The Legend of the Barefoot Mailman

by John Henry Fleming

  After five full weeks, a cruise ship finally came to port. It was a ship from a rival line, one that Rathmartin would never consider boarding. But he never missed an opportunity to engage in corporate spying, so he had Dr. Weimaraner sneak aboard under the pretense of booking passage.

  The doctor returned with a handful of newspapers. “Look at this, Admiral,” he said. “I found these scattered about the deck. Back copies of the Times.”

  Rathmartin thought for a moment. “What a capital idea, Friday. The news is old, of course, but it makes the passengers feel at home.” He pulled on his mutton chops. “Yes, this is something to think about. Of course, we’d have to one-up them. What if we were to hire a paperboy, the sweetest little freckle-faced youngster we can get our hands on. Have him deliver the Times right to the door of their cabins. Bright and early. We’ll tear off the dateline—after all, people don’t care what day it is while they’re at sea. If my boys are ambitious enough, they might even set up a little printing press on board and then we can print our own paper. Now, what do you think of a bicycle, Weimy? Can we get a boy skilled enough to ride a bicycle from cabin to cabin? Surely we can, and we’ll get one of those quaint little children’s bikes with lots of chrome and a little toot-horn. Are you getting this down, Weimy? My memory’s not what it used to be, you know.”

  “I’m taking mental notes, Admiral. I’ll write them down in my journal this evening.”

  “You might consider putting this in a letter to my sons if a Southwind ship doesn’t arrive soon. This is an idea that can’t wait.”

  “Yes, Admiral. I’ll do that.”

  “Well, let’s just have a peek at what’s been happening back in the rotten old world of civilization, shall we?”

  Rathmartin took a newspaper out of the doctor’s hand and began to flip through the pages while he sipped his wine at their poolside table. The sun was just setting, and the ocean and sky in the east worked slowly toward a coordination of their nightly attire.

  Rathmartin happened across the third installment of John Thomas’s series on the new legend of the Barefoot Mailman. He was instantly hooked, and called for Dr. Weimaraner to hand over the other papers, one of which the doctor himself had been reading. Rathmartin read the series from start to finish, continuing to read even when it grew dark and the doctor led him by the elbow upstairs to their rooms. There, the magnate read by lamplight, late into the night, a sucker for all the thrills and adventure the reporter had injected into the tale. Suddenly, for the first time, he felt it was happening for real, all around him, that he was at last at the center of a unique and thrilling tropical adventure. After all, it was a true story. And here he was, by good fortune, smack in the middle of the best tale he’d ever read. He had to meet this man, this stoic mail carrier, for this was a man worthy of great admiration. This was a man who could be a true friend to Elias Rathmartin, who for so long had commanded a great fleet of ships and had loved and provided for a family, but who’d always felt misunderstood even by those closest to him. They’d laughed at his bent for high-seas romance and adventure, and yet they could never see that his business success and his thirst for adventure were one and the same. He was a man driven by an unquenchable yearning for something he could never quite put his finger on. Just like this barefooted man from the town of Figulus, he thought.

  Chapter 16

  THE NEXT MORNING, Rathmartin had Dr. Weimaraner inquire as to exactly where this little town was located and how they might travel there. The good doctor secured them a boat and a guide.

  The guide’s name was Chinasatuke, but she let the white people call her China—“like the dish,” she’d say, because she didn’t know about the country, and because when she’d been very young, she’d taken a white man for a lover and he’d told her, “You’re quite a dish—a china dish,” and she’d accepted that as a compliment. That was when she was fascinated by white people and hoped secretly that if she made love to enough white men she might just become white herself and leave behind the foolish ways of her tribe and of her parents, who treated her harshly and tried to keep her from straying outside the confines of their little village. But nothing could keep the young China from sneaking off in the night for a rendezvous with one of those bright-eyed soldier boys or a lonely pioneer, until at last she was caught, and when she tried to return to the village she was kicked and beaten. Her father said that if she wanted so much to be white she had no business living in a Seminole village, and so she was kicked out for good, with a few stones thrown at her back to make clear the village’s feelings.

  She laughed at their small-mindedness, and dreamed of the day when she’d ride through that village shooting her fancy white-man’s gun in the air, with a hundred white soldiers to back her up, and take that village and make slaves of all the stupid Indians in it.

  But when she went to her favorite lover and demanded that he marry her, he refused, and when he tried to make love to her, she kneed him in the testicles. She went from lover to lover, looking for the husband who could give her the last laugh, the husband who could make her white. But no one would take her hand in marriage, not even the sweetest of the bright-eyed soldier boys. She even lived with one for two years, hoping to change his mind. But still the man refused, and in the end she was left alone with no more lovers to knee in the testicles and not even a false promise to believe in.

  When at last fear, hunger, and a need for acceptance of any kind outweighed her anger and her desire for revenge, she humbled herself and approached her old village, determined to accept the humiliation and the beatings if only she could regain some semblance of her old life. What she found instead were the lifeless and rotting remains; many of her tribe had disappeared, and the rest lay slaughtered at the hands of the white troops, their bodies now exposed and decomposing in the shame of the bright sunlight on the flat, unconsecrated ground. There was her family’s hut with the bodies of her parents and her little sister, who would now have been nearly of age to marry, all of them twisted unnaturally and covered with their own blood and the blood of each other.

  She didn’t cry; it was too awful for that. Instead, she planted a seed of rage that she cultivated and nurtured until it became the sole purpose of her existence. Her rage gave her the will to survive the many years of lonely, hard times that followed. Her mastery of it allowed her to hide her feelings completely and play out a plan she knew could never work but whose execution was the only activity that truly gave her pleasure, now that she was forty-one and built like an overfed bear: to aid and encourage all white people down a path that would forever take them out of Florida. She could not frighten them all away, and she could not lead them out en masse like a pied piper, but she could show them the door one by one like a tired host at her own surprise party.

  It was China who’d come by the Steinmetz residence the morning after that fateful night in the postmaster’s restaurant. It was China who’d found the frightened Lena sitting at the table with the mosquito netting over her head and her face buried in her arms, bawling her eyes out. She’d said kind words to Lena and allayed her fears, then subtly and craftily convinced her that going home was the only thing to do. She’d paddled Lena all the way to the port in Biscayne and up to the dock where a Southwind steamer was anchored, and then showed her to the door of a first-class cabin that would take her back to Brooklyn. China had even made a down payment on that first-class cabin and an advance payment on a cabin for Lena’s husband, in the hope that he’d show up and follow his wife home on the next departure. When China had later found out about Josef’s capture in the Seminole village, she’d provided that information to the beachcombing pirates and convinced them that a rescue was in order. She’d known that the experience would then send Josef scurrying back north. And of course she’d been right.

  Now the good doctor Weimaraner had offered China a generous sum of money to take him and Rathmartin to this little pioneer’s town called Figulus, and China had accepted gladly, not for the money—wh
ich more than recouped her losses on deporting the Steinmetzes—but because she saw in this a first-rate opportunity to expose a wealthy and influential white man to such intense discomfort that he would never wish to return, and would, she hoped, relate this feeling to all his acquaintances and associates, so that with this one act she could prevent a hundred or more white profit seekers from turning their sights on Florida.

  CHINA ROWED THEM up the coast, traveling the inner waterways when she could, and along the ocean’s shore when the waves weren’t too rough (she wanted them to be uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to destroy her boat).

  The doctor had horrible bouts of seasickness, particularly over the ocean, and spent much of the time with his head lolling over the side, retching at his own reflection. This pleased China no end. On the other hand, Rathmartin was pleasantly overwhelmed by the adventure of it and asked China a continuous stream of questions about the plants and wildlife and the Indian tribes. China would give him the Indian names and Rathmartin would repeat the words after her, then he’d glance over his shoulder—“Are you getting this, Friday?”—but the doctor’s ears were full of the sound of his own retching, so Rathmartin would repeat the names again to commit them to memory, as if in doing so he were recreating the whole of Florida in his own image, or the image of the adventure books he’d read. China told him about the Seminole Village where Josef Steinmetz had been captured. Her own village had always made fun of it, calling it the Village of Too Much Thought. That delighted Rathmartin, who insisted she speak the term in Seminole, which he repeated twice, laughing to himself.

  It made China nervous to hear this white man speak Seminole words; it was as though, in addition to usurping their land, he wished to usurp the language and culture of her people as well. Then, when everything was finally stolen away from her people, when the white man owned the lands and the culture and all the memories of the Indians, her childhood dream would at last be fulfilled: she would become white. But now that dream filled her with rage and disgust, and it was only the great strength of her self-control that prevented her from strangling these white men and tossing them into the ocean. Much later, she’d regret that she hadn’t.

  THE SKIFF PULLED up to the dock in front of the Figulus post office on the second day. There was no one to be seen in town, but from the docks they could hear some talking and laughter down the path.

  “There must be some sort of town meeting,” said Rathmartin. “Perhaps their relations with the savages have come to a crisis and they’re taking up arms. We’ve come at just the right time, Weimy. China, you’d better remain in the boat. If any of them question you, just tell them you’re employed faithfully to Elias Rathmartin and the Southwind Trading Company.”

  “But they may not know who you are back here in the jungle, Admiral,” said the doctor, still green in the face, but slowly regaining some strength.

  “Good point, Weimy. Perhaps it’s best if you hide on the floor of the boat, China.”

  “Yes,” said China, having no intention of hiding from anyone.

  They left China behind and walked toward the voices of the townsfolk, arriving shortly at the torchlit entrance to Earl Shank’s restaurant.

  Chapter 17

  MELY HAD POLISHED the entire restaurant to a dull, woody shine. She’d set the tables with more silverware than any local person knew how to use. At each table she’d placed a candle and a vase with flowers and even some flowered napkins she’d made out of old drapery. Earl was pleasantly surprised that Mely had it in her to transform the old shack this way; it looked fancier than he’d ever imagined possible. The only thing it lacked was a steady flow of customers. But that would change, he thought, because as he wedged himself into his new loafers, he had the warmest feeling of hope and self-confidence. He had no idea how, but he knew that tonight the future would unfold before him like a red carpet, and that these fine leather shoes would provide the missing dance steps in his waltz to fame.

  He kept himself and the shoes hidden from Mely until the guests started to show. When people came to the door, some as singles, some as couples, some with a couple of kids, the first thing they noticed was the mellow glow of Earl’s new shoes in the lamplight.

  “Nice shoes, Earl,” they’d say, and when Mely first heard them say it, she peeked across the room and down at Earl’s feet. She could only shake her head.

  “I won’t even ask, Earl.”

  “I ain’t stole ’em, Mely,” he said, but she kept shaking her head with that look that told Earl she’d put up with him anyway.

  The restaurant filled up quickly. They were only townsfolk who’d come for a free meal of pig roast, but for Earl it was a preview of the success to come. A good dress rehearsal, he thought.

  As Earl seated the last of the guests, Mely started for the kitchen to check on the roast. She stopped, though, when she glanced to the door and spotted two men she’d never seen before in her life—a burly old man with frizzy muttonchops, and a balding, middle-aged man with a black doctor’s bag. She went to the door.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  “Madam, I am Elias J. Rathmartin, and this is my good man, Dr. Renaldo Weimaraner. We are charmed to make your acquaintance.” He bowed ever so slightly.

  “If you all are a couple of carpetbaggers, you come to the wrong place to sell yer hocus-pocus.”

  “Yes, my apologies for our appearance. We have just navigated up from the Biscayne Grand Hotel. The good doctor doesn’t travel well in small boats, and I am just an old man. But in my remaining hours on this earth, I seek what small adventures are left for us doddering fools, and I have come here to gain audience with this courageous young wanderer I have heard so much of, this Barefoot Mailman.”

  Mely looked at him as if she’d just identified the missing ingredient in her stew. “Earl,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “Earl,” she said, a little louder.

  Earl pulled himself away from the tables where he was playing host and hurried up to the door when he spotted Mely with the strangers.

  “Earl,” said Mely, “these men are looking for you,” and then she turned toward the kitchen, washing her hands of the matter.

  “Yes sirs,” said Earl. “What kin I do fer ya?”

  Rathmartin looked down at Earl’s feet.

  “I can’t blame ya fer looking,” laughed Earl. “These are the finest shoes in the South. I ain’t embarrassed to say it neither, since these shoes were delivered to me out of the clear blue, like God’s gift to a hardworkin pioneer, if it ain’t too blasphemous fer me to say so.”

  “Those are fine shoes indeed,” said Rathmartin. “But I’m not sure you’re the one we’re looking for, despite what your wife says.”

  “Oh, don’t pay her no mind. She just ain’t used to dealin with the upper crust. A little shy, ya know.”

  “Yes, certainly. But we’ve come looking for someone—hand me that paper, won’t you, Weimy?”

  The doctor pulled a copy of the Times from his medical bag. Rathmartin presented it to Earl.

  “My name, though I see now it holds no weight here in the dark jungles of Florida, is Elias J. Rathmartin, and I’m looking for this Barefoot Mailman everyone is talking about.”

  The old man’s name carried Earl back to his very brief stint in the shipping business. Even then, Elias Rathmartin was respected and feared among his competitors. Earl realized he was talking to one of the richest, most powerful Yankees in the country.

  He took the newspaper. “Barefoot Mailman, huh? Well, I . . .” He began to scan the first installment of John Thomas’s already legendary story, recognizing with a shock the striking similarity to his lost friend, Josef Steinmetz. But Earl didn’t puzzle over it for long. For him, the story quickly became more than just strange coincidence, more than just a self-serving lie told by an opportunistic, fame-hungry reporter. For Earl, the story was a ticket out of a lifetime of failures. It was a fortuitous juxtaposition of heavenly bodies. A hand-out from the gods.


  “Wellsir,” said Earl, “you come to the right place. That barefoot feller comes in here all the time. He’s a good friend of mine. See, let me innerduce myself—my name’s Earl Shank.” He shook both their hands and felt the pulse of fortune electrifying the moment. He’d rehearsed for one role his entire life, and now, out of nowhere, an agent had come who had the power and the money to land him that role. Things were set in motion, and all because of the shoes. “I’m the postmaster in this town, that’s how I know ’im so well. And this here’s my restaurant, where I invite him to sup when he ain’t out deliverin the mail in his bare feet. I know it ain’t the fanciest restaurant, but he’s a simple sorter feller, he is. Sits by himself at that back table right over there. Don’t talk much, just sorts through the mail, counts it, makes sure he don’t lose none of it. He’s honest about his job, and always has a real serious look on his face, like he’s workin out some plan ta save the world. He’s friendly, though, once ya get to know ’im as well as I do. An he likes the food here, I’m proud ta say that. My wife’s been called the finest cook south of Atlanta, and—well, if ya got time, maybe ya’d like to sample fer yerselves. She’s cooked up a special pig roast, with some sorter citrus sauce—she won’t never tell me what she puts in it. I’ll sit ya right there, where he sits, and if he happens to show up—and ya never know when he might—why I’ll just bring ’im right to ya, innerduce ya, sit ’im down at yer table. He’ll do it fer me.”

  “Well, Friday, I believe we’ve met a friend among the savages. Sir, we’d be honored by your hospitality.”

  “Wait here, just a moment.” Earl hurried over to the table he’d pointed at, which was currently occupied by the Bardo family--Frank and Edna and their daughters Lisa and Lila. He whispered to Frank that he’d given them the wrong table, that this here table was reserved for an honored guest from out of town.

  “But there ain’t no other table, Earl,” said Frank.