The Chronicles of Major Peabody Page 2

  “There have to be better ways to bake Woodcock,” the young man persisted.

  “There are, of course, many modern recipes that use only the breasts of Woodcock,” Carmichael admitted. The young man brightened up perceptibly. “But,” the doctor warned, “they call for such additions as wine, chicken soup, onion, garlic, dill, celery seed and the like. The purpose of adding such strong condiment, I am sure, is to remove the terribly strong liverish taste of the bird. However, I am unable to find a single recipe in which that objective has been achieved. If you insist on experimenting, I can recommend only one recipe.”

  “And that one is…?” the young man asked.

  “To improve the taste of Woodcock, soak them in kerosene for three days and then throw them away,” the doctor’s answered. The young man looked confused. “You look confused,” Carmichael said. “Let me explain it this way. You appear to be impressed by the intelligence of our hunting dogs?” It was a question, not a statement, and the young man vigorously nodded his head.

  “You certainly must have noticed none of our dogs will retrieve a dead Woodcock. Dogs will hunt them and point them and find their highly camouflaged corpses hidden in the forest leaves, but very, very few of them will put a dead Woodcock in its mouth. Are you as smart as a hunting dog?”

  “If they taste so bad, why do you shoot them?” the young man asked.

  “A legitimate question, my boy,” Carmichael said. “There are good reasons for such behavior. First, wing shooting that zigzag flyer is a challenge. I’m sure Dickens had the Woodcock in mind when he named one of his Oliver Twist characters ‘the Artful Dodger’. Second, the dog has worked hard. His displays of joy and enthusiasm at successfully exposing the Woodcocks’ hiding places are always obvious. If you don’t put the bird in your game pouch, you will be showing contempt for the animal’s excellent work. A gentleman will never disappoint a good bird dog.

  “Of course, as soon as the dog returns to the hunt, your companions will expect you to heave the Woodcock as far into the bush as possible. I am told the hunters of Upper Michigan practice throwing facsimile Woodcock as part of their preparation for the autumnal hunting season.”

  It was apparent that Carmichael had no compunction against disappointing a neophyte bird hunter. The young man, now somewhat crestfallen, looked down at his prizes. Then he slowly nodded his head and, somewhat reluctantly said: “I suppose I should throw them away.”

  “Oh, no,” Major Peabody quickly interjected. “Oh, no! Don’t do that. It would be terribly wasteful. In spite of what Doc Carmichael tells you, if properly handled, those Woodcock can produce an excellent dinner.”

  Now I was confused. Peabody had often advised me: “Never, never, no, never ever try to eat a Woodcock”.

  * * * * *

  I’ll admit I accepted Major Peabody’s dinner invitation with mixed feelings. On the one hand, his solemn promise and firm insistence that he provide the meal led me to believe I would not (as was customary) have to pay for the dinner. On the other hand, I suspected he might be trying to do me grave gustatory injury by feeding me Woodcock.

  As we entered Bookbinder’s two days later, the matre’d immediately ushered us to a table saying: “Mr. Devereaux is waiting for you.” A small man with hair, thin and thinning, arose and extended a loosely gripping hand. He was all smiles and exclaimed “Ah, Major Peabody, so good to meet you and…” He looked at me, paused and finally finished the sentence with “… and you, too.” Peabody had forgotten to introduce me, an oversight for which I am thankful.

  As we sat, Devereaux was sincere when he said: “I can’t thank you enough for giving me those wonderful Woodcock and that so very interesting 17th century recipe - and just in the nick of time, too. My Gourmet Club will be meeting at my apartment next week. I do hope you’ll reconsider and join us. You may bring your friend,” he added, eyeing me speculatively.

  “Very kind of you, Devereaux,” the Major answered. “I love Woodcock baked in the ancient way, but, as I told you, I’m so allergic to them that I’d break out into large orange and purple spots if I ever took so much as one tiny taste.”

  “And I must be in San Diego - all next week - and maybe the following week, too,” I hastily added, finally understanding how the Major managed to get rid of the Woodcock and, at the same time, con some stranger into paying for his and my dinner at Bookbinders.

  Yes, as the Major had told us, if properly handled, Woodcock can produce an excellent meal.

  Fiction is Stranger than Truth

  We were in a cabin on the First South Branch of the Oconto River. It was the last day of November. The deer hunting season had ended and it was legal for hunters to again carry a shotgun into the woods and look for Ruffed Grouse. I spent an uncomfortable night in that cabin, waiting for midnight when I could give Major Nathaniel Peabody his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance.

  It was cold. It was very cold. The bunk assigned to me was the furthest from a potbellied wood-burning stove and I knew it would somehow be completely out of the heating business when I experienced my regular early morning call of nature.

  It has always been my desire and my plan to live in a nice condo in Philadelphia and, when Pennsylvania winters became unbearable, in a nice condo in Florida. Both places have central heating and air-conditioning. They are civilized. It has never been my desire or plan to be trapped into wearing heavy woolen clothing and, on the first day of each month, having to personally deliver Major Peabody’s checks, regardless of whatever part of the uncivilized world in which he might decide to station himself.

  I’ll admit I was not a happy camper and I complained about the cold weather. I was immediately confronted by a chorus of “You don’t know what cold is” from the assembled bird hunters. There followed a series of comments all beginning with … “I can remember when it was so cold that…” Some of those comments (like the one referring to a brass monkey) were so extreme I began to think they weren’t telling me the truth.

  Major Peabody, of course, joined in with the rest of them. He told me duck hunters will get up at four in the morning during those almost sunless December days, get into leaky skiffs, paddle through two foot waves that turn to ice when they run over the boat’s deck and then, in sub-zero temperatures, sit for hours in a blind while gale force winds whistle around them, hoping a duck will fly past them.

  That was simply too much for me. I could conceive of no one being that stupid. I gave the Major a look of mammoth disbelief and gave voice to the thought that he was not only stretching the truth, but treating it in a most Cavalier fashion. Peabody called me aside and quietly chastised me for hinting he had told an untruth.

  “In hunting camps,” he told me, “the truthfulness of a companion’s statements should always receive the full benefit of the doubt. Even a man’s lack of accurate memory or a possibly unintended misstatement,” Peabody explained, “should be gently corrected, not referred to as a lie or be subjected to flat challenge. Such an act,” he warned me, “would be considered as socially unacceptable within any closely knit fraternity of men who regularly hunt together.”

  “For instance,” Peabody told me. “Steve - the fellow who owns the place – you’ve heard him say he makes the best Bloody Mary in the galaxy?” I agreed. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard him say it more than once and I’ve heard the other men agree with him - many times.”

  “Since I am addicted to aged single malt,” Peabody continued, “I don’t drink Bloody Mary and am not a good judge of them, but I can tell you this. If you speak privately with each of the other hunters, you’ll discover Steve is the only one who thinks he makes the best Bloody Mary in the galaxy. Nevertheless, no one will disagrees with him”

  I saw the Major’s point and began to appreciate the grouse camp etiquette he was explaining to me. “I see,” I said. “I see. Steve’s friends don’t want to hurt his feelings, so they agree with him.”

  “Ahhh …. Something like that,” was the Major’s response.
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  (In point of fact, the Major didn’t want to disabuse his attorney. He didn’t want to tell him his companions publicly agreed that Steve made the best Bloody Mary only because Steve, upon hearing the compliment, would immediately make a batch of them and hand them to the hunters who wouldn’t have to get up from their chairs and mix their own drinks.)

  The conversations moved from the weather to other hunting experiences and Major Peabody rejoined his friends and reported an occurrence at a Maine grouse camp. He had been hunting near a stand of young spruce when a bird exploded from cover so close to him he almost dropped his 20 ga. The grouse was nearly out of range by the time he fired. It sailed on and disappeared into the trees.

  “That certainly is a strange story,” one of the Major’s hunting friends observed “I suppose you’re going to admit it was the only shot you missed during the entire year?”

  Peabody paid no attention to the comment and went on with his tale. “It is a strange story and it becomes even more strange. I walked into that stand of spruce, shaking my head and trying to understand how I could have missed. Then I heard a sound coming from above me. Gentlemen, the grouse fell out of the tree. I hadn’t missed. I hit it. The bird had enough strength to fly to the tree, but that was all. It died there and fell to my feet.”

  The other hunters were silent. They exchanged sidelong glances and wouldn’t look into the Major’s eyes. Then one of them spoke. “I believe you, Major,” he said. “That very same thing happens to me three or four times every season.” He paused before adding: “Only I’m not lucky enough to be standing anywhere near the tree when the bird falls out of it.”

  Then one of the old timers took his turn. “It’s nice to be with people who can recognize the truth when it is told,” he said. “It’s a terrible thing when people don’t believe you. Terrible. Yes, terrible.” He paused and took a sip of his Bloody Mary. “You may not believe this, but about fifteen years ago I was accused of telling a fib. I’ll never forget it. It is burned in my memory.

  “The grouse cycle was on the down side and there weren’t many birds around, but it was a nice October day. The woods were beautiful and it was a good day for a walk. I was hunting on one of those long-ago abandoned logging roads north of the Pine River. I hadn’t seen a thing and then, at about ten in the morning, this bird jumped up in front of me. I busted it and it fell in the middle of the trail.

  “I was going to retrieve it when I heard a wooshing sound right over my head. I looked up in time to see a red-tailed hawk heading straight toward my bird. He was gliding down with his talons stretched out in front of him. He meant to steal my grouse and I wasn’t going to let him do it. He grabbed it just as I fired at him. Well, I missed and he sailed away with my bird.

  “You can imagine my surprise when I saw a four point buck lying alongside the trail. He must have stuck his head out of the brush just as I shot at the hawk.” He took another sip of his drink, and slowly moved his head from side to side. “I still can’t believe it.” he said. “The game warden didn’t believe me. Neither did the judge. I was convicted of killing a deer out of season.”

  I could commiserate with the poor man as he sat there, slowly shaking his head in dismay. “It seems to me,” I said, “the judicial system has treated you quite badly. I suppose there might have been some technical violation, but the judge should have recognized the basic equities of your situation. You were victimized by conditions entirely beyond your control. Had I been the judge, I would have rapped the gavel and said: Case dismissed in the interests of justice.”

  The old hunter nodded his head in agreement. “That’s what I had hoped would happen, but I suppose the judge assigned too much weight to the fact that the deer was killed with double ought buckshot and not by seven and a half chill bird load.”

  Bear Story

  Six grouse hunters were sharing a cabin near a small stream located deep in a sparsely populated area of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula - the “UP” as it is universally called. Five of the men were from the U.P. (That accounts for their generic designation of “UP-ers” - a/k/a “Yoopers”). The sixth hunter was Major Nathaniel Peabody,

  The men are friends of long standing. Each autumn, when the fallen leaves of maples and hardwoods turn the forest floor earth colored, they meet in the Upper Peninsula to hunt Ruffed Grouse and Woodcock. Their relationship is such that Peabody has been officially designated an Honorary Yooper, a title seldom granted to flatlanders.

  There are infinitely more hunters and fishermen per square yard in the UP than anywhere else in the Republic. By and large, Yoopers have not been regimented by urban life style and the Major harbors a sincere affection for each of his Yooper hunting companions. They return the favor. When in their camp, Peabody has but once to rattle the ice cubes in an empty glass and it is immediately re-filled.

  Long before the armed services popularized the rule: “Don’t ask - Don’t tell”, it has been in effect in the UP. If venison is served during a Yooper grouse camp - a week or so before the opening of deer season - it is considered to be a social faux pas for anyone to inquire into the date when the deer may have been killed. It is considered to be insanity for anyone to truthfully answer such a question. Major Peabody always enjoyed the venison dinners without showing interest in the age of the meat.

  Is it impossible to over-estimate the importance of deer season in the UP. Killing a buck is a prerequisite to the right to vote. When the deer hunting season begins, it seems like everyone heads for the woods. Businesses hang out “Closed” signs. Factories lay empty, abandoned by their employees. Any boy able to carry a 30/30 skips school. Court calendars are clear because all the UP lawyers are hunting deer instead of clients. If an out-of-state attorney comes into a UP town, he will find no local attorneys to fight with. If two foreign lawyers come into a UP town to do legal battle, they must wait patiently until the judge returns from his deer camp and opens court.

  The dinner at the Major’s UP grouse camp celebrated the fact that in only another nineteen days, the deer season would be officially open. The enthusiastic dinner table conversation was, therefore, limited to the plans for hunt preparations and tales of past deer season happenings. The same subject matter overwhelmed the conversations during the dish washing and continued well into the social hour(s) that followed.

  Peabody was not his usual garrulous self. He is not a deer hunter. While he is not averse to the practice, his interest in the sport is modest. He listened politely to the stories and talk surrounding him, occasionally rattling his ice cubes and, even less occasionally, offering comments like: “That’s funny,” “You don’t say?” and “Amazing!”

  (When the word, “Amazing” is often used in the UP. Every one knows it is the translation into printable English of a common Yooper two word expression that describes the by-product of a male cow. When the word ‘amazing’ is used by someone listening to a Yooper’s story, it is an acceptable way to emphatically signify utter and complete disbelief.)

  The rare occurrence of a quiet Major Nathaniel Peabody attracted the attention of one of his Yooper friends. “Peabody, are you sick?” he asked. “Oh, no,” another Yooper answered before the Major could say a word. “The Major is only interested in birds. If deer flew, he’d be up here with us every November. He’s a shot gunner. You may not believe this. Major Peabody doesn’t own a deer rifle – not even one.”

  A chorus of expressions of disbelief followed that last revelation.

  “Amazing!”

  “It can’t be true!”

  “Peabody not owning a deer rifle? I don’t believe it!”

  Peabody looked at the smirking faces of his companions and knew it was time for him to defend himself. “It isn’t necessary to carry one of your outsized canons to finish off a large quadruped,” he said.

  “Amazing,” one of his fellow hunters emphatically exclaimed.

  “No,” Peabody countered. “Not ‘amazing’ at all. It’s the truth.”

  “Amazin
g,” another of his friends repeated.

  Peabody slowly shook his head in feigned disbelief. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I fear you have neglected your studies of history. There was a time when gunpowder was unknown in the entire world. Later, it was known only in China where, incidentally, it was used exclusively to make fireworks. In those days, people did not have deer rifles and yet the meat of large wild animals formed a part of their regular diet.”

  Peabody leaned back in his chair, rattled the ice in his empty glass and wondered what he as going to say next. While refreshing the Major’s libation, his host entered the argument. “Back in those days, doctors used leeches and bleeding to cure sickness. Nowadays the medics use more advanced methods. It’s the same with hunters. We have no need to use primitive, inefficient and ineffective hunting methods - hence the present-day, beautiful deer rifle. The process is called ‘the advancement of civilization’.”

  Another of the Yoopers took up the cudgel. “You may not need a rifle to protect yourself from deer. They’ll run away. But suppose you’re picking berries and you run into a bear. Then what could you do without appropriate modern rifled weaponry?”

  Peabody was ready. “Strange you should ask,” he said. “That very thing happened to me a few years ago right here in Iron County. I was grouse hunting and ran into a nice patch of raspberries. I began to fill my hat when a black bear the size of the Empire State Building reared up in front of me and let go with a snarl that would have frightened the living bejaysus out of Ivan the Terrible. I decided that shooting the beast with 7 1/2 chilled shot was not the prudent thing to do. It would have made him angrier and he was already quite mad at me for invading his berry patch.

  “I’m sure you are all aware of the term ‘running down a deer’?” It was a question. Two of the Yoopers slowly nodded while the three younger men looked perplexed.