Patrick Mercer - To Do and Die

‘We shall, sir,’ the dog's owner replied in a flat, midland accent. ‘Bobby Shone, tell the officer the stakes.’

Shone, saturnine and curly, the shortest of the group, held a leather bag that squirmed and squeaked as he shook it gently. ‘Twenny rats in 'ere, sir. We fancy Derby could earn a penny or two if he gets the practise, so we thought we'd give 'im a bit of a run.’ Shone waggled the bag again. ‘Halfa-crown a shot, Miller's the shortest stake on nothing more than three minutes; Corporal Fitchett's on the clock.’

This was the crudest form of rat-baiting, but excellent training for the serious matches when one dog was pitched against others, with weight taken and handicaps allotted. The rules were simple: the dog had to kill a specified number of rats as fast as possible, the winner taking two-thirds of the purse, the runner-up the rest with a whip-round for the owner. The referee might poke a rat about to see whether it was quite dead or even shamming, but it was no more complex than that.

‘Half-a-crown's a lot of money, boys …’ Morgan replied – and it was. In barracks a private soldier could expect to see no more than ninepence a day, ‘… and I've not a penny-cent on me.’

‘Gerraway, sir, you're bloody made o' money,’ challenged Shone. ‘Anyway, your word's good. You in?’

Morgan couldn't resist. It may have been quite against the rules, but it was more than sporting blood could bear – his rank could go hang.

‘Aye, of course I am. Three minutes, five and twenty seconds for me, is it free?’ he asked, any concerns about discipline or over-familiarity with the men quite forgotten.

‘Free as a hawk, sir, but you'll be skinned by Derby, he's a terror.’ One of the other men wrote Morgan's time down on a scrap of card.

‘Right, let's see the rats.’ Corporal Fitchett craned forward over the ring as Shone emptied the bag.

Twenty black, brown, sleek forms tumbled on to the earth floor, collected themselves in less time than it took to blink and shot for the edge of the circle, clawing at the bricks to find a scrap of cover. Their pink noses twitched – sharp, yellow teeth bared, scaly tails flicking in anticipation of something terrible.

And terrible it was.

‘Go on, Derby, me bucko!’ Morgan was rapt, fists clenched, yelling along with the rest of the men as the dog became a vortex of teeth, tail and death.

Furry forms were grabbed by the neck and shaken with one, two or three swift flicks of the neck till their backbones broke; then they were tossed from Derby's mouth against the bricks, flopping dead on the grit floor below. One rash rodent had the temerity to sink its fangs into Derby's lip and grip there whilst the terrier tried to rip it free. Cling though it did, the rat couldn't survive the dashing of its body against the rough bricks and after a few short but bruising seconds, it let go and fell with its comrades, cooling quickly.

‘Thirty seconds,’ bellowed Fitchett.

‘Nineteen!’ replied the throng, as each death was exulted. ‘Twenty!’ They roared as the last rat had the life snapped from it.

‘Two minutes and fifty on the nose, goddamn!’ Corporal Fitchett's watch was held for all to see. ‘Why, the hound's a bloody goldmine.’

Great silver half-crowns were produced as the brick circle was dismantled and Shone dabbed at Derby's bitten nose with a drop of brandy.

‘Thanks, Corporal Fitchett, that was a grand few minutes, quite unexpected.’ Morgan had hardly noticed the sweat chilling him. ‘Are there any other dogs around who might challenge him?’

‘Doubt it, sir. The Armourer-Sar'nt reckons his hound will be better over thirty or more rats than Derby; says he's got more stayin’ power. Anyway, sir, we'll try 'em out against each other in the next couple o' weeks,' Fitchett replied, formal and regimental now.

‘Well, let's hope they delay the war for a wee bit then.’ The men smiled. ‘Let me know when the match is to be, if you would. I'll send James Keenan to you with the money, Corporal Fitchett, if that's acceptable?’

‘Fine, sir,’ and as Morgan left, ‘Stand up: may I have your leave to carry on, sir, please?’

The gabbled formula reminded Morgan that he'd broken every rule that it was possible to break. Not only had he connived at the men's gambling, he was now in debt to a non-commissioned officer with plenty of witnesses – and he didn't give a damn.

The rat-baiting had made him late. If it had been an ordinary wedding back in Cork then a few minutes here or there simply wouldn't signify, but because soldiers were involved and because he, an officer, was invited then everything had to be organized as if life itself depended upon it.

‘Well, it'll be a hard thing to see that prime little maid of yours married to one of the “sons of toil”, won't it?’ Carmichael lolled against the post of Morgan's door, clicking the cover of his watch open and closed. ‘You wouldn't catch me letting a piece of fluff like that off my mattress.’ The watch was slipped back into Carmichael's pocket, as a sly little grin slid across his face.

‘Well, she ain't been on my mattress, has she?’ Morgan replied just a little too quickly. ‘She's to be married to James Keenan and will have to shift for herself back here when we sail. Or, I suppose she might go back to Ireland and fall back into my father's clutches.’

‘Hmm, I wonder. You think I haven't seen how you look at each other? Mind you, if you're not man enough to keep her content, I'm quite happy to volunteer for the post myself. You certainly cut quite a dash today, why did you let Duffy give you such a hiding?’ Carmichael looked with mock concern at Morgan's cuts and rainbow bruising.

‘You weren't in too much of a hurry to chance your arm, were you, Carmichael?’

‘Why keep a dog and bark yourself? I leave that sort of brutish stuff to the likes of you and those with horny hands – proper officers should lead, not brawl. Also – hope you don't mind me saying it – it's one thing being manly with the troops and letting them thump you about, but should you really be rattin' with them? Bit familiar, don't you think? Give your darling Mary my very fondest wishes.’ Carmichael sauntered off down the back stairs of the Mess.

How the hell, Morgan wondered, had Carmichael found out about this morning's sport so quickly?

Pegg strode as hard and as fast as he could to keep in step with Morgan. Fiddling with belts and sashes with no servant to help him had made him late for the self-same servant's wedding. Now the only two Protestants to be invited to an otherwise exclusively Catholic service were racing to be on time, with poor Pegg in an ecstasy of unease. He was to accompany the two Irish fiddlers from another company on his fife at James Keenan's wedding.

He'd arrived to escort his officer in plenty of time. He'd scuffed the gravel loudly outside Morgan's room; he'd cleared his throat so hard and so often that he now worried that he wouldn't be able to sound his fife; he'd even considered trying out a tune or two just to hurry the young gentleman along. Then, as desperation overtook him and he was about to leave Mr Morgan to his own devices, the officer came out of the Mess like a rabbit with a ferret on his scut.

‘Come on, Pegg, stop hanging around, we'll be late, boy.’

They pelted off to the little church about a quarter of a mile from the barracks. Keenan had enlisted Morgan's help to find a priest to marry them at short notice and he'd lit upon one of the few Catholic deacons who were to escort the troops to the East. As luck would have it, there was a nearby Catholic church whose incumbent was delighted to allow it to be used for a regimental wedding, especially with the promise of war.

‘Jesus, sir, lucky fucking Jimmy Keenan.’