The Great Train Robbery (8 page)

All this information Pierce accumulated slowly and carefully, and often at some risk. Apparently he adopted various disguises when he talked with servants in pubs and on the street; he must also have loitered in the neighborhood, observing the patterns of the house, but this was a dangerous practice. He could, of course, hire a number of “crows” to scout the area for him, but the more people he hired, the more likely it was that rumors of an impending burglary of the Trent mansion would get out. In that case, the already formidable problems of cracking the house would be increased. So he did most of the reconnaissance himself, with some help from Agar.

According to his own testimony, by the end of August Pierce was no further ahead than he had been a month before. “The man afforded no purchase,” Pierce said, speaking of Trent. “No vices, no weaknesses, no
eccentricities, and a wife straight from the pages of a handbook on dutiful attention to the running of a happy household.”

Clearly, there was no point in breaking into a twenty-three-room mansion on the off chance of coming upon the hidden key. Pierce had to have more information, and as he continued his surveillance it became evident that this information could be obtained only from Mr. Trent himself, who alone would know the location of the key.

Pierce had failed in every attempt to strike up a personal acquaintance with Mr. Trent. Henry Fowler, who shared with Pierce an occasional gentlemen’s evening on the town, had been approached on the subject of Trent, but Fowler had said the man was religious, proper, and rather a bore in conversation; and he added that his wife, though pretty, was equally tedious. (These comments, when brought forward in trial testimony, caused Mr. Fowler considerable embarrassment, but then Mr. Fowler was confronted with much greater embarrassments later.)

Pierce could hardly press for an introduction to such an unappetizing couple. Nor could he approach Trent directly, pretending business with the bank; Henry Fowler would rightly expect that Pierce would bring any business to him. Nor did Pierce know anyone except Fowler who was acquainted with Trent.

In short, Pierce had no gammon to play, and by the first of August he was considering several desperate ploys—such as staging an accident in which he would be run down by a cab in front of the Trent household, or a similar episode in front of the bank. But these were cheap tricks and, to be effective, they would require some degree of genuine injury to Pierce. Understandably, he was not happy at the prospect, and kept postponing the matter.

Then, on the evening of August 3rd, Mr. Trent suddenly
changed his established routine. He returned home at his usual time, 7:20, but he did not go indoors. Instead, he went directly to the dog run at the back of the house, and put one of his bulldogs on a leash. Petting the animal elaborately, he climbed back into his waiting carriage and drove off.

When Pierce saw that, he knew he had his man.

Not far from Southwark Mint was the livery stable of Jeremy Johnson & Son. It was a smallish establishment, quartering perhaps two dozen horses in three wooden barns, with hay, saddles, bridles, and other apparatus hanging from rafters. A casual visitor to this stable might be surprised to hear, instead of the whinny of horses, the predominant sound of barking, growling, snarling dogs. But the meaning of those sounds was clear enough to frequenters of the place, and no cause for particular comment. Throughout London, there were many reputable establishments that operated a side business of training fighting dogs.

Mr. Jeremy Johnson, Sr., led his red-bearded customer back through the stables. He was a jovial old man with most of his teeth missing. “Bit of an old gummer myself,” he said, chuckling. “Doesn’t hurt the drinking, though, I’ll tell you that.” He slapped the hindquarters of a horse to push it out of the way. “Move on, move on,” he said, then looked back at Pierce. “Now what is it you’ll be wanting?”

“Your best,” Pierce said.

“That’s what all the gentlemen are wanting,” Mr. Johnson said, with a sigh. “None wants else than the best.”

“I am very particular.”

“Oh, I can see that,” Johnson said. “I can see that, indeed. You’re seeking a learner, so as to polish him yourself?”

“No,” Pierce said, “I want a fully made dog.”

“That’s dear, you know.”

“I know.”

“Very dear, very dear,” Johnson mumbled, moving back through the stable. He pushed open a creaking door, and they came into a small courtyard at the rear. Here were three wood-boarded circular pits, each perhaps six feet in diameter, and caged dogs on all sides. The dogs yelped and barked as they saw the men.

“Very dear, a made dog,” Johnson said. “Takes a proper long training to have a good made dog. Here’s how we do. First we gives the dog to a coster, and he jogs the dog day and day again—to toughen him, you know.”

“I understand,” Pierce said impatiently, “but I—”

“Then,” Johnson continued, “then we puts the learner in with an old gummer—or a young gummer, as the case is now. Lost our gummer a fortnight past, so we took this one”—he pointed to a caged dog—“and yanked all the teeth, so he’s the gummer now. Very good gummer he is, too. Knows how to worry a learner—very agile, this gummer is.”

Pierce looked at the gummer. It was a young and healthy dog, barking vigorously. All its teeth were gone, yet it continued to snarl and pull back its lips menacingly. The sight made Pierce laugh.

“Yes, yes, ’tis a bit of a joke,” Johnson said, moving around the enclosure, “but not when you get to this one
here. Not here, there’s no joking. Here’s the finest taste dog in all London, I warrant.”

This was a mongrel, larger than a bulldog, and parts of its body had been shaved. Pierce knew the routine: a young dog was first trained in sparring bouts with an old and toothless veteran; then it was put into the pit with a “taste dog,” which was expendable but had good spirit. It was in the course of sparring with the taste dog that the learner acquired the final skills to go for the kill. The usual practice was to shave the vulnerable parts of the taste dog, encouraging the learner to attack those areas.

“This taster,” Johnson said, “this taster has put the touches on more champions than you can name. You know Mr. Benderby’s dog, the one that bested the Manchester killer last month? Well, this taster here trained Mr. Benderby’s dog. And also Mr. Starrett’s dog, and—oh, a dozen others, all top fighting dogs. Now Mr. Starrett himself, he comes back to me and wants to buy this very taster. Says he wants to have him to worry a badger or two. You know what he offers me? Fifty quid, he offers me. And you know what I say? Not on your life, I say, not fifty quid for this taster.”

Johnson shook his head a little sadly.

“Not for badgers, anyhow,” he said. “Badgers are no proper worry for any fighting dog. No, no. A proper fighting dog is for your dogs, or, if need be, for your rats.” He squinted at Pierce. “You want your dog for ratting? We have special trained ratters,” Mr. Johnson said. “A touch less dear, is why I mention it.”

“I want your very best made dog.”

“And you shall have it, I warrant. Here is the devil’s own, right here.” Johnson paused before a cage. Inside, Pierce saw a bulldog that weighed about forty pounds. The dog growled but did not move. “See that? He’s a confident one. He’s had a good mouthful or two, and he’s well made. Vicious as ever I saw. Some dogs have
the instinct, you know—can’t be taught ’em, they just have the instinct to get a good mouthful straightaway. This here one, he’s got the instinct.”

“How much?” Pierce said.

“Twenty quid.”

Pierce hesitated.

“With the studded leash, and the collar and muzzle, all in,” Johnson added.

Pierce still waited.

“He’ll do you proud, I warrant, very proud.”

After a lengthy silence, Pierce said, “I want your
best
dog.” He pointed to the cage. “This dog has never fought. He has no scars. I want a trained veteran.”

“And you shall have him,” Johnson said, not blinking. He moved two cages down. “This one here has the killer instinct, the taste of blood, and quick? Why, quicker than your eye, he is, this one. Took the neck off old Whitington’s charger a week past, at the pub tourney—perhaps you was there and saw him.”

Pierce said, “How much?”

“Twenty-five quid, all in.”

Pierce stared at the animal for a moment, then said, “I want the best dog you have.”

“This is the very same, I swear it—the very dog that’s best of the lot.”

Pierce crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot on the ground.

“I swear it, sir, twenty-five quid, a gentleman’s fancy and most excellent in all respects.”

Pierce just stared.

“Well, then,” Johnson said, looking away as if embarrassed, “there
is
one more animal, but he’s very special. He has the killer instinct, the taste of blood, the quick move, and a tough hide. This way.”

He led Pierce out of the enclosed courtyard to another area, where there were three dogs in somewhat larger pens. They were all heavier than the others;
Pierce guessed they must weigh fifty pounds, perhaps more. Johnson tapped the middle cage.

“This’un,” he said. “This’un turned felon on me,” he said. “Thought I’d have to top him off—he was a felon, pure and simple.” Johnson rolled up his sleeve to reveal a set of jagged white scars. “This’un did this to me,” he said, “when he turned felon. But I brought him back, nursed him, and trained him special, because he has the spirit, see, and the spirit’s everything.”

“How much?” Pierce said.

Johnson glanced at the scars on his arm. “This’un I was saving—”

“How much?”

“Couldn’t let him go for less’n fifty quid, beg pardon.”

“I will give you forty.”

“Sold,” Johnson said quickly. “You’ll take ’im now?”

“No,” Pierce said. “I’ll call for him soon. For the moment, hold him.”

“Then you’ll be putting a little something down?”

“I will,” Pierce said, and gave the man ten pounds. Then he had him pry open the dog’s jaws, and he checked the teeth; and then he departed.

“Damn me,” Johnson said after he had gone. “Man buys a made dog, then leaves him. What’re we up to today?”

Captain Jimmy Shaw, a retired pugilist, ran the most famous of the sporting pubs, the Queen’s Head, off Windmill Street. A visitor to that pub on the evening of August 10, 1854, would be greeted by a most peculiar spectacle, for although the pub was notably low-ceilinged, dingy, and cheap, it was filled with all manner of well-dressed gentlemen who rubbed shoulders with hawkers, costers, navvies, and others of the lowest social station. Yet nobody seemed to mind, for everyone shared a state of excited, noisy anticipation. Furthermore, nearly everyone had brought a dog. There were dogs of all sorts: bulldogs, Skye terriers, brown English terriers, and various mongrels. Some nestled in the arms of their owners; others were tied to the legs of tables or to the footrail of the bar. All were the subject of intense discussion and scrutiny: they were hefted into the air to gauge their weight, their limbs were felt for the strength of bones, their jaws opened for a look at the teeth.

A visitor might then observe that the few decorative features of the Queen’s Head reflected this same interest in dogs. Studded leather collars hung from the rafters; there were stuffed dogs in dirty glass boxes mounted over the bar; there were prints of dogs by the hearth, including a famous drawing of Tiny, “the wonder dog,” a white bulldog whose legendary exploits were known to every man present.

Jimmy Shaw, a burly figure with a broken nose,
moved about the room calling, “Give your orders, gentlemen,” in a loud voice. At the Queen’s Head, even the best gentlemen drank hot gin without complaint. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the tawdry surroundings at all. Nor, for that matter, did anyone seem to mind that most of the dogs were heavily scarred of the face, body, and limbs.

Above the bar, a soot-covered sign read: