Fool's Gold

by Steve Stroble

parents’ lack of peace.

  Seeing no lights inside of the farmhouse, Thomas crept from room to room to look at his family. He then went to his room, now empty because his two older brothers had married and left home. He threw two changes of clothes into the knapsack that he used when hiking in the nearby forests and grabbed the money that he had saved since his days as a child. At age five he had discovered that those leaving the Gasthaus sometimes dropped money as they stumbled home. He had made a habit of searching for such treasure every dawn and saved every coin, even the Pfennings.

  He went to the kitchen and took a loaf of dark bread and a large wedge of goat’s cheese that his mother had made. Rubbing the flint in his pocket, he took another glance at each face of his slumbering family. A gift from his father, the flint was Thomas’ most valued possession. The front door latched behind him without a sound.

  Because the Schmidts dwelt in the westernmost part of Bavaria Thomas fled toward the Rhine River. He hoped it would take him far enough away that he would never be caught for his crime of manslaughter. First he had to pass through farms, meadows, and forests. His knowledge of the moon’s path helped him to plot a direct route toward the river. In happier times he had imagined the heroes, villains, and witches from the tales of the brothers Grimm lurking behind each tree or over the next hill. Now he envisioned those from the law or his victim’s family lurking there. Because he had started around midnight he traveled the first 20 miles under the cover of darkness. His heart beat faster when he heard a wolf howl. Dogs from nearby cottages answered the wolf with barking.

  Oh no! Hounds! The thoughts came one on top of the other. What if they search for me with hounds? I’ll never escape if they do.

  Even worse was his image of what his victim’s family might do if they found him before a policeman did. Vengeful relatives had been known to return from other searches for fugitives with a lifeless body and the claim that they had been attacked. By dawn he switched to the dirt roads leading westward. He feared that if anyone saw him cutting across fields they might become suspicious. This made his route much more indirect and slowed his escape.

  His family awoke to the pounding on the front door of their cottage. Helmut answered it. There stood the brother of the one who had provoked the fight.

  “Yes, Rudolph. What do you want so early?”

  “Is Thomas here?”

  “Wait here. He’s probably still asleep because of all the beer he drinks every Saturday.”

  Helmut took a few steps and opened the door to Thomas’ bedroom. Finding that the bed had not been slept in, he called to his wife and daughters.

  “Have any of you seen Thomas? It looks like he didn’t come home last night.”

  “No, Father,” the older daughter answered him.

  Their mother yawned as she entered the dwelling’s main room. “What has he done now?” She yawned again. “Where are your manners, Helmut? Come in, Rudolph. I will make you coffee. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, maybe bread please.” As he ate and waited for the coffee, Rudolph described the events of the previous evening. After hearing the tale, Helmut sighed loudly.

  “He should have talked to me.”

  “He is too rash,” Marta replied. “He is either on the way to Switzerland or Austria. He’s wanted to leave home for the longest time. Now he has an excuse.”

  “But Mother, Thomas always talked of going to America. He said…” The younger sister remembered.

  Rudolph nodded in agreement. “That’s all he ever talked about when he was drunk. I will look for him at the Rhine. That is the quickest way for him to go.”

  “America? But that is too far away. If he goes there we’ll never see him again. He’ll come home.” Marta pleaded. “Won’t he?” She gazed at each face, all of them looked away.

  “I am wasting my time here.” Rudolph stood. “I know you believe in justice, Herr Schmidt. I need that painting of Thomas.” He pointed at a recently painted family portrait.

  “But what if he never comes home?” Marta’s tears hit the floor. “That is the only thing I have left to remember him by.”

  “The only way he will ever return is if Rudolph finds him.” Helmut reasoned. “You can take the painting only if you promise not to hurt Thomas.”

  “I swear I won’t hurt him but only bring him back. And whether I find Thomas or not I will return it. My father said I must come back for the harvest.”

  “But you can’t take it. It’s too big.” Marta pled with hands folded as if she were praying.

  “Then take it out of its frame!”

  “But…”

  “Do as I say!”

  Rudolph was well known for being short tempered and the most given to anger in his family. It was little wonder that it was he who had shown up at the Schmidt’s once much calmer home. His anger fed his impatience. His impatience caused him to repeat himself.

  “I promise I will not hurt Thomas for what he did to my brother. I promise I will only bring him back.”

  Thomas’ father thought that any search for his son would be in vain without Rudolph being able to show a likeness of the fugitive. Helmut took the portrait from its frame. Marta sobbed until it was safely in Rudolph’s pack.

  Then she grew silent.

  2

  Thomas arrived at a small village on the Rhine moments before the last watercraft for the day headed north on the mighty river. Running from Switzerland to the North Sea, the 820-mile long waterway would carry him north and then west as he sought refuge in a strange land. He had heard much about America. The stories of intrepid explorers sometimes fighting and then coexisting with savages had inspired him since he was a boy. Those who gathered at the Gasthaus had read letters to him from ones who had prospered in the new land. If nothing else, going to America would eventually make him a wealthy man. Then he could return and buy his freedom by hiring a lawyer.

  During the first part of his river journey he passed ancient castles and crumbling fortifications left from the days of Roman rule over the land that they had called Germania Magna. Vineyards terraced the surrounding hills on both sides of the river and were known for the wines produced from their grapes. The peaceful scenery only partially hid the inner turmoil every fugitive knows. Thomas spent his days looking over his shoulder and wondered what to say when fellow travelers questioned him. Further from home than he had ever been before, he was less certain of how to behave with each passing mile. After many stops to take on and unload passengers and freight, the boat turned west into the Netherlands and docked at Rotterdam.

  The city’s population of about 80,000 in 1838 overwhelmed Thomas and the other first time visitors. Thousands of transients – sailors and travelers and those emigrating from Europe – resembled a restless tide of humanity. As he walked through the strange city Thomas spied a handbill tacked to a fence. Written in French, German, Polish, and Russian, the words on the paper promised free passage to America in exchange for indentured service. Because he hoped to enter America with the little money leftover after his passage on the Rhine he decided that the handbill was a Godsend. Finding another who spoke German, he repeated the address listed on the handbill. The courteous stranger pointed and explained the easiest route to take. Within an hour Thomas arrived at the dockside location and found a portly gentleman seated outside puffing on his pipe.

  “America,” was the only English word Thomas could utter to make his need known.

  “Another Schwanz, eh? Follow me.” After years of plying his trade, he could usually tell one’s country of origin by a trace of an accent. Thomas’ heavy accent left little doubt.

  Thomas obeyed and took a seat at the small bare table with three chairs. The trafficker in human cargo shouted for his wife.

  “The last one’s here.”

  A thin middle-aged woman came downstairs. She stared at Thomas. Her husband smiled when he saw that Thomas had passed her initial inspection. Other prospects had not.

  “He’s a German,
judging by his accent. Please answer his questions and have him sign the paper.” He turned toward a cabinet as his wife greeted Thomas in German.

  “Good day, Herr…”

  “Schmidt.” Thomas appreciated the title of respect and welcomed the sound of his native language.

  “So you want to go to America?”

  “Yah.”

  “You sign this contract to work five years on a farm there and your master to be pays your fare there.”

  “Okay.” He quickly signed the contract that she had slid across the table’s worn top.

  “Let’s drink to your new life and my commission!” The go-between placed a bottle of cheap rum and two glasses onto the table. “Forgive the missus, she has a habit of one drink a day. But I always says no deal is complete until the ink is on the contract and the drink is down the gullet.” He raised his glass in a toast.

  Thomas clinked his glass against the one extended his way. Because Thomas filled the quota of indentured servants the host decided to invite him to supper. Most of those whom the old retired sailor signed up were mere cargo to him but Thomas’ bewildered expression pricked what little remained of his conscience.

  “Set a third plate, my dear. And tell the boy he’s staying to eat.”

  She quickly translated the offer, which brought a huge smile to Thomas’ worried face. He longed to be sailing away to his new home but could not resist the offer of a home cooked meal. He had eaten only one meal, his