Jingo Django

by Sid Fleischman

  “A mere touch of the heat,” he scoffed, and we continued on our way.

  But the next day, while the sun beat down hot as blazes, he dug out a blanket and wrapped it around himself.

  “Are you all right, sir?” I asked.

  “Splendid,” he said.

  But in the middle of the night he had such a chill that the chattering of his teeth woke me. I didn’t know what to do for him and began to worry something fierce. By morning I figured we had best turn about for Natchez and find a doctor.

  “Natchez?” he scoffed. “Have you lost your reason? You can’t win a race by turning around. I’m fit to travel, lad. The sooner we step along the quicker we’ll see Matamoros. And not a moment to lose, Django. Shall we be off?”

  His teeth had stopped rattling — that was true — but he did appear dreadfully weak climbing onto the coach seat. He wouldn’t let me help him. He folded his arms defiantly and we lurched on down the road.

  “Wouldn’t you like the blanket around you?” I asked.

  He dismissed the matter with a scornful smile. “In this heat? Certainly not. Watch that chunk hole in the road, won’t you?”

  I thought maybe he had thrown off his fever during the night, but by midmorning his teeth began to clack and rattle, and I knew the chills were upon him again. But now he stubbornly refused blankets and forbid me to mention Natchez again.

  I drove on. I had never in my life had anyone but myself to care about, and it came as a surprise that every shake of his bones pained me so much. He was in the grip of a high fever. As I rode beside him it was like sitting near a red-hot stove.

  His lips looked as dry as bread crusts and before long he stopped making any sense at all. He mumbled and snorted and raged to himself, and I calculated he had slipped out of his mind.

  I pulled up on the reins and stopped in the road. I looked behind, over my shoulder. It would use up more than a day to travel back to Natchez, but I made up my mind on the spot and turned the coach around.

  “Billygoat! Sunflower!” I cried out. “Step lively, can’t you!”

  They were strong and steady beasts, but they wouldn’t be rushed. I snapped the reins and thundered at them, but they strolled along like cows.

  Not far away I spied a man fishing along the bank of the river.

  “Is the nearest doctor in Natchez?” I shouted.

  He spit tobacco juice. “Nope,” he said.

  My heart took a leap. “Where can I find him?”

  “You lookin’ for a horse doctor or a man doctor?”

  “Any doctor’ll do,” I answered desperately.

  “Well, there’s Doc Custis. Claims to be a man doctor, but folks around here suspicion he’s just a vet with uppity ideas.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You’re a-headin’ in the wrong direction, son.” He pointed south. “Down the road a piece. I saw him not twenty minutes ago. Look for a white house set in a stand of chinaberry trees. If you see a man on the roof with a white goose — that’s Doc Custis.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me, son,” he said and returned to his fishing.

  I turned the coach about once more and shook the reins. Before long a large white house with four porch columns turned up on the left. It might have been a grand place once, but the paint was peeling off and the yard had shot up in weeds.

  Sure enough, a man stood on the roof with a dirty white goose.

  13

  DR. CUSTIS AND OTHER VARMINTS

  I pulled into the front yard, scattering hogs and chickens, and shouted up to the roof.

  “You Dr. Custis, sir?”

  The man was about to lower the goose down one of the chimneys on a long rope. He peered at me from under the brim of a floppy straw hat.

  “Ain’t visitin’ hours,” he snorted. “Come back, next week.”

  He looked uglier’n homemade soap to me and I wondered if he had all his wits, dropping that honking goose down the chimney.

  “This gentleman’s dreadful sick,” I cried. “A man up the road said you were a doctor.”

  “Did he? Well, squatters around here are born liars,” he grumbled.

  “Aren’t you Dr. Custis?”

  “The doctor is busy. You can see that.”

  I was desperate. I wished there might be another medical man about, but he would have to do. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones was now melting away in a heavy sweat.

  “This gentleman is mortal sick,” I declared. “If you’re a doctor you’ll surely want to help him.”

  “He been gun shot?”

  “No, sir. Fever and chills and out of his head some.”

  “Only bilious fever, then. Come back next week at two o’clock.”

  “No, sir!” I answered stoutly. “He needs tending and I don’t aim to move an inch until you come down.”

  He scowled and pulled out a bandana and wiped his neck. “You better understand I don’t accept charity cases.”

  “We can pay, sir!”

  “In what? Pigs and chickens? I got all the livestock I need.”

  “In cash, sir.”

  He snorted. “Blast my old shoes if I didn’t misjudge you.” He hauled up the goose, trussed by its feet and honking and beating its wings, black with soot. “Took you to be squatters. You go on inside and when I’m through sweeping down the chimneys I’ll look in on your friend.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Is that what you’re up to with that old goose?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ better’n a live goose to knock down the soot and he don’t charge for his services.”

  “Dr. Custis,” I called. “I know chimneys and I’ll be proud to scrape your flues clean if you’ll hurry on down.”

  It didn’t take him long to make up his mind to that. He appeared to be a sour old pinch-fist, but glad enough to get off that hot roof. He climbed down a ladder and released the goose, which went racing away through the weeds, honking and thrashing its wings.

  Up close, Dr. Custis didn’t improve any in appearance. He had a short, fat nose, large teeth and eyes sharp enough to skin a fox. His roomy trousers were held up with wide leather braces and as far as I could tell he was still wearing his nightshirt, tucked in.

  Together we got Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones in out of the sun and stretched out on a brass bed that was close to falling apart. There were a smart lot of rooms in the house, but not another soul about as far as I could tell.

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had sweated through his clothes. He looked as if he had been out in the rain. Dr. Custis took his pulse, gazing at a heavy turnip watch that I was certain had stopped running. He thumped the chest and raised an eyelid and then announced his medical opinion.

  “The man’s sick.”

  “I know that, sir,” I said.

  “He’s feverish.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And sweatin’ like a mule.”

  “I can see that, sir,” I said anxiously. “But what’s he got?”

  “The ague, if I ain’t mistaken.”

  “You said before it was bilious fever.”

  “Did I? Well, it’s one or the other, that’s for certain. Unless it’s congestive fever.”

  I stared at him, full of mistrust and misgiving. “Can’t you cipher the difference?”

  “It don’t hardly matter. The cure’s the same — I’ll have to leech him.”

  “Leech him?”

  “Draw off the bad blood. My, ain’t he weak? He couldn’t pull a hen off the roost. Now you trot down the hall to my pharmacy. Second door on the right. You’ll find a jar of leeches.”

  “You sure you can get him well?”

  “He’ll be fine as silk, and a little finer. Don’t worry yourself. Fetch the bloodsuckers.”

  I took a deep breath and sorely hoped the man knew what he was about. I found the leeches in a large jar of water. They looked like a swarm of yellowish-brown slugs.

  When I returned I found Dr. Custis examining the contents of Mr. Pe
acock-Hemlock-Jones’ money pouch. He met my gaze with a snort and a smile. “A man can’t be too careful taking in strangers,” he said. “I felt it incumbent upon me, you might say, to inventory your gentleman’s ability to pay for his keep. I regret to tell you the cure may take two or three weeks.”

  “You heard me say we had the cash money,” I answered, considerably ruffled.

  “I do recall, now that you mention it. By heckity, you did indeed.”

  I set down the jar of leeches and took possession of the money pouch. Dr. Custis was going to bear close attention and I didn’t look forward to two or three weeks under the same roof. I wished I had kept going on the road back to Natchez. But when I looked at my friend lying as red as a steamed lobster I knew the trip would have been too much for him.

  The doctor dipped his hand into the jar and began applying leeches to Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones’ chest. They must have been about an inch long, and once they sank their teeth in they stopped crawling about.

  “You sure that’s the proper treatment?” I muttered.

  “Nothin’ improves the health quicker’n the Hirudo medicinalis. That’s Latin. Ravenous little varmints, ain’t they? Look at ’em gorge.”

  “I’d best water the horses,” I said, turning away. I was glad to leave the sickroom. It pained me to see Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones reduced to a state of helplessness, with bloodsucking worms feasting on him.

  I unhitched the horses and found a water trough out back. Dr. Custis did know two words of Latin, I told myself, and that was better than none.

  I wanted to stay outside. I tied the horses in the shade of a chinaberry tree and stood with them a long while. I was dreadfully afraid for Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. Leeches or no leeches he might fever up and die. I tried to push the thought out of my head, but tears shot to my eyes. That took me by enormous surprise. I didn’t know I cared that much about anyone. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones was my friend. I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes and tried to watch a flock of birds frolicking about over the river.

  After about an hour I returned to the house. The leeches had swelled up as fat as radishes.

  Dr. Custis gave a snort of satisfaction. “Looks better already, don’t he?”

  He didn’t look that way to me.

  “He’s been mumbling all nature of interesting things. Pinheads and postholes.” The doctor’s eyes began to skin me. “You know anything about that?”

  “No, sir,” I said quickly. “That’s just his name he’s trying to tell you.”

  “His name?”

  “Yes, sir.” My wits raced along at a howling clip. “Phineas Portroyal.”

  “Sounded more like pinheads and postholes.”

  “You must have listened wrong,” I answered, as innocently as I could. It was fearsome to think that Dr. Custis might discover I was carrying a treasure map engraved on the head of a pin. “His name’s Phineas Portroyal.”

  “Of course, he ain’t entirely responsible yet. But I’ve known men to speak more sense out of their minds than in.”

  “That’s beyond my measure,” I answered, and decided I was going to sleep in the same room and try to keep Dr. Custis, with his big ears, at a distance.

  He began removing the blood-swollen leeches. “If you plan to take your meals with me,” he said, “don’t expect anything fancy. I lean to corn bread and common doings.”

  Common doings, as I was to find out in the days ahead, was ham and bacon. And I found out that Dr. Custis was more interested in bottling his own brand of snake oil medicine than he was in mending the sick. He expected to make a fortune.

  I never saw any other patients or servants about the place. I got the feeling that folks in the area would rather see the undertaker than Dr. Custis.

  But when he switched from leeches to quinine I must confess that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones began to improve — to Dr. Custis’ surprise, I believe. Still, there were days when the chills and fever returned, and there was nothing to do but worry.

  When he was in his right mind I told him that I had changed his name to Phineas Portroyal, which made him laugh. “One day I’ll find a name that really suits me,” he said.

  He apologized for babbling on about pins and treasure holes. But he had lost track of time and when I told him he had been laid up going on two weeks, he fell silent and gloomy.

  Then he said, “You jump on Sunflower and beat your way to Matamoros.”

  I stared at him. “No, sir,” I answered. “Partners ought to stick together.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” he snapped. “I’m telling you to go. It’s precious time lost.”

  “You’re still so precious weak you couldn’t pull a hen off the roost,” I answered.

  In the end he wearied of arguing the matter. Meanwhile, I scraped down all the chimneys with a hoe, being careful to carry the money pouch and the pin in the flues with me. I wasn’t about to take any chances with Dr. Custis.

  He spent his days tinkering with his bottles and cure-all, and thinking up lies to print on the label. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones grew stronger every day, it seemed, and by the end of the third week we were able to travel again.

  I never hitched up the coach with such uncommon joy. Until Dr. Custis presented his bill.

  “I trust you have made an error,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “Surely your fee is not an outrageous $621!”

  “Surely it is, Mr. Portroyal,” the doctor replied. “Congestive fever, complicated by the ague, intermittent and bilious fever.”

  “You nitwit,” snapped Mr. Portroyal. “They’re all the same. It was a common attack of malaria.”

  “A difference of medical opinion there may be, sir, but the bill remains $621.”

  “The fact remains I won’t be robbed by a self-educated quack, sir.”

  “By heckity! I won’t be insulted in my own house, Mr. Portroyal! I have only to send for the high sheriff and I shall collect through a court of law.”

  We could be delayed for months! Then a sudden way out jolted me like a thunderbolt — and I felt as smart as forty crickets.

  “Doctor Custis, sir,” I said, in the lofty manner I earnestly admired in Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “I think your fee is uncommon reasonable. Indeed I do, sir.”

  He seemed astonished to find me siding with him, and gave a satisfied snort. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones looked at me as if I had lost my reason.

  Then I added, “You’ll recollect that I scraped down your chimneys. I hope I won’t have to call in the high sheriff to collect my fee.”

  “Your fee?”

  “Yes, sir. I calculate it at exactly $621, sir.”

  Dr. Custis’ eyebrows almost shot off his face. He snorted and growled, but there was no further mention of courts of law. I was as entitled to overcharge as he was.

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones tossed him gold pieces enough to pay for our keep and the use of those pestiferous, gnawing leeches, and we were on our way.

  14

  THE GRASSHOPPER

  The whole day long I had the feeling that we were being followed.

  I couldn’t help glancing back over my shoulder. Finally Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones took the clay pipe out of his mouth. “Expecting someone?”

  “Could be the high sheriff after us,” I said.

  “Mere bluff.” And then he broke into a grin. “You whipped that shifty-eyed medicine man at his own game. I’m exceedingly proud of you Django. But for your quick wit we’d be penniless.”

  I didn’t realize how much I had yearned for his approval. I couldn’t think what to say, so I kept my eyes on the road ahead and snapped the reins smartly.

  “Get along, Billygoat!” I sang out. “You too, Sunflower!”

  I awoke in the morning to the scent of woodsmoke in the air and the sizzle of frying fish. When I looked around I thought I must still be asleep. But I wasn’t.

  I saw a gypsy camp all about us. Three painted wagons stood unhitched around a morning cook fire. They looked like ging
erbread houses on wheels, with curtains at their windows and their front steps pulled down between the shafts. I saw gypsy children climbing through the wild pecan trees for leftover nuts. I saw gypsy women in bright head scarves milking a small herd of goats and men in dark clothes tending their horses.

  But I didn’t see Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. And I didn’t see his hammock where he’d slung it the night before.

  I quickly rolled to my feet. Sunflower was gone. Billygoat was gone. And the coach was gone.

  I froze. I felt discomposed and frightened.

  I saw an old blacksmith of a gypsy peering at me. He had great hanging moustaches and a floppy hat tilted to one side of his head. Now that I was awake he seemed to come alive.

  “Dordi! Dordi!” he exploded with a laugh, revealing several gold teeth. “Sar shan, chavo? Sar shan?”

  I didn’t answer. I stared at him, unable to decipher his gypsy lingo.

  “How are you, eh? Ah, you have forgotten the puro jib — the old language.” He pursed his lips, and rings flashed from his fingers as he made a gesture with his hand. “No matter. We will teach you, eh? Come, breakfast is on the fire.”

  “Where is Mr. Peacock?” I scowled.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Hemlock!”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Jones! My partner!”

  “Avail, avali!” he laughed again. “Yes, yes, you mean the long-legged one. You mean Chawhoktamengro!”

  ‘‘Chawhoktamengro?’’

  “The Grasshopper! His gypsy name, chavo. Didn’t we pick up his signs out of Natchez, eh? And here we are!” The rings on his fingers flashed again. “But he’s gone, Chawhoktamengro is.”

  “Gone where?”

  He shrugged and laughed again. “Come, we will eat.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I answered grimly. Was there no end to the names Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones used on his travels? The Grasshopper! And now he had left me behind among strangers, even if they were gypsies.

  I quickly felt for the pin in my pocket. What if he had gone dashing after the treasure for himself? But the pin was still in place.

  “Me, I am Tornapo,” the old man beamed. “And you are Django, eh? Would you like to see me straighten a horseshoe with my bare hands?”