The Chronicles of Major Peabody Read online

  Then Peabody spoke for the first time. It was a quotation from Richard III. “How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world,” he said. “Fie on’t. Oh, fie. ‘Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.”

  That Shakespearean quote convinced me Peabody’s depression was a bit deeper than I had suspected. He must have been sitting there for some time. The ice in his drink had melted and the liquid at the bottom of his glass was uncharacteristically colorless. He made no attempt to rattle the non-existent ice cubes – the usual method he had adopted to receive a re-fill. He simple handed me the glass, saying: “Have one yourself.”

  I did. I put a little extra Scotch in the one I brought to him. I thought it would be easy to bring some joy into his life, so I brightly suggested: “If your busy social calendar happens to be open, why don’t we visit Bookbinders tonight and see if their rack of lamb is as good as advertised?”

  Peabody wasn’t tempted. “No,” he answered. “I just don’t feel up to it.”

  Now, I was really worried. I was sure the Major knew my present was a box of cigars by the weight and size of the package, but he didn’t bother to open it. The unattended single malt Scotch and water was an additional signal of his distress. His refusal to enjoy one of his favorite meals at one of his favorite restaurants was further proof of depression. He had to be pulled out of his funk. I decided on the direct approach.

  “Come on, Major,” I said to him. “I know Christmas can be a sad time – especially if you’re alone. It’s tough when you are all by yourself and surrounded by the signs of the holidays, by televised Christmassy programs, by the carols, by the store windows, by the smiles and the greetings of friends and strangers. It’s only natural for a wistful yearning for something lost or unrecoverable to enter your thoughts. Nostalgia can be sweet or bittersweet or sad. It all depends on what you make of it. Like the song says: You got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative and don’t mess with Mr. In-Between.”

  “You’re probably right,” Peabody answered quietly, “but it’s easier to give advice than it is to take it. You’ve got the lovely Stephanie and your office associates. You’ve lived here all your life and have your circle of friends. All of you have families for Christmas dinners and gatherings around the Christmas tree.” Peabody produced a small derisive ‘humpf’ sound. “All I’ve got are relatives in Virginia who don’t approve of me. Would you suggest I visit them?” he questioned in a somewhat laconic manner.

  “I don’t know what to suggest,” I answered. “I do know this is not a time for you to sit in your apartment thinking lonely thoughts. It’s a time when you should be with friends. Surely you have some friends.”

  * * * * *

  Doc Carmichael got out of the pit and stretched. He had a good day and he was happy. Speckled Belly and Blue geese were in abundance. Canadas and Snows completed the birds that joined with the millions of other waterfowl at their winter staging area in Mexico’s northeastern Gulf coast. The guide picked up the fallen geese and they headed toward the vehicle that would carry them back to the lodge.

  They detoured past another blind and the guide added more geese to his burden as Major Peabody got out of his pit. “You must be getting old, Doc,” the Major said to him. “I saw you miss a couple of easy shots.”

  “I don’t recall missing any easy shots,” was Carmichael’s response. “I don’t even remember missing some very difficult shots. I do, however, vividly recall a Speckled Belly that tried to land inside your pit. If he hadn’t flared at the last moment, I believe he would have knocked your hat off.”

  “I remember that one, too, Doc. I was distracted. I was chuckling over how easy it was to con my attorney into delivering my January Trust remittance over two weeks early – just in time to be able to join you on this hunt. I knew I had him when he said: ‘It’s a time when you should be with friends.’

  “Tomorrow, let’s go for ducks on one of those fresh water lakes.”

  Ground Swatting

  In autumn, when the sun goes down in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the chill in the evening air is a warning of the all-too-soon appearance of snow, gray skies and the icy winds of winter. The pine and fir and spruce stolidly insist on retaining their dark green, but deciduous hardwoods dress up in yellows and reds and the tamarack begin to think about turning orange. It is the time of year when coveys of Ruffed Grouse scatter and men pick up shotguns and go into the woods to look for them.

  Major Nathaniel Peabody was there, seated with fellow hunters around a blazing camp fire. He moved his camp stool a few inches back from the fire. It was only a slight change of position, but it was enough to alter the way the surrounding air moved. As a result, the smoke changed its direction and now blew into the eyes of the men seated on the opposite side of the fire.

  Doc Carmichael was finishing his story. “So the kid says: ‘You’re not going to shoot that grouse while he’s running on the ground, are you, Grandfather?’ and the old man, with the barrel of his shotgun pointing out the car window, says: ‘No, but if the little s o b ever stops I’m going to let him have it.” Laughter ensued even though the hunters in Peabody’s circle considered a man who would shoot a bird on the ground to be worse than a liberal.

  Peabody pulled a branch from the fire and lit a cigar with its glowing end. “Charlie,” he said, “As long as you’re up, will you do something about this?” He rattled the ice in his empty glass. Charlie wasn’t standing but he got up from the block of wood he used as a chair and complied with the Major’s request.

  The Major took the drink Charlie proffered. He thanked him, sipped, nodded his approval and commented on the doctor’s story.

  “The custom of refusing to ground swat a bird has been around nearly as long as the Second Amendment,” he said. “It is my understanding that on the first Sunday of every October, one of your U P clergymen delivers a sermon entitled: ‘Thou Shalt Not Ground Swat’. He insists it is the Eleventh Commandment. I’m not too sure of that, but I am convinced it is one of the provisions contained within the Magna Carta. Nevertheless, I believe the time has come for us to consider the rejection of our own long standing practice of outlawing ground swatting.”

  Reaction was immediate. Comments flew through the cool night air. “He’s gone mad.” “Surely, you jest.” “I’ve suspected it for some time. He’s senile.” “No more for him, Charlie. He’s drunk. Cut him off.”

  “Be serious Major,” one of the hunters said. “The grouse have enough problems with their population cycles, thick crusted snow in the wintertime, foxes and pine martens. If we began shooting birds on the ground, there wouldn’t be many grouse left in the county.”

  Peabody thought for a moment before joining in debate. “There is no evidence that hunting has been an important factor in the extinction of any bird. And don’t tell me hunters finished off the Passenger Pigeon. It was a disease that did that job. A look at the reasons for extinctions is instructive. The Great Auk, the Dodo and the Moa come to mind.

  “The Dodo was not driven to extinction by hunters. It was as big as a huge turkey, but, unable to fly, it offered no wing shooting challenge to the sportsman. Moreover, it had drab plumage and its meat was tough. Women wouldn’t buy hats made with its feathers and it didn’t taste good. Sportsmen, commercial interests and hungry people had no reason to kill it. The Dodo was finished off by the animals that were introduced to the island of Mauritius by Europeans.

  “The Moa,” he continued, “was a monstrously big wingless bird. It grew to a height of twelve feet. Unable to fly, wing shooting bird hunters were not involved in its extinction. I will, however, admit ground-swatters may have helped them down the road to oblivion. Presumably, the bird was good to eat. The aborigines of New Zealand, the Maoris, killed it off. Shotgunners, I hasten to point out, were not involved. For all practical purposes, the Moa was extinct before firearm carrying sportsmen appea
red in New Zealand.

  “The Great Auk is yet another example. It couldn’t fly and wing shooters weren’t interested in it. Sailors and business people clubbed the Great Auk into the history books sometime around 1844. It was a good supplement to the usual eighteenth and nineteenth century sailing vessel food menus. The Great Auk’s feathers and oil were valuable commercial commodities. These were the factors causing the demise of the species..

  “Incidentally, in the North Atlantic, the Great Auk was called ‘penguin’. When it became extinct in that part of the world, the name was transferred to a completely unrelated bird common to the Southern Hemisphere. That penguin can’t fly. It uses its scaled wings as paddles and some of them, like that flightless New Zealand apteryx, the Kiwi, build their nests underground. A bird that can’t fly and lives underground can hardly attract the attention of a bird hunter. If the penguin ever becomes extinct, our eco-terrorist friends will have to blame the sea leopard or climatic change as the cause.”

  Charlie and the others were silent. They didn’t know what to say. Only a few weeks earlier, Peabody had roundly chastised a man who proposed: “Let’s do some road hunting tomorrow.” Now, he actually seemed serious about his ground swatting suggestion

  Doc Carmichael was the first to speak. “I suppose I can agree that bird hunters have never seriously contributed to the extinction of any species but all hunters are part of the universal fraternity known as ‘Sportsmen’. What possible sport can there be in opening a car window and blasting away at a bird standing motionless in the middle of the road?

  “Ruffed Grouse is my favorite meal,” said another hunter, “but I don’t like it well enough to ground swat one of them.”

  “Maybe you can build a box trap, bait it with seeds and catch them that way,” Charlie sarcastically muttered. “You won’t have to buy shotgun shells.”

  Peabody paused and again rattled the ice cubes in his now empty glass. Charlie didn’t bother to look at him. Instead, he said. “You know where the Scotch is, Major, Get your own drink,”

  Peabody showed no reaction. He merely smiled and continued his argument. “My suggestion,” he said, speaking slowly and looking at each of his companions, “was motivated solely by my universally recognized charitable nature.”

  Heads snapped erect. Sounds like: “Whaaaat?” and “I told you. He’s lost it” and “Amazing” were heard. Disregarding the confusion and rising clamor, Peabody continued.

  “I must express my surprise,” he said, as he tried to blow a smoke ring. The attempt was unsuccessful because he couldn’t smile and keep his lips in the form needed to blow the ring. “After witnessing your collective display of incompetence during today’s shoot, I’m surprised at your antagonism to the potential of allowing ground swatting. None of you can hit a bird in the air. I thought you’d all be pleased with a rule change that would allow you to bring home a grouse and lie about how you got it.”

  Charlie again arose from his seat and began to pour out a Scotch and water for the Major while the others, realizing they had been had, shut their eyes and slowly shook their heads back and forth.

  Vengeance Is Mine Saith Peabody

  It was mid-July. “Summertime and the livin’ is easy.” So goes the old Gershwin tune. During July in Philadelphia, whenever one is away from the air-conditioning, the livin’ can be hot, sweaty and generally uncomfortable. In spite of living in an air conditioned apartment, Major Nathaniel Peabody is apt to be a bit depressed during the time of summer heat - unless, of course, there is a hunting expedition in the offing.

  In July, the northern hemisphere bird hunting seasons are mostly closed. The cooler drier Central America highlands are a good place for a hunter. The prospects of a trip to a moderate climate where dogs and shotguns are not viewed with alarm could have lifted the Major’s spirits and changed his attitude from melancholy to smiling, charming affability.

  However, Peabody had already used his July Trust installment by replacing his well-used hunting clothing with new Gore Tex boots, brush pants, a hunting jacket and all the other hunting paraphernalia that struck his fancy. As a result of those expenditures, the Major’s cash position had been reduced to a point approaching absolute zero.

  When he complained about his situation, I had to again remind him of the provision in the Peabody Trust that banned any kind of advance payment. There would be no hunting expedition to break the muggy monotony of this July. Peabody couldn’t afford a trip to Wilmington, let alone to the kind of back-of-the-moon locations he and his shotgun seemed to prefer.

  With no way to escape Philadelphia until the arrival of his August stipend, I suspected Peabody would be in a seriously depressed state. I also suspected a dinner followed by cigars and brandy would lift his spirits. I phoned to extend an invitation to him. My suspicion of his frame of mind was immediately and fully confirmed. The Major usually answers the phone with the words: “This is Peabody”. This time he simply grumbled: “What do you want.” The emphasis was on the “you”.

  “This is your friendly attorney, I responded.

  “Well?” he questioned, rather gruffly.

  After I explained the purpose of my call, the Major’s tone changed only slightly. “That’s very kind of you, young man,” he answered and, without pause, told me: “I know just the place. It’s called the Gemutlickheit. In German it translates roughly as ‘good time’.” He repeated the words “good time” and gave a scornful snort that emphasized his unhappy attitude.

  The silent and subdued trip between the Major’s apartment and the restaurant was something akin to following a hearse on its trip to a cemetery. Once seated in the Gemutlickheit, the Major ordered ox joint and beer for both of us. As soon as it was served, he attacked it with obvious relish, informing me that it was of superlative quality.

  I found that information to be of questionable accuracy. My stomach rebelled against the heavier Teutonic fare. Peabody called me “dainty” when he saw how carefully I separated the meat from the bone and its surrounding layers of fat and ox skin. “Eat the whole thing,” he told me. “It’s not only delicious. It’s good for you.”

  Peabody’s suggestion did nothing to change my opinion of either the food’s good taste or its health value. It wasn’t only the ox joint. The associated vegetables were equally unattractive to me. Cabbage gives me gas and the dumplings reminded me of solid tennis balls. I knew my stomach would disapprove and show its displeasure.

  Nevertheless, I did the best I could to follow Peabody’s suggestion. I knew I would pay a heavy price for it, but I ate the whole thing. I had invited Peabody to dinner for the purpose of restoring his cheerful personality and I intended to succeed. I saw signs of Peabody’s mood beginning to improve. If I showed how much I disliked the ox joint, its fat and its skin - not to mention the cabbage and the tennis balls - I feared I would destroy the pleasant atmosphere of the dinner and Peabody might slip back into his gloomy dejection.

  During the dinner, Peabody’s disposition showed continued improvement. He enjoyed the German cuisine. His mood became increasingly cheerful and he began to smile. His conversation showed signs of animation. He was returning to his old self. In spite of my own growing discomfort and abdominal pressures, I was pleased, nearly to the point of smug satisfaction. I had cleverly manipulated the Major out of his mild depression.

  I choked everything down and managed (barely) to keep it down. I even found myself unable to refuse Peabody’s suggestion that we celebrate the German meal with an after-dinner drink of German Schnapps. Let me warn the uninitiated. Schnapps is a liquid that should be used to remove paint from automobiles and nothing else. The soft tissues of the alimentary canal were never designed to come in contact with it. While the shock of it (thankfully) removed some of my memory, I seem to recall Peabody laughing when he saw my repeated gurgling and tearful reactions to it.

  The evening and my discomfort progressed. The cabbage produced the effect it usually has on me. My unhappy stomach rumbled its disp
leasure over the contents I had provided. Then my intestines took over and I did so want to get back to my apartment for the Pepto-Bismol, Maalox, Rolaids, Gas-X (especially the Gas-X) and other remedies that crowd my medicine cabinet. Peabody disregarded my veiled pleas to call it an evening.

  As the minutes slipped by, my discomfort turned into agony. Peabody, however, had fully recovered his jovial good humor. He blew smoke rings, he happily chattered away and he ordered more Schnapps. I drank some only because of Peabody’s urgings. To add to my own discomfort, Peabody recounted stories about encounters with ferocious bears, stopping only when I reminded him of how much I feared them.

  Then he talked about how otherwise nice dogs would suddenly and viciously attack people who they sensed were afraid of them. I thought of the many times I had to pass snarling and barking dogs when jogging or delivering Peabody’s checks in some woodland location. Those thoughts added to my distress.

  The Major was enjoying himself. I wasn’t enjoying anything. I sat at the table, silent and increasingly tortured by a combination of ox joint, cabbage, tennis balls, gas and thoughts of fearsome animals. It was only with great difficulty that on more than one occasion, I got him to change the subject.

  You have no idea of the magnitude of my relief when the Major got the waiter’s attention, pointed at me and called for the check. On the drive back to his apartment, my head ached, my stomach ached and I couldn’t seem to forget Peabody’s descriptions of snarling bears, vicious wolverines and fanged dogs. I was dejected, dispirited and despondent. Peabody, however, was quite cheerful.

  When I parked in front of Peabody’s apartment, my primary interest was to return to my apartment and to my medicine cabinet ASAP. The Major didn’t immediately leave my car. He took a few minutes to inform me that I would do well to acknowledge the existence of the hunting gods.