Fool's Gold

by Steve Stroble

the 50-gallon barrels of brew, Bates left him with a final admonition.

  “You see, if we let them fill their own glass they waste half the barrel by letting it run all over down onto the ground. And remember if they’ve already had a couple of glasses of beer, start filling up the rest only half way. Otherwise they start sloshing it all over themselves and the ladies they be trying to impress. Then their wives start clucking away like wet hens at them, which only be spoiling all our merrymaking. Okay, Thomas my boy, you follow me.”

  Bates led him to where the long dirt lane from the main road ended at the rail fence that surrounded the house, pastureland for the cattle, pond, and meadow for the horses.

  “I’m giving you the most important job of all, Tommy lad.” Bates only used this variation of Thomas when he had assumed a substitute father role. “You be the one the guests first meets so’s the very first impression of my party they gets is from you.” Bates’ finger thumped on Thomas’ chest. “And the last one too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First they parks their wagons and carriages out here.” Bates motioned to the one-acre patch of land that could accommodate dozens of the conveyances. “Then you unhitches their horses and take them over to the meadow so they can graze. They be mighty hungry after the trip and this be too long a party to leave them hitched up. I see you got all my horses safe and sound in the barn already.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Here’s the other thing. They can’t hold their crap and piss that long. So’s if we leaves them all hooked up out here by the time the party’s over it would be plenty nasty where the gents and ladies be coming out to get their rides home. Any of them gets the nasty mess on their fine shoes or clothes and that’ll be all they remember about Mr. Bates’ party. We have to be making the best impression possible. These be only the most important people coming out here today.”

  “Do not worry. I do it.”

  “Good, boy. Now I have to be rushing back to the house to change into me Sunday best. The guests will be here any time now.”

  Thomas gazed wistfully at his cohorts. On the one hand he wished he could trade places with James. His task was to carry huge platters of the tasty beef for the tables set up for the guests. As James made his deliveries to the kitchen he could grab a plateful of the rest of the meal: mashed potatoes; gravy; freshly baked bread and churned butter; and a variety of pickled vegetables from the garden. Fine wines would enhance the meal’s flavors. There was ice cream for dessert. On the other hand, Thomas longed to trade places with Dominic. He surely would be able to imbibe at will, he surmised. Remembering that it was his penchant for beer that had caused him to come unexpectedly to America, Thomas grudgingly concluded that Bates had been wise not to place him by the beer.

  The meal went splendidly. After the last of the ice cream was consumed, the men excused themselves and marched outside to the beer table. The women contented themselves with tea and conversation in the spacious living room; they planned to rejoin their spouses and beaus when the dance would begin outside several hours later.

  Such a well-planned event should have ended as it had begun. Bates was intent on impressing those whom he thought needed such manipulation. He had invited all of the important people from the surrounding area as he used such occasions as much to create new or reinforce existing relationships as he did to socialize. Therefore, the pastors of the area’s two largest churches had shown up. Bates also reluctantly had invited his own pastor; Mrs. Bates had insisted on it. Bates had balked at his pastor’s presence because it meant his very best behavior, which required minimal drinking on his part. A local judge, a state legislator, a nearby mayor, and sundry councilmen also had come. Rounding out the guest list was anyone whose land holdings were at least as large as Bates’ was. He saw no advantage in inviting anyone beneath his position.

  And all did go splendidly until the third barrel of beer had been tapped. The warm humid weather caused all to sweat profusely; the men reasoned that the beer was needed to keep them cool but its alcohol had the opposite effect. And it did nothing to cool down temperaments. Rather, the liquid refreshment served only to inflame them. Slowly the mood for many began to change. The tenor of the conversations alerted a few to this shift. The most sensitive began to formulate excuses to leave early before the dance began. Cordial conversations eventually gave way to opinionated speeches by a handful of the guests. Unwary revelers were sucked into the growing Maelstrom one by one. The wary backed away.

  “I tell you, anyone would have been better than Van Buren.” The mayor fumed. “With five candidates running for President, we could’ve elected someone else!”

  “Such as Daniel Webster?” The state legislator sneered. Being a member of President Van Buren’s political party, he felt duty bound to defend him. “The Whigs are such fools. Whoever heard of one party running four candidates for president at the same time?”

  “You know very well that our strategy was to throw the election over to the House of Representatives. Then they could have picked one of our four candidates, any of whom is superior to Van Buren in every way. It almost worked, too. In any case, whoever heard of so many wars going on at one time? George Washington must be rolling over in his grave. The war against Santa Ana and his army was one matter. But what about the Mormon War out in Missouri? I hear that Joseph Smith is appealing directly to President Van Buren! The Mormons’ influence extends all the way to the White House!”

  Overhearing the mention of the Mormon War and Joseph Smith caused the three reverends in attendance to change their conversation. They had been debating about the merits of what theologians had called the Second Great Awakening. It had swept through much of the young nation for sometime but was now beginning to fade. The mention of the new denomination that they considered heretical and its leader whom they labeled a false prophet caused one of the reverends to pale while another turned beet red in his face.

  “I don’t know how many members I’ve lost to those Latter Day Saints.” The crimson-faced pastor raged.

  “Oh, my!” The other trembled. “I thought all of the Mormons moved west long ago.”

  “Well some of my members followed them out west, by God. They sold their farms or businesses and followed Joseph Smith out there. He says they are going to build the city of Zion or some such foolishness.”

  “I’ll say this for him. Smith knows how to appeal to the downtrodden. He opposes slavery, you know.”

  “Maybe that’s the real reason that so many oppose him.”

  “Bah! All that is mere conjecture.” The third pastor weighed in on the new topic. “What matters is that he is stealing our sheep. That is the unforgivable sin!”

  Bates quickly evaluated which group most needed his guidance. He knew that the reverends would not likely come to blows; one had abstained from alcohol that afternoon, the others had drunk one glass of wine each and no beer. The battling politicians, however, were a different concern. The state legislator had defeated the mayor in their run for higher office and always seemed to find not so subtle ways to remind the loser of that election. Bates maneuvered toward them.

  Dear God in heaven, please don’t make me be their referee. I knew I shouldn’t have invited both of them. The only way they’ll ever bury the hatchet is in each other.

  Bates settled on a diversionary tactic. “We’ll be starting the music soon, gentlemen. The ladies are on their way outside now for the dance. Can we please …?”

  “Gladly, sir.” The legislator smirked. His expression was born out of his firmly held belief that he was superior to all who dwelt in Pennsylvania. His victory in the recent election had only strengthened that conviction. “The conversation here bores me to no end. Only sore losers care to rehash old elections. Ha ha!” He smirked again.

  “And whom will you be dancing with?” The mayor fired his best salvo. “Your hero Martin Van Buren isn’t here for you to kick up your heels with.”

  Within seconds the two feuding politicians
were face-to-face and screaming epithets at each other as their arms waved overhead. Bates did his best to steer them away from the rapidly growing semi-circle of onlookers. Somehow all three of them stumbled through the gate, which was ajar, and into the meadow where the horses were grazing. Ordinarily this would have presented only a small problem, if any. However, one of the 18 fenced-in horses was in no mood for company, either human or equine.

  Having spent 24 years as a stud, Sam no longer had much interest in the females of his species. A beautiful filly had paraded around him all afternoon but Sam had paid her no heed. Grazing on the tender shoots of freshly sprouted grass appealed more to him than she did. Tired from the nine-mile journey of hauling his masters and their neighbors earlier, he had little motivation to move as the tempest of humans swirled his way. But when they crashed into him he turned and bit the one who was closest to him, which happened to be the mayor. The searing pain to his now bleeding face propelled him forward and he knocked the other two to the ground. They all landed in piles of freshly produced manure dampened by urine that the filly and Sam had deposited during the last five hours. The state legislator, whose mouth was usually open anyway, yelled as he fell. Thus he ended up with a mouth full of horse dung.