The Great Train Robbery Read online

  Mr. Jeremy Johnson, Sr., led his red-bearded customer back through the stables. He was a jovial old man with most of his teeth missing. "Bit of an old gummer myself," he said, chuckling. "Doesn't hurt the drinking, though, I'll tell you that." He slapped the hindquarters of a horse to push it out of the way. "Move on, move on," he said, then looked back at Pierce. "Now what is it you'll be wanting?"

  "Your best," Pierce said.

  "That's what all the gentlemen are wanting," Mr. Johnson said, with a sigh. "None wants else than the best."

  "I am very particular."

  "Oh, I can see that," Johnson said. "I can see that, indeed. You're seeking a learner, so as to polish him yourself?"

  "No," Pierce said, "I want a fully made dog."

  "That's dear, you know."

  "I know."

  "Very dear, very dear," Johnson mumbled, moving back through the stable. He pushed open a creaking door, and they came into a small courtyard at the rear. Here were three wood-boarded circular pits, each perhaps six feet in diameter, and caged dogs on all sides. The dogs yelped and barked as they saw the men.

  "Very dear, a made dog," Johnson said. "Takes a proper long training to have a good made dog. Here's how we do. First we gives the dog to a coster, and he jogs the dog day and day again—to toughen him, you know."

  "I understand," Pierce said impatiently, "but I—"

  "Then," Johnson continued, "then we puts the learner in with an old gummer—or a young gummer, as the case is now. Lost our gummer a fortnight past, so we took this one"—he pointed to a caged dog—"and yanked all the teeth, so he's the gummer now. Very good gummer he is, too. Knows how to worry a learner—very agile, this gummer is."

  Pierce looked at the gummer. It was a young and healthy dog, barking vigorously. All its teeth were gone, yet it continued to snarl and gull back its lips menacingly. The sight made Pierce laugh.

  "Yes, yes, 'tis a bit of a joke," Johnson said, moving around the enclosure, "but not when you get to this one here. Not here, there's no joking. Here's the finest taste dog in all London, I warrant."

  This was a mongrel, larger than a bulldog, and parts of its body had been shaved. Pierce knew the routine: a young dog was first trained in sparring bouts with as old and toothless-veteran; then it was put into the pit with a "taste dog," which was expendable but had good spirit. It was in the course of sparring with the taste dog that the learner acquired the final skills to go for the kill. The usual practice was to shave the vulnerable parts of the taste dog, encouraging the learner to attack those areas.

  "This taster," Johnson said, "this taster has put the touches on more champions than you can name. You know Mr. Benderby's dog, the one that bested the Manchester killer last month? Well, this taster here trained Mr. Benderby's dog. And also Mr. Starrett's dog, and—oh, a dozen others, all top fighting dogs. Now Mr. Starrett himself, he comes back to me and wants to buy this very taster. Says he wants to have him to worry a badger or two. You know what he offers me? Fifty quid, he offers me. And you know what I say? Not on your life, I say, not fifty quid for this taster."

  Johnson shook his head a little sadly.

  "Not for badgers, anyhow," he said. "Badgers are no proper worry for any fighting dog. No, no. A proper fighting dog is for your dogs, or, if need be, for your rats." He squinted at Pierce. "You want your dog for ratting? We have special trained ratters," Mr. Johnson said. "A touch less dear, is why I mention it."

  "I want your very best made dog."

  "And you shall have it, I warrant. Here is the devil's own, right here." Johnson paused before a cage. Inside, Pierce saw a bulldog that weighed about forty pounds. The dog growled but did not move. "See that? He's a confident one. He's had a good mouthful or two, and he's well made. Vicious as ever I saw. Some dogs have the instinct, you know—can't be taught 'em, they just have the instinct to get a good mouthful straightaway. This here one, he's got the instinct"

  "How much?" Pierce said.

  "Twenty quid."

  Pierce hesitated.

  "With the studded leash, and the collar and muzzle, all in," Johnson added

  Pierce still waited.

  "He'll do you proud, I warrant, very proud."

  After a lengthy silence, Pierce said, "I want your best dog." He pointed to the cage. "This dog has never fought. He has no scars. I want a trained veteran."

  "And you shall have him," Johnson said, not blinking. He moved two cages down. "This one here has the killer instinct, the taste of blood, and quick? Why, quicker than your eye, he is, this one. Took the neck off old Whitington's charger a week past, at the pub tourney—perhaps you was there and saw him."

  Pierce said, "How much?"

  "Twenty-five quid, all in."

  Pierce stared at the animal for a moment, then said, "I want the best dog you have."

  "This is the very same, I swear it—the very dog that's best of the lot"

  Pierce crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot on the ground.

  "I swear it, sir, twenty-five quid, a gentleman's fancy and most excellent in all respects."

  Pierce just stared.

  "Well, then," Johnson said, looking away as if embarrassed, "there is one more animal, but he's very special. He has the killer instinct, the taste of blood, the quick move, and a tough hide. This way."

  He led Pierce out of the enclosed courtyard to another area, where there were three dogs in somewhat larger pens. They were all heavier than the others; Pierce guessed they must weigh fifty pounds, perhaps more. Johnson tapped the middle cage.

  "This'un," he said. "This'un turned felon on me," he said. "Thought I'd have to top him off—he was a felon, pure and simple." Johnson rolled up his sleeve to reveal a set of jagged white scars. "This'un did this to me," he said, "when he turned felon. But I brought him back, nursed him, and trained him special, because he has the spirit, see, and the spirit's everything."

  "How much?" Pierce said.

  Johnson glanced at the scars on his arm. "This'un I was saving—"

  "How much?"

  "Couldn't let him go for less'n fifty quid, beg pardon."

  "I will give you forty."

  "Sold," Johnson said quickly. "You'll take 'im now?"

  "No," Pierce said. "I'll call for him soon. For the moment, hold him."

  "Then you'll be putting a little something down?"

  "I will," Pierce said, and gave the man ten pounds. Then he had him pry open the dog's jaws, and he checked the teeth; and then he departed.

  "Damn me," Johnson said after he had gone. "Man buys a made dog, then leaves him. What're we up to today?"

  CHAPTER 11

  The Destruction of Vermin

  Captain Jimmy Shaw, a retired pugilist, ran the most famous of the sporting pubs, the Queen's Head, off Windmill Street. A visitor to that pub on the evening of August 10, 1854, would be greeted by a most peculiar spectacle, for although the pub was notably low-ceilinged, dingy, and cheap, it was filled with all manner of well-dressed gentlemen who rubbed shoulders with hawkers, costers, navvies, and others of the lowest social station. Yet nobody seemed to mind, for everyone shared a state of excited, noisy anticipation. Furthermore, nearly everyone had brought a dog. There were dogs of all sorts: bulldogs, Skye terriers, brown English terriers, and various mongrels. Some nestled in the arms of their owners; others were tied to the legs of tables or to the footrail of the bar. All were the subject of intense discussion and scrutiny: they were hefted into the air to gauge their weight, their limbs were felt for the strength of bones, their jaws opened for a look at the teeth.

  A visitor might then observe that the few decorative features of the Queen's Head reflected this same interest in dogs. Studded leather collars hung from the rafters; there were stuffed dogs in dirty glass boxes mounted over the bar; there were prints of dogs by the hearth, including a famous drawing of Tiny, "the wonder dog," a white bulldog whose legendary exploits were known to every man present.

  Jimmy Shaw, a burly figure with
a broken nose, moved about the room calling, "Give your orders, gentlemen," in a loud voice. At the Queen's Head, even the best gentlemen drank hot gin without complaint. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the tawdry surroundings at all. Nor, for that matter, did anyone seem to mind that most of the dogs were heavily scarred on the face, body, and limbs.

  Above the bar, a soot-covered sign read:

  EVERY MAN HAS HIS FANCY

  RATTING SPORTS IN REALITY

  And if people should be uncertain as to the meaning of that sign, their doubts ended at nine o'clock, when Captain Jimmy gave the order to "light up the pit" and the entire assembled company began to file toward the upstairs room, each man carrying his dog, and each man dropping a shilling into the hand of a waiting assistant before ascending the stairs.

  The second floor of the Queen's Head was a large room, as low-ceilinged as the ground floor. This room was wholly devoid of furnishings, and dominated by the pit—a circular arena six feet in diameter, enclosed by slat boards four feet high. The floor of the pit was whitewashed, freshly applied each evening.

  As the spectators arrived on the second floor, their dogs immediately came alive, jumping in their owners' arms, barking vigorously, and straining on the leashes. Captain Jimmy said sternly, "Now you gentlemen that have fancies—shut 'em up," and there was some attempt to do this, but it was hardly successful, especially when the first cage of rats was brought forth.

  At the sight of the rats, the dogs barked and snarled fiercely. Captain Jimmy held the rusty wire cage over his head, waving it in the air; it contained perhaps fifty scampering rats. "Nothing. but the finest, gentlemen," he announced. "Every one country born, and not a water-ditch among 'em. Who wants to try a rat?"

  By now, fifty or sixty people had crammed into the narrow room. Many leaned over the wooden boards of the pit. There was money in every hand, and lively bargaining. Over the general din, a voice from the back spoke up. "I'll have a try at twenty. Twenty of your best for my fancy."

  "Weigh the fancy of Mr. T.," Captain Jimmy said, for he knew the speaker. The assistants rushed up and took the bulldog from the arms of a gray-bearded, balding gentleman. The dog was weighed.

  "Twenty-seven pounds!" came the cry, and the dog was returned to its owner.

  "That's it, then, gents," Captain Jimmy said. "Twenty-seven pounds is Mr. T.'s fancy dog, and he has called for a try at twenty rats. Shall it be four minutes?"

  Mr. T. nodded in agreement.

  "Four minutes it is, gentlemen, and you may wager as you see fit. Make room for Mr. T."

  The gray-bearded gentleman moved up to the edge of the pit, still cradling his dog in his arms. The animal was spotted black and white, and it snarled at the rats opposite. Mr. T. urged his dog on by making snarling and growling noises himself.

  "Let's see them," Mr. T. said.

  The assistant opened the cage and reached in to grab the rats with his bare hand. This was important, for it proved that the rats were indeed country animals, and not infected with any disease. The assistant picked out "twenty of the finest" and tossed them down into the pit. The animals scampered around the perimeter, then finally huddled together in one corner, in a furry mass.

  "Are we ready?" called Captain Jimmy, brandishing a stopwatch in his hand.

  "Ready," said Mr. T., making growling and snarling sounds to his dog.

  "Blow on 'em! Blow on 'em!" came the cry from the spectators, and various otherwise quite dignified gentlemen puffed and blew toward the rats, raising the fur and sending them into a frenzy.

  "Aaannnddd . . . go!" shouted Captain Jimmy, and Mr. T. flung his dog into the pit. Immediately, Mr. T. crouched down until his head was just above the wooden rim, and from this position he urged his dog on with shouted instructions and canine growls.

  The dog leapt forward into the mass of rats, striking out at them, snapping at the necks like the true and well-blooded sport that he was. In an instant he had killed three or four.

  The betting spectators screamed and yelled no less than the owner, who never took his eyes from the combat. "That's it!" shouted Mr. T. "That's a dead one, drop 'im, now go! Grrrrrrr! Good, that's another, drop 'im. Go! Grrr-rugh!"

  The dog moved quickly from one furry body to the next. Then one rat caught hold of his nose and clung tightly; the dog could not shake the rat free.

  "Twister! Twister!" shrieked the crowd.

  The dog writhed, got free, and raced after the others. Now there were six rats killed, their bodies lying on the blood-streaked pit floor.

  "Two minutes past," called Captain Jimmy.

  "Hi, Lover, good Lover," screamed Mr. T. "Go, boy. Grrrrh! That's one, now drop 'im. Go, Lover!"

  The dog raced around the arena, pursuing its quarry; the crowd screamed and pounded the wooden slats to keep the animals in a frenzy. At one point Lover had four rats clinging to his face and body, and still he kept going, crunching a fifth in his strong haws. In the midst of all this furious excitement, no one noticed a red-bearded gentleman of dignified bearing who pushed his way through the crowd until he was standing alongside Mr. T., whose attention remained wholly focused on the dog.

  "Three minutes," Captain Jimmy called. There was a groan from several in the crowd. Three minutes gone and only twelve rats dead; those who had bet on Mr. T.'s fancy were going to lose their money.

  Mr. T. himself did not seem to hear the time. His eyes never left the dog; he barked and yelped; he twisted his body, writhing with the dog he owned; he snapped his jaws and screamed orders until he was hoarse.

  "Time!" shouted Captain Jimmy, waving the stopwatch. The crowd sighed and relaxed. Lover was pulled from the arena; the three remaining rats were deftly scooped up by the assistants.

  The ratting match was over; Mr. T. had lost.

  "Bloody good try," said the red-bearded man, in consolation.

  The paradoxes inherent in Mr. Edgar Trent's behavior at the Queen's Head pub—indeed, in his very presence in such surroundings—require some explanation.

  In the first place, a man who was the president of a bank, a devout Christian, and a pillar of the respectable community would never think to associate himself with members of the lower orders. Quite the contrary: Mr. Trent devoted considerable time and energy to keeping these people in their proper place, and he did so with the firm and certain knowledge that he was helping to maintain good social order.

  Yet there were a few places in Victorian society where members of all classes mingled freely, and chief among these were sporting events—the prize ring, the turf and, of course, the baiting sports. All these activities were either disreputable or flatly illegal, and their supporters, derived from every stratum of society, shared a common interest that permitted them to overlook the breakdown of social convention upon such occasions. And if Mr. Trent saw no incongruity in his presence among the lowest street hawkers and costers, it is also true that the hawkers and costers, usually tongue-tied and uneasy in the presence of gentlemen, were equally relaxed at these sporting events, laughing and nudging freely men whom they would not dare to touch under ordinary circumstances.

  Their common interest—animal baiting—had been a cherished form of amusement throughout Western Europe since medieval times. But in Victorian England animal sports were dying out rapidly, the victim of legislation and changing public tastes. The baiting of bulls or bears, common at the turn of the century, was now quite rare; cockfighting was found only in rural centers. In London in 1854, only three animal sports remained popular, and all concerned dogs.

  Nearly every foreign observer since Elizabethan times has commented on the affection Englishmen lavish upon their dogs, and it is odd that the very creature most dear to English hearts should be the focus of these flagrantly sadistic "sporting events."

  Of the three dog sports, dogs set against other dogs was considered the highest "art" of animal sports. This sport was sufficiently widespread that many London criminals made a good living working exclusively as dog thieves, or "fur-puller
s." But dogfights were relatively uncommon, since they were ordinarily battles to the death, and a good fighting dog was an expensive article.

  Even less common was badger-baiting. Here a badger would be chained in an arena, and a dog or two set loose to worry the animal. The badger's tough hide and sharp bite made the spectacle particularly tense and highly popular, but a scarcity of badgers limited the sport.

  Ratting was the most common dog sport, particularly at the mid-century. Although technically illegal, it was conducted for decades with flagrant disregard for the law. Throughout London there were signs reading, "Rats Wanted" and "Rats Bought and Sold"; there was, in fact, a minor industry in ratcatching, with its own specialized rules of the trade. Country rats were most prized, for their fighting vigor and their absence of infection. The more common sewer rats, readily identified by their smell, were timid and their bites more likely to infect a valuable fighting dog. When one recognizes that the owner of a sporting pub with a well-attended rat pit might buy two thousand rats a week—and a good country rat could fetch as much as a shilling—it is not surprising that many individuals made a living as ratcatchers. The most famous was "Black Jack" Hanson, who went about in a hearse-like wagon, offering to rid fashionable mansions of pests for absurdly low rates, so long as he could "take the critters live."

  There is no good explanation for why Victorians at all levels of society looked away from the sport of ratting, but they were conveniently blind. Most humane writing of the period deplores and condemns cockfighting—which was already very rare—without mentioning dog sports at all. Nor is there any indication that reputable gentlemen felt any unease at participating in ratting sports; for these gentlemen considered themselves "staunch supporters of the destruction of vermin," and nothing more.

  One such staunch supporter, Mr. T., retired to the downstairs rooms of the Queen's Head pub, which was now virtually deserted. Signaling the solitary barman, he called for a glass of gin for himself and some peppermint for his fancy.