The Edge of the Crowd

II

The cage door being let open, the rats – so quick do they move that Hilditch can only roughly estimate that their number is around fifty – pour out on the boards and scatter this way and that, around and about the pit, nosing in crevices and searching for an egress, of which there is none. By Hilditch’s side, Captain Ratcliffe struggles to hold back the salivating and growling terrier as it strains and fights to be let go. The rats, sensing extreme danger, pile themselves at the opposing side of the pit, scrambling one upon the other in pyramids of fur and whiskers, screeching and tearing at each other, the topmost jumping hopelessly for the rim of the pit, where a man flashes an amber-toothed grin as he swipes at them with a club.

‘All ready, sirs?’ calls the wiry man as he shakes free a rat that has fixed itself upon the cloth of his trousers. He climbs from the pit and winks at Ratcliffe. ‘Then we’ll let the fancy commence!’

The soldier leans forward and drops the dog into the pit. It pauses a moment to size up the situation and then plunges into the largest pile of rodents, snuffling deep among the shrieking, squirming pile until it extracts a fat brown rat on which it fixes its teeth so hard that dark specks of blood appear on the rat’s neck. The dog shakes its prey as violently as it was itself shaken upon the rope. It bites harder, forcing more blood from the throat of its victim and then throws the rat upon the floor, where it lies convulsing in its death throes.

The dog darts again at the pile and pulls out another, smaller rat and, making an excited misjudgement, crushes the head in its jaws. It spits out the mutilated animal and despatches three more rats with greater efficiency. Now it has the measure of the job in hand it wags its tail and takes its time, plucking a rat from here, a rat from there; it is content to allow others to race between its legs as it breaks another small neck. So complacent is the dog that an unexpected reversal is all the more alarming.

Once more rushing a number of rats, the dog suddenly withdraws its snout, throws back its head and yelps. A rat hangs heavily from the dog’s jowls, its teeth firmly fixed in the soft skin. The dog attempts to shake free the rat and in so doing tears its own flesh. It squeals and backs away from the pain. Injured and confused, the dog turns on the remaining rats with renewed vigour and, loudly encouraged by the spectators who hang over the pit sides and sometimes beat the rats from the walls with sticks, kills one after another in quick succession. The number of dead steadily grows until more are laid stopped upon the floor than are still scattering about the ring.

A man close to Hilditch points to his pocket-watch. ‘I count thirty-eight dead or dying. Another twelve in three minutes, my beauty, another twelve!’

‘Don’t reckon your pot yet,’ Captain Ratcliffe says. ‘That dog is tiring of the game.’

No sooner has the other replied, ‘Says the expert?’ than he too sees that the dog’s attention is wavering. The gash in its cheek still bleeds and though the number of scuttling rats continues to drop, the dog is dealing out death in a most desultory fashion. The rats themselves appear to sense the change and are becoming bolder. One sits on its hind legs, rubbing its whiskers with tiny paws. Small black eyes glint in the gaslight and Hilditch is seduced by the absurd idea that the thing is praying to him, as some omnipotence holding the gift of life or death, when the dog flies at it, pinning its torso to the floor with sharp claws as it tears off the head with its teeth.

This final violence has thoroughly sated the dog and, pausing to cock its leg and piss against the pile of matted fur near the centre, it sees its present owner and jumps its paws on to the rim of the pit, where its ears are scratched. Unmolested, the last few rats traverse the floor without purpose.

The match over, money changes hands. ‘Well, Captain,’ William Saggers says when the bets are settled. ‘I’ll accept your money and then I’ll have a little bet myself. We agreed ’pon five guinea, I think?’

Captain Ratcliffe laughs dismissively. ‘A farmer might give you a few shillings. That’s no sporting dog.’

Saggers’ voice falls to a low whisper. ‘Don’t make a fool of me, Ratcliffe. I must get staked. There’s money here tonight, I can smell it!’

‘Then sniff it out, by all means,’ says Ratcliffe, turning away. ‘Just keep your nose out of my pockets.’

Saggers forces a smile but his brow appears to record the passing of darker thoughts. His eyes roam about the room but his gaze is unmet. A man whose attention is engaged before he can avert his eyes, listens to whispers and shakes his head. Saggers raises his voice. ‘What? Only five shillings, Bob? And my firm promise that you’ll have six on Saturday next? This ain’t worthy of you, Bob!’

‘Mr Willum, you know I’d never refuse you. But my last tanner went on that dog and I’ll go wivart my lunch tomorrow.’ Saggers grunts and watches blankly as a new dog sets about his rats. The small carcases are being dropped into a sack when Saggers seizes the boy Daniel and grips him by the neck. ‘This is your fault, Dan’l, you’ve brought me to this! What’s a betting man without his capital?’

Hilditch follows the altercation between father and son with interest. He is fascinated by this Saggers, who is clearly a pivotal figure in this alien world and may even, Hilditch thinks, provide him with some vital intelligence. It does not seem unlikely. Just as Hilditch himself has been identified instantly as a stranger, so too would a well-spoken and striking woman appearing suddenly in these parts. It is this woman whose memory has drawn him after her, into the East End of London, and she who impels him into such strange places as this. Engrossed in such thoughts, Hilditch fails to notice that Saggers’ eyes are fixed upon him.

‘Well, stranger! Dan’l says you’ve come a long way to see the fancy tonight. But you’ve yet to make a wager?’

Hilditch is non-committal and only shrugs, in the French fashion.

Saggers says, ‘Well, if you’re new to the fancy you’re wise to watch how it goes first. A man needs to know what he’s doing. And know something about dogs, too, eh?’

He leans over his chair and lowers his voice. ‘Lucky for you, I’m the ’knowledged expert on matters of a canine nature. Ain’t that so, Ned?’

‘’E’s that, all right,’ says a man in a garish waistcoat.

‘What I propose,’ Saggers confides, ‘is that I larns you something about the fancy, in return for a small consideration. Through the fault of others, I find myself short. But a gent like you would hardly come out without his tin, eh? Now, to begin, shall we stake five shilling?’

‘No, I think not,’ Hilditch replies.

‘Three, then? Or a round half crown?’ Hilditch shakes his head and Saggers frowns. ‘I knows my dogs, I tell you. And if we don’t win I don’t take my consideration. How much fairer can a man be? Give me a shilling and I’ll lay it down.’

‘No, I really think not,’ Hilditch says and turns away. He affects to observe the spectators about the pit, who have resumed their drinking and chatter and are, Hilditch thinks, at least as interesting as the spectacle in the pit. Now that the arena is being cleared once more of dead rats, those gathered about it are talking loudly. Nattily dressed salesmen puff cigars at the side of costermongers who pull on yellow-stemmed pipes and expectorate into the pit. Other fanciers point at dogs in the glass cases, shaking their heads with the gravitas of Oxford dons. One or two nearby have been paying heed to the exchange between the stranger and Saggers, whose brow now furrows as his head inclines quizzically.

‘Am I mistaken?’ he says, loudly enough for all about to hear should they so wish. Saggers addresses himself to the ceiling. ‘Am I under a mishapprehension?’ He peers directly into the dark glass of Hilditch’s spectacles. ‘You is here to enjoy our ’umble entertainment, isn’t you?’

Saggers snatches at Daniel who has remained at his side and pulls him closer. ‘Dan’l! The gent is here to bet, ain’t he?’

Daniel looks about himself, to the door, but interested crowds have stopped up the way of escape. ‘No, he an’t here to bet.’

‘Not here to bet?’ announces Saggers, astounded. And then claps his hand to his forehead. ‘Hang me for a fool! O’course, that’s it, he’s here to buy, then!’

‘No, he don’t want a dog neither.’

‘What, then, Dan’l?’ says Saggers.

‘He said he just wanted to watch.’

Saggers makes his eyes bulge in mock-astonishment but real annoyance prevents further mummery and he booms out, ‘To hob-serve? What’s the good of that? Who is he, Dan’l? Is he a spy, a Customs sneak maybe?’

Eyes swivel to Hilditch like so many great guns. ‘We don’t turn away strangers here, sir,’ Saggers says. ‘We welcomes ’em, takes ’em into our fold. We treats a stranger like our own, so long as they loves the entertainment we provides. And you don’t give the appearance of doing that, sir! P’raps you’ll explain yourself?’

To those across the pit the stranger appears composed but some who stand closer may observe the sheen upon his lip.

‘I’m not a sporting man. I only want to see what goes on here.’

Saggers pauses, weighs up the answer like an Assize judge after a heavy lunch.

‘What kind of cove are you, sir? What doesn’t get involved?’

‘I only want to be a spectator,’ says Hilditch. ‘I get no pleasure from gambling. I wish only to stand here quietly and watch. But, if that is not permissible, then I will go.’

‘No, no, you interest me, sir, and you shall stay,’ Saggers says. ‘I would like to know what kind of a man is it that can keep isself separate from all others though he stands beside ’em and accepts their ’ospitality.’

‘I have no wish to insult you,’ says Hilditch. ‘You will forgive me if I seem impolite.’

‘You’re like the missionaries and the meddlers that come about us, all wanting something for nothing.’ He shakes his head as he scrutinises the novelty before him. ‘What a pale and lifeless thing you are! Do you have no blood in you? Can’t you afford no meat? I can hear you’ve an education. A man can go far with one o’ them, they say. But it seems he can’t get fat!’

William Saggers slaps his own ample haunches, and looks about for the endorsement of the crowd.

‘If you will excuse me, now,’ Hilditch begins, but Saggers holds him back.

‘I think you care for nothing, sir. I think you are a cold creetur that can worm its way in anywhere, observe and go away again.’ He turns again to the silent crowd and receives nods and murmurs of assent before he starts to address Hilditch again. ‘Maybe I’ve seen you at a hanging? We’ve all observed at hangings, ain’t we, mates? But we ain’t like fish watching wi’out blinking as some cove dies. We cheers if he’s a bad ’un or we cries if he’s a pal. But we gets involved, that’s for sartain.’

Hilditch, pale as candlewax, fights to keep control of his trembling voice. ‘I don’t have a lot of money, but I can loan you a shilling, to make your bet,’ he says. ‘If you will only allow me to watch without further molestation.’

‘I shouldn’t like to involve you when you didn’t want to be involved,’ says Saggers, ‘when arter all you had only come here to observe.’

Saggers pushes Daniel before Hilditch, blocking his path. ‘You know my boy Dan’l?’

Hilditch meets the wide eyes of the child and nods. Saggers holds the boy’s arm with one hand and with his other hand he strokes his face.

‘He’s a good boy, ain’t he?’

‘That depends on the purpose for which he guided me here. But I’m persuaded he is.’

‘You got here safe, didn’t you?’

Saggers speaks loudly, so his voice can be heard above the preparations for the next match. Rats scratch against the boards by which Hilditch stands, confronted by Saggers, while in the periphery of his vision they run pell mell about the pit. A small, sharp-eared terrier yaps excitedly in its owner’s arms.

‘Drop the little feller in,’ somebody calls. ‘He looks ready for ’en!’

‘Wait!’ The voice of William Saggers is loud enough to brook further chatter. ‘Hold your dog, Isaac. He can have his turn after the diversion.’

News of this diversion daisy-chains about the pit and Hilditch has every man’s attention as he turns Daniel about and, with a dog’s rope, pinions his arms behind his back. ‘Jes’ so you isn’t tempted to cheat,’ he says.

The boy, with a face that is a mixing of shock and rage, protests loudly. ‘You promised I shouldn’t do this again!’

‘And you promised to bring home your money,’ his father replies, as he helps the boy up upon a pit-side table. ‘Now go on, give the gentlemen their entertainment and there might be something in it for you.’

Daniel stands above the crowd. At first Hilditch thinks the boy’s trembling is caused by his precarious perch – the table rocks upon a shortened leg – but then he sees the dark streak upon the boy’s trousers and the new puddling upon the tabletop. The boy whimpers softly.

‘No good looking at that particular jintleman,’ Saggers says. ‘He’s only a observer! Now, into the pit, Dan’l, or it’ll go the worse for you.’

The boy hesitates. He looks again at Hilditch, as if he might penetrate the opaqueness of his disguise. Saggers moves towards him and raises his stick. ‘’E jest needs a little poke,’ he tells the crowd, but before Saggers can follow through, the boy jumps to the floor of the pit. He lands hard upon the boards but loses his balance and crashes to the floor. His tied hands are trapped beneath him and for some moments he is unable to rise or to prevent the rats swarming over his legs and chest. Daniel struggles but is at last upon his feet, crying petulantly, ‘I ain’t doing this again!’

‘A half dozen rats in five minutes, Daniel – that ain’t asking much, I think, of a dutiful son.’

‘I only done two last time,’ the boy complains.

Saggers’ stick prods the boy towards the largest piling of rats. ‘Every one on ’em, Dan’l, or you’ll bed in the gutter tonight. I’ve had my fill of you.’

Tears of anger and frustration flash in the boy’s eyes as he crosses the pit and swings a ferocious kick at the writhing mound. As the rats disperse, he stamps hard and crushes the head of one and immediately receives a crack across his own skull from his father’s stick. ‘None of that, none of that! You bite ’em, same as the dogs!’

Around the ring, bets are being made by the sanguinary men who cheer noisily as the stick flails and Daniel ducks to avoid another knock on the head. The boy resigns himself to his circumstances and falls to his knees before the rats. Screwing tight his eyes, he darts his head among them in the manner of the dogs before him. The topmost creatures escape his incursion by scrabbling over the boy’s head, matting his hair and scratching his scalp before they run off down his back. Others dart out from between his legs and around his sides. The boy shuffles about, his head bobs up and down and then he straightens his back and turns about. Blood streams from lacerations to his cheeks, nose and forehead. He has a rat between his teeth, which he quickly traps against the wall while he bites its neck. The rat scratches, fights and squeals as the boy traps it against the wood while he finds a place to make a fatal nip.

‘That’s the style, boy, that’s the style!’ Saggers calls.

The boy drops the rat and spits out a piece of its fur. ‘Let me go, I’ll get you money if you’ll let me go,’ he implores, but Saggers will hear none of this and shouts, ‘Another varmint, lad, go to it!’

Reluctantly, the boy again addresses the quivering rats. This time his small mouth can find no purchase and each time he delves among the animals he receives additional wounding. Not all who cheered before are cheering now. A pop-eyed, florid-faced man urges on the sobbing boy, waving his stick and shouting, ‘Kill ’en, Dan’l! Kill ’en, boy!’ but Daniel withdraws himself from his quarry and sits back upon his heels with glazed countenance.

Saggers, for all that he seems intent upon the boy, has Hilditch in his gaze. His thin smile is enquiring. ‘How do you like our sport now, sir?’

Blood wells in the boy’s eyes, drops heavily from a split lip and dapples his shirt front. Wherever bare skin shows, it is crazed with the scratches of sharp claws.

‘This is the most damnable thing I ever saw,’ Hilditch says.

Saggers prods the boy with his stick. ‘Don’t stop now! Another rat, damn you!’ He begins to push Daniel towards the seething, blood-speckled heap of animation.

Hilditch, who is so close to Saggers that he seems complicit in his every action, clears his throat.

‘What’s that?’ Saggers says.

‘That’s enough!’ says Hilditch.

Saggers affects surprise and cups his ear as he speaks to the assembly at large. ‘You ain’t about to interfere? Ho, no, I couldn’t have heard that!’ He leans forward and pokes his stick in the back of the boy’s neck. ‘Get along, boy, you ain’t finished yet!’

Hilditch lays his hand upon the arm that is raising the stick. ‘You must stop this. You must have his wounds seen to now!’

‘Must I, indeed? This is your opinion?’

‘It’s the opinion of anyone with an ounce of sanity,’ says Hilditch.

‘You keep out of this. Can’t you do like you said? He’ll be taken care of, jest as soon as he’s finished.’

‘He’s finished now, man. Look at him!’

Saggers spits at Hilditch, ‘If he leaves that pit now, he leaves this house for ever and ever, Amen. A boy what can’t make money is no good to me. Well? Will he leave with you, sir? Will you take him?’

Hilditch hesitates. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘I thought as much,’ he says, and turns away. ‘Finish them rats, Dan’l. It’s like you said. The gent’s only here to watch.’

Daniel shuffles towards the rats once more. Saggers throws a halfpenny into the pit and someone else throws a second. Daniel is encouraged by the men about the pit, whose calls are now sympathetic, some even kindly. ‘Go on, son,’ someone says. ‘You’re doing stunning.’ Over his shoulder, Saggers says, ‘You’ll recall the way out, sir.’

The crowd makes way before him, and before he knows it, Henry Hilditch is once more outside in the cool night air of the London streets.