The Legend of the Barefoot Mailman

by John Henry Fleming

  Things were happening too quickly for his thoughts to keep up. Perhaps he was mistaken to leave the Indian village so eagerly. There may have been a kernel of truth in their changeling theory. For why else would he have given himself over to a squaw? In that moment, at least, he had become one of them. It seemed obvious now; he’d known what he was doing. The least he could do was have the courage to admit it to himself, if not to Lena: in his pioneer’s desire to distance himself from the Old World and from those fancy Brooklyn avenues of his youth, he’d redefined his sensibilities completely and now found them cloaked in red. Perhaps it was a sign of madness. Surely Lena would think so. Yet anyone who’d felt what he felt when he’d coupled with that Indian woman would know that he’d found a new sense of purpose. He couldn’t forget that. Lena would never understand, but she didn’t know what he knew.

  As usual, though, he’d reached his conclusions just a few moments too late. It seemed that he was forever being punished, that he was forever sampling the forbidden fruit and being turned out of Eden just as he’d learned to enjoy its delights. It occurred to him that he might build and rebuild his paradise a million times and never recognize it as the one true Eden. Perhaps he was destined to forever look his beloved in the eye and never know her true identity. He simply hadn’t the purity of heart or the strength of will.

  Another possibility presented itself to him. Perhaps he’d so confused himself that he’d regressed. Surely the Indian way to Paradise was the false way, the way of animals and heathens, for it wasn’t a rebuilding of Paradise, but rather a return to the Paradise of old where humans and animals were alike in that they could know no shame. He’d given himself to that Indian woman as though he were little more than a beast with natural urges. In his weakness, perhaps he yearned for that lost innocence. He yearned to forget the taste of the fruit, and his scrambled thoughts did not recognize the impossibility of this.

  Still, he couldn’t deny the religious beauty of those moments with the squaw. That was something far greater than satisfying an urge. It was far greater than a carnal sin. It was the state of bliss, something man ought to strive for eternally, something that ought to be an integral component of any earthly paradise.

  “Yer among yer kind, now,” said the voice beside him again. “Yer safe, mate. The bloody heathens. We’ll teach ’em a thing er two. . . .”

  The thunder pounded in his ears and shook up his thoughts as he walked. He’d come so far from that protective lie of his father’s and from the illusion of the wine labels that they suddenly seemed attractive again. He’d have given anything at that moment to erase all the time that had come between and return to his childhood in the Old World, pasting on those labels of the convent that didn’t exist, believing the illusion that his family would be gathered like this forever, sitting around a tub of more wine bottles than they could ever hope to label, bonded together and blissful in their sense of duty. That was the vision of paradise that kept coming back to him now. That was the one he’d be forever trying to rebuild.

  SOMETIME LATE IN the night the rain stopped, and they reached a small camp where a couple of other men sat around a fire, rifles cradled in their arms. For the first time, Josef got a good look at their faces. They were all craggy, sailor types, faces wizened before their time, with sparkling eyes and thick, dark beards that they pulled on as they talked. And there was one other that stood out from the rest because he was beardless, young, and fair haired. They called him Mick.

  Josef was given a plate of stew, and, suddenly famished, he ate it as though his own mother had made it. It tasted familiar and safe. The men spoke in whispers amongst themselves, some occasionally raising their voices to shout, “The bloody bastard scavengers!” and someone else would fire his rifle in the air in agreement.

  Josef didn’t know who these men were. Perhaps they were a group of hunters from a nearby town he’d never heard of. Or perhaps they were mercenaries employed by the U.S. Government to control the remaining Indian population, ones who refused to go quietly into the reservations, ones like the group that had captured him. Or perhaps they really were pirates, though Josef hadn’t thought such people existed anymore outside storybooks. Or, it now dawned on him, they might be the beach scavengers he’d read about in his guidebooks, groups who made their living off shipwrecks by killing the survivors and taking what remained of the ship’s cargo. Sometimes, he’d read, they actually set signal fires, as though they themselves were shipwreck survivors, to draw the obliging Samaritans directly into a reef. Until now, he’d taken those stories for little more than local legends, perhaps based on truth, but enhanced to make the area seem more colorful. In any case, it appeared certain that Josef’s rescue from the Indians was not altogether a positive development.

  When he’d finished eating, Josef was led into a small tent where he collapsed into an uneasy sleep, using his wet postal sack for a pillow.

  “TOP O’ THE MORNIN,” said the man who woke him. Josef recognized the voice of the man who’d held him by the arm the night before.

  He pushed himself off the dirt floor.

  “Don’ look so frightened, friend. Come out and get ya some breakfast. We mean ya no harm.”

  Josef stepped out of the tent. Most of the men were gathered around the fire, eating.

  “Looks’s though them Injuns did the job on yer face, mate. We saved ya jest in time.” Josef had nearly forgotten the postal carrier’s punch and his still-swollen eye.

  Someone handed Josef a tin plate. He stared at the crisp bacon and the deep brown sausage with amazement. He breathed in their rich and familiar aromas; he could think of no food more perfect and desirable.

  A man laughed. “Arr. Surprise ya, does it? We eat finely here. You’ll see, mate.”

  “We’re blessed, we are,” said another man. “The Good Lord provides us well.”

  “Aye. This bounty is heaven sent.”

  “Pushed ashore by His good hand, it was.”

  They laughed.

  “I don’t understand,” said Josef.

  “We’re mere harvesters of the Lord’s bounty, friend.”

  “And the Reaper’s refuse.”

  They all laughed loudly, with such abandon that Josef shrank back. They seemed to confirm his suspicions.

  “Are you men scavengers?” he asked.

  They stopped laughing and the man next to him gave him a hard shove, spilling Josef’s plate.

  “We ain’t no scavengers, mate.”

  “I say we hang ’im for callin us so.”

  “I say we feed ’im to the sharks.”

  “We’re simple beachcombers, that’s what we is. Living off the Lord’s generous gifts.”

  “Aye. What the Lord giveth, we hauleth away.”

  Laughter.

  “Now, those bloody heathens we rescued ya from, they’re scavengers. Bloody vultures, they are. And thieves.”

  Josef did not see the distinction. A shudder of fright renewed itself up his weakened spine. He reassured himself: there must be some reason they’d rescued him.

  “Let’s have a look at that little bag a yours.” The man reached out to grab Josef’s mail sack, but Josef held firm.

  Josef’s response was automatic, he’d been told what to say by the Figulus postmaster, and he’d repeated it over and over in his walk down the beach, a droning voice in the back of his head, in time with the hiss of his footsteps. He said, “This is property of the U.S. Government. Any tampering will result in prosecution under full penalty of law.”

  “Arr. I told ya, Frankie. This ’ere’s the new mailboy.”

  Josef saw smiles break across their red, prunish faces.

  “He’ll net us a fortune,” said the young one.

  “Shut up, Mick,” said another one. “This Yank’s government property, ’e says. We don’t want no trouble wi’ the law, eh?”

  “That’s right, Tom. We’re proper law abiders, we are.”

  “It’s so. We’ll treat this ’ere gov’men
t property like it’s our own.”

  “We will at that.”

  “We’ll make inquiries, we will. See if the gov’ment cares to ’ave its property returned.”

  “Surely they will, Frankie. They’ve a gen’rous gov’ment here, they do. They like to keep their citizens smiling.”

  “Aye. An I b’lieve this gen’rous gover’ment’d be willin to reimburse us for his upkeep, don’t you, Tom?”

  “I do at that. Not so much, mind you. But a little somethin for our troubles. After all, we rescued ’im from the clutches of the enemy.”

  “Sure. It’s a good thing we came upon that full-fleshed Injun squaw t’other day, and a good thing that squaw had a mind to tell us about the mailboy they’d got penned up in the village.”

  “Good thing we let her keep her throat to tell us, too.”

  “Shame about them others, though.”

  Josef had slipped from the grasp of Indians only to fall in with a group of murderous scavengers who meant to hold him for ransom. He couldn’t help now but think it was his punishment for consorting with the Indian woman.

  “Don’ look so low, friend,” said the man beside him. “As of now, yer on holiday.” He laughed.

  “Sure, and yer our most honored guest.”

  “More’n that. ’E’s like one a the family.”

  “’E’s like a brother to me. ’Ere brother, ya’d best get started on the family chores.” The man handed him his dirty plate. “Aye. We’ve all got to pitch in.”

  They were all in agreement, and Josef was presented with a pile of tin plates.

  “You can bring those out to the sea with you, friend. There’s plenty of dishwater there, and you can watch yer brothers at work. Big seas last night, and we’ve got some harvesting to do. Lord’s bounty, you know.”

  Josef collected the tin plates and the forks in his arms and followed the men out to the beach. To his surprise, it was only about a hundred yards off through the sea grapes. The sound of the waves had been ringing in his ears all night and morning, but he hadn’t noticed it until now.

  “This ’ere’s Mick,” said one of them. “’E’s still a young lad, so ’e’ll stay an ’elp ya wi’ the plates. Mick’s washed a lot a plates since we foun’ ’im. ’E’ll show ya what t’do.”

  “Screw the lot of ya,” said Mick in his boyish voice.

  “Poor Mick’s an orphan. ’Is parents died in a shipwreck last year.”

  “Shame about that.”

  “If t’weren’t for us, Mick’d ’ave no family ’tall.”

  “Poor Mick.”

  “’Is mother sure did die happy, though.”

  Mick dove after this last speaker and threw some wild, flailing punches, all of which missed the mark. The man kept smiling while he grabbed hold of Mick’s wrists and held him at arm’s length. Mick was red faced and puffing. He kept kicking until he finally caught him in the kneecap, and the man flinched and threw Mick to the ground. Mick couldn’t quite hold back his tears.

  “Don’ be so sensitive, little Mick. Ya wouldn’ want ta embarrass yaself in front of our guest here, would ya?”

  “That’s right, Mick. Now be a good little girl an’ put on yer best manners for our postman.”

  The men left Mick and Josef behind, splitting up and walking down the shore in opposite directions as they scanned the sand and the waves for salvage. Josef was glad to be away from them for the moment. Their violence and cruelty to young Mick was appalling and did not bode well for Josef’s chances of surviving this experience intact. The U.S. Government would never believe it had hired a mail carrier so stupid as to allow himself to be kidnapped by scavenging pirates. They’d laugh at the scavengers’ demands if they listened to them at all, and Josef knew he had little hope of ever being rescued or ransomed.

  The day was hot and bright, and the powerful waves crashed thunderously onto the beach. One at a time, Josef took a plate and rinsed it in the foamy surf. He refused to abandon his mail sack, which made things more difficult. He had to be careful not to let the sack droop into the waves; he’d already soaked it once.

  “That’s right,” said Mick, standing over him now. “Scrub them plates.”

  Josef looked up at Mick and thought with pity about how young he was, probably no older than his middle teens. His hair was light, nearly blond, his pink complexion soft and even. Josef wondered what the boy’s history really was. What horrible thing had they done to his parents? He shuddered to think. And why did he remain with these men? Was it slavery? Or perhaps he’d remained here because he had nowhere else to go, no one to go to. So now he was trying his best to fit in with them. What a horrible thing to make oneself fit into a “family” such as this. Josef felt a sudden wave of compassion.

  “If you like,” said Josef, “you can travel with me to Biscayne. It is possible there will be other openings in the postal service.”

  “What makes you think you’re going anywhere?” said Mick. “You ain’t never leavin here if I can help it. Arr.”

  “Perhaps we can escape,” said Josef. “I am acquainted with a postmaster who may need someone to sort mail for him. He may provide you with a home as well.”

  The tenseness left the boy’s face for just a moment, then just as quickly his eyes iced again and he kicked Josef between the ribs.

  “Yer livin in a fairy tale, bloody fool. Now shut yer hole and scrub them plates.”

  Josef had dropped the plate he was scrubbing, and now he grabbed at the pain in his side. He struggled to catch his breath. The powerful surf washed up around him and tugged at his ankles and knees. The sand clawed at his raw feet.

  “Bloody stupid fool,” said Mick, and he made a move like he was going to kick Josef again when a shout came from down the beach.

  “Booty! Booty ho!”

  In a moment, the group to the north came charging down the beach to meet the others.

  “Come along, mate,” said one of them, grabbing Josef and yanking him to his feet. Mick followed behind, shoving Josef between the shoulder blades if he fell back even a half step.

  A few hundred yards south, they met up with the other group. One of them was holding some splinters of wood.

  “Ya call that booty?” said another man, pulling the wood away.

  “Arr, ya bloody stillborn. This ’ere’s only a taste. Take a look out ta sea.”

  A hundred fifty yards offshore, a large chunk of bound wood, probably from the side of a ship, bobbed in the whitelipped swells.

  “She coming our way?”

  “She seems stationary.”

  All of them stared at it for a moment. The wood and waves repeated their movements over and over.

  “Who’s goin out to get her?”

  “Seems a healthy young lad like Mick’d want a chance ta prove himself.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Not in sech a rile, mate. Not me. Arr.”

  “It’s Mick.”

  “Aye, it’s got ta be Mick.”

  “What if she’s only the wood?” protested Mick. “I don’t see no other booty. It ain’t worth it, I say.”

  “I say it is. Even if she’s only wood, she’s a good hunk of it. Save us lots of carpentry, she will.”

  “What we need wi’ more carpentry?”

  “Well, we’ll be needin a temporary home for our guest. We wouldn’t want him to sleep in a flimsy little tent every night, would we now? Wouldn’t be showin proper respect for property of the U.S. Gov’ment.”

  “Aye, it’s the Christian thing ta do.”

  “Then let him fetch it,” said Mick.

  Some of them laughed. “The lad’s wiser’n we give ’im credit fer.”

  “Aye. What say you, Mister Postman?” Josef felt their stares and couldn’t squeeze a word out of his throat.

  Young Mick stepped up and got in his face. “What say you, Yank? How ’bout a little swim-and-fetch, eh?”

  Josef opened his lips but couldn’t speak right away. He was shaking. When he finally d
id speak, seemingly against his will and for the very first time in his life, he purposely told a lie.

  “I can’t swim,” he said.

  Mick bore down on him, his pale eyes almost bursting from their sockets. “Yer lyin.”

  Josef immediately felt the enormous injustice he’d done to the memory of Uncle Mordy. What now of those fond memories of learning to swim? What now of the pride he’d felt at pleasing his uncle with those early successes? With a word, he’d tainted everything with the filth of disavowal.

  Now he was trapped in it against all doubters and his own sense of guilt. He had to keep his eyes on Mick’s face. He knew that. If he looked away he’d be caught and treated harshly—tortured to the brink of death—he’d read of the cruelties these types could inflict, solely for their own pleasure. He’d lied, and now, against everything he knew was right, he had to act as though he meant it. He felt his world had diverged into two complex and incompatible paths. There was the world he’d always known—the world of truth, the world whose path he’d faithfully sought and followed throughout his young life. And then, with this lie, he’d entered into a new world, the world of lies, where the truth held no weight, where the only important thing was a person’s ability to act as though he spoke truthfully. To others, the difference was irrelevant; if he acted as though he was in the world of truth, how could they ever know otherwise? But they couldn’t know that the two worlds now existed simultaneously in Josef’s mind. They couldn’t know the pain he felt at this dark and secret world he’d unleashed from within. They couldn’t see the great empty chasm that neatly divided the two worlds that, when crossed, produced the most painful feelings of guilt and shame Josef had ever known.

  He shook his head, keeping his eyes on Mick. “I’ve never been in over my knees,” he said.

  “Liar!” Mick’s face turned red and he drew back his fist.

  Another one grabbed Mick’s arm. “Leave ’im, Mick. ’E’s no good to us drowned. You do it.”