The Chronicles of Major Peabody Page 10

  “I must have stepped on that black bear. It jumped up right in front of me. Six inches in front of me. It was at least twelve feet tall. Big, blood stained fangs. Ugly face. Mean look about him. Bad breath, too. It let out a terrible roar. As soon as it roared at me, I bravely screamed back, turned and ran as fast as I could. Soon thereafter, I found myself back here in the cabin. I don’t remember exactly how I got here. It was a close thing, Major.”

  (As the Major’s attorney was talking with him, the black bear - more than a mile away - was talking with one of its friends. “I was minding my own business,” the bear said. “I was eating blackberries when I must have stepped on this guy. He jumped up right in front of me. He couldn’t have been more than six inches from me. He was at least twelve feet tall. Big, blood stained teeth. Ugly face. Mean look about him. Bad breath, too. He let out a terrible scream. As soon as he screamed at me, I bravely roared back, turned and ran as fast as I could. Soon thereafter, I found myself here with you. I don’t remember exactly how I got here. It was a close thing, Yogi.”)

  Back in the cabin, Peabody tried to calm me. “Calm down, young man,” he said. “It was only a bear.”

  “ONLY A BEAR? ONLY A BEAR? Bears are vicious beasts. They think people are good to eat. They turn over peoples’ cars and eat them. I mean the people, not the cars. They hate people.”

  “I’ll admit they sometimes get hungry,” Peabody said in soothing tones, “but they don’t hate people. Some of them are downright friendly. Some of them go out of their way to help people.”

  I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I think it was “Amazing,” or something like that.

  Peabody took the now empty glass from my hand and set it on the cabin table. “No, it’s the truth,” he said. “I know it’s the truth because I have witnessed it.” The Major added another substantial amount of Scotch to my water glass and poured out a dollop for himself. “Come,” he said. “Sit and let me tell you about it.” The Major eased himself into the frayed overstuffed chair next to the fieldstone fire place, lit a cigar and told his story.

  “About thirty years ago, I was a Military Attaché at the U S Embassy in Manila. I made the acquaintance of a man named Li Chan. For most of Li Chan’s life, he lived on Mondo, an island south of Manila. He was Chinese, but considered himself to be a Mondoan. Most people mispronounce that word. They put the accent on the ‘do’ and say moan- DOH -ann. Actually, the accent is on the last syllable. The word is pronounced moan-doh-ANN. To aid in that proper pronunciation, in the Philippines, the word is usually spelled Mondo-ANN.”

  I am now sure the Major’s little digression was calculated to distract me from my then, so recent, terrible experience with that vicious black bear. I’ll admit I became interested in the Major’s story. He leaned back in the chair, sipped, puffed and continued.

  “The island of Mondo is rich in native hardwoods. Li Chan was a lumber merchant. He owned and operated the only saw mill on the island. In those days, there weren’t many roads. Li Chan had a fleet of tug boats. He used them to haul rafts of logs from island shoreline staging areas to his mill. He was well acquainted with the bays and inlets that were attractive to both local and migrating ducks. Most importantly, he was an avid duck hunter. That’s how we got together.”

  “What’s that got to do with bear?” I asked.

  “Be patient. I’m getting to it. Terrible typhoons race through the Sulu Sea. From time to time, they devastate Mondo Island. Li Chan had to rebuild his mill every few years. He could afford to do it. There was big money in tropical hardwood, particularly teak. I was in the Philippines when one of those typhoons hit. Among other serious damages, it destroyed the Mondo Island Catholic Church. Li Chan ran the only real business there and, I’m afraid, he didn’t pay his employees much more than subsistence wages. The Mondo-ANN natives were poor and the parish was just as poor. Rebuilding the church would be a problem for them.”

  “Bear, bear,” I insisted. “You were going to tell me how bear have so many nice qualities.”

  “I’m getting to it. I’m getting to it. I often managed to get to Mondo and hunt with Li Chan. When the ducks weren’t flying, we’d sit in the blind and he would tell me about the local flora and fauna. Mondo Island abounds with interesting plants and animals but since you’re in such a hurry, I won’t tell you the fascinating facts about the Sulawesi Kus Kus. I’ll skip directly to the Mondo-ANN Bear.

  “Because of its gentle nature, the Mondo-ANN Bear has become extinct in most of the islands where once they were numerous. Many were trapped and taken to zoos where, unable to live in captivity, they soon perished. Today, the creature is found only on Mondo Island, a place where it faces no danger from zoo curators who are prohibited by law from landing on the island.

  The Mondo-ANN Bear is large. Adult specimens weigh between four and five hundred pounds. In addition to their characteristically gentle nature, the animal can be identified be two unique features. It has opposable thumbs and it leaves a footprint that looks surprisingly like that of a small human being.”

  “Truly?” I asked.

  “Truly,” the Major answered.

  “One morning Li Chan came to the Embassy. He asked for advice concerning a problem that developed on Mondo Island. Li Chan noticed his finished teak boards were disappearing from his saw mill. He also noticed finished teak boards were being used to rebuild the typhoon-destroyed Catholic Church. He suspected the priest was stealing lumber. Li Chan didn’t want to become involved in a confrontation with the church, but finished tropical hardwood planks brought high prices on the open market. He didn’t know what to do.

  “Of course, I agreed to help my duck hunting companion. I went to Mondo Island and climbed a tree. From high in its branches, I could watch Li Chan’s lumber yard. If a thief stole any lumber, I intended to follow him to the church, catch him in the act and suggest he discontinue his stealing and avoid the publicity that would certainly be quite embarrassing to all concerned.

  “The sun had begun to rise when I was roused from my dozing by the sound of boards being removed from a pile of lumber. By the time I crawled down from the tree and entered the lumber yard, the thief had left, but I could plainly see the small, fresh tracks heading straight for the church. I followed them and arrived at the church in time to see a Mondo-ANN Bear unloading the planks it had been carrying on his shoulder.

  “It was obvious that neither the priest nor any of his parishioners were the malefactors. It was a gentle Mondo-ANN bear, coming to the assistance of a human being in need.

  “The priest certainly appreciated the bear’s help. I saw him place his hand on the bear’s head and I heard him say: Blessings on thee, Mondo-ANN, Boy Foot Bear with Teak of Chan.”

  Carl Wussow’s Spring Pond

  It was October 20 and Major Peabody was going hunting. During the last half of that month, he usually went hunting for ducks and grouse. The terms of the Peabody Spendthrift Trust obligated me to personally deliver his first-day-of-the-month remittances. The Major expanded that responsibility to include driving him to and from the airport whenever he undertook a hunting trip.

  I had already brought his suitcase to the van when he came out of his apartment building carrying a light brown pig skin Leg-o’-Mutton gun case containing his vintage 20 ga. double barreled Lefever shotgun. The weapon was his pride and his joy and he wouldn’t let me touch it, let alone carry the gun case. He explained the reason with a terse statement. “You might, drop it.”

  Today, as he closed the outer door of the building, I noticed he carried only the pig skin case. From past experience, I knew he always took two weapons with him - the Lefever for the grouse and a 12 ga. for the duck. “Major,” I called out to him. “You forgot your 12 ga. shotgun.” Peabody paid no attention to my warning. He slid open the back door of the van and carefully placed the Leg-o’-Mutton on the seat. As he opened the door to join me in the front, I tried again. “Major,” I repeated, but got no further.

  “Let�
�s go,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to miss the plane. I do like to be in the woods in mid autumn. It’s a great time to be there. The greens of the spruce and balsam and the reds and yellows of the deciduous trees are a memorable sight.” I couldn’t believe Major Peabody would leave on his regular late October hunt without his duck gun. Now that he was sitting next to me, I decided to try again while we were still close enough to his apartment to easily return and get the missing gun.

  “Major, I believe you’ve forgotten one of your shotguns,” I said loudly, slowly and enunciating carefully, thinking he may be losing his hearing.

  “No need to shout, my boy. I’m taking only my Lefever,” he said, just as if that simple statement were an explanation. There had to be a method in his madness. Leaving his duck gun behind wasn’t an oversight. My curiosity was killing me. We drove on in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.

  “I suppose your curiosity is killing you,” he said. “There is a good reason for leaving the 12 ga. behind. I might as well explain it to you.” Peabody leaned back, made himself comfortable, and told the story.

  “Five or six years ago,” he began, “I was invited to participate in a Ruffed Grouse hunt. The invitation was extended by a man I met during a previous South Dakota pheasant expedition. Frankly, I didn’t particularly like the man. Normally I don’t associate with a person who would ground swat a pheasant. Still, one must be willing to subordinate personal feelings if one is truly interested in securing opportunities to be asked to join upland bird hunts. I accepted the man’s invitation.

  “The other hunters were strangers to me. They were cut from the same cloth as my host. It was not a pleasant hunt. To name a few of the perpetrated outrages: shouts of ‘I got him’ rang out from men who hadn’t fired a shot; a poker IOU wasn’t honored; and, the only Scotch whisky in camp was blended. There was only one good consequence flowing from that entire misbegotten foray. My host had hired a local named Carl Wussow to serve as guide and camp cook.

  “Carl and I got to know each other. During the first evening, we both apologized for being in the company of the others. Carl admitted he had a bad experience with the host. He told me he didn’t get full payment for the food he bought for the previous year’s hunt. He had again asked to be reimbursement for those out-of-pocket expenses. He request was again denied.

  “After preparing the next morning’s breakfast, Carl quit. He left the camp and took his food supplies with him. I joined in the exodus and the two of us hunted together for the rest of the week. It was the beginning of a solid friendship. I now have a standing invitation to visit him and hunt on his land.

  “Carl owns 160 acres in the Argonne National Forest. His quarter section harbors grouse, Woodcock, wild turkey (both distilled and two footed), deer and various other birds and animals. It also contains two pot holes and a spring pond. I’ve never been to the pot holes, but he took me to the pond.

  “The substantial flow of water from a spring produces a waterway that curves like a scimitar. It’s seventy or eighty feet across at its widest point and about a quarter mile long. Then it pinches together, gets some additional water from the pot holes and forms a stream which empties into the Brule River. The pond isn’t very deep and I could easily see the gravelly bottom. Carl told me he caught trout there in the springtime before the sun and the weed growth raised the water temperature

  “Of course, I thought about duck hunting. In answer to my questions, Carl eyed me speculatively and came to the conclusion I could be trusted. He took me to a knuckle of land that stuck out into the pond. A well camouflaged blind was concealed at its point. From the blind I could see both ends of the scimitar.

  “Carl told me the pond wasn’t always productive, but usually provided first class pass shooting. Both local and migrating duck seemed to have a natural flyway down the center of that scimitar. He told me I could use the blind. He also told me it was his secret place and warned me to keep my mouth shut.

  “For the next three years, whenever I visited Carl during the duck season, I’d get up early. Carl would make a pot of coffee for me and then go back to sleep. I’d carry a dozen blocks to the pond, set them out and await the action. I’ve seen muskrats. I’ve seen otter. I’ve seen deer come to the pond to drink. I’ve seen eagles – far more eagles than ducks. Hooded Mergansers came once in a while to feed on small fish. Occasionally a Wood Duck or a puddle duck would make a brief appearance, but, otherwise, the Duck Hunting Gods never smiled upon me.”

  When we arrived at the airport, the Major took his Leg-o’-Mutton and suitcase, headed for the check-in and made a final comment. “Last year I managed to drop my first duck – a teal – and if Doc Carmichael hadn’t alerted me, I wouldn’t have been awake to shoot that one. In short, my young friend, the 12 ga. will stay in Philadelphia when I visit Carl Wussow. As much as I love duck hunting, I’ve given up on Carl Wussow’s Spring Pond. From now on my attentions will be directed toward Carl’s Woodcock and Ruffed Grouse.”

  * * * * *

  Carl’s nephew, Tom, lives and works in Green Bay. Like his uncle, Tom is a hunter. This year, for the first time, he would join Carl and the Major for their regular October hunt. Tom was waiting for the Major at the Austin Straubel airport. He introduced himself, loaded Peabody’s gear into his pick-up and they started the trip north to Carl’s cabin.

  On the way, Tom told the Major how much Carl loved to hunt ducks. He told him how, for years, he had planted wild rice, duck potato and wild celery in his pot holes. Every duck in the neighborhood spends its evenings there. Tom was convinced that Canadian ducks considered Uncle Carl’s pot holes to be the very best restaurants on their migratory route. Peabody’s jaw dropped, but Tom was watching the road and didn’t see it.

  Tom chuckled about how close-mouthed Uncle Carl was about his secret duck hunting pot holes. He was sure Uncle Carl had told no one about them, excepting, of course, the Major.

  Then Tom chuckled again and added how Uncle Carl usually told people to hunt his spring pond. He even built a nice blind for them even though seeing a duck on that pond was a very rare experience.

  You Can’t Win

  “We live in a strange universe,” said Major Nathaniel Peabody. “Upon careful analysis, you will discover the rules established to direct us onto the pathways of appropriate behavior are of highly questionable validity. Morality, ethics and even the simple instructions of how to lead a happy life are contradictory and confusing. Nothing is what it seems to be. What we presume to be immutable laws turn out to be quite mutable.

  “Examples are legion. ‘Thou shalt not kill’ unless ‘thou’ happens to be the hangman. Stealing tens of thousands of dollars is a felony unless you happen to be a United States Senator or a member of the House of Representatives. ‘Look before you leap’, appears to be good advice, but remember, ‘He who hesitates is lost.’ ‘A penny saved is a penny earned’, but, still, a man can be ‘penny wise and pound foolish”.

  It was the 27th day of September. Major Peabody and I were in Bookbinders. He was enjoying a cigar and we both had an after dinner Spanish sherry - a Tio Pepe from Jerez de la Frontera. As I recall it, we had enjoyed more than just one of them.

  “Even though something leaves the impression that it is entirely clear, in fact, it may be open to many different interpretations,” Peabody observed.

  I immediately became suspicious. “I know what you’re up to, Major,” I said, “and it won’t work. Your Spendthrift Trust Agreement is definitely NOT subject to a different interpretation. That document provides for the delivery of a monthly stipend on the first day of the month. It very carefully proscribes delivery before the first day of the month.” I looked at my watch. “It is now thirteen minutes past eight o’clock. You can get your check in 75 hours and forty seven minutes and not a single second earlier. You know the rules.”

  If Peabody was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He blew a smoke ring. He looked at me for a moment and then continued: “It is said t
here is an exception to every rule.”

  Now I had him. I knew, sooner or later, he would use that ‘exception to every rule’ ploy. I was ready for him.

  “Well, Major,” I answered, trying not to sound too smug, “if there is an exception to every rule, then that statement must be a rule. If it is a rule, then, according to its own terms, there is an exception to it. In other words there has to be a rule to which there is no exception. I’ll give you an example of such a rule.” I paused and enunciated clearly for emphasis and said: “There is no exception to the rule that directs the delivery of your trust stipend on the first day of the month.”

  Peabody effected a pained expression. “Of course, my boy, of course,” he said. “I have no intention of putting you in an untenable position with your law firm by accepting an early payment.” (Yes, he used the word “accepting”.) “I was merely saying that rules, under certain circumstances, can quite properly be fractured, if not broken. For example - you, I am told, have adopted a rule to never bet with me. Is that right?”

  The lovely Stephanie must have spilled the beans. Stephanie is my fiancé and a very beautiful, intelligent and strong minded woman. Stephanie suggested I never again make any kind of wager with Major Nathaniel Peabody. When the lovely Stephanie makes a suggestion, that suggestion must be adopted if it be your desire to continue association with her.

  Don’t misunderstand. Stephanie likes the Major. She enjoys his stories and his company. She also knows of the various times the Major has talked me into betting on a wager that, on the surface, appeared to be a safe bet. I ended up paying off on every one of those ‘safe bets’.

  I didn’t answer the Major’s question. I didn’t have to. Clearly, Peabody had talked to Stephanie and he knew about her ‘suggestion’.