The Great Train Robbery (9 page)

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 raged 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 jaws. 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 his 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 senior partner 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 those 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 sport. This sport was sufficiently widespread that many London criminals made a good living working exclusively as dog thieves, or “fur-pullers.” 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 rat-catchers. 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.

Mr. T. was in the process of washing his dog’s mouth out with peppermint—to prevent canker—when the red-bearded
gentleman came down the stairs and said, “May I join you for a glass?”

“By all means,” Mr. T. said, continuing to minister to his dog.

Upstairs, the sound of stomping feet and shouting indicated the beginning of another episode of the destruction of vermin. The red-bearded stranger had to shout over the din. “I perceive you are a gentleman of sporting instinct,” he said.

“And unlucky,” Mr. T. said, equally loudly. He stroked his dog. “Lover was not at her best this evening. When she is in a state, there is none to match her, but at times she lacks bustle.” Mr. T. sighed regretfully. “Tonight was such a one.” He ran his hands over the dog’s body, probing for deep bites, and wiped the blood of several cuts from his fingers with his handkerchief. “But she came off well enough. My Lover will fight again.”

“Indeed,” the red-bearded man said, “and I shall wager upon her again when she does.”

Mr. T. showed a trace of concern. “Did you lose?”

“A trifle. Ten guineas, it was nothing.”

Mr. T. was a conservative man, and well enough off, but not disposed to think of ten guineas as “a trifle.” He looked again at his drinking companion, noticing the fine cut of his coat and the excellent white silk of his neckcloth.

“I am pleased you take it so lightly,” he said. “Permit me to buy you a glass, as a token of your ill fortune.”

“Never,” returned the red-bearded man, “for I count it no ill fortune at all. Indeed, I admire a man who may keep a fancy and sport her. I should do so myself, were I not so often abroad on business.”

“Oh, yes?” said Mr. T., signaling to the barman for another round.

“Quite,” said the stranger. “Why, only the other day, I was offered a most excellently made dog, close upon
a felon, with the tastes of a true fighter. I could not make the purchase, for I have no time myself to look after the animal.”

“Most unfortunate,” said Mr. T. “What was the price asked?”

“Fifty guineas.”

“Excellent price.”

“Indeed.”

The waiter brought more drinks. “I am myself in search of a made dog,” Mr T. said.

“Indeed?”

“Yes,” Mr. T. said. “I should like a third to complement my stable, with Lover and Shantung—that is the other dog. But I don’t suppose …”

The red-bearded gentleman paused discreetly before answering. The training, buying, and selling of fighting dogs was, after all, illegal. “If you wish,” Pierce said at last, “I could inquire whether the animal is still available.”

“Oh, yes? That would be very good of you. Very good indeed.” Mr. T. had a sudden thought. “But were I you, I should buy it myself. After all, while you were abroad, your wife could instruct the servants in the care of the beast.”

“I fear,” replied the red-bearded man, “that I have devoted too much of my energies these past years to the pursuit of business concerns. I have never married.” And then he added, “But of course I should like to.”

“Of course,” Mr. T. said, with a most peculiar look coming over his face.

Victorian England was the first society to constantly gather statistics on itself, and generally these figures were a source of unabashed pride. Beginning in 1840, however, one trend worried the leading thinkers of the day: there were increasingly more single women than men. By 1851, the number of single women of marriageable age was reliably put at 2,765,000—and a large proportion of these women were the daughters of the middle and upper classes.