The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  Once we are in the tunnel and there is no prospect of going back, I give myself up to it. I stumble along, scraping my knuckles along the brick wall and trying not to fall. And I think perhaps Barney is right, for I do hear someone behind us. But it is not the sound of a chase, not the footsteps of someone trying to catch up with us. For when we stop, it is often perfectly silent except for the steady panting of my dogs and Barney's occasional whispered caution to 'Watch it!

  There's a dip hereabouts!' and 'Hold up, don't fall over this heap of muck!' Only every now and again do I think I hear someone. The crunch of stones, a cough. But I hope it's because I'm horribly nervous. I am like a blind man, clinging to the wall or the scruff of Brutus's neck, unable to call out and almost paralyzed with fear. More than once, Brutus and Nero disappear for a long time - to chase a rat, I suppose - and I think I've lost them, until they push their soft heads and wet noses into my hand and I hear them panting and sniffing. Then I breathe again, but it is a long and frightening expedition in the darkness that seems never-ending.

  When I see the prick of light, so small at first that I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, I try not to look at it, for it fills me again with inexplicable horror. But then we race towards it and it becomes larger and the air colder, and then the great round O of the tunnel casts us into a strange landscape of brick heaps and piles of sleepers and rails. The air is dense with frost and, the cazzelties having finished their labours for the day, it is silent here also. But where we are I have no idea, that is until I look up and, seeing the hoardings and that familiar smear of red and blue bills, and realize, to my surprise, that we are in the wasteland. Barney is ahead of me, scrambling along the trackside and disappearing around a bend, and I run to catch him up, not wanting to let him out of my sight with the tunnel so close behind me. He is already clambering up the bank, where the sides of the cutting are at their gentlest and where a track has been roughly hewed out and laid with steps made of stones, bricks, planks of wood. The route, of course, that the cazzelties take, every day, to their grim work.

  We stand, panting, at the top of the gorge and the wind whips across the wet ground. Barney rubs his eyes and then his nose, and squints at me.

  'I sometimes come this way 'cos I like the adventure of the tunnel. You know what I mean?'

  I nod. He is only a boy after all.

  'Only, don't let anyone know about it, will you? 'Cos I shall need it to get away when I serve him out.'

  He gives Brutus and Nero a final pat and salutes me.

  I watch until his figure is lost among the heaps of mud and soil and remember how once, a lifetime ago, he burst in upon my settled life in this very place.

  The Seize

  I am all to pieces and want my bed.

  My dogs are foot-sore and hungry.

  After such a day, I shall lock the door.

  I will count up my coin and buy a cart and horse in the morning, whether they are broken-backed or no. Or I will just leave.

  Above all, I will try and forget what I have seen.

  But that cannot be.

  No. Apparently, tonight is just the night for a mutton pie and a round of acrobatics and melodrama at the Fish-lane gaff. Such is the message delivered by the lanky youth, who introduced himself with a shake of the hand as Half-pint. He came out of the shadows like a shadow himself and plucked at my elbow. Said that young Barney urgently requested my presence, as agreed, and that if we made haste directly to Fish-lane, we should still be in time.

  For his own part, he said he didn't usually carry messages from 'lads', but he felt sorry for him, knowing that his father had been stretched at Newgate only recently. And he gave him sixpence too. But, as we turned our faces into the biting wind and flurries of snow, he reminded me that he was only the messenger and wasn't party to any of the business, but he thought that if I considered myself any kind of a friend of Barney's, I should advise him against what he was planning to do.

  'But then,' he said, not looking at me, 'you might have put him up to it. Perhaps you want a piece of the chink yourself.'

  Fish-lane was still open for business. The Wretched Fly was still buzzing, Mimm's Pie Shop still baking, even the street-sellers were still calling up their 'Potatoes 'ot!' and 'Peas, all green!' But the Royal Crown Theatre and Waxworks was the loudest and brightest of them all. Not only was a harmonium out on the street, which Half-pint quickly appropriated, but an assortment of skinny youths and heavy men, all dressed in left-over costumes and second-hand boots (mostly with their toes hanging out), were pacing upon the pavement under the naphtha lamps, shouting in passers- by with that old-fashioned showman's promise of 'Just about to begin!' and 'You'll regret it if you miss it!' and 'Never to be repeated wonders!'

  Another penny got me into the exhibition (how many had I spent these last few days!), and nothing much had changed except that, in the interval between my last visit only hours before, the scenes showing the Deptford murderer, Mr Vowles, now included his terrible execution ('only this morning'), and 'the actual hangman's rope what was used, still warm'! I shuffled through and paid another penny to go into the theatre, where the show had begun. Barney and his two young companions were already on the stage, giving their flip- flaps and preparing for the pyramid. A few minutes and the pianist played them off, the mummer striding on to announce, as before, the drama. I edged out of the door, into the dim passage and then the dark yard, where Barney was waiting, breathless, and grabbed my arm.

  'I've got it worked, so don't get exercised. He's here.' He nodded to the shed. 'I'll serve him out easy as an old shoe. All you have to do is get your dogs to fetch him down. Snap!'

  He gave me no time to think about it.

  'Half-pint's slipped some liver in the Nasty Man's pocket. Only a button's-worth. But I recollect Mr Lovegrove telling me that your dogs are so good at the seize that they don't hardly need any meat at all. Just your say so.'

  He was right. Brutus and Nero learned that staple of the theatrical dog's repertoire, the 'seize', when they were very young, and quickly too, because they were so adaptable and wise. A piece of meat, liver usually, is hidden at the actor's throat - or hand or leg, tucked into a scarf or a sock or a sleeve – and, because they are trained to take the meat and not injure the actor, the dog will leap and knock him to the floor and appear to have the man by the throat – or the arm or leg – when he is merely taking the bait. Brutus and Nero are past masters of the 'seize'. Indeed, as Barney rightly said, they hardly needed the lure of meat and would go and knock a man down and appear to have him by the throat just at my command. It is a trick which looks very well upon a stage. But that is all. It is just a trick. And although it might shake the Nasty Man and take him by surprise - and who wouldn't be surprised to be felled by two snarling dogs! - he would suffer no harm. It was poor punishment for the injuries and suffering he had inflicted, but Barney was only a child, I thought, and to him it might seem enough.

  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 jau
nty 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.'