“Sit down, lad. Have a look at this,” said he to me. “There’s a science to it, and a bit of art, as well.”
I accepted his invitation and dropped down next to him. From where I now sat a gang of residents and house staff, all male, ranged against the far wall. It was their loud voices I had heard but a moment before. All now had fallen silent.
“He’s cleaned out two holes already,” said Mr. Bilbo, “and he’s preparin’ now to go after that one right there.” He pointed to a spot just ahead of us, a gap between floor and wall that had been widened to a place of about three inches round, perhaps less.
It was certain that the ratcatcher enjoyed the attention of his audience. He went about his preparations like some performer at a fair, throwing little glances and smiles at the fellows off to the left and dropping a bow now and then to Mr. Bilbo, as master of the house. He delved deep into the pocket of his coat, and from it pulled a small furry animal which I at first took to be a rat. But no, its coat was a lighter, shinier brown, and its fur covered the length of its shorter tail. He held it out, cupped in his two hands, for all to see.
“What is that?” I asked Mr. Bilbo.
“A ferret,” said he. “This is where the science does pertain, for the ferret is enemy by nature to the rat. He may be small, but he is vicious, and the rats do fear him, for he kills them well —but not this one.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Look sharp, Jeremy, and you will see his jaws is tied tight together with a bit of strong string. Though he be hungry, he cannot kill, and he cannot eat. Now, just see what he does with this little fellow.”
I leaned forward to watch. An expectant hush now —not even a whisper. The only sound came from the dogs, three of them, whining in agitation, rocking back and forth, dancing hind legs to front. Their master knelt down and released the ferret into the rathole. The animal squeezed through the small opening with no difficulty and quite disappeared.
“But,” said I to Mr. Bilbo, “if the ferret cannot kill the rats, why put him down the rathole?”
“To bolt them — but a moment, and you’ll see.”
It was but a moment, nor more than two or three, until I saw the result: the rats came pouring out —I would not have supposed there could have been so many down that little hole. As soon as one had squirmed through, another was out behind him. Once in the open, they did scatter, rushing off in every direction. Yet there was no hope of escaping the terriers, who -went wild as they leapt upon them, one after the other —a paw on his head, a paw on his tail, then the sharp, swift bite to break the back of the little beast, or a brisk shake of the head to break his neck —then on to the next and the next.
Again the kitchen was alive with shouts and roaring laughter. The men who watched the slaughter seemed near as excited by it as the dogs that did the killing. And I admit, reader, that I, too, was stirred by this display of brute nature at work. What a sight it was!
Mr. Bilbo leaned close and said loud so that he might be heard over the noise in the room: “Y’see, lad, the ferret goes down the hole, and he cannot bite and cannot kill. But the rats do not know this, and they fears him so that it throws them into a great panic to escape. Which they do —but only to be set upon by the terriers.”
Still they came, and still the killing continued. Then did I notice one of the dogs did not kill as the other two did. The little brown and white spotted fellow was as quick and strong as his mates. Yet once he had a rat in his jaws he held it just tight enough so that escape was impossible; he then ran with it to his master, who took the offering by the tail and dropped it in the cage with the rest. Then back he would go and pounce upon another, which again he would deliver to the ratcatcher.
I pointed at the brown and white dog, engaged as he was, and looking inquiringly at Mr. Bilbo.
“Now that’s the art of it,” said he, once again in a shout. “That dog is trained by his master not to kill but to deliver them live to him that he might keep them. That took a deal of doing, I’m sure, for it is surely the nature of terriers to kill rats.”
“But why?” I asked. “Why does the ratcatcher want them live?”
“Oh, they’ve their uses. He asked me if he could take some along so he might contribute to the supply for the rat match in the cellar of the King and Castle. You’ve not heard of that?”
“No, what is it goes on there?”
“There are matches between terriers as to which can kill the most rats in a short amount of time. Taverns and inns all over London have like diversions, cockfights and such, so cods may wager their bobsticks and lose em, naturally.” He gave me a wise wink. “Ah well,” said he, “‘tis no worse than me milking neds and quids from the gentry —and I’m the first to admit it.”
Of a sudden he stood up, and pointed down at the floor. I saw that it was no rat but the ferret that was making his exit through the hole dug out between wood and plaster. The ratcatcher scooped up the little beast and dropped him back into his pocket. Things had quieted down once again. The scurrying of the rats had ceased. The dogs had stopped pouncing and growling. The watchers no longer shouted encouragement as they had but a moment before. It would seem that the entertainment had ended.
“Hi, yer lordship!” shouted the ratcatcher. “I mun clean up here, plug the holes and sech. Then we be paid, my boys and me?”
“Then you be paid,” said Mr. Bilbo.
We left, he leading up the dark stairs. With his broad back to me, he continued to talk, his words booming a bit within the narrow space: “Some said we’d do better to use poison on them. But to spread poison about in the kitchen seemed a bad idea to me. Besides, they crawl off to the rathole to die, and you’ve got a terrible stink through the place.”
Emerging into the main hall, I put a question to him that had that moment occurred to me. “What sort of poison do they use to murder rats?”
He thought a moment. “Why, I ain’t sure,” said he, “but I believe I have heard it is arsenic is most often used.”
“And it would kill a person?”
“Oh, it would, right enough. A pinch of it in the stew, and we’d be sick —a goodly bit might kill us all. Dangerous stuff it is.” He regarded me curiously for a moment, then let the question go unasked. “I would suppose you’re here for our young Master Bunkins. You’ll have to wait a short bit till his morning lessons is done. Oh, he did protest at not bein’ allowed to watch the rattin’ of the belowstairs. But Mr. Burnham was firm. ‘Nothing must interrupt the schedule of instruction,’ said he, and I stood behind him. A good lesson for the boy, I say.”
“Well … yes, but there is another matter. Sir John said I should discuss it with you first.”
“A discussion, is it? Well, I hold all them in the captain’s cabin. Come along, and we’ll have this out.”
He led the way up the hall to the room that had once been Lord Good-hope’s library. Mr. Bilbo had made it his own. Though there were books about, this was plainly the place of a man who had spent a good deal of his life on shipboard. Nautical prints, ship paintings, and seascapes covered the walls. Behind his great desk and above on the wall hung crossed cutlasses — a new touch —and thus he seemed ever ready to do battle.
He caught me looking at them, somewhat in awe.
“They’re mine right enough,” said he. “I had no need to go out and buy a pair for decoration, so to speak. They ain’t for decoration, purely. But pull up a chair, Jeremy. Tell me what’s upon your mind.”
I did as he said and summarized quickly the purpose of my errand, making it clear that asking Mr. Burnham to take on a second scholar had been my idea and not Sir John’s. For his part, Black Jack listened carefully, stroking his dark beard, leaning back in his chair and nodding like some wise Solomon. When I had done, I asked in particular if he had any objection to my putting the matter to Mr. Burnham.
“No,” said he, “I have none, but mine is not the only vote that matters.”
“Of course,” said I, “there is
Mr. Burnham — “
“And Bunkins, too,” he reminded me. “He should have some say in this. He’s tight with him, yet in a proper way of scholar and teacher. He may not like sharing his spot.”
I thought about that then — for the first time. “I shall talk to him alone and let him decide for himself.”
“The only way to do it. And as for Mr. Burnham, he may not want her, neither. With two scholars instead of one, he’ll be workin’ twice as hard, it seems to me. He may want extra pay if he takes her on.”
“Sir John thought that, as well.”
“I believe you should make the offer without namin’ a figure.”
“I will, sir.”
Still he sat, rubbing his beard, considering the matter. “This would be Annie, your cook, would it not?”
“Yes sir, it would.”
“Her who was at the table when me and Jimmie B. come by for Christmas dinner?”
“Yes sir.”
“I knew her before when she worked in this house for Lord Goodhope.”
“I remember that, sir — or I had guessed it.”
“Well, it may work out, or it may not. Anyways, I have naught against it. You may put it to Mr. Burnham and Bunkins. The matter is settled insofar as it concerns me.”
I stood and thanked him, offering my hand. “The matter is done with you, sir?”
He leaned forward, took my hand, and shook it. “Done and done,” said he.
I turned about and headed for the door.
“Hi, Jeremy,” he cried after me, “what think you, lad? Would a ned be too much for the ratcatcher?”
“I know nothing of such matters, Mr. Bilbo.”
“Well, he did a good job and put on a good show—why not?”
“As you say, sir, as you say.”
With a wave, I left the room and wandered up the hall to the front of the house. It was there in the room which had been Lady Goodhope’s “sewing room,” so called (though I am sure she sewed ne’er a stitch in it), that Mr. Burnham held his school. In its present state I knew it to be a rather bare room with little more in it than a large slate board, a good-sized map of the world, as was known to be the latest, a table and a chair for Bunkins, and a sturdy case well filled with books.
Reaching the closed door of the room, I listened at it and heard Bunkins reading —haltingly, yet reading nevertheless —from the first volume of Robin-don Criuoe, with which I had gifted him at Christmas. I was most favorably impressed.
I retired to a place nearby, though to the far side of the hall; it would not do to be found with my ear to the door. There I considered what Black Jack Bilbo had said to me about the matter at hand. Indeed, Bunkins must have a> say as to Annie’s joining the class. He had a great fondness for Mr. Burnham. He might well hesitate; or, giving his assent, later find he wished he had not. Ah, it was a touchy business! Perhaps if I were to remind him that I had gladly shared with him Mr. Perkins’s tutelage in self-defense, he would acknowledge that the comparison was a just one and decide accordingly. Perhaps—
But the handle to the schoolroom door had turned. The door swung open, and out came Bunkins with Mr. Burnham close behind. Both were smiling; it was thus evident Bunkins had recovered from his pique at having lost out on the rat-catching demonstration. So it was, yet hoping some bit of it might remain to be seen, he was sore disappointed to learn from me that it was done but for the cleaning up. Yet he took it in a manner most stoical — in fact, with a shrug.
“Ah well,” said he, “I’ve seen such before. And anytime I want to I can drop in at the King and Castle for a rum session of rat-crapping. If you’ve a mind, I’ll take you along one night.”
“Could be, Jimmie B.,” said I agreeably. “But I came by thinking you might be for a ramble this fine day.”
“That hits me right rum, but I must first ask the cove and grab my toggy and my calp.”
Then said Mr. Burnham, who had been witness to our exchange: “And you must be back in good time for your afternoon lessons.” Spoke with a smile it was, and not with a frown.
“Oh, I will right certain, sir. Never doubt me.”
“Well said,” laughed his tutor. “I’ve had no reason to doubt thus far.”
Then with a nod Bunkins left us and hurried down the hall to search for Mr. Bilbo. I looked then to Mr. Burnham, cream-coffee-colored, a true mulatto Jamaica-born, half English and half African; and of a sudden I realized I’d said nothing to anyone at Number 4 Bow Street of that, nor of his history—not to Annie, nor to Sir John, nor to Lady Fielding. Would it matter to any of them? Should I wait and make all this clear at home before bringing up the topic for which I’d come? Then did I decide firmly that it wouldn’t concern them, because it shouldn’t.
“Mr. Burnham, I have a question to put before you,” said I.
“And what might that be?”
Again I summarized the matter; this time, however, I told him more of Annie, mentioning that she was bright, eager beyond telling to learn, and already quite capable in her own regard as the cook for our little household.
“The cook is she?”
“Yes sir.”
“My mother is a cook. I believe that of all my accomplishments, that which mattered to her most was my ability to read. From it, she said, came all else. And she was right, of course.” It was only then that he turned his eyes to me.
“It would be very difficult for me to turn down a cook who wished to learn letters.”
“Then you will take Annie?” said I, all excited.
“Then I would try her,” said he. “I’ve no doubt she is as bright and eager to achieve as you say, but there is the question of how she will fit with Master Bunkins. I must also ask permission from Mr. Bilbo.”
“I’ve already sought that from him,” said I. “He gave it, but said only that he had no objection. He said the real decision must come from you and Bunk-ins. I mean to talk to Jimmie B. on our ramble.”
“Do that,” said he. “Let his be the deciding vote.”
“There is the matter of money,” I said. “Both Sir John and Mr. Bilbo felt that with an additional scholar …”
“We’ll speak of that later, shall we?”
Bunkins had an especial destination in mind for our stroll that morning. When I heard what it was and what awaited us there, I was reluctant to accompany him. It seemed, as he told it, that a sewer man had made a gruesome discovery in the Fleet up near the Holbourn Bridge. He had taken it direct to Mr. Saunders Welch, High Constable and Magistrate of Holbourn, rather than to Sir John at Bow Street. It was found in such a place as might have been thought to be Westminster, yet he went to Saunders Welch in hope of some reward, for just as Mr. Welch was free with his fines, he was known to bestow rewards for items brought to him which were of criminal interest. The sewer man — Bunkins did not know his name, nor was it of importance — received a bounty of ten shillings. And now that object had been placed upon exhibit in St. Andrew’s Churchyard.
I listened —patiently, I believe —as we trudged upon our way. Yet at last, in exasperation, I demanded to know the nature of this grim object whose worth had been placed at ten shillings.
“What is it?” said I. “What are you taking us to see?” “Some poor cod’s napper. Not the rest of him, just his napper!” Had I understood Bunkins aright? I thought myself fluent in his flash cant, yet here was a bit of intelligence so startling that I thought it best to ask for confirmation in plain speech. “You mean a head?” I questioned. “A human head?”
“Ain’t that what I’m tellin’you? They got it there stuck up on a pole for all to see. Welch is ready to put out another ten shillings to him who can say sure and certain who it is. I hear there’s a lot of lookin’ goin’ on.”
“Curiosity seekers attracted by a disgusting spectacle,” said I primly. “Naw, not a bit of it,” said he. “They’re reward seekers, is what they are.” “Well, I for one will have none of it. I’ll go with you to the churchyard, but I shall wait for you
without the gates.”
“Do it your way. I’ll not nap the bib cause of it.”
I was cross with him, silent, sulking —and he with me —as sometimes happens between chums. Why must he so often descend to the level of the mob? I asked myself. Of course he had not the advantages of family I had had — never knowing his father, barely remembering his mother, out on the street to shift for himself since he was s child. Still, he had advantages aplenty these past two years, now nearly three. He lived in fair luxury there on St. James Street and wanted for nothing — certainly not the ten shillings he might gain by identifying the poor man whose head was spiked upon a pole in St. Andrew’s Churchyard. He went merely for the oddity of it,
I was reminded of the time when first I had walked with him from the Strand into Fleet Street. Having passed that way a number of times before and noticing nothing unusual, I was quite unprepared when he stopped me there at the Temple Bar gate and called my attention to the two skulls hung high above on pegs, rattling in the wind. He laughed at my disgust and told me that there had once been meat upon them, but the birds had long ago picked them clean. These were, I later learned from Sir John, all that was left of the heads taken from the traitors of 1745. Originally there had been four up there — or was it five? Sir John was unsure. In any case, all but two of the skulls had blown down or perhaps simply crumbled and crashed to the cobblestones. “I know not,” Sir John had said, “if such a display discourages traitorous acts. I am certain, however, that it comes near to justifying them.” I myself have ever after had a particular loathing of decapitation as a means of execution. At least when a man is hanged, his body is buried whole.
Yet it would not do to sulk too long, nor to play high and mighty with Bunkins, for I came to him that day as a petitioner. Therefore I broke the silence between us.
“Tell me, Jimmie B., how go the lessons with thee?”
Jack, Knave and Fool Page 8