Chapter IV. The Rat

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　Marco would have wondered very much if he had heard the words,but, as he did not hear them, he turned toward home wondering atsomething else. A man who was in intimate attendance on a kingmust be a person of importance. He no doubt knew many things notonly of his own ruler's country, but of the countries of otherkings. But so few had really known anything of poor littleSamavia until the newspapers had begun to tell them of thehorrors of its war--and who but a Samavian could speak itslanguage? It would be an interesting thing to tell hisfather--that a man who knew the King had spoken to him inSamavian, and had sent that curious message.Later he found himself passing a side street and looked up it.It was so narrow, and on either side of it were such old, tall,and sloping-walled houses that it attracted his attention. Itlooked as if a bit of old London had been left to stand whilenewer places grew up and hid it from view. This was the kind ofstreet he liked to pass through for curiosity's sake. He knewmany of them in the old quarters of many cities. He had lived insome of them. He could find his way home from the other end ofit. Another thing than its queerness attracted him. He heard aclamor of boys' voices, and he wanted to see what they weredoing. Sometimes, when he had reached a new place and had hadthat lonely feeling, he had followed some boyish clamor of playor wrangling, and had found a temporary friend or so.Half-way to the street's end there was an arched brick passage.The sound of the voices came from there--one of them high, andthinner and shriller than the rest. Marco tramped up to the archand looked down through the passage. It opened on to a grayflagged space, shut in by the railings of a black, deserted, andancient graveyard behind a venerable church which turned its facetoward some other street. The boys were not playing, butlistening to one of their number who was reading to them from anewspaper.Marco walked down the passage and listened also, standing in thedark arched outlet at its end and watching the boy who read. Hewas a strange little creature with a big forehead, and deep eyeswhich were curiously sharp. But this was not all. He had ahunch back, his legs seemed small and crooked. He sat with themcrossed before him on a rough wooden platform set on low wheels,on which he evidently pushed himself about. Near him were anumber of sticks stacked together as if they were rifles. One ofthe first things that Marco noticed was that he had a savagelittle face marked with lines as if he had been angry all hislife."Hold your tongues, you fools!" he shrilled out to some boyswho interrupted him. "Don't you want to know anything, youignorant swine?"He was as ill-dressed as the rest of them, but he did not speakin the Cockney dialect. If he was of the riffraff of thestreets, as his companions were, he was somehow different.Then he, by chance, saw Marco, who was standing in the arched endof the passage."What are you doing there listening?" he shouted, and at oncestooped to pick up a stone and threw it at him. The stone hitMarco's shoulder, but it did not hurt him much. What he did notlike was that another lad should want to throw something at himbefore they had even exchanged boy-signs. He also did not likethe fact that two other boys promptly took the matter up bybending down to pick up stones also.He walked forward straight into the group and stopped close tothe hunchback."What did you do that for?" he asked, in his rather deep youngvoice.He was big and strong-looking enough to suggest that he was not aboy it would be easy to dispose of, but it was not that whichmade the group stand still a moment to stare at him. It wassomething in himself--half of it a kind of impartial lack ofanything like irritation at the stone-throwing. It was as if ithad not mattered to him in the least. It had not made him feelangry or insulted. He was only rather curious about it. Becausehe was clean, and his hair and his shabby clothes were brushed,the first impression given by his appearance as he stood in thearchway was that he was a young "toff" poking his nose where itwas not wanted; but, as he drew near, they saw that thewell-brushed clothes were worn, and there were patches on hisshoes."What did you do that for?" he asked, and he asked it merely asif he wanted to find out the reason."I'm not going to have you swells dropping in to my club as ifit was your own," said the hunchback."I'm not a swell, and I didn't know it was a club," Marcoanswered. "I heard boys, and I thought I'd come and look. WhenI heard you reading about Samavia, I wanted to hear."He looked at the reader with his silent-expressioned eyes."You needn't have thrown a stone," he added. "They don't doit at men's clubs. I'll go away."He turned about as if he were going, but, before he had takenthree steps, the hunchback hailed him unceremoniously."Hi!" he called out. "Hi, you!""What do you want?" said Marco."I bet you don't know where Samavia is, or what they're fightingabout." The hunchback threw the words at him."Yes, I do. It's north of Beltrazo and east of Jiardasia, andthey are fighting because one party has assassinated King Maran,and the other will not let them crown Nicola Iarovitch. And whyshould they? He's a brigand, and hasn't a drop of royal blood inhim.""Oh!" reluctantly admitted the hunchback. "You do know thatmuch, do you? Come back here."Marco turned back, while the boys still stared. It was as if twoleaders or generals were meeting for the first time, and therabble, looking on, wondered what would come of their encounter."The Samavians of the Iarovitch party are a bad lot and wantonly bad things," said Marco, speaking first. "They carenothing for Samavia. They only care for money and the power tomake laws which will serve them and crush everybody else. Theyknow Nicola is a weak man, and that, if they can crown him king,they can make him do what they like."The fact that he spoke first, and that, though he spoke in asteady boyish voice without swagger, he somehow seemed to take itfor granted that they would listen, made his place for him atonce. Boys are impressionable creatures, and they know a leaderwhen they see him. The hunchback fixed glittering eyes on him.The rabble began to murmur."Rat! Rat!" several voices cried at once in good strongCockney. "Arst 'im some more, Rat!""Is that what they call you?" Marco asked the hunchback."It's what I called myself," he answered resentfully. " `TheRat.' Look at me! Crawling round on the ground like this! Lookat me!"He made a gesture ordering his followers to move aside, and beganto push himself rapidly, with queer darts this side and thatround the inclosure. He bent his head and body, and twisted hisface, and made strange animal-like movements. He even utteredsharp squeaks as he rushed here and there--as a rat might havedone when it was being hunted. He did it as if he weredisplaying an accomplishment, and his followers' laughter wasapplause."Wasn't I like a rat?" he demanded, when he suddenly stopped."You made yourself like one on purpose," Marco answered. "Youdo it for fun.""Not so much fun," said The Rat. "I feel like one. Everyone's my enemy. I'm vermin. I can't fight or defend myselfunless I bite. I can bite, though." And he showed two rows offierce, strong, white teeth, sharper at the points than humanteeth usually are. "I bite my father when he gets drunk andbeats me. I've bitten him till he's learned to remember." Helaughed a shrill, squeaking laugh. "He hasn't tried it forthree months--even when he was drunk-- and he's always drunk."Then he laughed again still more shrilly. "He's a gentleman,"he said. "I'm a gentleman's son. He was a Master at a bigschool until he was kicked out--that was when I was four and mymother died. I'm thirteen now. How old are you?""I'm twelve," answered Marco.The Rat twisted his face enviously."I wish I was your size! Are you a gentleman's son? You lookas if you were.""I'm a very poor man's son," was Marco's answer. "My fatheris a writer.""Then, ten to one, he's a sort of gentleman," said The Rat.Then quite suddenly he threw another question at him. "What'sthe name of the other Samavian party?""The Maranovitch. The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch have beenfighting with each other for five hundred years. First onedynasty rules, and then the other gets in when it has killedsomebody as it killed King Maran," Marco answered withouthesitation."What was the name of the dynasty that ruled before they beganfighting? The first Maranovitch assassinated the last of them,"The Rat asked him."The Fedorovitch," said Marco. "The last one was a badking.""His son was the one they never found again," said The Rat."The one they call the Lost Prince."Marco would have started but for his long training in exteriorself-control. It was so strange to hear his dream-hero spoken ofin this back alley in a slum, and just after he had been thinkingof him."What do you know about him?" he asked, and, as he did so, hesaw the group of vagabond lads draw nearer."Not much. I only read something about him in a torn magazine Ifound in the street," The Rat answered. "The man that wroteabout him said he was only part of a legend, and he laughed atpeople for believing in him. He said it was about time that heshould turn up again if he intended to. I've invented thingsabout him because these chaps like to hear me tell them. They'reonly stories.""We likes 'im," a voice called out, "becos 'e wos the rightsort; 'e'd fight, 'e would, if 'e was in Samavia now."Marco rapidly asked himself how much he might say. He decidedand spoke to them all."He is not part of a legend. He's part of Samavian history,"he said. "I know something about him too.""How did you find it out?" asked The Rat."Because my father's a writer, he's obliged to have books andpapers, and he knows things. I like to read, and I go into thefree libraries. You can always get books and papers there. ThenI ask my father questions. All the newspapers are full of thingsabout Samavia just now." Marco felt that this was anexplanation which betrayed nothing. It was true that no onecould open a newspaper at this period without seeing news andstories of Samavia.The Rat saw possible vistas of information opening up before him."Sit down here," he said, "and tell us what you know abouthim. Sit down, you fellows."There was nothing to sit on but the broken flagged pavement, butthat was a small matter. Marco himself had sat on flags or bareground often enough before, and so had the rest of the lads. Hetook his place near The Rat, and the others made a semicircle infront of them. The two leaders had joined forces, so to speak,and the followers fell into line at "attention."Then the new-comer began to talk. It was a good story, that ofthe Lost Prince, and Marco told it in a way which gave itreality. How could he help it? He knew, as they could not, thatit was real. He who had pored over maps of little Samavia sincehis seventh year, who had studied them with his father, knew itas a country he could have found his way to any part of if he hadbeen dropped in any forest or any mountain of it. He knew everyhighway and byway, and in the capital city of Melzarr couldalmost have made his way blindfolded. He knew the palaces andthe forts, the churches, the poor streets and the rich ones. Hisfather had once shown him a plan of the royal palace which theyhad studied together until the boy knew each apartment andcorridor in it by heart. But this he did not speak of. He knewit was one of the things to be silent about. But of themountains and the emerald velvet meadows climbing their sides andonly ending where huge bare crags and peaks began, he couldspeak. He could make pictures of the wide fertile plains whereherds of wild horses fed, or raced and sniffed the air; he coulddescribe the fertile valleys where clear rivers ran and flocks ofsheep pastured on deep sweet grass. He could speak of thembecause he could offer a good enough reason for his knowledge ofthem. It was not the only reason he had for his knowledge, butit was one which would serve well enough."That torn magazine you found had more than one article aboutSamavia in it," he said to The Rat. "The same man wrote four.I read them all in a free library. He had been to Samavia, andknew a great deal about it. He said it was one of the mostbeautiful countries he had ever traveled in--and the mostfertile. That's what they all say of it."The group before him knew nothing of fertility or open country.They only knew London back streets and courts. Most of them hadnever traveled as far as the public parks, and in fact scarcelybelieved in their existence. They were a rough lot, and as theyhad stared at Marco at first sight of him, so they continued tostare at him as he talked. When he told of the tall Samavianswho had been like giants centuries ago, and who had hunted thewild horses and captured and trained them to obedience by a sortof strong and gentle magic, their mouths fell open. This was thesort of thing to allure any boy's imagination."Blimme, if I wouldn't 'ave liked ketchin' one o' them 'orses,"broke in one of the audience, and his exclamation was followed bya dozen of like nature from the others. Who wouldn't have liked"ketchin' one"?When he told of the deep endless-seeming forests, and of theherdsmen and shepherds who played on their pipes and made songsabout high deeds and bravery, they grinned with pleasure withoutknowing they were grinning. They did not really know that inthis neglected, broken-flagged inclosure, shut in on one side bysmoke- blackened, poverty-stricken houses, and on the other by adeserted and forgotten sunken graveyard, they heard the rustle ofgreen forest boughs where birds nested close, the swish of thesummer wind in the river reeds, and the tinkle and laughter andrush of brooks running.They heard more or less of it all through the Lost Prince story,because Prince Ivor had loved lowland woods and mountain forestsand all out-of-door life. When Marco pictured him tall andstrong- limbed and young, winning all the people when he rodesmiling among them, the boys grinned again with unconsciouspleasure."Wisht 'e 'adn't got lost!" some one cried out.When they heard of the unrest and dissatisfaction of theSamavians, they began to get restless themselves. When Marcoreached the part of the story in which the mob rushed into thepalace and demanded their prince from the king, they ejaculatedscraps of bad language. "The old geezer had got him hiddensomewhere in some dungeon, or he'd killed him out an' out--that'swhat he'd been up to!" they clamored. "Wisht the lot of us hadbeen there then--wisht we 'ad. We'd 'ave give' 'im wot for,anyway!""An' 'im walkin' out o' the place so early in the mornin' justsingin' like that! 'E 'ad 'im follered an' done for!" theydecided with various exclamations of boyish wrath. Somehow, thefact that the handsome royal lad had strolled into the morningsunshine singing made them more savage. Their language wasextremely bad at this point.But if it was bad here, it became worse when the old shepherdfound the young huntsman's half-dead body in the forest. He had"bin `done for' in the back! 'E'd bin give' no charnst.G-r-r-r!" they groaned in chorus. "Wisht" they'd "bin therewhen 'e'd bin 'it!" They'd " 'ave done fur somebody"themselves. It was a story which had a queer effect on them. Itmade them think they saw things; it fired their blood; it setthem wanting to fight for ideals they knew nothingabout--adventurous things, for instance, and high and noble youngprinces who were full of the possibility of great and good deeds.Sitting upon the broken flagstones of the bit of ground behindthe deserted graveyard, they were suddenly dragged into the worldof romance, and noble young princes and great and good deedsbecame as real as the sunken gravestones, and far moreinteresting.And then the smuggling across the frontier of the unconsciousprince in the bullock cart loaded with sheepskins! They heldtheir breaths. Would the old shepherd get him past the line!Marco, who was lost in the recital himself, told it as if he hadbeen present. He felt as if he had, and as this was the firsttime he had ever told it to thrilled listeners, his imaginationgot him in its grip, and his heart jumped in his breast as he wassure the old man's must have done when the guard stopped his cartand asked him what he was carrying out of the country. He knewhe must have had to call up all his strength to force his voiceinto steadiness.And then the good monks! He had to stop to explain what a monkwas, and when he described the solitude of the ancient monastery,and its walled gardens full of flowers and old simples to be usedfor healing, and the wise monks walking in the silence and thesun, the boys stared a little helplessly, but still as if theywere vaguely pleased by the picture.And then there was no more to tell--no more. There it broke off,and something like a low howl of dismay broke from thesemicircle."Aw!" they protested, "it 'adn't ought to stop there! Ain'tthere no more? Is that all there is?""It's all that was ever known really. And that last part mightonly be a sort of story made up by somebody. But I believe itmyself."The Rat had listened with burning eyes. He had sat biting hisfinger-nails, as was a trick of his when he was excited or angry."Tell you what!" he exclaimed suddenly. "This was whathappened. It was some of the Maranovitch fellows that tried tokill him. They meant to kill his father and make their own manking, and they knew the people wouldn't stand it if young Ivorwas alive. They just stabbed him in the back, the fiends! Idare say they heard the old shepherd coming, and left him fordead and ran.""Right, oh! That was it!" the lads agreed. "Yer right there,Rat!""When he got well," The Rat went on feverishly, still bitinghis nails, "he couldn't go back. He was only a boy. The otherfellow had been crowned, and his followers felt strong becausethey'd just conquered the country. He could have done nothingwithout an army, and he was too young to raise one. Perhaps hethought he'd wait till he was old enough to know what to do. Idare say he went away and had to work for his living as if he'dnever been a prince at all. Then perhaps sometime he marriedsomebody and had a son, and told him as a secret who he was andall about Samavia." The Rat began to look vengeful. "If I'dbin him I'd have told him not to forget what the Maranovitch haddone to me. I'd have told him that if I couldn't get back thethrone, he must see what he could do when he grew to be a man.And I'd have made him swear, if he got it back, to take it out ofthem or their children or their children's children in tortureand killing. I'd have made him swear not to leave a Maranovitchalive. And I'd have told him that, if he couldn't do it in hislife, he must pass the oath on to his son and his son's son, aslong as there was a Fedorovitch on earth. Wouldn't you?" hedemanded hotly of Marco.Marco's blood was also hot, but it was a different kind of blood,and he had talked too much to a very sane man."No," he said slowly. "What would have been the use? Itwouldn't have done Samavia any good, and it wouldn't have donehim any good to torture and kill people. Better keep them aliveand make them do things for the country. If you're a patriot,you think of the country." He wanted to add "That's what myfather says," but he did not."Torture 'em first and then attend to the country," snapped TheRat. "What would you have told your son if you'd been Ivor?""I'd have told him to learn everything about Samavia--and allthe things kings have to know--and study things about laws andother countries--and about keeping silent--and about governinghimself as if he were a general commanding soldiers in battle--sothat he would never do anything he did not mean to do or could beashamed of doing after it was over. And I'd have asked him totell his son's sons to tell their sons to learn the same things.So, you see, however long the time was, there would always be aking getting ready for Samavia--when Samavia really wanted him.And he would be a real king."He stopped himself suddenly and looked at the staring semicircle."I didn't make that up myself," he said. "I have heard a manwho reads and knows things say it. I believe the Lost Princewould have had the same thoughts. If he had, and told them tohis son, there has been a line of kings in training for Samaviafor five hundred years, and perhaps one is walking about thestreets of Vienna, or Budapest, or Paris, or London now, and he'dbe ready if the people found out about him and called him.""Wisht they would!" some one yelled."It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no oneelse knew it," The Rat communed with himself as it were, "thatyou were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown.I wonder if it would make a chap look different?"He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden wayto Marco:"But he'd be a fool to give up the vengeance. What is yourname?""Marco Loristan. What's yours? It isn't The Rat really.""It's Jem Ratcliffe. That's pretty near. Where do you live?""No. 7 Philibert Place.""This club is a soldiers' club," said The Rat. "It's calledthe Squad. I'm the captain. 'Tention, you fellows! Let's showhim."The semicircle sprang to its feet. There were about twelve ladsaltogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once thatfor some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word ofcommand with military precision."Form in line!" ordered The Rat.They did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight andtheir heads up amazingly well. Each had seized one of the stickswhich had been stacked together like guns.The Rat himself sat up straight on his platform. There wasactually something military in the bearing of his lean body. Hisvoice lost its squeak and its sharpness became commanding.He put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smartyoung officer. And the drill itself was prompt and smart enoughto have done credit to practiced soldiers in barracks. It madeMarco involuntarily stand very straight himself, and watch withsurprised interest."That's good!" he exclaimed when it was at an end. "How didyou learn that?"The Rat made a savage gesture."If I'd had legs to stand on, I'd have been a soldier!" hesaid. "I'd have enlisted in any regiment that would take me. Idon't care for anything else."Suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to hisfollowers."Turn your backs!" he ordered.And they did turn their backs and looked through the railings ofthe old churchyard. Marco saw that they were obeying an orderwhich was not new to them. The Rat had thrown his arm up overhis eyes and covered them. He held it there for several moments,as if he did not want to be seen. Marco turned his back as therest had done. All at once he understood that, though The Ratwas not crying, yet he was feeling something which another boywould possibly have broken down under."All right!" he shouted presently, and dropped hisragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again."I want to go to war!" he said hoarsely. "I want to fight! Iwant to lead a lot of men into battle! And I haven't got anylegs. Sometimes it takes the pluck out of me.""You've not grown up yet!" said Marco. "You might get strong.No one knows what is going to happen. How did you learn to drillthe club?""I hang about barracks. I watch and listen. I follow soldiers.If I could get books, I'd read about wars. I can't go tolibraries as you can. I can do nothing but scuffle about like arat.""I can take you to some libraries," said Marco. "There areplaces where boys can get in. And I can get some papers from myfather.""Can you?" said The Rat. "Do you want to join the club?""Yes!" Marco answered. "I'll speak to my father about it."He said it because the hungry longing for companionship in hisown mind had found a sort of response in the queer hungry look inThe Rat's eyes. He wanted to see him again. Strange creature ashe was, there was attraction in him. Scuffling about on his lowwheeled platform, he had drawn this group of rough lads to himand made himself their commander. They obeyed him; they listenedto his stories and harangues about war and soldiering; they lethim drill them and give them orders. Marco knew that, when hetold his father about him, he would be interested. The boywanted to hear what Loristan would say."I'm going home now," he said. "If you're going to be hereto- morrow, I will try to come.""We shall be here," The Rat answered. "It's our barracks."Marco drew himself up smartly and made his salute as if to asuperior officer. Then he wheeled about and marched through thebrick archway, and the sound of his boyish tread was as regularand decided as if he had been a man keeping time with hisregiment."He's been drilled himself," said The Rat. "He knows as muchas I do."And he sat up and stared down the passage with new interest.