately feeling the biceps of a strong man. Captioned ‘Strong Men in Private; at his own academy in West London one of the best-known professors exhibits his great muscles to a party of ladies and gentlemen’, it more than hints at a level of salaciousness not yet common for the era.
The Police Gazette: 'Strong Men in Private'. Workarounds were devised to allow women to experience the muscular marvels of the day without scandalizing society.
These women’s gatherings – early experiments in popular mixed-company gatherings – led directly to the temperance and suffragist movements that would gain inexorable force in the latter part of the century, and especially in the first quarter of the twentieth century.*
They also served as a forum for queer culture to tentatively emerge from the shadows, as Flor Guzzanti noted in a 2025 article called ‘A History of Sapphic London: From Hidden Salons to Public Subcultures':
“…for women denied recognition, a salon or a club was never just somewhere to meet. It was a strategy of survival, a way of refusing to vanish under patriarchal and heteronormative power. A drawing room in Bloomsbury, a discreet corner of a Chelsea pub, a basement off the King’s Road: each redefined who could belong, and on what terms…
...the late nineteenth century combined repression with quiet innovation. Public discourse on female sexuality was thin, and the law treated lesbianism with suspicion without ever criminalising it as it did sex between men. That legal blind spot was double-edged: it spared women the courtroom but also denied them the language, the precedent, and the visibility that even persecution can confer. Within that ambiguity, clandestine gatherings took shape. The salons and drawing rooms of London’s intellectual elite offered discreet venues where relationships could unfold beyond the reach of scandal
…the curtains are pulled tight, a fire throws unsteady light across the room, and a few women sit with books, letters, and cooling tea. Talk moves between literature, politics, and carefully coded remarks about who loves whom. A held glance does the work of a sentence. These were small, fragile scenes, and each was a refusal of invisibility, intimacy doing the work that politics could not yet do in public.”
The latter portion of the Victorian Era would see a transformative societal earthquake, in no small part derived from women's gatherings and societies like those assembled to view exhibitions of Charles Freeman. These movements would shape the entire Twentieth Century.
The first wave of the women’s suffrage movement used these forums to employ tactics first developed during the anti-slavery movement earlier in the century, picking up real momentum and political power as early as 1893. The right for women to vote was finally established in the UK and Canada in 1918, and the United States in 1920.
The temperance movement, too, benefited from the organizing and mass gatherings that became popular in this period and the intellectual foundations that emerged from women's societies. The UK Licensing Act was passed in 1872, making it illegal to be drunk in public. The Women’s Christian Temperance Union was founded in 1874. And, while the UK never passed an outright prohibition on alcohol, dry areas and restricted licensing were implemented at the country level, especially in Scotland and Wales. In the United States, country-wide prohibition took effect on January 17, 1920.
* Footnote: For those interested in learning more about the private spaces cultivated by Victorian ladies, and they role they served as a breeding ground for social and progressive movements, the following very lengthy video offers some valuable insights. Unfortunately it is generated and/or augmented by artificial intelligence, which I don’t use and am extremely hesitant to platform. But as it’s one of the best overviews of this topic I’ve found, I’ll leave it to you to decide if you wish to consume it.
Video: Secret Victorian Ladies' Clubs
Stay tuned for Part Three, in which Charles Freeman capitalizes on England’s Victorian seaside holiday culture, going on tour to bustling, railway-connected resort towns driven by a cultural obsession with therapeutic sea air, bathing, and mass leisure.
Across the Medicine Line: Tales From the 49th Parallel.
The articles in ‘Across the Medicine Line’ are written in hopes of learning more about how North America came to be. How our peoples lived, ate, drank, travelled, loved, fought and thought during the time between the discovery, founding and solidification of our long partnership and our current society. We believe that learning these stories can further strengthen the many ties that bind our two nations and better understand – or even heal! -- the divisions that still separate us.
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