by John Drake
Personally, I never saw Bonzo as anything other than an investment. But Enoch loved him dearly and was fearfully proud of him. In so far as Bonzo ever recognised such a thing, you’d have called Enoch his “master” even though he was never more than half in control of him. This was because Bonzo was unhinged in his mind and had but two moods: docile and murdering maniac, and it was hard to tell when the one would switch to the other. But Enoch tried to win his love in three ways. First, he took care it was always him that took Bonzo his food. Second, he never went near him without a heavy cudgel to brain him with if necessary. And third, he never, never, never, turned his back on him. If once he’d done that, Bonzo would’ve had the leg off him, bless his doggy heart.
He kept Bonzo chained up in an old barrel, laid on its side, behind Mrs Wheeler’s house where we lived with the other Pendennis apprentices. But nobody went near him other than Enoch and I’ll tell you why. One Sunday, shortly after we’d bought the dog, we were looking at him from a window over Mrs Wheeler’s yard. He was corpse-white and nearly hairless, with a mastiff’s chest, a crocodile’s head and thick bandy legs. By George but that dog was ugly!
“Not what you’d call handsome is he?” says I.
“No,” says Enoch. “But he don’t have to be. He weren’t bought for that.”
“Wait a bit!” says David. “What’s the old mog doing?” And we all looked at next door’s tattered cat, that they kept half-starved and that used to cross our yard on his way home. The cat had smelt some scraps of food that Bonzo had left lying in front of the barrel. Bonzo seemed to be asleep and the cat’s hunger was overcoming his fear. As the three of us watched, hardly breathing for what should happen, poor puss crept flat and silent across the cobbles till he came within reach of the prize. For a moment he hesitated with lashing tail as he gathered his strength, then ...
Crunch! Bonzo snapped him up so fast you hardly saw him move, and the cat snuffed out like a light. The three of us jumped as if we’d been bit, and gaped as Bonzo bolted down the cat’s remains: meat, fur, tripes and bones.
There was no end of fun to be had with Bonzo and a fine game for young lads, of a summer evening was for us to go swaggering round the lower harbour, arm-in-arm and Bonzo on a lead. We’d seek out the local bullies and see who could curse them best. One look at Bonzo usually kept them docile, but any sign of fight and we’d run him at them, and let him have a nip or two. He’d go raging mad at this while we laughed ourselves helpless at the victim running off with his breeches in rags. We never slipped his leash though, we’d sense enough for that.
Indeed, bully-baiting was excellent sport, but this wasn’t why I’d put down coin of the realm for Bonzo. I was mainly interested in the money he could make by dog-fighting. I was born poor and an orphan, and was apprenticed to Pendennis’s on the charity of the local parson (something that the Rev. Dr Woods never let me forget!), so it’s always been my aim in life to make money.
Dog-fighting, of course, is fallen away these days and respectable people shudder at the thought of it, and if it comes to that, it isn’t my idea of an evening’s entertainment. I’d prefer a slap-up meal with music, wine and good company, and a juicy trollop to follow (you don’t get mud on your boots for one thing). But when I was a lad, folk saw these things differently. Dog-fighting was common then, and those who didn’t like it, didn’t bother going to see it.
So it was Enoch that looked out for a fighting dog, and it was Enoch that chose King Bonzo. But it was me that saw all the gambling that went on over the fights, and spotted an opportunity. Of course, I laid no wagers myself. All gamblers are fools. But dog-fights offered serious ways to make money and that’s what mattered to me.
The fact was that the sport was so popular that provided your dog was a good ’un and known to be a winner, the landlords of certain premises would pay you to bring your dog to the fights. And King Bonzo was a winner who was bringing in a steady income. By January of 1793, he’d grown so famous that we could ask a guinea payment every time he stepped into the ring. That and free drink for our party, the whole evening. As you can imagine, it was me that made the arrangements and took the cash on behalf of my partners. Afterwards we would split the money fair and square. And it always was fair and square. I could easily have kept more than my due, but even then I could see the folly of that sort of greed and I cannot warn you youngsters too strongly against it. Greed leads to spite and revenge and is the enemy of trade. The world is full of opportunities for profit, if you’re quick off the mark and you deal straight, while greed has spoiled more tasty little arrangements than all the laws and all the “Peelers” ever made.
However, the best place for dog-fights in those days was Mother Bailey’s speak-easy shop. [A “speak-easy shop” was a low private tavern which defrauded the Excise of its licence by pretending that no liquors were sold in the house because the host was entertaining his friends without charge, while they chose to make him presents of cash; the two activities supposedly being unconnected. Such places were the infamous resorts of the vulgar. S.P.] It was up in the hills behind Polmouth, about five miles outside the town. They had sport of all kinds there; from cock-fights, to bull-baiting. On Saturday nights it was full of sailors, gypsies, poachers, and those of the local gentry who fancied the entertainment.
In fact it was just the place to round off a boy’s education, and accordingly was strictly forbidden to apprentices. Mr Pendennis believed that church twice a day on Sunday was all the entertainment we needed, and Mrs Wheeler was ordered to protect us from other temptations. As she was fat and old, she did her duty by simply locking us in at night. This worked for the younger boys, but my friends and I were beyond such restraints and we came and went at will, provided we were discreet enough to let Mrs Wheeler pretend she didn’t know.
Which brings me to the night of Saturday, 9th February 1793. We were at war with the French by then, which I have always believed to be the natural state of affairs between us and our dear neighbour, just so long as I don’t have to be involved. All our seaports were busy with the Royal Navy, and the Press was working up and down the coast. But that was no bother to three bold Pendennis apprentices as we set out that night, since being apprentices, we could not be pressed. That was the law.
So it was out of Mrs Wheeler’s yard, spurning the little gate and leaping the low wall in our eagerness, with Bonzo tugging at the leash. Enoch had muzzled him to guard his good behaviour and we were heavily wrapped up against the cold. The night was black as the devil’s boot, but once we got out of town and up into the hills beyond, we began to chatter and sing. It was Saturday night, and freedom from twelve hours a day, six days a week in the counting house.
It was over an hour to Mother Bailey’s, climbing slowly all the way. But you could see it and hear it long before you got there. Lights burned in the windows and music came across the cold fields. The closer we came, the brighter and louder everything was and we began to meet others on the road. Some of them had dogs and Bonzo began to growl nastily. It looked like a lively night and soon we were crossing the threshold and into the din and the light.
That night, Mother Bailey’s was fairly heaving with bodies and the noise had to be heard to be believed. As we shoved our way into the crowd, a wild blast of music rose up twanging and wailing to the double-beat of an Irish drummer with a two-headed drumstick. The tune was “Lillibulero”, the pace was furious and two ragged lines of dancers, men to one side and women to the other, formed up and swept to and fro with stamping feet and lifted knees. The women threw up their skirts and the men roared with delight. They weren’t natural dancers, any of ’em, but that music would have made a line of turnips bounce in time and it had me stamping my feet without even knowing I was at it.
As regular visitors to the establishment, we were received like gentry. Bonzo was anyway. He tugged at his leash and snarled left and right while the clientele greeted him by name and damned themselves thoroughly if he wasn’t just the boy! The bolder spirit
s clapped him on the back, which made him jump all the more and raised roars of appreciative laughter. One fool even tried to feed him gin through the bars of his muzzle, but it dribbled all over the floor. Bonzo didn’t appreciate this and wagged his head from side to side with a blood-curdling moan and froth dripping from his bared teeth. I thought it was a good time to leave him with Enoch. I had formalities to complete in any case, so I shoved through the mob to find the musicians.
These were half a dozen fiddlers, pipers, trumpeters and drummers, blaring away in one corner, with a greasy hat on the floor in front. I grinned at their leader and threw a sixpence into the hat.
“God bless you sir!” says he, not missing a note, and the others bobbed in my direction. Mine was the only silver in the hat, but the goodwill of the house was part of my purpose. The next transaction was the whole object of the evening. Mother Bailey herself was seated at a high table where she could survey the proceedings in comfort. Her bully-boys stood around her, from where they could be down into the room at the first twitch of a trouble-maker to put him out through the door with a boot up his breech.
She was no sight for the squeamish: over sixty, tankard in one hand, pipe in the other, in a filthy old sack-back gown; the fashion of twenty years earlier. The stays beneath hoisted her blubber up under her chin and the whole edifice quivered as she moved. And over all was spread white face-paint and black patches to cover the remains of her complexion.
As I caught her eye she slammed down her pot, opened wide her arms and let out a squawk, like a chicken delivering a red-hot egg.
“Here he is, boys! Here’s my lovely! Come an’ give us a kiss!” With Mother Bailey, there was nothing for it but face your front, step up, and plant one full on the lips. It was like kissing a sow’s udders. But business is business, and after she’d pinched my cheek, asked if Bonzo was fighting fit, and I’d made myself join in the general laughter at the grand old joke of her groping a hand up my leg, I got a golden guinea out of the strong-box. “It’s more ’n the dog’s worth,” says she, “but when I look at your brown eyes an’ all the curls, I can’t deny you nothing!”
Duty done, I went off to find my friends, who were squeezed into the hottest, tightest part of the room, in front of a line of barrels and jugs. Here, with a rail to keep the public back, half a dozen girls were busy drawing off strong beer, rough cider and cheap spirits as fast as the guests could pour it down their throats. The girls were part of the entertainment, being young and pretty, in a well-used sort of way. They had on loose, flopping shifts with wide-open necks. What with that and the total lack of cover beneath, when they leaned over to tap the barrels, the view was down to their waists and over the wobbling foothills between.
I gulped at the sight and my mates were licking their lips and muttering to each other. Then David said something to Enoch and the latter, gathering up his courage, lunged forward to grab what seemed to be on offer. But all he got was a vicious jab from the girl’s knee, so neatly done that she never spilled a drop of drink as she did it. They were used to customers’ tricks at Mother Bailey’s and everyone howled with laughter except Enoch. The girl leered at him over her shoulder and poked her tongue out.
“Plenty of time for that later, my duck ... if you’ve got the money!” says she. We thumped Enoch on the shoulder as everybody laughed again and he winced and sweated, bent double with pain. His eyes never left the girl, but for the moment he was warned off and settled down to get drunk instead. I’ll say this for Mother Bailey’s; there was enough drink to paralyse every living thing within the walls, and they didn’t stint in serving it out. And in those days, folk didn’t deny themselves their pleasures for good manners as they do today. So at that end of the room, it was all hogs at the trough. Except for me, that is. I like drink, but I will not be drunk.
That night, however, we’d not been at it long before the musicians stopped playing and there came a roar of voices and a surge of movement towards the door. The evening proper was about to begin and we joined the flow outside. The cold made everyone gasp and thick steam curled up from the hot bodies. Out in the back yard we shoved our way to a ring of posts with planks lashed between them, to make a thing like an enormous tub, thirty feet across and four feet deep. The posts carried flaming torches, so all was brightly lit. The mob crushed against the planks, drunk and happy, and cursed the beaters-out, inside the ring, who slashed with horsewhips at anyone leaning in too far. The tarts shrieked, the gentlemen roared and the bet-takers called the odds. Arms, sticks, hats and cudgels waved in the air.
Mother Bailey had another dais out by the ring, where she could see the fun without being squashed by the common herd. I was privileged to stand beside her, though my mates were not and Bonzo had to be chained up in a barn so he shouldn’t run raving mad at the sight of blood ... Not yet, anyway.
Then the beaters came out and the first two owners were tipping their dogs into the ring. They were fighting mad and leapt straight at each other, to the great delight of the crowd. Stones flew from their paws and they met with a heavy thump and locked jaws, rolling over and over. Dust, fur and blood sprayed in all directions as they fought like maniacs. It was a total combat of abandoned rage and could not last long. One of them caught the other under the jaws, ground home his teeth and jerked his head savagely to tear out a wound. Blood pumped steadily and the victim staggered. The owners jumped in to separate their dogs with clubs and the victor was paraded round. The loser was heaved out of the ring and dragged off to die, or to survive, whichever he could do best.
That was enough for me. I’d done my duty, I’d kept Mother Bailey sweet, and the money was in my pocket. After that I could leave the fun to them as suited it, so I sloped off back inside and sat down with a pot of beer to watch a couple of hardened sots trying to drink themselves to death out of the brandy barrel. With all Mother Bailey’s girls outside, they had a clear run at it and were happy as saints in paradise.
To judge from the noise, it was a good night’s sport with a dozen or more fights. They all sounded much like the one I’d seen, except for one pair who wouldn’t fight and were howled off the premises together with their miserable owners. According to Enoch, Bonzo made short work of his opponent, sending him for cat’s meat in double-quick time.
By midnight, we were back on the Polmouth road, well pleased with a thundering good time, spent in the best possible company. We rolled along, laughing and bawling out songs at the tops of our voices. But just outside the town, the fun stopped. We rounded a bend and came face to face with something very unpleasant. About twenty yards ahead, our road ran across the river Pol by the old stone bridge that had been there since Queen Elizabeth’s time. That night, there was a dark clump of humanity blocking the bridge. By the light of their lanterns we could see the gleam of cutlasses and shiny uniform buttons. It was the press-gang.
There was nothing down the Polmouth road for miles other than Mother Bailey’s and it was obvious they were there to catch a harvest of men coming home from the dog-fights.
“Look lads,” says Enoch. “ ’Tis the Press.”
“No bother to us,” says David. “They can’t take apprentices.” We considered that and peered at one another in the moonlight pretending we weren’t afraid. But we’d all stopped in our tracks, and we were wondering what to do. I thought of Bonzo.
“Enoch! Slip his muzzle,” says I.
“Why?” says he.
“Look sharp, they’re coming,” says I and Enoch bent down and fiddled with the straps.
As we dithered, the men advanced swiftly towards us, wallowing from side to side as sailors do.
“Yo-ho!” says one of them in a booming voice. “You must come-along-a-me!” This sounded bad and my heart began to knock.
“But we’re apprentices,” says I.
“Well bugger me blind!” says the leader of the gang with a great laugh. “D’ye hear, mates? These is apprentices!” He loomed up in the darkness and thrust his beery face at me. “See he
re, cocky, I’m Bosun o’ this gang and I don’t give a chinaman’s fart what you are. The Navy wants men and there’s an end on it.”
As he spoke, his mates encircled us and I found my arm firmly seized from behind.
“Now buck up, me lads,” says the Bosun, “and think of old England!” He pointed dramatically out to sea, “Just over there’s the Froggy army, the which is ten times bigger ’n ours. And it’s only our fleet as stands between them and a a-raping and a-burning from one end of England to the other ... But the fleet needs men! So let’s hear no more fuss, but cheer up and be proud, for ’tis a noble service you go to!”
He really meant it too. He clapped me on the shoulder and smiled. I saw Enoch and David looking nervously at him, and then at me, and then at each other. I supposed they were looking to me for leadership so I pondered deeply on the Bosun’s patriotic appeal. My bowels quivered with strong emotions as I recalled all that I had ever heard about service in the Fleet: desperate battles on the heaving ocean, thundering cannons and flashing blades. I pondered a while more, then did what any sensible man would do in my position. I kicked the Bosun violently in the galloping tackle and smashed my fist into the nose of the man holding my arm.
“OOOOOFF!” gasps the Bosun.
“GRRRRR!” roars Bonzo.
“Run lads!” says I, and clouts another of the gang.
Pandemonium: the Bosun sank, two men grabbed me, Bonzo bit everything, the lanterns went out, and the whole company swayed to and fro, bellowing and punching each other’s heads in the darkness. Then up rose the Bosun, (mighty man that he was) full of fight and roaring above the din.
