God’s Creatures by Jennifer Sinclair Roberts

(Content that some readers may find upsetting – refer to the tags at the bottom of the page)

“Shut up the shutters, boy, and light up the pit.”

No more words were needed. The crowd in the parlour of the King’s Head heaved and jostled. Dogs were untied from table legs as their owners rushed towards a shabby staircase leading to a room below. Jimmy Brown, the proprietor, held his hand out for shillings as the cacophonous queue pushed past.

The pit was a large circle in the centre of the room, fenced all around by a wooden barrier three feet high. A branching gas lamp illuminated the white painted floorboards, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Men climbed onto the surrounding tables, stood on benches or squeezed themselves against the barrier in a scramble for the best view, while the dogs set up a chorus of barking.

“Shut ‘em up!” yelled Jimmy above the din. “Now, boy, the cage, and quick about it.”

A momentary hush ensued as Jimmy’s son, a thin eleven-year-old, carried in an iron cage containing a shifting dark mass, the sight and smell of which caused the dogs to erupt.

“Anyone wiv a novice dog, wants first in?”   Jimmy eyed the audience appraisingly, homing in on a man in a costermonger’s corduroy suit, clutching a small brown terrier that snapped and strained against its leather leash. “What about ’im?”

“He ain’t a novice, though,” came the indignant reply, “He’s a killer, look at his scars.”

“I see ’em,” said Jimmy, “but that dog ain’t a phee-nomenon, is he? He’ll do. Chuck ’im in!”

In the crowd, coins were already being exchanged in bets on the little terrier.

The boy stepped into the pit, holding the cage. As the spectators watched intently, he inserted his hand through the bars with a practised, stirring movement and extracted a wriggling brown rat, then another and another, flinging each one to the floor as the crowd shouted advice.

“Don’t let ‘em bite you! Watch yer trouser legs!”

“Dirty sewer rats – the bite bleeds dreadful!”

“I knew a man’s arm swole up so bad he were kept in bed three months.”

“I knew a man died.”

The boy ignored them all, continuing to delve inside the cage. As he released the rats, they ran for the edges, but there was nowhere to hide. The crowd roared in approval as he completed a dozen, and nodded to the dog’s owner.

“Let him see ‘em first,” he said.

“Umpire! The stopwatch if you please!” called Jimmy.

The owner heaved the dog on to the rim of the pit. The rats huddled together in a quivering mound at one side and the air filled with a thick, hot feral scent, like a fetid drain. The dog sniffed and writhed against his leash until the owner, with a shout, let him go and a three-minute countdown began.

“Thirty seconds!”  called the umpire.

The dog had snapped the necks of two rats in quick succession and was tussling with a third, alive and bloody, in his jaws. But that was too slow for the spectators.

“Hurry up!”

“He ain’t no Tiny Wonder, for sure!”

“Jacko would’ve finished off six or more by now!”

Blood soaked the floorboards. As the deadline approached, men who faced losing their bet began swearing and shoving their neighbours, and several fights broke out.

“Time!”  called the umpire.

The owner seized his sweating dog. “He got ‘em all!”  he claimed, to cheers from those who had backed the dog, and heckling from the rest.

“No he didn’t, that one ain’t dead!”

“Nor that one!”

The umpire stepped carefully into the pit, clutching a large wooden paddle, and swept the two disputed rats into the centre. He paused for a theatrical moment before bringing the paddle down hard on each tail.

One rat did not move.

“Dead!”   

The other attempted weakly to crawl away.

“Alive!”  

Jimmy shouted over the uproar.  “Eleven rats! Not excellent – he ain’t no Jacko – but he nearly did it! Gents!  Here’s the waiter, give your minds to drinking, if you please – our best hot gin and water to quench yer thirst!”

While the men drank and argued, the boy returned to the pit. He piled the dead rats into the empty cage and slung the injured rat on top. If it was still alive in twenty minutes, it would go back into the pit with the next batch. If not, it would join the crate of corpses in the yard behind the cellar. Dead rats turned very quickly. It was worth the pennies his father paid the flying dustmen to collect them every other day.  He wasn’t sure where they went after that in the foul, creaking carts.

The King’s Head got through four hundred rats a week. It was the boy’s job to take in deliveries from the ratcatchers, supervise the ghoulish rows of cages and bring the rats up and down from the pit. He did nothing else. Years ago, he had gone to school, and church too, but that was before his mother died. 

He limped down the damp stairs to the cellar, aching from the beating his father had given earlier, then halted in surprise as he saw a figure standing there.

“Sir! You can’t be down ‘ere!”. He gawped at the stranger’s pristine hat, tie and waistcoat, with a gold fob-watch, the costume of a wealthy gentleman.  

“It’s Robert, isn’t it?”  came a reply.

The boy seemed terrified by the sound of his own name. He peered anxiously through the stinking gloom towards the rat cages. Jimmy had fallen out with the ratcatcher over the price of this batch.

As if reading his thoughts, the stranger said: “Do not worry, Robert, I mean no harm to your rats.”

“Well, then…but sir, you can’t stay down ‘ere. Please go back upstairs.”

The stranger made no move. Confused, the boy shrugged and went about his business. The injured rat was dead. He emptied the corpses into the crate in the yard. When he returned to collect a fresh dozen live rats, the stranger was still there, watching him closely.

“The ratcatcher, Mr. Fletcher, tells me that you never get bitten.”

The boy shrank back in alarm. “No, sir, no…not me… I don’t know ‘im!”  He fumbled to fasten the cage. His limbs were dark with ingrained dirt.

“Don’t be afraid. I simply wish to ask you a favour.”

The boy stared. He had never been asked a favour, nor granted one.  He stood trapped in silence, fearing some deception he could not name.

“I….I must take these, it is time,” he stuttered, and fled towards the stairs, lugging the cage.

“I shall wait.”

Four more times the boy trudged up and down with his burden of living and dead creatures.  Each time the stranger remained, in the same spot, smoking a clay pipe and gazing at the black, dripping walls; each time, not a word was spoken. Late in the evening, the boy brought down the last cage and emptied it.

“We’re closing soon,” he said.  The stranger still did not move and at last the boy gathered his courage.  

 “What is it that you want, sir?”

“Only to see your pretty rats, please.”

“Our rats ain’t pretty, sir. They’s from the sewers.”

“Yes. But you keep a few that look…different, Mr. Fletcher says.”

“No sir, he is mistaken!”

The stranger produced a shilling. “Mr. Fletcher has told me of your special skill as a rat-tamer. He is a kind man, and your father shall not know.”

The boy stared hungrily at the coin. Taking a candle stump from a niche, he led the way deep into the cellar’s dungeons.

“In here,” he said.

A tiny chamber held two cages, each with half a dozen rats of unusual colours: brown and white, fawn and white, blue-black and white. They appeared healthy, foraging among leaves and sawdust on the cage floors.  

The stranger gasped. “Oh, Robert, these are wonderful!”

The boy was suffused with pride.  Delicately, he lifted out a piebald rat. It sat on his hand, rubbing its face with its paws as he stroked it.

“They’s clever, too,” he said. “They can learn things.”

“Yes.”  The stranger gazed at the rat in fascination.  “They are highly intelligent creatures, and most unjustly maligned. Are you willing to part with some?”

The boy’s face clouded. “Part with….?”

“Let me explain,” said the stranger.  “I visited Mr. Fletcher today, determined to purchase some rats like these, but at present his best are all sold or promised to ladies, for pets. He calls them freaks, but I prefer the term fancy rats.”

“Pur-chase,” the boy repeated slowly.

“Yes. I breed dogs and rabbits on my farm, Robert, and I plan to breed fancy rats, too. I need healthy bucks and does, three of each. I will pay you five shillings.”

The boy gasped. His father confiscated the pennies he sometimes found on the pub floor, on pain of another beating. These five shillings, an extravagant price, would be all his own.

“Well, Robert? What do you say?  If it is yes, I shall take them tonight.”

“Yes, sir!” replied the boy, springing to life. “I’ll pick out the best ones for you!”  

The stranger inspected the rats he offered and asked many questions. The boy answered eagerly, but as he locked them into a cage lined with fresh sawdust, a shout echoed from upstairs.

“Boy!  Where are you?”

The boy shuddered. In his excitement he had stayed too long in the cellar. He must clean up the blood-soaked  pit, clear the tables and sweep the floors before he would be allowed to sleep.

“Quickly!” he whispered. He led the way back, tripping in his haste.  At the back door, he received the precious shillings. The stranger slipped away with the cage just as Jimmy appeared on the stairs.

“What’s going on down ‘ere?” 

“Sorry Father, I was just….”   

“Sluggard! Shirker! No supper for you. Get up ‘ere now!”  Jimmy cuffed the boy around the head and shoved him viciously until he stumbled and fell on the staircase.  

“Stop, Mr. Brown!”

The stranger had stepped back inside.

“Who are you?” Jimmy snarled, but after a glance up and down, he lowered his fists.

“Can I help you, sir?  We’re closed, but if a fine gentleman such as yerself desires some late refreshment, please come upstairs! This lazy snivelling lad will fetch….”

“I see no laziness. Only a scared child, your own son, beaten and starved, who works for you without rest, and is exposed to all kinds of immorality. For shame, Mr. Brown!”

Jimmy scowled.  “I ain’t ashamed of nothing!”

“Tonight, I have witnessed much that is shameful in your Godless establishment. Gambling is a sin and rat-baiting a brutal sport. There is no love within your walls for any living creature. The child should be removed,” declared the stranger, adding suddenly: “I can offer him honest work and lodgings on my farm.”

“Removed?”  Jimmy stroked his beard, as if deep in thought. “You wish to re-move my dearest boy, to your farm? Oh, no, sir, I could not part with ’im!  He is all I have left in the world, since his Mother died. I would never consider…”

“I see. I shall pray for you both. Ten sovereigns, then?”

“Ten sovereigns? No sir, never! …not even for twenty sovereigns could I part with ‘im!”

“Twenty-one then,” came the sharp retort, “and he leaves with me tonight.”

Jimmy nodded. “Well, then, I thank you, sir, for this fine opportun-ity for my boy. I shall miss ‘im dearly, but I am forced to accept, for ‘is own good.”

During this exchange the boy had managed to stand. He gazed as a purse of golden coins changed hands, the largest sum of money he had ever seen.

“Go on then, boy.”  Jimmy dragged him forward. “You ‘eard the gentleman, bestir yerself, and do whatever ‘e tells you.” He hurried upstairs.

“Come, Robert,” said the stranger, “you may collect the rest of your rats before we leave.”

The boy shivered as they crossed the yard. On the street behind stood a Landau carriage, with a coachman who jumped down to stow the rat cages.

The stranger beckoned to the boy. “It is cold, and you have no coat; you shall ride inside with me tonight.”

The boy climbed in and folded himself into a corner. He understood that a transaction had taken place, and he must comply, but he could hardly make himself small enough. Sensing his fear, the stranger placed a basket of provisions between them and handed him a wedge of bread and cheese, wrapped in linen.

“Eat as much as you wish, Robert. There are no beatings on my farm, and you shall have fresh milk and eggs every day, and go to church on Sundays.”

“Thank you, sir.”  The boy was devouring the food. “I have never seen a farm,” he said.

“Well, tomorrow you shall. And Robert – you need not call me sir any longer.”

The boy did not understand.  “What…what shall I call you, then?”

“You may call me Miss.”  The stranger laughed. “Yes, naturally you are surprised!  My name is Miss Mary Douglas, and I am indeed a lady, but I prefer to dress as a gentleman. It is so much more comfortable.”

As the boy stared in wonder, Mary Douglas removed her hat, revealing clipped brown curls. “Try to sleep now, Robert. We have a long journey, and much to do when we arrive. We shall start tomorrow.”

The boy rubbed his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes, Robert. You shall help my farm hands, and take good care of our rats, and teach me all about them.  Did you know, there is a National Mouse Club, for people who breed mice? They call them Fancy Mice, and display them in public shows. Well, we must have a National Club for rats, too! I have such great plans for it!  We shall start to breed our Fancy Rats on the farm, and…..”

The boy was asleep. Mary Douglas placed a rug gently over his legs, thinking about the rats that travelled with them: fawn-and-white, brown-and-white, blue-black-and white; God’s creatures, all of them. The first, she hoped, of many generations, each more gentle and more beautiful than the last.

After a while, she too began to feel drowsy.  The boy twitched, his small body arching, before he settled into a softer sleep. “Very soon,” she thought, “this poor child will begin to forget his pain. And all will be well.”

They rolled on through the night.

Miss Mary Douglas (1858-1921), an aristocrat of independent means, was known to dress as a man and smoke a pipe. In 1901 she persuaded the National Mouse Club of England to become the National Rat and Mouse Club and to permit rats to be entered in public shows. She bred many prize-winning rats on her own farm and became known as “the mother of the Rat Fancy”. It is not known where she sourced her first generation of Fancy Rats.

Jennifer Sinclair Roberts             

Image by Wolfgang Vogt from Pixabay – a brown rat eating some seeds