Snake Oil

by Fenton Sadler

  There were worse things that could befall a man than to be landed with a baby. When the Indians had attacked that column of artillery Morton had been quite convinced that he was going to die and yet here he was, still in the land of the living. He recalled how he’d tried to give up the child to the orphanage in Oneida and had found himself unable to do it. Maybe his conscience was stronger than he had bargained for. He knew as he sat there that he could not just abandon Robert and that, if it came down to it, he might have to care for the boy by his own self.

  He addressed the child directly, trying to work out what he would do.

  ‘It’s like this, son’ said Morton. ‘You and me are in a bit of a fix. This grandfather of yours looks to have died and I’m not sure how to tackle things now. Maybe he had friends that might help, do you think?’

  As soon as he had said this it immediately seemed to Morton that he knew what to do. Raising a baby by himself might prove just a little beyond his powers, especially if he had to earn a living at the same time. He might, however, be able to manage it if he could rely upon a little help.

  ‘Robert, my boy,’ he told the child, ‘I’m a fool. But talking to you has set me on the right path again. We need to go to a church.’

  Nobody could have been more keenly aware than Jack Morton that his appearance was perfectly scandalous and that he was in no fit state to attend divine worship. This was, however, an emergency and he hoped that nobody would find it disrespectful for him to enter the house of the Lord in his present ragged and bloodstained condition.

  Morton walked briskly along Main Street in the direction that Martin Catchpole’s funeral cortège had taken. He soon came to a neat little burying-ground attached to an imposing church. There was no sign of anybody clustering round a graveside, and Morton was hopeful that he’d arrived in time to catch the mourners before their attention was diverted elsewhere.

  The service looked to Morton as though it was drawing to a close. If he was going to make his pitch he’d best do it now. He was used enough to standing up in front of crowds and getting folk to buy his wares. He figured that this would be much the same as selling snake oil; only a little more important than trying to extract thirty dollars from a bunch of folks. He just needed to present the case in the right way. The only thing lacking was a shill to get the others in the crowd moving in the correct direction, but that couldn’t be helped.

  The minister had finished speaking and Morton took the opportunity to walk forward along the aisle towards the altar. There was dead silence as he reached the area beneath the pulpit and spoke to the minister.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind, Reverend,’ he said. ‘I just have a few words to say concerning this child.’ The man looked too taken aback to utter any objection so Morton took his silence for consent.

  ‘Folks, I take it that you all are friends or acquaintances of Martin Catchpole, who I understand has lately died. This baby is his grandson.’ There was a hubbub of shocked exclamations at that, which Morton allowed to subside before continuing with his pitch.

  ‘I’m not seeking charity. I promised this child’s mother to take care of him until I could get him to his grandfather. Since he’s dead, my reading of the situation is that I am responsible for the boy from now on. What I would say is this. If any of you good people would like to help out here, then I’d be grateful.’

  Nobody spoke for fully thirty seconds and Morton was beginning to think that he’d failed to make a sale. He was on the point of abandoning the enterprise and leaving the church when a woman in the front pew spoke up.

  ‘That’s really Sarah Catchpole’s baby? I reckon I can look after him from time to time, if it’s needful,’ she said.

  There was a pause, then a man said: ‘My daughter likes babies, she’d be glad to help out.’ Then it was like an auction, with everybody bidding at once and nobody wishing to be thought unwilling to do their bit for the orphaned baby.

  ‘I got some baby clothes. . . .’

  ‘Got a cradle up in the attic. . . .’

  ‘You need a place to stay for a couple o’ days?’

  ‘I was at school with Sarah, I’ll do what I can. . . .’

  The minister who had been conducting the funeral looked mightily taken aback by all this, but proved unwilling to be left out of the general outpouring of goodwill that had gripped his congregation.

  ‘My wife will do what she can to help,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we all know what the prophet Amos had to say, as touching upon the widow and orphan and our duties and obligations towards them.’

  After the fuss had died down the funeral continued and Jack Morton followed the mourners out to the grave for the interment. He had no clear plan for the future, other than to stay in Claremont for now. He had enough money to set himself up; he hadn’t precisely decided as what. But with all the help he had been offered, Morton thought that things were likely to work out well enough.

  He’d done with roaming for a while, that much was certain. It was true that a month ago, the last thing he’d been fixing to do was settle down and raise a child but, now it came to the point, there were worse things he could be aiming at. He said to the baby: ‘Things will work out all right, little one. You see if they don’t.’