The Chronicles of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  Lefty was still unhappy with his unexpected loss of fifty dollars. “At the very least, he could admit to some sense of shame from the way he suckered us into the bet,” he muttered.

  “No, Lefty,” Carmichael answered. “I’ve know this reprobate for more time than I would admit in public. I’ve watched him engage in various scandalous and nefarious behaviors, but I can’t remember a single instance of him ever showing even the slightest hint of an indication that he might have a conscience.”

  Peabody turned to the doctor. He dropped his jaw and widened his eyes in feigned surprise. “You slander me,” he said to him. “Granted, I have seldom, if ever, strayed from a life of commendable virtue and have had little reason to experience shame.” This time it was Doctor Carmichael who dropped his jaw and widened his eyes in real surprise. “But,” the Major continued, completely disregarding the doctor’s reaction, “if you’ll give me a moment or two, I’m sure I’ll be able to remember an instance – perhaps two – when I have been genuinely embarrassed.”

  Doc Carmichael said “Hah!”

  “Want to bet?” asked Lefty. Then he thought better of it and added, “I didn’t mean that literally, Major. It was just a matter of speech.”

  Peabody sat at the table and affected an attitude of concentration. Mr. Olsen opened the wood stove oven, put his hand inside and calculated the temperature to be hot enough to bake the breakfast biscuits. He put a tray of them in the oven and began to fry the potatoes. During all this time, Peabody appeared to be in deep thought. From time to time he slowly shook his head from side to side as he considered and then rejected occasions when he might have been ashamed. Finally he smiled and said: “Eureka! I have found one.” He got the attention of everyone.

  “It was in Uruguay. Last year. We flew to Montevideo and then to Mercedes where we got into a Suburban and drove to Estancia Ninette. That’s a ranch owned by Hector Sarasola. Hector’s land contains an infinite number of doves and a substantial population of pigeons, ducks and perdiz. I had only a passing interest in the dove, pigeon and duck. I went to Uruguay to hunt perdiz.

  “Perdiz, as the name suggests, is a member of the grouse family. It likes an open, grassy kind of habitat and when threatened, it prefers to run on the ground. It flies only as a last resort. A good dog is essential to the hunt. Fortunately, the Estancia Ninette also serves as home to a number of well-trained Brittany Spaniels. Hector’s own dog must be the reincarnation of one of the world’s legendary human bird hunters. I’ve never seen a dog so eager to hunt.

  “The dog would find a perdiz, perhaps two, three or even four gun ranges from a hunter. It would hold a rigid point. Even though the bird ran, the dog would remain motionless until the hunters were close. Then it would break the point and follow the scent left by the running bird. I once watched that dog as it closed in on a bird. It crouched until its belly nearly touched the ground and it practically crawled the final feet before coming to an almost lying-down point.

  “In four days of hunting, Hector’s dog never bumped a bird. If a perdiz was hit, the dog always found it, regardless of how far it may have sailed. The animal had a soft mouth. Its enthusiasm for the hunt was patent. Tail movement, eye concentration, short breath panting - I swear, the dog smiled when it brought a bird back for hand release. A few words, maybe a pat on the head and the dog raced back to the field to find another perdiz. He worked so hard and so well, some of the hunters actually apologized to it when they missed a shot.

  “On the last afternoon of the hunt, I was on my way back to the truck, ready to call it a day. The dog, however, had a different idea. I was walking along a fence line on the upper part of a large field thinking great thoughts about perdiz hunting at Estancia Ninette. I lost track of the dog. When I turned I saw him, nearly an eighth of a mile behind me, frozen on point.

  “I don’t know how long he had held that point, patiently waiting for me to come to him, but it must have been for some time. When I got to him, he broke his point and began to follow the scent of the bird that had plenty of time to scurry away in the grass. The dog followed the running bird for a goodly distance, then pointed and waited for me. When I arrived, the bird had, again, moved away. The dog broke point and repeated the process. On the fourth point, the bird flushed well within gun range. I’ve never seen a dog work that well.

  “You can imagine my feelings when I fired and missed.” Major Peabody lowered his eyes, obviously moved by the telling of the story.

  Lefty broke the silence. “I can understand your embarrassment,” he said. “It must have been acute. The last shot of the last day of the hunt. The dog worked so hard and then you missed. You let the dog down and didn’t have another day to hunt over it and make amends. What must that dog have thought of you?”

  The Major looked up. “Oh, I didn’t give a damn about what the dog might have thought.” he said. “I was hunting with Hector. I was ashamed because I knew he was going to tell everyone about it.”

  Homo Homoni Lupus

  Major Peabody was not his usual ebullient self. He left part of his rack of lamb untouched and even waved off a second after-dinner drink. When Major Peabody refuses a quality Fundador brandy from Spain’s Jerez de la Frontera, it is obvious all is not right in the world. We left the restaurant and drove back to the Major’s apartment in silence. After an evening at Bookbinder’s, it is Peabody’s usual custom to ask me to join him for a libation in his quarters. On that evening, no such invitation was extended.

  I parked the car, accompanied him into his building and, uninvited, entered into his apartment. Wordlessly, he sat in his favorite wing back chair and seemed to stare off into empty space. Silence and contemplation are not Peabody characteristics. This was, indeed, strange behavior. I could not leave him in such a somber and morose mood. I decided it was incumbent upon me to raise his spirits. When I returned from the kitchen and handed him his drink, I asked if he was feeling well.

  “I’m perfectly all right, thank you,” he answered. “I’ve been thinking.” He paused for a few seconds and then added: “That’s all, merely thinking.”

  “About what,” I casually asked and, at the same time, sunk into one of his overstuffed chairs, leaving no doubt that I intended to stay until my curiosity was satisfied. Peabody sipped from his Scotch and water and then looked up at me. I had purposely mixed it on the potent side. He set the highball on the end table. “Oh,” he answered, “I was thinking about the various failures of mankind and how so many of Mother Nature’s experiments have gone wrong.”

  “Come now, Major. It isn’t that bad,” I answered, hoping to engage him in conversation and get him to forget what was really bothering him – whatever that was.

  “It isn’t?” he asked. He seemed surprised. “Of course it is,” he said, answering his own question. “Homo sapiens is racing toward extinction at a faster pace than that of some of the old gal’s other disasters. The Hairy Mammoth, the Pterodactyl and the Great Auk come to mind.” I looked quizzical. “Don’t look so quizzical,” he ordered. “In spite of what some of your tree hugging friends contend, extinction is not necessarily a terrible thing. I applaud it. Extinction is not all that bad.

  “Think about it,” he continued. “I enjoy walking in the autumn woods in search of the Ruffed Grouse. That enjoyment would be substantially diminished if I had to be on the lookout for prowling Saber-toothed Tigers. I’m glad they are extinct.”

  “I don’t think anyone would be in favor of saving a predatory animal like the Saber-toothed Tiger,” I said.

  “You don’t?” He asked and again seemed sincerely surprised. “There are organized groups of people who have successfully hindered the advancement of their own economy by demanding protection for such extinction bound species as blind minnows living in underground caves. Your friends proclaim the coming extinction of the caribou - animals they claim are so stupid they can’t find their way around, over or under an oil pipe. They insist our government spend considerable amounts of taxpayers’
funds to protect various bugs whose importance in the earth’s life cycles is, at best, insignificant and irrelevant. What makes you think they won’t decide to clone the Saber-Toothed Tiger?

  “The population of the United States takes every opportunity to nourish, sustain and protect vicious and destructive animals that represent a danger to our continued survival as a species. At every opportunity, it insists upon re-electing them to Congress. If the Homo sapiens had any sense of self preservation, all politicians would have already gone the way of the Saber-toothed Tiger.”

  “You’re over-reacting,” I objected. “I see no danger of the extinction of the human race. Oh, perhaps in a billion years or so, the universe may implode into a single black hole and do us all in, but even the possibility of that happening is infinitesimal. Certainly it isn’t anything that should cause us to worry until a few more eons have passed.”

  Peabody sipped his drink. Without looking at me he said: “We’ll all be gone long before everything is sucked into that black hole. Apparently you don’t believe in evolution. If Darwin is right, and I suspect he is, only the fittest will survive. The human being is not the fittest. We don’t stand a chance in the survival business.”

  “Of course, I believe in evolution, Major. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “This planet, my young friend, is a giant laboratory and we are nothing more than the latest in a series of experiments. Ages ago Mother Nature tried the “Too Big To Fail” theory and created the dinosaurs. When that experiment turned out to be a bust, she went to the opposite extreme and gave tiny creatures a go at it. The cockroaches and ants have stayed the course and mosquitoes have hung around, too, but, by and large, Mother Nature wasn’t satisfied with them and continued with her tinkering.

  “She embarked on her latest experiment. She selected a middle sized, timorous creature - our own distant ancestor - and gave it opposable thumbs. Nevertheless, it should be obvious to every one that she gave us only limited intelligence. Brain power was not one of her primary considerations.” Peabody sighed and returned to his Scotch and water.

  My work was cut out for me. I had seldom seen Major Peabody in such a dejected and somber mood. I promised myself I would bring him out of it before I left his apartment.

  “But Major Peabody,” I said “Look how far we have advanced since the days of that distant ancestor. We’ve defeated all the threats that have faced us - smallpox, the black plague, cholera, yellow fever. We’ve harnessed fire and the atom, too. We’ve extended our life expectancy from mere years to decades and some people now live for more than a century. These aren’t the characteristics of a species on the verge of extinction. These are unmistakable signs of progress.”

  “Progress? Progress?” Peabody snorted. “All we have done is to eliminate some of the microbes and viruses that can cause our demise. That accomplishment, I might point out, has exacerbated the world’s terrible overpopulation problem. Sickness and disease are not the major problems facing mankind. In the final analysis, they have nothing to do with our extinction. Mankind doesn’t need their assistance. We’ll kill ourselves off without any help from them.” He concluded his argument with three words: “Homo homoni lupus”.

  “And just what does that mean,” I inquired.

  “It translates from the Latin as ‘man is a wolf to man’. It is an entirely accurate assessment of the condition of the Homo sapiens. Our own past attempts to commit species suicide have all failed only because we have been technologically incompetent. Within the next few hundred years we will correct that oversight and develop the ability to kill every member of our own race. We won’t hesitate for a moment. Down deep, each man hates his fellows.”

  “That’s pure nonsense, Major,” I objected. “We humans give millions - no - billions of dollars to universities, to the Salvation Army and to a myriad of other charities. You overlook the work of the churches, the food kitchens and the Shriner’s hospitals. The impulse to help one’s neighbor is far more widespread than any of mankind’s meaner motivations.”

  Peabody set his drink down. From his expression I could see he was giving serious consideration to my argument. I believe he nearly nodded his head in agreement. He looked up and asked: “Do you really, really think so?”

  “Of course I do, Major. Of course, I do.

  * * * * *

  Man is, indeed, a wolf to man. The predator had caught me. What else could I do when Major Peabody calmly asked: “Then I suppose you will provide me with three hundred dollars to tide me over until the first of the month?”

  Woodcock - 2

  “I’ll come back on the Friday morning flight, my boy,” Major Peabody informed me as the departure of his flight was announced. “It is my hope as well as my expectation that this will be a most productive hunt.” Exuding optimism, he picked up his carry-on and walked toward the station where he would present his boarding pass. He smiled at me and added: “If the dogs are behaving well and if the birds are flying and if my shooting eye and reflexes have maintained themselves, upon my return, we’ll celebrate with a modest get together at my apartment on Saturday. It will feature hors d’oeuvres of regal quality.”

  Just before he walked down the tunnel to the airplane the Major said he hoped the lovely Stephanie and I would be able to attend. Then he told me he had already invited her. He paused for a second or two and, with what I am sure was supposed to look like an afterthought, he added: “When we’ve finished with the hors d’oeuvres, we can all go out to dinner. Does Bookbinder’s sound alright?” Before I could respond, he turned and disappeared down the ramp.

  Peabody’s invitations to join him for dinner whenever he returns from one of his hunting forays are one of his standard operating procedures. Such invitations presume I will cover the costs of the dinners. This causes me no concern. I always expect it. His mention of Stephanie and Bookbinders was merely a gentle reminder that I should be financially prepared. It was his statement about the hors d’oeuvres that both startled and worried me.

  The Major was on his way to Maine. One of his hunting companions told him the Woodcock migration was underway and the birds were pouring down from Canada. The Major considers the Canadian Woodcock to be illegal immigrants. He dedicates a portion of every autumn to discouraging them from entering the country without proper documentation. He and his 20 ga. Lefever planned to again try to stop them near the border.

  The little I know about Woodcock comes from conversations with Major Peabody. In the more elegant restaurants in France, he claims, it is not unusual for the entire bird to be cooked – including the feathers and the insides. What is more, he also tells me it is not unusual for French types to eat the product of such cookery – insides and all. I suspect they don’t eat the feathers, but I may be wrong. Peabody assures me there are people who like the heavily liverish taste of Woodcock and think it is a delicacy. The Major is not one of them.

  He once told me the best recipe for the preparation of Woodcock consisted of soaking them for twenty-four hours in a marinade composed of equal parts of garlic, kerosene and rabbit droppings. That marinade, he further explained, will remove only a small part of the bird’s objectionable flavor. This makes it necessary to take an additional step. To protect the environment, the marinated bird should then be buried deeply underground in granite or by using the same methods employed for the disposing of primary atomic waste.

  The Woodcock is the one bird Major Peabody will hunt, but will not eat. I’ve never tasted one and I don’t intend to taste one. If Major Peabody won’t eat them, I won’t eat them. Now are you beginning to see the reason for my worry? If Peabody couldn’t afford dinners at Bookbinders, could he afford hors d’oeuvres of regal quality catered to his apartment? Clearly, that question has to be answered in the negative. That meant he was planning to prepare the canapés. I worried that he was going to prepare Woodcock appetizers.

  The thought of the Major bringing Woodcock from Maine and forcing me to eat them made no sense at all. Did
he want to punish me for some transgression I may have inadvertently committed? No, he suggested I bring the lovely Stephanie with me. Peabody likes the lovely Stephanie. He’d do nothing to injure her. Certainly, he wouldn’t feed her Woodcock appetizers.

  Peabody had something else in mind. He was planning some outrage, but I hadn’t a clue of what it might be. I spent two sleepless nights wondering what he had in mind. I spent two more days wondering how I might avoid whatever trap he was setting for me.

  I couldn’t simply call in sick. Peabody’s invitation to the lovely Stephanie made it impossible for me to decline. The lovely Stephanie would accept no explanation or excuse if I failed to escort her to the affair. I considered all other alter-natives, including suicide. In desperation, I clung to the hope that Woodcock were not on the Major’s soiree menu, or that the birds would eschew their autumnal migration and stay in Canada, or that the weather would be so bad the Major couldn’t leave the cabin and engage in the hunt.

  They were all forlorn hopes.

  Peabody returned to Philadelphia on Friday morning. He smiled and waived at me as soon as he entered the terminal. He was carrying a brown corrugated box about as big as three or four good sized dictionaries and almost completely covered with duct tape. It was not a good sign. “I couldn’t trust them to the baggage compartment,” he said as I pessimistically studied the parcel. “Don’t worry, young man,” he continued, “They’re packed in dry ice are should be in a pure and uncorrupted condition.”

  “Woodcock,” I ventured, hoping for the best.

  “Yes, Woodcock” he answered, “Fresh from the forested lowlands of northern Maine.”

  When I heard his answer, for the first time in my life I fully understood the meaning of the term ‘sinking feeling’. When I finished carrying the Major’s baggage and shotgun into his apartment, the last words I heard from him were: “Don’t forget. You and Stephanie. Tomorrow afternoon.” I had little more than twenty four hours to save myself from the horror of eating Woodcock and from the horror of losing the affection of the lovely Stephanie.