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  Bill Neate Versus the Gasman

  WILLIAM HAZLITT

  Reader, have you ever seen a fight? If not, you have the pleasure to attend, the battle between the Gasman and Bill Neate...

  ...The crowd was teeming when we arrived at the spot; open carriages were coming up, with streamers flying and music playing, and the country-people were pouring in over hedge and ditch in all directions, to see their hero beat or be beaten...

  .. .I had got a good stand; a bustle, a buzz, ran through the crowd; and from the opposite side entered Neate, between his second and bottle-holder. He rolled along, swathed in his loose greatcoat, his knock-knees bending under his huge bulk; and, with a modest, cheerful air, threw his hat into the ring. He then looked round, and quietly began to undress. From the other side there was a similar rush and an opening made, and the Gasman (Tom Hickman) came forward with an air of anticipated triumph. He strutted about more than became a hero, sucked oranges with a supercilious air, and threw away the skin with a toss of his head, and went up and looked at Neate, which was an act of supererogation. The only sensible thing he did was, as he strode away from the modern Ajax, to fling out his arms, as if testing to see whether they would do their work that day.

  By this time they had stripped, and they each presented a strong contrast in appearance. If Neate was like Ajax, 'with Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear' the pugilistic reputation of all Bristol, Hickman might be compared to Diomed; light, vigorous, elastic, and his back glistened in the sun, as he moved about, like a panther's hide. There was now a dead silence, all were awestruck. Who at that moment, big with a great event, did not draw his breath short—did not feel his heart throb? All was ready. They tossed up for the sun, and the Gasman won. They were led up to the scratch—shook hands, and went at it.

  In the first round everyone thought it was all over. After making play for a short time, the Gasman flew at his adversary like a tiger, struck five blows in as many seconds, there first, and then, following him as he staggered back, two more, right and left, and down he fell, a mighty ruin. There was a shout, and I said, 'There is no standing this'...

  ...They met again and Neate seemed, not cowed, but particularly cautious. I saw his teeth clenched together and his brows knotted close. He held out both his arms at full length straight before him, like two sledge-hammers, and raised his left an inch or two higher. The Gasman could not get over this guard—they struck mutually and fell, but without an advantage on either side...

  .. .This was the only moment in which opinion was divided; for, in the next, the Gasman, aiming a mortal blow at his adversary's neck, with his right hand, and failing from the length he had to reach, the other returned it with his left at full swing, planted a tremendous blow on his cheek-bone and eyebrow, and made a red ruin of that side of his face. The Gasman went down, and there was another shout—a roar of triumph as the waves of fortune rolled tumultuously from side to side. This was a settler.

  Hickman got up, and 'grinned horrible a ghastly smile,' yet he was evidently dashed in his self esteem; it was the first time he had ever been so punished; one side of his face was bright scarlet, and his right eye was closed in dingy blackness, as he advanced to the fight, less confident, but still determined....

  There was little cautious sparring—no half-hits—no tapping and trifling, none of the petitmaitreship of the art—they were almost all knock-down blows: the fight was a good stand-up fight. The wonder was the half-minute time between each roud. If there had been a minute or more allowed, it would have been intelligible how they should by degrees recover strength and resolution; but to see two men smashed to the ground, smeared with gore, stunned, senseless, the breath beaten out of their bodies; and then, before you, recover from the shock, to see them rise up with new strength and courage, stand ready to inflict or receive mortal blows, and rush upon each other 'like two clouds over the Caspian'—this is the most astonishing thing of all: this is the high and heroic state of man!

  From this time onward the event became more certain with every passing round; and at about the twelfth it seemed as if it must have been over. Hickman generally stood with his back to me; but in the scuffle, he had changed positions, and Neate just then made a tremendous lunge at him, and hit him full in the face.

  I never saw anything more terrific than his aspect just before he fell. All traces of life, of natural expression, were gone from him. His face was like a human skull, a death's head spouting blood. The eyes were filled with blood, the nose streamed with blood, the mouth frothed blood. He was not an actual man, but a preternatural spectral appearance, or one of the figures in Dante's Inferno.

  Yet he fought on after this for several rounds, still striking desperate blows, and Neate standing on the defensive, and using the same cautious guard to the last, as if he had still all his work to do; and it was not until the Gasman was so stunned in the seventeenth or eighteenth round that his senses forsook him, and he could not come to time, that the battle was declared over...

  ...The carrier-pigeons now mounted into the air, and one of them flew with the news of her husband's victory to the bosom of Mrs. Neate. Alas, for Mrs. Hickman...

  This is an episode out of the life of a man who, born in 1868, saw the rapid advance of science—especially in the field of locomotion. Here, he is exploring the possibilities of aviation.

  Adventures with Airships

  H.K. HALES

  Just as I graduated through the various states of land travel from the old boneshaker to the modern car, so I progressed in aviation. The history of flying, I find, is very little understood; and youngsters who watch the great air liners of today rarely realise that thirty years ago to leave the ground at all was considered bordering on the miraculous.

  For many years my thoughts kept turning to the air. I had seen the motor-car conquer derision, and I was sure that the aeroplane would do the same. I read of the experiments of the brothers Wright and demanded continually why no one in England was following their lead.

  I was a Midland county cycle, piano, and motor dealer, with no money to spend on experiments, but I was determined to play some part in the flying game. It was in this spirit that I attended Hanley Park Fetes'. Hanley Park Fetes were just like all the others—fireworks, flower shows, roundabouts, horse jumping, and all the fun of the fair. But that year there was something new. Captain Spencer, the famous aeronaut, had arrived in his airship.

  I had intended to examine the mechanism closely and to question Captain Spencer on the problems of flight—particularly with reference to the aeroplane which was coming more and more into the news. There was no thought in my mind of making a flight. I did not think that that would be possible. I found, however, to my astonishment, that instead of being one of a host of eager applicants for permission to accompany the Captain on his demonstration, I was the only person in the whole crowd who was willing to pay for the privilege of risking his neck. I believe that I am entitled to claim that I was the first paying passenger by airship in Great Britain who went any distance and rose to 1000 feet.

  Though the airship looked very easy and safe on the ground, I examined it with the eye of a mechanic, and was amazed at the flimsy nature of its construction. Nevertheless I was determined to go. I was 'The Card'—and 'The Card' had to be first in any enterprise, no matter how mad or dangerous. It was privately arranged that Mr H.K. Hales would accompany the aeronaut on a circular route covering fifty miles.

  The airship did not depart for a considerable time. Indeed, it seemed that it would never be able to take to the air. The sail-like rudder was being fixed to the framework when suddenly there was an ominous crack, and it was found that one of the bamboo cross-pieces supporting the 'sail' had buckled up and split. The damage was repaired by Captain Spencer, and the split bamboo was bound together and strengthened with other lengths of the same material. Shortly after eight o'clock on that summer evening all was complete. The airship, properly ballasted, was ready to rise. Captain Spencer climbed into the
cockpit and to the amazement of the large crowd of 30,000. I followed him. I was not nervous—far from it—for I knew that I had my special providence with me, and it had never let me down yet. At half-past eight we were off. My friend, with whom I had gone to the fair, ran off to get my car as he intended to follow the ship by road. A reporter begged me to give him any instructions as to the disposal of my worldly goods, and with his voice echoing in my ears I left Mother Earth for the first time.

  'Start her up!' shouted Captain Spencer, and to a tumult of shouts and a scattering of the crowd, we were off and away.

  I had long dreamed of flight, it had always been one of my cherished ambitions, and now that it was mine I was fairly thrilled. Below me stretched the crowd and the roofs of houses like little child's toys. I sat there in the basket and the one thought in my mind was that I must tread lightly, for I had no wish to slip through the bottom The airship was powered by a six-horse-power motor. Think of it! Six horse-power, and not very good horses at that, if I knew motors! Heaven help us if a strong wind arose. The engine would be useless to drive us against it.

  We were soon travelling along comfortably, and the novelty was wearing off. I was gazing down at the passing landscape, lovely in the setting sun, when suddenly Spencer spoke to me: 'Mr. Hales,' he said, 'Would you like to navigate her yourself?' I jumped at the chance—I had always wanted to do this. I took firm hold of the heel and by following Captain Spencer's instructions carefully, I gradually found that I had the airship as much under control as my favourite motor-car. First circling to the left and then to the right, we flew like some gigantic bird over the peaceful countryside. Soon we headed into the wind and the little motor propelled us along; slowly, it is true, but still we did progress.

  Then we circled round once more until the wind was behind us, and now we fairly flew. Soon the Captain left me to my own devices, and I piloted the airship on my own.

  'It's very difficult to judge your height,' he said. 'We'd better throw out a line.' Many years later, travelling in an Imperial Airways liner with a great cluster of dials, I remembered that on my first flight our only altimeter was a weighted cord. It was just like taking soundings in the sea. True, we had an aneroid barometer which gave fairly accurate height readings when you were well up. But near the ground it was useless. And it was naturally at low heights that the question of altitude was most important. Hence the line.

  South by east we travelled, the lilac evening creeping all around us.

  'That's Blyth Bridge,' I said. 'What height are we now?'

  'There thousand feet,' said Spencer. 'Time we were getting down.'

  'What's that place there?' I asked.

  'There's Leigh,' he said,'—and farther on, Cresswell. Stand by. I'm going to pull the cord.'

  As he spoke he switched off the motor, and I shall never forget that moment as long as I live. Mine had been a noisy life. I had never realised what utter peace could be. Now as we drifted through the stillness of the dusk there was not a single sound. Even the canvas and the ropes were still. Silence was absolute ... terrific. We seemed to be lost in a sea of quiet.

  A touch of the cord and our descent began, a long, luxurious glide, with the earth floating up as if in welcome.

  'Be ready with those grappling irons,' said the Captain at last.

  I awoke with a start to face reality. It seemed much darker, and the earth was very near.

  'Here are some hayfields,' said the Captain. 'Down we go.'

  So down we went—and dropped right into the arms of a stiff night breeze that was scurrying along the tree-tops. Our speed at once increased dangerously as we skimmed over hedges and trees. It was no longer a question of a gentle glide. Disaster seemed close at hand.

  'Let go,' shouted the intrepid Spencer. 'Over with that grappling iron!'

  It took every ounce of my strength but I managed to sling our anchor overboard from that crazily tilting basket without throwing myself after it. Hanging on like grim death I gazed anxiously down to where the huge grapple bumped in great leaps over the fields, for it had nothing on which it could lay hold. I was still staring down, fascinated by the huge leaps made by the anchor, when I felt my coat collar clutched at and the Captain pulled me down violently into the bottom of the basket. I had not looked in the direction in which we were travelling, nor had I realised our peril. No sooner were we crouched below the basket's rim than with a resounding crash we collided with the branches of a large oak tree, the partially deflated balloon fluttering lamely above us. Below was the ground—a good thirty feet away. For a few moments we remained stationary. Then came another terrible crack and I felt myself upside down, head over heels, holding on for dear life.

  Just where I was I could not tell, but there was a huge weight on my head and I struggled to free myself. My hand encountered the lower regions of Captain Spencer's anatomy and I realised that he was sitting on my head. On my stomach lay two or three sandbags and my legs were doubled under me. One thought swept through my mind in these seconds. Not a prayer, not a curse, but simply a query. My special providence would have its work cut out to get me clear of this. I wondered what it would do about it.

  The airship had broken in two, and we were hanging suspended in midair, held only by the cords which secured the basket to the balloon.

  'Hold tight—don't move a muscle,' yelled Spencer. Not that I was likely to. I couldn't move a limb, what with his weight, and the weight of the sandbags pressing solidly upon me.

  In a few moments Spencer slowly and carefully climbed to his feet and freed me from the tangle. By this time some farm labourers had hurried to the tree and, acting under his instructions, they gently pulled the car down inch by inch until we were about fifteen feet from the ground.

  'Come on, old chap,' said Spencer. 'Hurry up and climb down before things crack any more.'

  Very carefully I felt my way down to safety. Believe me, the land felt extremely good and solid under my feet. Captain Spencer followed, and when he arrived we solemnly shook hands.

  Then I turned to the nearest labourer and asked him where we were. His reply was not illuminating. 'Thee're in t' middle o' noweere.' At first I believed him, but later found that we were not far from Cresswell. It took us three hours' hard work to pack that airship up and stuff it into a hay-cart. With this we journeyed back to Hanley. It was early dawn before my friend in my car found me. He had given me up for lost. It was not a triumphant return, but I did not mind. I had not only made a flight, but I had actually piloted an airship for more than thirty miles. To-day in my cabinet are three brown leaves, arranged neatly. They have withered a little since they grew on that oak tree in 1904, but I keep them. The power that grew those leaves on that oak tree guided me to safety. I keep them to remind me of that.

  Three years later, almost to the day, I made three ascents in a balloon on consecutive days. The first was from Hanley to Manchester. I remember that with two companions I entered the refreshment bar in London Road Station at Manchester and asked for something to eat. They offered us sandwiches, but we wanted something better. 'We have come too far for sandwiches to be any good,' I remarked, and when inquiries drew from us that we had not come from the north by the express or from the east by the local or from west or south by any other train, but had arrived from the air almost on the roof of the restaurant, we were served with something befitting the occasion.

  We had commenced the ascent at the annual fete at Hanley, the scene of my earlier adventure. Taking a north-easterly direction, we passed over Burslem, over Mow Cop, and later over Congleton and Maccles field. As we sailed over this town the clocks struck three. Soon after passing Congleton we rose rapidly and, travelling briskly, were soon over Stock-port. Over Belle Vue our height was one thousand feet. Soon we were drifting over the factories of Manchester, and slowly descended upon a maelstrom of railway lines and low roofs. As we passed over these at a low altitude, our trailer rope twisted and turned like a live thing as it encircled first one chimney st
ack and then another. Terrific jerks resulted as each obstacle was encountered, and it seemed that at any moment we should be pitched out of our frail little basket. We skimmed over a corrugated-iron fence and the rope caught in it. For a moment we ceased our mad journey, but with a tearing sound the fence gave way and we passed on, leaving a trial of broken fencing behind us. We were now very low, and I remember that my companions were extremely worried. I was trying to cheer them up when I saw an old lady is her garden looking at us. I shouted: 'Get the kettle on, Mother, we're dropping in for tea.' The roofs were just cleared but the next obstacle was some telegraph wires. Here the rope caught tight and broke three or four of them. A quick lurch followed and we found ourselves on the ground surrounded by mill-hands. These men pounced on the balloon and held it down while we scrambled out. By the side of us was a large reservoir, so we were lucky to have stopped where we did. Had we travelled a few feet farther, the chances were we should have been drowned.

  My second flight was a short one. Once again I was with Captain Spencer. We travelled as far as Biddulph without incident, and returned the same evening to Hanley.

  But the third trip was more interesting. At 11:30 on Friday morning we entered the basket of the larger of Spencer's two balloons—capacity, 45,000 cubic feet. Soon we left the Potteries behind us. On we went over the Derbyshire Hills. Leek was passed at twelve o'clock, but then rain came on suddenly and forced us down.

  'Stand by to throw ballast,' yelled Spencer.

  I stood ready for his orders, and at the word of command heaved the sandbags over the side. We had almost touched the ground, but a splintering of wood was the only sound of damage. As I looked over the side of the basket I saw that the top rails of a wooden gate had been carried away. We soon cleared the crest of the hills and were once again 4000 feet above the ground. Chatsworth House lay below us, encircled by its lovely trees. We happily munched our sandwiches.