CHAPTER X

I am engaged to appear at Madrid. Something about my wonderful game-cock. Cock-fighting in London in the ’eighties! The secret of an Endell Street cellar. How I obtained the bird. A match between myself and the game-cock. An Argyle Street show which took the town. A trying journey to Madrid. The trials of Spanish etiquette. Am invited by Royalty to a bull-fight. The singing donkey creates a furore. Also the game-cock “turn.” My _gallio_ challenged by a Spanish champion. The fight comes off. The Spaniard defeated. The Spanish game-cock fanciers anxious to secure my bird. I adopt precautions for his safety. Difficulties in the way of returning home. I succeed by a ruse in escaping.

When Hengler’s Circus was at Argyle Street I had an offer to go to Madrid. I imagined that my reputation, or that of my donkey, had reached the Spanish capital, but after I had had personal experience of the taste of the Spaniards I came to the conclusion that a part of the attraction was due to a remarkable game-cock of which I had become possessed and which I had trained to be an important member of my little troupe. The Spaniards, I afterwards discovered, loved to see cock-fighting.

I suppose one-half, or more, of the people in London do not know how the other half live. Certainly so far as amusement, and especially sport, is concerned this is the case. I guess that if you care to pay for it you can get in London any pleasure you like, whether outside the law or not. When I say that during the ’eighties cock-fighting went on in London, it is possible that I shall be accused of telling a tarradiddle, but it was the absolute fact.

One of my friends in those days was Charlie Best, who then was proprietor of the “Horseshoe,” in the Tottenham Court Road. Mr. Best was a great lover of sport, and among other fancies had a liking for cock-fighting. This once aristocratic amusement was supposed to be a thing of the past, but it wasn’t, and some of the young bloods of the “Upper Ten,” who knew mine host of the “Horseshoe,” were eager to be patrons when it was whispered to them that they could take part in a revival of the cock-pit of the eighteenth or early nineteenth century.

Of course every precaution was taken to secure secrecy, and no one who passed along prosaic Endell Street ever suspected that in a cellar underneath a certain ironmonger’s shop (I think the name was Faltless) noble lords and their friends used thrice a month to assemble in this subterranean retreat and excite themselves over matches between game-cocks. Such, however, was the fact, and many a time I was among the spectators as a friend of Charlie Best. That betting went on goes without saying. A cock-fight without anything “on” is unthinkable.

Most people know what the cock-pits of a hundred years and more ago were like. The old coloured prints of such places are numerous enough--an arena with a ring fence of a yard or so in height, behind which the owners of the birds and their friends sat, and a gallery above for the public. This cock-pit was not at all that kind of thing. It had a sort of arena, it was true, but this was all.

The game-cock owned by Mr. Best was a marvel and I broke the tenth commandment over him constantly. Mr. Best, you must know, ran the refreshment buffet at Hengler’s, so that I was very intimate with him, and I think I advertised him and his Bass pretty well among the hosts of people who came to call upon me. I wanted that bird very much indeed. I had an idea that I could make good use of him in the circus, especially as a comic show for the children, and at last Mr. Best gave him to me, after he had won seven battles, as a return for my pushing his business.

Directly I had the bird in my possession I went to a very clever theatrical property maker named Hessan and arranged with him to make me a huge cock dress of the colours exactly similar to those of the bird. He set to work and succeeded in producing a really wonderful property dress. Then I started training the game-cock.

Perhaps it mayn’t be generally known that the cock-birds of this species have a language of their own. Well, they have, and I studied it. Listen to his cry. As nearly as it can be put on paper it sounds like “Krrrrrrr.” That means he is calling his wives together, and he soon shows them that he is master of his harem.

Wearing my cock dress I took the bird to the arena and burst into a song as nearly like “Krrrrrrr” as I could make it. He at once suspected the presence of a hated rival. He pricked up his head as if he were saying, “Hallo, what’s this massive brute?” He went for me as fiercely as though I’d been one of his own size. I pretended to be afraid. I ran away. He came after me, pecking at me savagely, and we dodged each other all over the ring.

Then I began to take off my garments one by one to let him know who I was, and in a month or so I allowed him to think he was my master. I used to keep him in a little square box and feed him on raw meat, port wine, and oats. Nobody but myself was allowed to touch him and he knew his business as if I had trained a child. I had him for many years and he has caused me many a pain. Poor boy, he died with the croup, but was very, very vicious. I never saw such a bird as he. No fun about him when he was fighting me--he meant it--and he used to hang on like a bull-dog. I buried the poor bird in Dublin. I have tried to train a lot more, but directly they get in the footlights they are no good.

But before he died he greatly distinguished himself, and nowhere more than in Madrid, and of my visit to which city I will try to say something. Besides my game-cockerel I had with me my two invaluable donkeys. Knowing not a word of Spanish I had to take with me an interpreter, one Pedro Sterling, who was half a Spaniard. I need not say that with my oddly assorted companions my journey was full of difficulties. However, we got safely to Paris, and from the Gare du Nord we had to cross Paris to reach another station to get down south. However, after some little trouble this was accomplished, the donkeys and the cockerel travelling in a van together with a tin pail for the donkeys to drink from.

The journey to the Spanish frontier was not marked by any particular incident, but when we arrived at Antondy, a little town on the frontier, the railway people for some reason which didn’t seem very clear refused to take us any further, and we had to stop in the town until the next morning.

Pedro Sterling found an hotel, the proprietor of which agreed to accommodate our little party--donkeys, cockerel and two beds for myself and Pedro. The hotel was by no means inviting, but we had to make the best of things. It was built of wooden piles and the donkeys had to share a shed with some cows. We managed to swallow some supper, but it was by no means appetising--simply bread and lard, no butter!

As we passed through the saloon--so-called-a dirty ill-lighted place, three villainous-looking Spaniards, black as ink, scowled at us and fixed their eyes--so it seemed to me--on my gold chain, a rather massive affair on which I set great store. We reached our bedroom, a squalid chamber enough, with one small window about eighteen inches square. We got into bed and the interpreter was soon fast asleep. I, on the contrary, could not get a wink for thinking of the Spaniards of the cut-throat aspect. However, I suppose I misjudged them, for nothing happened.

I turned out about 5.30, feeling done up, for I had had practically no rest since I left London on Sunday night, and it was now Wednesday morning. We reached the station in good time and waited an hour for the train, which when it came along proved to be chiefly for luggage with three coaches only for passengers.

We settled the donkeys in a miserable horse truck along with the cockerel, the tin pail and a quantity of hay and corn, and my boxes. I was so tired I laid down on the hay and straw by the side of the donkeys rather than travel in an uncomfortable carriage crowded with people. So I was locked in the horse box, dark and stuffy as it was. No window was provided, only a little hole about a foot square for ventilation.

The horn sounded and the train started. It crawled at about two miles an hour and for what it lacked in speed it made up in rattling and bumping. It was impossible to sleep. The horse box had no springs and the pail at once began to dance about, so did the donkeys, the cockerel and the boxes. I found myself doing a sort of jig _a la_ a parched pea in a frying pan. I shall never forget it.

The train stopped at every station and I tried to get out, but it was impossible. I yelled for Pedro Sterling, but he never heard me. I had to suffer being shaken up like dice until we reached San Sebastian, when I had a happy release, but only on making a signal of distress by pushing the tin pail through the ventilating hole and shaking it.

I found Pedro comfortable enough with a Spanish gentleman whose acquaintance he had made, seated opposite to him.

After giving the donkeys water and seeing that they were all right, I joined Pedro, and the train went on to Madrid. I gave Pedro a graphic account of my sufferings and he told our fellow passenger, in Spanish of course. The Spaniard expressed his sympathy and through Pedro enquired whether I would like a little wine. There was nothing I felt at that moment I would like better and Pedro conveyed my assent, upon which the Spanish gentleman brought out a beautiful skin with a gold mouthpiece attached.

I hadn’t the least idea how to drink out of this native bottle and Pedro Sterling explained. You are not supposed to put the mouthpiece to your lips, but to hold it an inch or two away. Pedro then showed me the operation. Clearly my interpreter was an expert and as he did it the trick seemed easy enough. I held up the mouthpiece, wished the don “good health,” in English, and started to drink. Unluckily the stream missed the target--instead of going into my mouth it hit my eyes and my nose, and finished by running down my shirt front.

This was bad enough, but what was much worse, I had outraged Spanish etiquette, which I afterwards found was extremely rigid. The gentleman did not laugh, though I must have presented a ludicrous sight, but regarded my awkwardness as an insult to himself! Pedro had all his work cut out to convince the Spaniard that the mishap was purely an accident, but at last he succeeded.

We arrived at Madrid about seven o’clock the next morning. We were expected; a carriage and pair were awaiting us and we were driven to the hotel, the donkeys and cockerel being taken to the circus. I had not been at the hotel many hours before I was made acquainted with the courtesy which Spaniards of noble birth and high rank display towards visitors. Queen Isabella actually sent a dignified gentleman belonging to the suite to enquire if I would like to see a bull-fight!

I was overwhelmed with the royal politeness and I said that I certainly should. Then the question was put as to which day I should prefer for my performance at the circus. I asked which was the best day and was told “Sunday.” “Very good,” said I, “Sunday for me.”

I went to the bull-fight and I must say that I was greatly impressed by the imposing spectacle. Thousands of people, most of them ladies, many of them exquisitely dressed, from the highest to the lowest, were seated tier upon tier round an enormous arena. A clear blue sky was overhead and the brilliant sunshine heightened the colours of the decorations and the gay costumes of the picadors and matadors.

Bull-fights have been described many times, so I will say no more than that I was sorry for the horses. Many of them were poor old crocks who hadn’t the slightest chance of avoiding the bull’s horns. I saw twenty-seven of them killed. As for the riders, they were protected by what might be termed thigh boots of steel. These protections had one drawback--they were so heavy that when the wearer fell he couldn’t get up again, but had to be dragged away by one party of attendants while another deviated the attention of the bull.

I was told that if there was any deficiency of horses the organisers had the power to commandeer any which might be in the streets, no matter how valuable. The bull-fights being State affairs, remonstrance was useless in such a case.

The killing of the bull struck me as rather repulsive. Fortunately it was very rapidly done--just a thrust of the sword at the back of the neck and the animal fell dead, its spinal cord severed. What struck me as curious was the mad enthusiasm of the spectators, who at the termination of the performance cast their garments, coats, hats, waistcoats, etc., into the arena. This did not mean that they were given away. Not at all. Every article had to be returned to the rightful owner. Anxious to show that the English were not wanting in politeness, I interested myself in the work of restoration, but chancing to give a coat to the wrong person, who received it with a cold and scornful glance, I decided to get away as soon as possible lest I should unintentionally violate some unwritten law of Spanish etiquette and suffer in consequence.

Spanish etiquette I found was a wonderful and fearful thing. Luckily I had Pedro at hand to help me over the pitfalls. I was told, for instance, that if you admired a thing very much--a jewel, a picture, a horse or what not--the owner would gravely say, “It is yours, Senor.” But woe betide you if you take him at his word! This wasn’t in the contract at all. The apparent gift was politeness--nothing more.

Before I gave my first performance I had to consider what Spanish words I should put into my donkey’s mouth which my audience would appreciate. I decided after consultation upon _De bouro canto patterneris_.

When I announced this and my donkey “Tom” sang it or was supposed to sing it, I never heard such an uproar of applause as broke out in all parts of the house. The audience wouldn’t have the next turn on the performance. It was the donkey and nothing but the donkey that they wanted. “Take him in again,” urged the manager, “take him in again.” So I took him not once but several times, and made him bow his thanks, but this did not satisfy his admirers. “Canto! Canto!” they kept on shouting. However, I knew “Tom” wouldn’t sing again until after half an hour’s interval, so I pacified them by introducing my fighting game-cockerel.

As it happened I couldn’t have done better. Three things the Spanish people love above all else--bull-fighting, cock-fighting, and music. That was why, I fancy, my donkey with his lovely baritone voice pleased them so much. Could he only have played a guitar he would have been there maybe to this day!

The day following my first performance, whether due to my neglect of Spanish precaution--they never go out of doors in the hottest part of the day, and they are right, for the sun pours down perpendicularly upon you and there isn’t an atom of shadow anywhere--or to the too liberal hospitality which I was obliged to accept, I was taken unwell. The one complaint which leaps up in every Spaniard’s mind when you have the stomach-ache is the cholera. They dread it as much as the devil is said to dread holy water! So when I did not feel quite up to the mark I was afraid I was in for the cholera.

A physician was sent for, and believe me, I never encountered a more competent doctor or one who adopted better remedies. Said he:

“There is nothing the matter with the gentleman. Give him some wine!”

I swallowed a dose of this pleasant physic and was well almost directly. All the same I ran great risks, for I was invited out to supper every night and Spanish dishes are not only savoury but ample.

Apart from risks of indigestion there was a drawback to those suppers. They kept me out until the small hours in the morning, and then owing to the customs of the country you were likely to find yourself in a fix. In Madrid you can get out of your domicile at any time of the night, but you can’t get in without calling out to the watchman to open the gates for you. These watchmen patrol the streets with a long pole and a lantern quite in the style of the old English “Charlies,” but they are not nearly so decrepit, although they appear to be more so if you don’t tip them. In such a case they’ll take half an hour or more to crawl three yards. I needn’t say that my hand went to my pocket without the slightest hesitation and the fellow would come along like a lightning flash.

The Spanish Court was exceedingly good to me. Queen Isabella came to the show more than once and I fancy she enjoyed it more than she did the behaviour of the audience. Some political act on the part of Her Majesty had displeased the public and the house showed its feelings by an unmistakable hiss when she entered the royal box. But she heard the objectionable sound unmoved. The Queen’s presence was not the only sign of royal favour that I received. On one occasion I was permitted to hold King Alphonso, then a baby, in my arms. I attribute these marks of appreciation not so much on account of my own performance as of that of my donkeys. Donkeys are an institution in Spain.

After a time I found my fighting cockerel--_gallio_ was the Spanish term--went down even better than the donkeys, if such a thing were possible. My first performance when I introduced my fighting scene was a screaming success, and was followed by a totally unexpected sequel. The next morning while I was receiving my letters my interpreter came up with rather a formidable looking Spaniard, who had something concealed under his coat which gave out a noise which sounded as though he had a knife and was sharpening a slate pencil. It turned out that he had brought with him a fighting game-cock.

Said Pedro Sterling: “This Spaniard wants to challenge your _gallio_ to fight his _gallio_.”

I looked rather serious at this strange proposition and pointed out that I had not brought my bird to Madrid in order to fight. He was part of my living and I had trained him to fight me and not other birds.

But this explanation did not satisfy the Spaniard. He was immensely proud of the prowess of his bird and he was burning to see the insolent invader bite the dust at the feet of the native product.

I wasn’t having any and I still demurred, but the man continued to insist, and at last Sterling said: “Why not let him have a go.” But my answer was “No.” Then Pedro made the puzzling suggestion: “Let his bird put on the boxing gloves.”

“Boxing gloves,” I exclaimed. “What the deuce do you mean?”

He explained that in Spain fighting-cocks were provided with glove stalls stuffed with wool and fitted on to the spurs, so that they could not hurt each other. This put a different complexion on the matter and I agreed.

The contrast between the two gladiators when they were placed opposite each other was the oddest thing possible. My beautiful bird was at the time in lovely plumage--he was what is called an Indian black red game-cock. But his opponent--I never saw such a funny-looking thing. He was of the Spanish red variety plucked the same as a fowl ready for dinner, except for a frill of feathers which had been left as an ornament for his neck.

They went at it tooth and nail. The fight lasted hardly a minute; feathers began to fly and it was all over except shouting. The Spaniard was about to pick up his bird, thinking no doubt that the native champion had had enough, when my bird hit him with his spurs and wings and laid him out. I don’t believe such a scowl was ever seen on man’s face as that which wrinkled the Spaniard’s countenance, and he burst out into some Spanish Seven Dials’ language which I didn’t understand a bit but the meaning of which I could very well guess. I haven’t the least doubt Pedro interpreted the jargon correctly when he said: “He’ll have his revenge or steal your fighting bird.”

The fame of the fight spread and the circus was crowded every night to see my _gallio_. He became the source of great anxiety to me. I was perpetually haunted by the fear of losing him or of his suffering some injury. I had to take him to my hotel every night and bring him back for the next performance. For an extra precaution I paid a man ten pesetas a week to watch and guard him. As a matter of fact all the cock fanciers in Madrid were after him. But he passed through these perils unscathed and in the end I got him away safely.

My engagement terminated and I was anxious to return home. A passport, of course, was necessary, and I called on the British Consul. To my surprise he said:

“Why do you wish to leave? The Spaniards love you and they want you to stay in Madrid.”

Whether he said this on his own account or that pressure had been put on him by someone I can’t say, but a month went over before that passport arrived. Meanwhile, I had exceeded my engagement and even then the circus people were very reluctant to let me go. In order to get out of the country I wired to my wife who was in Ireland with Hengler’s Circus to send me a message running something like this: “Wife ill; return immediately to England.” The message came and on the strength of it I was allowed to leave. It was on the way home that my donkey had the curious operation performed on him at Bordeaux which I have already described.