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Taking the Bait by Nigel Roth


If you are ever allowed to travel anywhere again, you might fancy visiting one of these fabulous places. A zoo and nature institute in Louisiana, a town in Pennsylvania, a country club, museum, and state park in Kentucky, a county in Iowa, a bridge in Mississippi, a roundabout in Massachusetts, a parkway and an avenue in New York, a bird sanctuary in Alabama, a wildlife refuge in North Dakota, a neighborhood in Minnesota, a gallery in Florida, a conservation center in Missouri, a recreation center in Texas, a ‘metro park’ (I don’t know what that is either) in Ohio, a mountain in Colorado, a high school in New Jersey, and an elementary school in Illinois.


The common thread that holds all of these wonderful places together is their dedication to that great American ornithologist, naturalist, and illustrator, John James Audubon.


But, of course, this is me you're reading, so you know I’m going to annoy every single one of those places with a little truth.


John James Audubon was actually French, born in Les Cayes, in the French colony of Saint-Domingue, now Haiti. And his name wasn’t Audubon, it was Rabin. Jean-Jacques Rabin.


But before you dash off to change the name of the Audubon Business and Technology Center or the Audubon Terrace Historic District, or the John J. Audubon schooner which sits at the bottom of a deep bit of water somewhere, be happy he was at least a man of good honest breeding, and suited to adorn your treasured landmarks.


Except that, he was, of course, the son of Lieutenant Jean Audubon, a French pirate, and his Breton mistress Jeanne Rabine, a chambermaid, who died when he was only a few months old.


Anyway, don’t run off and rename the Audubon Society just yet, be warmed by the fact that Audubon's father was an upstanding and morally-guided man who loved his children.


Although, of course, he didn’t know how many he actually had. Could've been ten, maybe twenty; some by his housekeeper Catherine Bouffard, who he had more children with after his other mistress had passed to a place of comparative peace and quiet, and who subsequently raised Jean-Jacques, and some by a plethora of other servants whose names shall remain unwritten because I don’t know them.


But I’m not here to tell you about people whose birth country has been forgotten or misplaced, like Thomas Paine, the influential writer and political pamphleteer, whose Common Sense and Crisis papers spurred the American Revolution that created the country that Rabin was able to make his own, and who was, of course, born just around the corner (geographically-speaking) to where I reside, in the county of Norfolk, in England.


No, I’m here to tell you about a side of Jean-Jacques rarely known.


First though, I want you to relax, close your eyes, and think of mermaids. Well, one mermaid in particular, and she was so shockingly grotesque that you might want to open your eyes slowly.


Her name was The Fiji, or Feejee, or Fran mermaid, to be less-than precise. Our old friend, that bastion of exploitation and unconscionable degradation, Phineas Taylor Barnum, once said he beheld an “ugly dried-up, black-looking diminutive specimen, about three feet long,” with a gaping mouth and flailing arms, “giving it the appearance of having died in great agony.” Once he’d said that about his mother, the mermaid stood no chance.


The mermaid was an absolute hit with gawkers, starers, and gapers, who just couldn’t take their eyes off of it. The ‘specimen’ that Barnum displayed across the globe in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, was created from two constituent parts; the top half of a juvenile monkey, it’s mouth open to reveal sharp teeth, and the back half of a large fish, replete with fishy scales, animal hair, and pendulous breasts.


The mermaid was bought from Japanese sailors in 1822, who sold it to captain Samuel Barrett Edes, while desperately trying to maintain a straight face until he had disappeared completely over the horizon to a future of hokery and wealth.


While the mermaid was on its tour of fakery, Rabin was beginning his dishonest ornithological adventure, using a fake passport his father had managed to ‘buy’ to make sure his twitchy son avoided conscription to Napoleon Bonaparte’s army during the ever-shifting Napoleonic Wars.


Rabin’s real break came when he caught yellow fever from a mosquito, an incredibly rare occurrence in New York City, and was nursed back to health by a Quaker family who were sympathetic to the cause of infected Frenchmen. He also traveled to their country estate with them where, it is said, his fiery love of nature was ignited. There he began his bird journey, even creating his own nature museum - inspired by the astonishing collection curated by the brilliant Charles Wilson Peale, who has nothing at all dedicated to him except the east wing of my house - and which Rabin filled with bird’s eggs, dead raccoons, deceased opossums, dried fish, expired snakes, and other creatures that he stuffed and mounted with glee while humming La Marseillaise.