Authors: Ann Featherstone
Revenge
was a dangerous game.
Full
of misgivings, I went back into the theatre to await
Barney who would
come and get us, he said, when he was 'certain' of the Nasty Man. It was still
only half-full of an audience only half-interested in the bloody exploits
taking place on the stage - a highwayman drama, I guessed, given the cloak and
roaring voice of the leading mummer. Even when the company stepped to the front
of the stage to bow and curtsey at the end of the play, no one noticed. They
were much too busy fighting and passing around jars of juniper and ale and
hallooing their friends, who were pouring through the door. The gaff was
filling up as wave after wave of boys and young men crowded in. If we left now,
I thought, under cover of these rowdies, we could get away unnoticed, and be
out of the plot. The boy would feel let down, of course, but there would be
other opportunities for him to serve out his enemies and revenge his father.
Ones more likely to succeed than taking the starch out of the Nasty Man with a
theatrical trick. And I could seek advice from Will and Trim and perhaps find
my own way of bringing him and his terrible business to justice.
My dogs and I edged
towards the door, but it was immediately blocked by another surge of bodies
and we were pushed back. The audience was being 'packed'. An old showman's
trick, it worked on the principle that if an audience had no room to move, then
it had no room to fight! And there was no escape, either. Once you were in, you
were in. Heaven help us if there was a fire!
A chord from the
pianist, and a red-faced mummer strode out, held his hand up for silence (which
was generally ignored), and cried above the throng, 'And now to conclude our
superior entertainment, The Little Wonder, Miss Topsy Truelove, will dance the
schottische and give us a comic song.'
Another child
performer, she tripped out upon the stage, and curtseyed low. Plump and clumsy
and no more than seven years old, she bared her teeth into a forced smile,
prinked and posed, assumed postures of coyness and know- ingness in grotesque
parodies, paused for the required counts of five and ten, and finally bobbed a
curtsey, as if she had been doing it all her life. The audience roared and
stamped its feet, pushing and punching itself and laughing wildly at its own
wit. Brutus, Nero and I hugged the wall, as far from the stage as we could
press ourselves and, with a crowd of youths in front of us, we were hidden from
view when the Nasty Man and his companion slipped through the door. Huge as an
overfed turkey in his pale Benjamin and red waistcoat, he elbowed his way
through the mass, his reputation preceding him for, though they spun around
ready to take him on and some had their fists raised, when these young roughs
saw who it was, they turned away quickly. His companion was smaller and much
muffled-up, clinging to his side like a limpet, and showing interest only when
the child began to sing, and when the audience yelled its approval. It was a
vile song, though it began innocently enough:
Apples and chestnuts, walnuts and pears,
Are poor little Jenny's humble wares, She stands
about in the mud and murk,
And no one there is going home from work To buy from
poor humpbacked Jenny.
And the chorus,
apparently well-known by everyone in that room, was roared out with great gusto
and much stamping of feet:
Pipkin ripe, pipkin round,
Get it while it's fresh,
Oh, poke my pipkin, if you like,sir, With your tosh,
tosh, tosh.
Oh, how heartily
the Nasty Man sang! As if it were the most beautiful song in the world! As if
he were centre spot at the opera! He swayed and roared, and his strange voice,
high and thin, soared above all the rest. As the child piped up the many verses,
he was in unison, conducting an invisible orchestra rather than a little girl,
and although the roughs around him nudged each other and winked and smirked
behind their hands, no one, not a single one, made fun of him. For the final
verse, which was slower than the rest, he stood like one in a trance, with his
eyes shut and his fat, pink face turned up to the ceiling:
But one kind gentleman stopped and said,
"What, no one buying your pipkins, my poor
little maid?'
And stroked her hump and called her lady And had her
ride on his nag for a penny
And gave her - the clap, poor humpbacked Jenny!
His companion
stamped and hallooed with the rest of the company (though not quite so familiar
with the song), but when he roared out the final chorus - 'Oh, poke my pipkin,
if you like, sir, / With your
handsome
tosh, tosh, tosh!' - the
Nasty Man clapped him upon the back and, as the little mite curtseyed, they
pushed through the crowd, hurried up the steps of the stage and followed her
behind the curtain.
In that moment,
seeing him in all his repulsiveness, I warmed to Barney's plan. Small justice
to soil his white coat upon the yard stones and worry his smooth features compared
to what he had done, but then perhaps the boy would be satisfied. Nevertheless,
it was not without its perils. If the Nasty Man summoned his roughs we would be
trapped. And where could we hide so that he would never find us?
Another act
appeared on the stage - a natty little comedian with a shock of carroty hair
dancing in clogs and singing The Industrious Flea' with much energy, who was
too good for this place - and then an interval when the ivory-thumper did his
best. But the din was quite hellish and no one could hear anything above the
row. More noisy roughs charged in at intervals, packing the place to bursting,
and amongst them I recognized Barney, completely transformed by his street
clothes and looking every inch like one of them. For a few minutes, he laughed
and jossed with them and then pushed through the throng and pulled at my arm.
'It's all set. Go on. I'm behind you.'
We pushed our
way out and, with Brutus and Nero on either side of me, I waited in the yard
like a man condemned, not knowing quite what to do. I think my dogs knew something
was not as it should be, for they stood very close and Brutus pushed his head
under my hand. I waited, and looked for the boy, and tried not to look at the
stable where slivers of light, dancing on the ground, showed that someone was
within. It had grown cold and my boys were restless before the door eventually
opened. The Nasty Man stood, framed there for a moment, looking around and
glanced back inside and nodded to the other, a pinch of a fellow, who stepped
out, buttoning his coat and pulling on his gloves. Anyone could see he was
anxious, urging the Nasty Man in a not-especially- hushed voice to 'Make
haste!' and 'Get me away from here quickly!' But the grampus would not be
hurried and gave instructions to someone within the stable to 'Call the
minder!' and 'Make sure all is sweet and tidy!'
We were pressed
hard into the shadows, whilst the Nasty Man and his companion paused in the
middle of the yard in close conversation. It was in that pause that I felt a
touch on my arm and Barney's whispered 'Go to it, Bob!'
I gave my dogs
the signal, the one they knew for the seize. Obediently, Brutus and Nero ran
forward, and their keen noses lit upon the Nasty Man and the tasty morsel that
Half- pint had laid upon him. Just a trace of it was enough and they went to work
with a will. He was startled and sprang back whilst Brutus lunged at him, paws
high and Nero barked ferociously, knocking him to the ground. My dogs were
used to this! They set on and Brutus gripped the sleeve of his coat, whilst
Nero worried his boots. The Nasty Man writhed on the greasy cobbles, shrieking
'Mad dog! Mad dog!' at the very top of his voice. The commotion brought out a
crowd from the gaff, who packed into the doorway and quickly began to cheer,
and my dogs, who enjoy appreciation, went to it again with a will, though never
with their teeth. Barney, hanging upon my arm, cheered wildly. 'Go to it,
Brutus! Have his throat, Nero! I'll serve him out, you see! I have him now!'
and the crowd quickly took up the cry, 'Have his throat! Have his throat!'
I laughed,
thinking that they, like any gaff audience, were entering into the spirit of
the scene and, really, it did my heart good to see the creature rolling in the
dirty puddles. But as the cheers rose in volume and urgency and I saw the faces
of the crowd, livid with drink, I realized with horror that they were in all
seriousness, and that the cry of 'Blood! Blood! Blood!' was no jocular call
from enthusiastic spectators, but real and insistent: they expected to see a
real fight. Perhaps it happened regularly in this yard, a man set upon by dogs!
I have heard of it, but never seen it. What would be their reaction when they
discovered - when Barney discovered - that this was simply a stage trick! There
would be no blood, no serious injury, and certainly no death. The moments sped
by and Brutus and Nero, though they continued to leap and bark at the Nasty
Man, were wearying of the business, for being theatrical dogs, they knew it
should be over by now. The crowd too were becoming restless, and many had left.
And, having overcome his original surprise, the grampus was now kicking out
frantically and had twice caught Nero a hard thud in the belly with his boot,
which made him yelp.
Enough.
I whistled them
to me and my dogs bounded across the yard to my side, wide-eyed and panting,
and eager for their reward. The roughs roared and cheered: 'Brutus! Nero!
Brutus! Nero!' and 'Chapman! Chapman! Chapman!' Even though there had been no
blood, they were, thankfully, not at all put out. They had seen my name on the
posters. Perhaps they thought that this was part of the show? A song, a dance,
a jaunty rendition of 'Alonzo the Brave' and then a man set upon by dogs in the
yard! 'Send them in again!' cried someone. 'Finish the job!' cried another,
and they laughed and cheered and someone clapped me on the shoulder as though I
had done something very clever.
Barney was
nonplussed and, with child-like disappointment, frowned mutinously. As I
received yet another offer of a drink at the Wretched Fly and my dogs were
petted within an inch of their lives, he punched me so hard in my ribs that I
gasped.
'What you doin',
Bob Chapman? I thought they was goin' to 'ave him. The seize, it's called,
because the dogs seize the man's throat and rip it out. But they was just playin'!
They warn't goin' to serve him out ever, was they?'
Half-pint had
dug his way through the crowd and was at Barney's shoulder.
'Now then.
Someone's gone for the coppers,' he said, looking at me. 'They're saying a
man's been set upon by savage dogs!'
The Nasty Man
had been helped to one of the barrels and was sitting nursing his arm. His hat
had rolled away, his gloves had already been pinched. He was streaked with mud
and his coat was torn. And he was very, very angry.
'I will burn
this place down. You can tell Tipney that for nothing. He can expect a visit.'
The crowd
murmured. Someone brought the Nasty Man a bottle and, as he took a long draw
upon it, he fixed his eyes upon me.
'And you,
Chapman. I will have your skin for this. No, better. I will have the skin of
your mongrels.'
Silence
dropped.
'I know you,
dog-man. I know your friends, where you work, where you live. I know the
soil-shoveller you visit, I know his slut of a daughter and his trollop of a
wife. I know what you are and how to get you, and I will make you suffer for
this. You cunt-face. You slit-jammer. You kid-stretcher.'
His voice was
low and deep, and his fleshy lips twisted about the curses as though he had
eaten them and was now vomiting them back. The yard was still, struck dumb, fear
bristling the air.
'I
told my Pa I would serve you out,' came Barney's voice.
'I will too,'
and he stepped forward, pointing the stopper at the Nasty Man. I tried to
snatch it from him, and Half-pint too made to grab it. But the boy was too
quick. His hand wavered, there was a click, followed by a breathless pause.
'It's bunged,'
murmured someone in the crowd, and the whisper went round, almost like a sigh
of relief. Barney shook the gun and tried again. A click. He bit his lip and screwed
his fist into his eye.
'I will - serve
- you - out!' he cried, vainly trying to fire the gun, click after click. 'You
killed my Pa!'
The Nasty Man
cast a contemptuous look at the crowd, though I am certain I saw fear in his
eyes when Barney produced the gun.
'Someone
make him safe, before he hurts himself!'
There was a
ripple of laughter, and Half-pint drew Barney away into the gaff, and at that
same moment a cry went up from the front of the house that police officers were
even now turning the corner and would be here in minutes.
I didn't wait. I
signalled Brutus and Nero to heel and we barged through the crowd, through the
gaff, sending tables and wax figures flying, and when we reached the street I
ran, once more, like a madman, taking turn after turn through narrow alleys and
courts, and stopping only when I thought one more step would have my ribs burst
through my chest. Brutus and Nero were also panting, and Brutus was limping. We
were a good distance from Fish-lane (though I had no idea where we were) and I
hunkered down in a passage to get my breath. Still as the stars we waited, as a
pack of roughs raced past, calling to each other, excited and ready for the
chase. Perhaps they weren't chasing us, but I was too scared to risk discovery.