Jingo Django Page 4

  The highwayman burst into a laugh and fired. The coach door rattled on its hinges with a hole shot clean through it.

  “That’s a good chap,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock. “Now the other door, sir. I intend to make a fine story of it, I assure you. You’ll be famous in twenty-four hours. If I’m not mistaken you’ll be whispered about as the most daring lone swift-nick of the road. You’ll be remembered in the same glorious company with Captain Thunderbolt and Captain Lightfoot. A name. You’ll need a name, sir. How does ‘Captain Daylight’ strike you?”

  The highwayman fired through the other coach door and puffed up like a turkey. “Aye, Captain Daylight it is!”

  “Now, if you’ll just put a ball through my hat we’ll be done with it.” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock ambled closer. “But do miss my scalp, won’t you?”

  “Great keezer’s ghost!” the highwayman declared. “I’ve discharged both pistols.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock answered, and struck forward like a shaft of lightning. He gave the horse a sharp prod with his walking stick, the horse reared and Captain Daylight was thrown sprawling in the mud. He rose in time to meet the swing of Mr. Peacock-Hemlock’s jackboot, which must have filled his head with birdsong.

  “Chavo,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock called to me. “Fetch a bit of rawhide from the coach.”

  I hopped to it, and in no time Captain Daylight was trussed hand and foot. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock threw him across the saddle like a sack of flour and tied the horse to the rear of the buggy.

  Then he turned to the nervous little man who had watched it all. “Take this empty-headed rascal to the nearest constable.”

  “Bless you, sir,” the man piped up. “I do believe he meant to kill me before you came along. He was in a terrible rage when all I had on my person was a dollar and twenty-eight cents.”

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock grinned. “I don’t have even that small sum left in my pouch. The inns and tollgates have bankrupted me.”

  I was perplexed to hear that. I had come to believe that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock was a man of vast means.

  “Here is my card,” said the frock-coated man, who had got over his fear and trembling. “If you are ever in Deerfield and I can be of service, please call on me.”

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock gazed at the card and smiled. “Thank you, Reverend Pye. You have already done me a splendid service. Good-bye, sir.”

  It was only after we parted that I caught my breath from the encounter, and stopped to wonder what splendid service the Reverend Pye had performed by remaining perched like a crow in his buggy.

  And then, like a distant echo coming back to me, the word chavo sounded in my head. Hadn’t Mr. Peacock-Hemlock called me that, as if my name had slipped his mind in the excitement of the moment?

  Chavo. It was part of my secret language, like mishto and hatchi-witchu. It was a word from long ago.

  How had he known it?

  These bafflers occupied my thoughts while Mr. Peacock-Hemlock sat beside me on the box, whistling to himself. I had to admit that he had been uncommon clever in dealing with the highwayman. Some hours later I spied fresh trouble ahead.

  “We’re coming to a tollgate,” I said.

  “Drive on,” he answered.

  “But you said you were bankrupt. They won’t let us through without paying the toll.”

  “Forward, lad.”

  We slowed to a halt at the wooden gate across the road. A man with sagging eyes came out of the gatehouse, spit tobacco juice and touched his cap. He looked more of a villain than Captain Daylight.

  “Sixty cents for the coach, gents. Eighteen cents each for the horses. Pays to keep up the roads, y’know.”

  I hadn’t noticed that the road was kept up at all. It was two boggy ruts. And as I glanced at the rates painted and weathered on the signboard I saw that he meant to overcharge us. I was about to open my mouth when Mr. Peacock-Hemlock passed the toll keeper the Rev. Pye’s card.

  “Another,” the man muttered with clear disappointment, and returned the card. “Another preacher, is it?”

  He swung the gate open, we passed through and continued on our way.

  “He meant to charge you double for the coach,” I said.

  “You’ll soon learn the ways of the road, Jango,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock laughed. “If our fortunes don’t improve we’ll travel the toll roads clear to Mexico on the good reverend’s card. Men of the cloth pass toll-free, as you saw.”

  “The name’s Jingo, sir,” I said once more. There seemed no getting it fixed properly in his mind.

  “Jingo, of course,” he replied. “I expect I had better replenish our funds. You really must have a decent pair of boots.”

  “You called me chavo, sir, a while back. What nature of word is that?” And then I added as innocently as I could, “I declare if it doesn’t sound Mohawk.”

  He began filling his clay pipe. “It means lad,” he answered simply, “in the gypsy language.”

  A thunderclap couldn’t have surprised me more. I fell silent — wondering if I were gypsy-born.

  9

  AT THE RED JACKET INN

  When night fell we were still on the road. Well past suppertime we approached a village. I could smell it before we saw the first light. Chimneys charged the air with the cozy scent of woodsmoke.

  The stars were clouding over and it was likely to rain again. But I didn’t calculate we’d be stopping for the night. We didn’t have a tormented cent between us. It wouldn’t surprise me if we shared oats with the horses, and I was hungry enough.

  The village stood huddled against the dark around a marshy green. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock took it in with a single glance. Then he pointed to the brightly painted sign of the Red Jacket Inn. “I believe we’ll put up there for a few days,” he said. “It looks a prosperous place, doesn’t it?”

  “But, sir —”

  “Pull in, Jango.”

  I did what I was told, but felt mighty uneasy about it.

  They’d put the law on us when they discovered we had no money.

  A stable boy took the coach and I followed Mr. Peacock-Hemlock into the public room. He carried himself like he meant to buy the place, and began issuing orders almost before the innkeeper could greet us.

  “Your finest accommodations, sir,” he said. “Supper as soon as possible. Mock turtle soup, boiled mutton with caper sauce and oyster patties if you have nothing better at hand. Is there a cobbler in the village? Have him call on us at once. A mug of flip while I’m waiting and fresh milk for the lad.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the innkeeper smiled. He was a cheery red-faced man named Foxhall with a cheery red-haired wife. “Maggie, my love,” he said, catching her eye. “Room Nine and see there’s a warm fire. Send Finch for the cobbler.” And then he turned back to Mr. Peacock-Hemlock. “Now, sir, if you’ll kindly sign the register Mr. ... Mr. . . .”

  “Jones, sir. My card. Charles Balthazar Jones, artiste extraordinaire.”

  My eyes must have spun in my head. He had a card for every occasion!

  He signed the register with a flourish. “And have my canvases and paint box brought in from the coach. I may do a bit of daubing to pass the time.”

  “Immediately, sir,” replied the innkeeper, who appeared pleased to have a man of importance on the premises.

  I watched the serving girl stick the end of a red-hot poker into the mug of flip to warm it, and soon Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had taken command of a wing chair near the fireplace.

  “I could scrape chimneys in the morning,” I said.

  “Chimneys! What the devil for?”

  “We’ll need to earn a hatful of money, sir. Mrs. Daggatt was having me trained up to be a climbing boy.”

  He turned with a sudden scowl to gaze at the fire. “A climbing boy! Drink your milk, chavo.” A moment later he broke into a grin. Then he slipped me a wink. “We’re beginning to earn all the money we’ll need as we sit here.”

  Either I was traveling with a madman or th
e most audacious humbug on the road. The workings of his mind were beyond me. I suspected he had lived among gypsies and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was up to some gypsy trick.

  It seemed no time at all before the cobbler turned up. He was a short, bull-necked man named Pratt. He traced around my foot on a piece of newspaper while Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones looked through his samples of leather.

  “Does this black calfskin take your fancy, Jango?”

  “No, sir,” I answered. I’d feel too infernal dressed up. “But I do like that buckskin.”

  “Then buckskin it is, Mr. Pratt. And kindly allow growing room in the toes.”

  The cobbler nodded. “I’ll have boots on the lad’s feet tomorrow.”

  “Capital,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said, and returned to his hot flip.

  We were sitting down to supper when the stable boy began packing in the faceless paintings. It didn’t surprise me that they caused a stir. I filled my mouth as quickly as I could before we got booted out. Mr. Foxhall would be sure to see that he had taken in some barmy variety of traveler.

  But Mrs. Foxhall’s eyes lit up and the serving girls joined her in a cluster around the paintings. Everyone began to babble. I kept stuffing my mouth.

  “Have you ever seen such lovely dresses?” I heard the innkeeper’s wife sigh. “And look at that lace collar! Why, it appears positively real!”

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones continued eating at a leisurely pace. “Excellent venison, sir,” he commented to Mr. Foxhall. But the landlord had turned to join his wife. The pictures drew people from every corner of the inn and they buzzed from one to the other like flies.

  I wondered if they had all gone blind! Didn’t they notice there wasn’t a face to be found on any of the paintings? Why the fuss over dresses and lace collars?

  The next thing I knew the innkeeper had stationed himself beside us. “You are indeed an artiste extraordinaire, sir. Pictures without faces! Is that the latest fashion in Boston?”

  “The boiled potatoes are splendid,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones replied.

  “My dear sir —”

  We were in for a snarl now, I thought. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones rose from the table, ignoring the innkeeper, and strode toward the chattering women.

  “Madam,” he said to Mrs. Foxhall. “Will you kindly select the painting of your choice.”

  “Oh, the one with the yellow dress, Mr. Jones. Is it from Paris?”

  He lifted the frame and propped it across the arms of a chair. He brought an oil lamp closer, seated her opposite him, opened his paint box and set to work.

  He began painting in red hair and snapping bright eyes and busied himself with the exact little smile that played about our landlady’s lips. I had never seen anything so wondrous fast and clever.

  Perhaps an hour had passed when the innkeeper declared, “My dear Maggie, it’s become the very image of you!”

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones kept daubing away in a burnt hurry. Finally he spoke with a brush clamped between his teeth. “Do you have a favorite brooch, Mrs. Foxhall?”

  “I’ll fetch your cameo,” said the innkeeper. But then he stopped short. “Mr. Jones, I do hope your fee is not beyond our reach.”

  “There will be no fee, sir.”

  He was daft, I thought! We hadn’t so much as a penny with a hole in it and he was going to make a gift of the picture.

  “Well, sir,” answered the innkeeper, his face aglow. “You’re no businessman — I can see that. You’re welcome to the Red Jacket as long as you care to favor us with your society. If you think you can best me in a contest of generosity you’re mistaken.” And off he went to fetch the brooch.

  At least we would be eating, I thought. And the landlord wouldn’t be putting the law on us. I couldn’t help admiring Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones’ lofty confidence. Perhaps he wasn’t so much a lunatic as an odd stick.

  I watched him brush in a cameo at Mrs. Foxhall’s neck, and the portrait was finished. The faceless painting now had a face. The innkeeper immediately hung it on the wall, and everyone stood back to gaze at it. By that time I was so tired and sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones returned to his dinner, grown cold.

  “Go to bed, chavo.”

  “Are you a famous artist, sir?” I asked.

  He grinned. “No. Just a traveler of the roads. When winter sets in I paint a supply of grand ladies in the latest styles. Once the roads thaw I gypsy about filling in the faces of farm wives and villagers, as you saw.”

  “Are you a gypsy, sir?”

  He didn’t bother to look up from his plate. “I told you. No. But you are, lad. Your name’s not Jingo. It’s Jango. Spelled with a D. Django.”

  And he called for another hot flip.

  I carried a candlestick to our room and once behind the closed door I studied myself in the mirror over the shaving cabinet. I looked into my eyes as if I’d never seen them before — gypsy eyes. And my hair tumbled about in dark gypsy curls. And I smiled what I hoped might be a gypsy smile, a crafty, wicked, one-eyed smile.

  I liked being a gypsy! It was first rate and a half. Maybe I’d put a ring in my ear and learn to tell the future and all manner of gypsy things. I kept posturing in front of the mirror, feeling a half-stranger to myself.

  Finally I hid the whale’s tooth under the pillow and crawled into bed. It would take some getting used to — being gypsy born. I hoped Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones wasn’t playing some confounded trick on me. I was tired of being a puzzle to myself.

  10

  THE SCRIMSHAW MAP

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones was a late sleeper and a sly fox. I used up the morning poking around, never suspecting that his name was jumping about the village like a flea in a glove.

  When I returned to the Red Jacket at noon Mr. Foxhall’s face was lit up like a lamp. “See there who’s come to call,” he chuckled, nodding toward several men waiting impatiently for Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones to come down. “That’s Judge Stockbridge chewing his cigar. His wife has told him not to return without the artiste extraordinaire. And the same for Doc Holliway warming his coattails at the fire.” He rattled off a few other names and added, “That’s just the beginning, mark my word.”

  It didn’t take me long to reason out why Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had favored our landlady with a portrait. When the villagers awoke to the news that the innkeeper’s wife had had her picture painted, the judge’s wife must have sputtered with envy. I reckoned the doctor’s wife didn’t want to be outdone by the judge’s wife and had shuffled her husband off to make sure that she got her picture painted as well.

  Even as I stood there the village banker came glowering in, followed by a country squire and an army colonel in full uniform.

  When Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones made his appearance the husbands surrounded him like a pack of hounds, all yelping at once. He silenced them with a hand. “Gentlemen, please,” he said. “Allow me to order my breakfast and then, I regret to say, we must travel on.”

  There was a great, mortal groan from the men, who would have to face their wives.

  But Mr. Foxhall had his wits about him. “I’m sure,” he said, “that we can prevail upon Mr. Jones to enjoy our hospitality a few days longer, gentlemen — if the price is satisfactory.”

  Quicker than you could count to two he appointed himself our business advisor and while Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones sat down to a late meal he collected the portrait fees in advance.

  “Thunder and fury!” exclaimed Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones when the harvest of greenbacks and gold pieces was set before him. “I suppose I have no confounded choice but to delay our departure!”

  I knew he had planned all along to remain. Oh, he was slick as an apple seed, I thought! He was not a man to offer his talents like a common peddler. Folks had turned up, hat in hand, to beg him for the favor of his services.

  It was early afternoon before he made his first call. I followed along, carrying faceless ladies under each arm.
I began to feel uneasy about fingle-fangling him into striking out for the Mexico border. Despite myself, I was coming to like him. He was dreadfully independent and considerable smart. I puffed up just walking about in his shadow.

  We returned to the Red Jacket by early candlelight and the cobbler was waiting with a pair of buckskin boots. My heart leaped a beat or two. I thought I had never seen such an everlasting fine pair of boots. I could hardly believe they were meant for me. They had the fresh, new smell of tanner’s oil.

  “How do they fit, chavo?”

  “Capital, sir,” I smiled.

  Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones nodded and paid the cobbler. Then he ordered a hot flip for himself and another glass of fresh milk for me.

  I passed most of the evening strutting about in the boots and wishing I could see myself in them. I went upstairs and down, and wandered about prouder’n a game rooster. They made me feel that I was somebody else.

  Then I stopped to realize that I was somebody else. I wasn’t one of Mrs. Daggatt’s orphan house brats anymore. My name wasn’t Jingo — it was Django. And I was a gypsy.

  When I finally went up to bed I couldn’t bring myself to pull off the boots. I’d sleep in them. For all I knew gypsies always slept in their boots.

  I wondered how Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones came to know so much about me. He couldn’t have learned things from my pa. If he had ever met my pa he wouldn’t need me along to spy him out. No, sir. They had never met. And yet he was trailing my pa like a bloodhound.

  I reasoned there was some fury between them — revenge, most likely. I knew better than to ask Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones about it, or anything else. He kept his thoughts tighter’n a fist.

  He might be an odd stick, but I was coming to feel closer to him than any man in sight. He never ordered me about like an orphan. I was certain he had noticed the whale’s tooth I kept tucked away, but he asked no questions.

  I began to feel dreadful uncomfortable about leading him on a wild goose chase. He was never going to find my pa along the Mexico border, and I was tempted to tell him the truth.