by Mark J Rose
“Put it on the table or fold,” the old man said. “You can write a marker, but I’d expect it to be paid tonight.”
Samuel motioned for one of the squares of parchment that rested on the corner of the table.
The house dealer spoke to Samuel. “Are you sure you have it? Mr. Lloyd don’t tolerate fellows who can’t pay.”
I’ll take all this old buzzard’s money and make him watch me buy whores and drinks for everyone. Samuel pulled one of the squares of parchment along with the quill and ink. He dipped the quill and wrote a figure. “I double your bet,” he said. He pushed the square into the center of the table.
“Good luck, then,” Lloyd replied. He pulled three coins from his purse and dropped them onto the pile. Samuel put his cards down on the table as he smiled silently. He wanted everyone to read them for themselves. A full house, aces and kings, you bastards! The table went quiet, and Samuel lost track of how much time had passed. Thoughts of the redheaded woman consumed him as he made a motion to collect his winnings.
“I’ll expect my gold tonight,” Lloyd said, setting his cards down. He had four queens.
12
Old Drunken Fellow
It was midmorning by the time Matt reached the city. Thick clouds were floating across the sky and intermittently obscuring the sun, causing the temperature to go instantly from comfortable to cold. Matt’s shivers made him hope he wouldn’t have to go without a jacket for too long. He was following a map drawn by Jacob Boyd to a stable he recommended in Wilmington. Jacob’s father had looked on critically as his son made recommendations and drew the map, but he hadn’t forbidden it. Matt intended to stay in the city for a few days to stake out the Treasure Chest in the hope that he would spot the three men who stole his things. He’d hang out at the pub and watch people come and go.
As Matt approached Wilmington, he tried to convince himself to forget the thieves and make his way directly to Philadelphia, but his internal debate ended the same way every time; he needed that bottle of ibuprofen. Without the tablets as a reference, it might take him his whole life to confirm that he’d made the drug. It was worth spending a few days to find the men; if they never turned up, he would have made his best attempt. For his self-worth alone, he would need to say that he had been bold enough to try to retrieve his things.
When Matt arrived at the stable, he took the Walther out of the holster, made sure there was nothing in the chamber, tucked it into his belt and covered it with his shirt. He left Thunder, the holster, and his jacket with the stable master and started out on foot for the Delaware River. Jacob’s map guided him to the wharf, which was a wooden dock covered with randomly placed and mismatched structures that ran parallel to the river for as long as he could see. The strong smell of fish mixed with a hint of human waste permeated the air enough to make Matt’s nose wrinkle.
He stepped up onto the wooden platform to get a better view of the riverbank. Boats, barges, and buildings in assorted shapes and sizes extended along the entire distance of the wharf. The barges either bobbed silently in the water or had men moving onto them as their cargo was transferred between any number of warehouses and shelters. Matt turned back to look where he had come and was pleased to see more than a few vagabonds wandering a short distance from where he was standing. He found an old wooden barrel, pulled it in between some stacked crates on the wharf, and sat there in a hidden roost, waiting for the right person to come along. He wasn’t completely concealed, so he made sure to keep his longish hair over his face to keep from being accidentally recognized by the men he hoped to find.
Matt had been there for less than half an hour when he saw an old drunken man of about the right size moving alone through an alley. The man was holding a bottle and wearing a large dirty coat and a worn tricorner hat. Matt eased himself from his barrel, hopped down from the wharf, and hurried into the alley.
“Excuse me, sir,” he called. The old drunkard looked over his shoulder and sped ahead. “Excuse me, sir,” Matt repeated as he followed him.
The old drunkard turned to speak even as he picked up his pace. “Hain’t got no silver,” he hollered over his shoulder.
“I have a proposition,” Matt called. “I’ll pay you.”
“Bottle’s mine,” the old man announced. “’Taint enough as it is.”
“I’m not going to rob you or take your bottle,” said Matt. He was gaining on him. “I’m a God-fearing man…I go to church.”
“Hain’t got nothing to confess,” the old man replied. He was walking slower now.
“I’m a Good Samaritan,” Matt said.
The man stopped abruptly. Matt was now staring straight into dark eyes that looked worn from years of exposure to wind, sun, and rain. The old drunkard’s scraggly grey hair poked out from under his hat and rested on his shoulders. He moved his jaw like he was warming it up to speak, then said through missing teeth, “Better not be tryin’ to fleece me.”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a shilling. The old drunkard glared suspiciously, but then opened his hand to receive the coin. “There’s more,” Matt said. “You can walk away or you can listen.”
The drunkard gave Matt a toothless grin. “Not sharin’ my bottle.”
“I want to buy your coat and hat.”
“Fer how much?” the old drunkard asked. “Anyways, I need ’em.”
“I’ll give you enough to buy a new coat and hat, and another bottle,” Matt said.
“Why’d you want to do that?”
“My business,” Matt replied. He fished six shillings from his pocket and showed them in his outstretched palm.
“For a torn jacket?”
“Hat too,” Matt said. He reached into his pocket and added another shilling. “That’s eight.”
“Seven,” the drunkard corrected.
Matt saw another man out of the corner of his eye and pointed. The old drunkard’s eyes followed. “Maybe he’ll take my deal,” Matt said. “I want my first shilling back.”
“Aw,” the old man yelped as he inspected the coin. “I was going to buy another bottle with that.”
Matt snapped his fingers and put his hand out expectantly.
“Hold your horses,” the old drunkard said.
Matt had already decided to move on, but without a word, the old man took off his hat and jacket and handed them over. The jacket was surprisingly heavy, almost like it was wet. Matt gave him the rest of the money. “Go buy a new jacket and hat before someone takes that silver.”
“I’ll do what I want, sonny,” the old man replied as he closed his hand around the coins. He handed Matt his bottle. There was a little left swishing at the bottom.
Matt watched the old man walk away before looking at his purchases. The coat and hat were dark with grime and smelled like dead animals. Matt shuddered as he put the hat on his head, hoping there were no lice. He wrapped the jacket around him, buttoned its two remaining buttons, then walked out into the street and headed to the wharf. He saw a fire pit on the way, so he grabbed a handful of ashes and stepped out of view. He rubbed grey on his face and mussed ashes through his hair. He pulled the hat down as far as it would go over his head and then followed the road just off the wharf with the bottle in his hand.
13
Scout, Part III
Scout picked himself off the ground and paced back and forth behind the rope gate as the ferryman secured the ferry to the dock for another load. The man looked down at him and snarled, “Get, you nasty cur.”
Scout cautiously slinked out of sight but peeked out regularly from behind a wagon, looking for an opportunity to sneak onto the ferry. After a while, he heard a whistle from one of the wagons. “Hey, dog,” a boy whispered loudly. Scout tilted his head up to look at him. “I can help you get across. You understand. I can tell.”
The dog sat there half-listening to the boy while he watched the men loading the ferry. The boy patted the railing of the wagon.
“Can you jump?” He patted the railing ag
ain.
Scout looked at him, knowing that most boys were more trouble than they were worth when it came to dogs. Scout suspected the boy had a leash somewhere.
“Come on,” the boy said, patting the wagon harder. Another head peered over the edge. It was a little girl. Scout looked up at her and made two odd-sounding half barks like from a rabbit.
“He’s funny,” she said. “Come on. We can take you across.” She waved for Scout to come into the wagon. The presence of the little girl changed the equation in Scout’s mind, and he tried to jump up to the back railing of the wagon from where he was standing. He almost made it over the edge, but then fell back onto the ground after trying to scramble his way up with his hind legs.
“He can’t jump that high,” the little girl observed.
“He needs a running start,” the boy replied.
“Get a running start,” the girl called.
Scout had already decided to try again, but to her it seemed like he understood her completely and was taking her advice. Scout stepped back, ran, and leaped to the rail, finding himself face-to-face with the boy, bowling him over as he tumbled into the wagon. Scout yelped as his leg twisted against a case at the bottom of the vehicle. Tears began streaming down the boy’s face. The girl tapped him and put her finger to her lips.
“What’s the commotion back there?” a man’s voice asked from the front. Both dog and boy lay crumpled against the side of the wagon.
“Nothing,” the girl said. “Tommy fell, but he’s fine.”
“Settle yourselves,” the voice said. “We’ve still a long way.”
“Yes, Father,” the girl replied. She put her finger to her lips, motioning to the boy.
Tommy wiped the tears from his eyes and pushed the dog off. “Dumb dog!” he scolded, still half-crying. Scout got to his feet, limped to him, and licked his face.
“He likes you,” she said.
“He almost killed me.”
“He’s trying to say sorry. He’s hurt, too.” She reached up to rub Scout’s fur. The dog stood there for a long time, moving into the children as they scratched him.
“I wonder where he’s going?” the boy asked.
“He has a collar,” she said. She reached down to his neck and held the metal tag. “Says his name’s Scout and he’s from Richmond.”
“Hi, Scout. I’m Tommy,” the boy said. The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of his own name, and both children smiled. “I wonder why he’s trying to cross the river.”
“To find his owner,” the girl answered. She reached into the burlap sacks that surrounded their seats in the back of the wagon, pulled out food she thought a dog might like, and handed it to her brother. “You should feed him,” she said. They had Scout chewing on jerky and sweet biscuits by the time their wagon moved onto the ferry.
Scout finished his meal drinking water the children poured into a wooden bowl. With his hunger sated and the kids rubbing his back, Scout relaxed and fell asleep, nestled between the crates and sacks of supplies. He had no idea where he was when he was awakened by a man’s voice. “The dog has to go. He’s someone else’s.”
“Can’t he stay with us for a while longer, Father?” the girl asked.
“The farther we take him in the wagon, the harder ’twill be for him to find his way.”
Scout sat up on his hind legs and offered his paw to shake.
“I allow he’s a fine animal,” the father said, “but he must go.” The man snapped his fingers and pointed to the side. Scout looked at the boy, the girl, and the man, then walked dejectedly to the back of the wagon and jumped to the ground. He sat there on the edge of the dirt road, watching the children wave as they rolled away.
Scout looked around, but there was no one in sight. He sniffed the air, hoping to catch the scent of Matt or Thunder, but smelled nothing he could recognize. He walked for a while, watching the wagon turn into a tiny cloud of dust and then disappear completely into the haze that obscured the line where the sky met the earth.
14
Treasure Chest
True to Jacob’s map, the Treasure Chest was located about a hundred yards off the river, in clear view of the docked boats. Matt sauntered drunkenly up to the tavern and lingered as he inspected the front of the weathered grey building. A bouncer sat underneath a wood awning that reached out almost to the street. Nailed to this overhang was a large sign painted with a colorful picture of an open treasure chest filled with shining gold coins and gems. Matt stood outside the door, wondering if he should step inside.
“Move along, old man,” the bouncer said after Matt had loitered too long.
“I’m looking for my brother…real tall man,” Matt replied. He motioned with his hand to show the man’s height. “He in there? He owes me money.”
“Move along, you drunken scallywag, before I throw you in the river.”
Taking the man at his word, Matt walked away to assume a position in the shadow of a painted green warehouse in view of the Treasure Chest. He sat there on an old crate for most of the day, watching people come and go from the tavern, leaving once to relieve himself and again to get a loaf of fresh bread and some hard-boiled eggs and to fill his bottle with water.
“You’re rank,” the baker said after Matt had paid.
“Money still spends,” Matt replied in the best old-drunken-scallywag voice he could muster. Matt divided the loaf and the boiled eggs among the coat’s big pockets, then resumed his position to watch the tavern.
In the late afternoon, Matt was nodding off when he was shocked awake by an extremely tall man and a short one who stopped as they were walking by. He recognized their voices immediately and saw that the tall one was wearing his stolen hat. Matt eased his arm slowly to his side to be able to reach his pistol.
“Whatcha doing, you old badger?” the short one jeered. “Look ’bout ready to drop off the perch.”
“Don’t have long,” Matt replied from under his hat. “Got the fever. People on the river been passing it ’round. Ah think it’s the fleas.” Matt swatted at his shoulder to emphasize the bugs. “Jump from man to man. Itchy as the devil.”
The criminals stepped back. “Go jump in the river, you old cuff,” the tall one said. He turned to his partner. “Let’s go where we was last night. Them misses sure was civil.”
The short one nodded and then said, “Sam’s a molly.” He reached into his pocket as he spoke, pulled out a shilling, and threw it to Matt. “Talkin’ to fine swells, you are,” he said. “Buy yourself another bottle.”
“Thank ya kindly, sonny,” Matt replied, trying his hardest to sound like the previous owner of his jacket.
The men turned away from Matt abruptly. “Be funny if he walked into the Treasure Chest to buy a bottle and gave everyone the fever,” the short one said to his tall companion. They laughed as they walked away.
Matt waited until they were a safe distance down the road, then followed them to their destination. The tavern’s sign pictured two roosters squaring off in front of a ship’s wheel with the words “The Fighting Cocks” painted in yellow under the birds’ legs. Aside from the sign, there was very little distinction between this building and the Treasure Chest. Matt found another crate and took up a similar position outside this new pub to watch the entrance. He planned to wait for the criminals to leave, follow them to where they were staying, and figure out a way to take his stuff back. Matt didn’t have much hope of recovering the money, considering that they were walking around town bragging about being wealthy and giving coins to town drunks.
Matt sat outside The Fighting Cocks for a long time and dozed briefly as he leaned against the warehouse wall. It was almost four in the morning when he saw the men leave the tavern, staggering drunk. Matt had to focus on not following them too closely. He could hear them singing. The tall one fell over and lay on the dirt road. “Jist let me sleep,” he said.
“Ground’s too hard,” the short one replied. He pulled his tall companion by the arm until he reg
ained his feet. They stumbled in their drunken stupor to a grassy area hidden from the road and both collapsed to the ground.
“Great,” Matt said impatiently. “Now what?”
15
More than Half
Matt pulled the hat lower over his face and walked silently toward the sleeping criminals. He began carefully frisking them under the light of the moon. He would take their money in hopes of forcing them to return to wherever they were staying before they could do more celebrating. Matt found a skeleton key, three gold coins, and fourteen shillings in their pockets. He put the coins in his own pocket, returned the key, and retrieved his stolen hat. Having the hat in his hands was enough of a victory to bring a satisfied smile back to his grey-smudged face.
“Whatcha doing, you old badger?” the short one said unexpectedly from the ground.
Matt lifted an arm to shield his face. The short man had one eye open and was waving his hand violently, but then, as quickly as he’d awoken, he slipped again into unconsciousness. Matt stood up and looked down at his two assailants, fighting the urge to kick the hell out of them as they lay unconscious on the ground, and then contemplated his next move. There wasn’t much else he could do besides let this play out.
Matt quietly backed away, making sure neither man opened his eyes to see him moving to his hiding place. When he was far enough, he circled around the clearing where the criminals were sleeping and settled in a patch of thick trees on a hill. He sat against one of the trees. After checking that he could see the men on the ground, he wrapped his tattered jacket around him and curled up to wait until daylight.
**********
Matt shuddered awake from the heat of the morning sun as it made one last attempt to peek out from behind the rain clouds that were gathering in the sky. Crap! He looked over in a panic, hoping the criminals hadn’t already gone, but to his relief, they were still sleeping. He situated himself for a clear view and began to eat his bread and hard-boiled eggs.