The Chronicles of Major Peabody Read online

  “Don’t worry, my boy,” he said. “I believe I understand completely.” Peabody looked at his empty glass and then at me. “I take it your firm is paying for this dinner? Entertainment of a client?” I nodded. “Well then,” he said catching the eye of the waiter, “two more Tio Pepe, if you please.”

  Major Peabody extolled the virtues of the lovely Stephanie and emphasized our mutual good luck in finding one another. Certainly, he said, he would do nothing that might jeopardize my relationship with her. Then his eyes lit up and he said: “I have a marvelous idea. I believe you should make an exception to your rule.”

  “Oh”, I said, feeling I was about to be invited to take my first step onto a very slippery slope.

  “Undoubtedly Stephanie has suggested you refrain from betting with me because she doesn’t want you disappointed in the event the gods of wagering favor me with good luck.” (Good luck, my foot! Peabody doesn’t leave anything to chance. He only bets on sure things.)

  “That is an unmistakable sign of her affection for you,” the Major explained. “Your disappointment would be too much for her to bear. Now suppose - just suppose - I were to make a bet with such extreme conditions that my opportunity to win would be practically non-existent. Suppose, further, that you won the bet. Can you imagine how pleased Stephanie would be to learn how you had outsmarted me?”

  Peabody leaned back in his chair, smiling at the ingenuity of his plan. “Tomorrow morning, Doc Carmichael and I are leaving for South Dakota to help the state keep its pheasant population under control. We’ll be there on the first of October when you come to deliver my check and I’ll have the money to settle our bet. What do you think?”

  It must have been the Tio Pepe. After receiving the assurance that the Major would not, directly or indirectly divulge even the existence of our bet to his hunting friends, we agreed on its terms. It was a joint effort. Major Peabody established half of the conditions of the wager and I named the rest. I was particularly pleased with my proposed addition of “while whistling Dixie”.

  * * * * *

  Late in the evening of September 30, I got out of the auto I rented at the Brookings airport and entered the cabin the Major and his friends had rented for their hunting foray. Doctor Carmichael met me at the door. He was in an exuberant mood.

  “Come in. Come in. Feeling well, I hope. We’re all feeling very fine here - with the possible exception of Major Peabody. You brought his check? Good. He’ll need it to pay off his bet. I won! First time in a couple of years.”

  Major Peabody sat in a well used, overstuffed chair, smiling faintly. He did not look uncomfortable and I began to feel uneasy. My discomfort increased as Doctor Carmichael explained the reason for his joy.

  “Can you believe it?” he asked. “Peabody bet me fifty dollars I couldn’t stand on a chair, raise one foot in the air, tap my head and rub my stomach while whistling Dixie. What’s the matter? You don’t look so good.”

  You wouldn’t look so good either if you had bet five hundred dollars the Major couldn’t get Carmichael to give that performance before witnesses.

  Look for the Silver Lining

  My law firm manages the Peabody Spendthrift Trust and two clauses in the trust document are quite clear. The trust beneficiary’s interest cannot be pledged or alienated and can be delivered only on the first day of the month. The Trust beneficiary, Major Nathaniel Peabody, is quite dissatisfied with these terms.

  When Major Nathaniel Peabody wasn’t able to convince, cajole or threaten me into making advance payments, he studied the Trust document and then insisted the stipends be personally delivered to him on the first day of the month – regardless of where he might be found on that day. Unfortunately for me, his interpretation of the clause was deemed to be correct.

  The Major thought the inconvenience resulting from his demand would eventually force the Trustee (me) to ignore the Trust’s terms and make early payments to him. Certainly, I was inconvenienced, but Smythe, Hauser, Engals & Tauchen was not inconvenienced in the least. The senior partner merely ordered me to make the deliveries of the Major’s checks. From that day on, it became my problem.

  Peabody’s end-of-the-month hunting forays never took him to places like Paris, or Rome or the Greek Isles. He never gave me the pleasure of a delivery trip to such a place. On the first day of the month, the Major was more probably in the deep woods of Upper Michigan (where, he tells me, ferocious bears roamed freely) or in Arizona’s Sonoran desert (where, he tells me, rattlesnakes, Gila monsters and scorpions abound).

  * * * * *

  On Saturday, the penultimate day of the month, I was in Philadelphia. Major Peabody was in Missouri looking for wild turkey in a remote area near a metropolis of such a size that its name didn’t even appear on the maps. Of course, the Major would expect delivery of his check no later than 12:01 on Sunday morning, the first day of the ensuing month.

  The turkey hunters’ camp would break-up on Sunday morning and the Major would return to Philadelphia that same evening. It wouldn’t have killed him to wait and let me give him his check when he was back in his apartment, but the Peabody Trust agreement said his check was to be delivered on the first day of the month and the Major insisted that meant 12:01 a.m. And that meant I had to leave for Missouri on Saturday morning.

  I was not in a happy frame of mind. On Friday evening, I had a date with the lovely Stephanie. After a romantic dinner, as we drove to her condo, she snuggled up and told me Lucia di Lamermoor was being performed at the Met. She had arranged a week-end in New York City and coyly suggested I might like to accompany her. I believe she had a good idea of just how much I would have liked to accompany her.

  But the flight to St. Louis left the next morning and there was no way I could find anyone to deliver the Major’s check in my stead. I took a deep breath and explained it all to her. Occasionally, the lovely Stephanie is not very understanding. This was one of those times. It is true, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.” I can prove it.

  To make matters worse, the flight to Missouri was particularly irritating. When I arrived in St. Louis, the airline people confessed my luggage had, somehow or other, been sent to Taipei. The flight to Joplin was delayed. I got there, rumpled and disorderly in mind and spirit. I rented an auto, got lost on township roads and finally found the Major’s camp after sun down and after the evening meal had been completely consumed. The hunters were at the poker table and while they concentrated on their game I managed to find some potato chips.

  I was not in a good mood. I took some satisfaction in discovering Peabody, too, was not in a good mood. His accustomed end-of-the-month financial hardship was exacerbated by bad luck in the field. On Friday, the Major discovered an excellent strut zone. He watched it and the nearby roost for the entire day. Toms, larger than he had ever seen, paraded in front of him, but he held his fire.

  That evening, the Major mentioned it might be interesting if each hunter invested a hundred dollars in a pool and awarded it to the one who got the largest Tom on Saturday. The other four hunters agreed.

  I’m told there are nearly 400,000 wild turkeys in Missouri. On Saturday, to the Major’s intense disappointment, he didn’t see one of them. The various Toms that had answered his calls and paraded in front of him on Friday - well within shotgun range - had forsaken him in favor of visitations to each of his hunting companions. Coming back with an empty game bag was more than a financial loss. It was a personal embarrassment.

  To add insult to injury, the poker gods refused to smile upon him. That evening the cards were very unkind. An unrelieved run of terribly bad luck plagued him. It was just after midnight when he excused himself from the table and signaled me to follow him outside the cabin.

  “Well, my boy,” he said to me, “life is not all beer and skittles. Did you see that last hand? I held a full house with aces up and that dentist, who has all the card sense of a mud turtle, sticks around through all the betting an
d draws his fourth six on the last card. It’s enough to make a man resign from the church.”

  I was still nettled by the unfortunate experience with the lovely Stephanie. Frankly, I had little sympathy for the Major and, in fact, I will admit a certain amount of antagonism removed any pity I might normally have felt because of his run of bad luck.

  “The last time I played poker with you,” I responded with some smug satisfaction, “if I recall correctly, you told me adversity builds character.” (It not only builds character, but also teaches caution. I promised myself I would never again play cards with the Major.)

  “Do I denote a bit of edginess in your voice?” he inquired.

  “Edginess? Edginess?” I answered. “Why ever would I have cause to be edgy? Unless, of course...” and I told him the details of missing an opportunity to see Lucia di Lamermoor.

  “A tragedy, my boy, but, like I told you, adversity will build your character. Now then,” he said, paying no further attention to my tale of woe, “I have an immediate need for three hundred and fifty dollars. You have something for me, do you not?” he said as he put out his right hand, palm up.

  Revenge! Revenge! The five turkey hunters would scatter to the four winds after breakfast. The nearest village was nine miles away and it contained no banking facility. To add to Peabody’s problem, it would be Sunday and the one commercial establishment in the place (a country tavern) would be closed.

  I pulled the envelope from my coat pocket. “Here is your remittance, Major. As always, it is a delight to personally hand it to you. I do hope you will find some way to cash it and pay your debts before your companions leave tomorrow morning. I’m sure it would distress you if those gentlemen were to return to their homes knowing that you were unable to pay your gambling debts. But then, as you say, adversity builds character.”

  The Major is at his best when under pressure. His insensitivity to my problems disappeared and was replaced by sincere concern over my strained relations with the lovely Stephanie. He quickly developed a proposal to cure the breach between us.

  The eloquence of Peabody’s argument won me over and I agreed to lend him four hundred dollars in cash, but not before requiring him to endorse his trust check and return it to me as collateral.

  * * * * *

  At the end of the following month, Major Nathaniel Peabody was in the Czech Republic, participating in a driven pheasant hunt. The lovely Stephanie and I went through Customs at the airport in Prague and three days later I delivered the Major’s customary monthly stipend.

  Adversity

  I was in Major Nathaniel Peabody’s apartment. His monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance rested safely inside my jacket pocket, patiently waiting for delivery as soon as the hands of the clock told us it was after midnight and the first of the month had arrived. We sat there, silently watching the flames in the fireplace reduce the wood to coals. The Major began a one way conversation.

  “When in the field,” he began, “the sportsman constantly faces a serious danger. He is always aware of the potential for some unforeseen circumstance to arise and destroy the expedition. The form of such an ominous threat cannot be fore-cast, but there are many events that can ruin a pleasant hunt.

  “The best organized adventure can be interrupted by the development of a sudden illness or some other adversity. If someone’s dog decides it would be a good idea to grab a porcupine by the neck and give it a good shaking, the grouse hunt will probably be ended. The plan to spend a week on South Dakota pheasant land can be prematurely disrupted by some completely unforeseeable disaster like inadvertently bringing 16 gauge shells and a 12 gauge shotgun. An evening in a cottage on a lake known to contain ducks can become an agony if you are forced to listen to a hunter’s unending whining about ammunition that doesn’t hit what he aims at or the occurrence of gale force winds and sub zero temperatures.

  “Adversity of any nature can destroy any hunt,” Peabody concluded. “A hunter must always be alert. Let’s say someone brings a newspaper into camp. Immediate action is required. It is important to understand media financial success is dependant upon reporting stories of dreadful catastrophes and frightful calamities. Hunters tend to be a simple and naïve lot. If they are left to their own devices, they may read the newspaper and actually believe what is printed in it. If so, an atmosphere of dejection will surely pervade the camp and it will no longer be a happy place.

  “Don’t get me wrong, young man. I’m not one of those in the vast majority of the population who are convinced the newspapers are worthless rags. The Supreme Being did not create newspapers without intending some valuable purpose for them. Newspapers are useful in starting fires in the camp wood stove. In addition, newspapers be cut into four or five inch strips and rolled up. Appropriate sized lengths may then be torn off and used for a worthwhile purpose if someone forgot to bring the toilet tissue. One must remember, however, that newspaper ink will leave a black smudge on the Gluteus Maximus.

  “Another danger is represented by soggy playing cards. When confronted with such an outrage, one must not dissolve into a mass of blubbering hysteria. If he is to defeat adversity, the poker player must keep his wits about him. He must face up to the challenge and exercise the most careful of attentions to avoid misdealing. Misdeals can result in accusations of incompetence and fist fights. Fists fights, if allowed to get out of hand, could destroy the friendly camaraderie necessary to all hunting camps.

  “An unforeseen death is yet another example of an adversity that could distract from the joys of the occasion. If a man dies in the middle of a grouse hunt, his camp-mates may become mildly depressed and forego the following morning’s hunt.

  “The failure to deal with adversity has destroyed more hunts than the failure to bring insect repellant to the springtime Canadian tundra. The experienced hunter is quick to recognition potentially disruptive situations. He is conditioned to resolutely confront and overcome whatever camp-destroying danger that might arise.”

  The Major rattled the ice cubes in his glass. I performed my function and re-filled it. Peabody sipped, nodded his approval and then continued his story.

  “Last year I was invited to travel to the southern shore of Hudson Bay to hunt geese and waterfowl. I knew two of the three other men in our group. They were experienced hunters.

  “Steve and Mike and I had developed the kind of special relationship enjoyed only by men who have hunted together or shared the same cell for a number of years. The fourth member of the group - Henry Something-Or-Other - was unknown to me.

  “After three or four changes of airplane, we landed at an abandoned Canadian air force base at Winisk near the shores of Hudson Bay and were driven to our base camp. That’s when adversity raised its ugly head. Steve, Mike and my shotguns arrived safely, but Henry’s weapon did not. It was probably in the unclaimed baggage section of the Timmins or the Moosonee airport. Being an experienced hunter, Steve immediately recognized how the man’s misfortune could have a dampening affect on the pleasure of our shoot. He took immediate action.

  “He put his arm around Henry’s shoulder, demanded he stop his whimpering and tried to comfort him. He told him it could have been much worse - it could have been his, or Mike’s or my shotgun that had been left behind. In spite of Steve’s friendly attempt to help him, the man continued to snivel. Steve was forced to turn and walk away in order to avoid having to listen to his miserable complaining. It became clear that Henry was unable to deal with adversity.

  “Mike, too, tried to deal with the danger resulting from Henry’s bad luck. He convinced one of our Cree Indian guides to let Henry rent his twelve ga. The guide’s shotgun was a 1930’s vintage humpbacked Remington version of the Browning automatic. The weapon’s rust and split but duct taped stock proved it had seen substantial service. The rental figure was a bit high and was phrased in US, not Canadian, dollars.”

  Peabody sipped from his drink and slowly shook his head as he considered Henry’s lack of appreciation. “You j
ust can’t please some people,” he said. “Can you believe it? Henry complained about the rental price. Privately, Mike asked me if he should reduce Henry’s cost by the twenty percent commission the overjoyed guide gave him for negotiating such a favorable rental agreement. Of course, I told him ‘No’. It would have been unworthy of Mike to change the terms of the contract by sacrificing his own well-earned commission.

  “The owner of the gun decided to be Henry’s personal guide. He wanted to make sure his Remington was not abused. He stuck to Henry just like the pine pitch that filled the cracks in the boat’s seat impregnated and stuck to the seat of Henry’s $275.00 Serac Gore-Tex nylon hunting pants. As is the case with all complainers, Henry voiced his unhappiness whenever he sat down and was stuck to whatever he sat down on.

  “The guide didn’t speak much English and Henry hadn’t had the foresight to learn the Cree language. Communication between the two of them was tenuous at best. I’m sure the guide tried to tell Henry that members of the Cree Nation were not subject to the Canadian duck hunting regulation requiring plugged automatics and three shell limits. Henry had often fired five shots at retreating ducks and had re-loaded the Remington many times. He knew the weapon was not plugged.

  “Had he learned Cree, Henry would have been able to tell his guide why he desperately tried to hand the weapon to him when he saw the Mounted Policeman coming toward him to check for game violations. Given the communication problem, you can’t blame the guide for thinking Henry was trying to reduce the cost in the hourly rental contract by handing him the gun. The Cree shoved the Remington back to him every time Henry tried to put it in his hands.

  “In another effort to soften the effects of adversity, Steve, Mike and I commiserated with Henry about the exceptionally heavy fine he had to pay. Nevertheless, Henry was inconsolable. His incessant whimpering and complaining nearly destroyed the hunt. It would have been ruined for lesser men, but Steve, Mike and I knew how to overcome adversity.