Jingo Django Page 8

  He said nothing and we passed on.

  Finally I asked, “Don’t you leave signs behind you like — like the Grasshopper?”

  “Signs? Ah, you mean a patrin. Yes. Artaros, following with the goats, he is leaving our patrin.”

  “But why?”

  “It is a way gypsies have of finding each other, eh? Yes, I must teach you to read our patrin. Then you will always be able to find us.”

  I looked at him. “Do you mean you can tell exactly whose patrin it is?”

  “As if his name was nailed to the road!” Tornapo laughed.

  “Then you knew it was the Grasshopper’s patrin you found outside Natchez?”

  “Of course, chavo. And that he was not traveling alone, as he is now.”

  “But how?”

  He seemed pleased to be initiating me into gypsy secrets. “He cut his sticks with the short stub of a branch left on, eh? That was you, that stub!” And the morning sun glinted off his gold teeth as he laughed again.

  “But he’s a gorgio,” I said with rising anger, as if he had no right to a gypsy patrin.

  “True. But Chawhoktamengro has traveled the roads with gypsies. He has learned our ways.”

  I looked hard at Tornapo. “Did you know my pa, sir?”

  He didn’t face me. “Doesn’t one gypsy know another?” he shrugged.

  “Was there bad blood between him and the Grasshopper?”

  “It is possible. Look there! Isn’t that a fine city up ahead, eh? Maybe we will trade a horse or two.”

  It wasn’t a city at all. It was only a dusty village with a rickety steamboat landing and a sawmill and a smelly tanning yard that made you want to pinch your nose. I’m not certain Tornapo really planned to stop there at all, but as we passed along the shady street I was quick to notice the cut stick poking out of some weeds. It was Mr. Peacock-Hem lock-Jones’s patrin, all right, and I saw that there was no branch stub left on.

  Well, he had shed himself of me — I could read that for myself. But I also noticed fresh tufts of grass thrown between the ruts of the street. I calculated Tornapo read more into that than I could, for he began to nod to himself. Then he said, “Yes. A fine place to trade horses.”

  We camped on the outskirts of the village. No one seemed in a great hurry. Bibi Mizella began milking the goats. Sacki’s little sister, Matchka, had her black hair freshly braided and set off with her mother in their brightest skirts to read fortunes. The men discussed which horses to trade. Sacki wanted to go along, but Bibi Mizella rattled off some puro jib in his direction and he gave out a deep sigh.

  “Aunty says you and me’s got to peddle the milk,” he grumbled. “We’ll never learn horse tradin’ that way.”

  “I wish I knew how to read fortunes,” I said.

  “Aw, that’s women’s work,” he glowered. “Horses are men’s work. No one knows more about horses than us gypsies.”

  Finally we set out with pails of goats’ milk. Tornapo stayed behind to shoe one of the wagon horses.

  We knocked at back doors. But I noticed that Sacki was careful to avoid certain houses.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” I asked, pointing to a white frame home behind a swaybacked picket fence.

  “It has the mark on it.”

  “What mark?”

  He pointed out a scratch in the gatepost:

  “Gypsies have been here before us,” he said. “That means to avoid this place. They’ll set their dogs on us.”

  We moved on to another house and Sacki’s eyes picked out a circle and a dot carved in an old shade tree.

  “Good,” he nodded. “Here they are friendly to us.”

  It was true. The lady bought a pitcher of goats’ milk and offered us some freshly baked cookies.

  It was astonishing the things Sacki could tell me about the people in the village as we wandered about.

  “An old woman died in that house not long ago,” he said, pointing to the patrin.

  And here they are stingy people, wouldn’t give you a drink of water.”

  “Ah, there is a good house,” he continued. “The fine mistress likes to have her fortune told. See?”

  “And she wants a baby. See, again?”

  “But what good is it to know all that?” I asked.

  He laughed. “It is for dukkering. The fortune-telling. My mam and little Matchka will read the marks outside the house and surprise the fine mistress with what they see in the lines of her hand. ‘Ah, fine mistress,’ they will say. ‘You have no children and it makes you sad. You wish a baby. Yes, a fine baby would make you happy, fine mistress.’ Oh, they will spin things out and dukker a good future and the fine mistress will feel happy.”

  It must have taken us an hour to sell the goats’ milk. Then, with money in our pockets, we strolled along the village street, gazing into the barbershop and pressing our noses against the windows of the general store. But the money wasn’t ours to spend.

  We continued on toward the sawmill and I felt as much a gypsy as Sacki, with the diklo knotted to one side of my neck and my eyes peeled for secret signs.

  We were moving past a high fence along the tannery when we discovered we were no longer alone. There must have been five or six village boys following in our tracks, and they didn’t look overly friendly. The tallest of them had a neck that stuck up like a turkey’s, and he did the talking.

  “Howdy,” he grinned.

  “Howdy,” I answered.

  “What you been sellin’?”

  “Goats’ milk,” Sacki answered. He could feel trouble in the air and so could I. But there was nothing to do but stand our ground.

  “You got a legal license to sell goats’ milk?”

  “No,” I said. There was going to be a fight no matter what we answered, so I added, “You got a legal license to ask hairbrained questions?”

  His grin widened while he searched his head for an answer. I decided he wasn’t as smart as he should have been. I began looking about for some way out of this mischief.

  “You oughten to bad-mouth me,” he said finally.

  “Only trying to make polite conversation,” I said.

  “Well, polite ain’t good enough. Reckon we’ll have to impound your goat money.”

  “We spent it,” I said. “Every last cent, at the general store. You run over there and tell them we said you could impound it.”

  His face got tired of holding the grin. “Reckon we got no choice but to whip you.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sacki’s hand edge toward his pocket. I hoped he didn’t have a knife in there. His face was dark and brooding, and I was certain he had been in scrapes like this more than once. “Kek,” I muttered under my breath. No.

  His eyes flashed my way. He must have thought I had lost my wits. But if I had learned anything from Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones it was to use my head, and quick as possible.

  “Agreed,” I declared. “Whip us, but whatever you do, don’t throw us over this fence.”

  “What?”

  I glanced fearsomely at the high fence, posted with KEEP OUT signs. “Break our bones. Bloody our noses. But please, whatever you do — don’t throw us over that scaresome tall fence!”

  I saw his eyes light up. His friends closed in on us like a pack of wolves.

  “This’ll learn you not to bad-mouth me!”

  And over the fence we went. We landed in the tannery yard, looked at each other, jumped up like fleas and ran.

  Of course they came howling after us. But we had a thumping head start. They stopped short of the camp when they saw Tornapo and the other men, who had returned from their horse trading.

  They pitched a few stones, but when Tornapo raised himself to his full height they decided it was a risky past-time and ran.

  Once we caught our breath Sacki began to laugh so hard they must have been able to hear it in the village. The air filled with the puro jib, and soon everyone was laughing but me.

  I was gazing at two horses the gypsy
traders had brought back to camp.

  They were Billygoat and Sunflower.

  18

  THE MAN IN THE RAIN

  Tornapo came over to me and said, “You know those horses, eh? You think we made a good trade?”

  I knew that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones valued his coach horses above most things, and I might have leaped to the conclusion that some misfortune had befallen him. But I didn’t. I wasn’t fooled. He had left the animals behind for Tornapo to gather up. Even I could read his patrin, and I was certain the tufts of grass had led the gypsy horse traders directly to Billygoat and Sunflower.

  “It’s none of my affair,” I answered solemnly. The truth was I felt a secret joyfulness at the sight of those great, easy-tempered horses. We had come a thousand miles together and they seemed the nearest thing to old friends I had. “But you forgot to trade back for the coach,” I added.

  “The coach?” He laughed and tugged at his hat. “The coach is not here. Our friend only changed horses. Fresh horses. Oh, he was in a big hurry, wasn’t he, eh?”

  In a big hurry to join up with Mrs. Daggatt and General Dirty-Face Jim Scurlock, I thought. “Your friend,” I murmured scornfully. “Not mine.”

  He spread his hands in an open gesture. “Why do you say that? He has not harmed you, chavo.”

  I almost explained how he had humbugged me with the treasure map and the pin. But I shrugged instead, and walked off to sit by myself. There seemed no escaping Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. I could feel his presence like a cunning spirit lurking about the camp. He had flummoxed Tornapo as easily as he had me, and I calculated he’d turn up when he was ready to claim his horses.

  Day by day we followed the river, selling goats’ milk and horse-trading, but mostly living off the land. New Orleans couldn’t be much further off. Sacki trapped a porcupine and brought it into camp like a great trophy.

  “A hatchi-witchu!” Bibi Mizella exclaimed, and I gave a start. I recalled that word from long ago, even if I had forgotten what it meant. It was a grand word — I used to run the sound of it over my tongue — and I was sorely disappointed that it was only puro jib for a pesky porcupine.

  The gypsies clustered around and Tornapo grinned. “Have you ever seen such a fine, fat one, eh!”

  I turned to Sacki. “What’s it good for?”

  “Good?” He seemed amazed at my simplemindedness. “Have you never eaten a hatchi-witchu? There’s nothing better! We’ll have a feast tonight!”

  Bibi Mizella took charge. She stuffed it with nuts and wild garlic and wrapped it with a thick layer of river mud. Then she buried it in the hot ashes to bake.

  I didn’t intend to be that hungry for supper. But as night fell and we sat around the campfire I decided that if I was going to live with gypsies I had best learn to eat porcupine.

  And I did have a taste. Bibi Mizella cracked open the mud ball and I was surprised to see that the quills and skin came away with it, leaving the steaming, garlicky treat. Tornapo carved it up and offered pieces all around. I accepted a chunk and after a while ventured to take a nibble. I must confess it was tender and juicy, but I was glad there wasn’t enough for second helpings. Porcupine was porcupine and it would take some getting used to.

  “Good, yes?” Sacki asked, licking his fingers.

  I grinned and nodded. “First rate,” I said. “First rate and a half. That’s the best hatchi-witchu I ever ate.”

  Soon Tornapo began scraping away on his fiddle and there was the usual dancing and hand-clapping around the campfire. Sacki climbed a tree and said he could see the lights of New Orleans downriver, but no one seemed to care.

  I sat practicing with my fetching stick and told myself that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had done me a service running out on me. Was there a jollier life than traveling the roads in a gypsy wagon? I might grow up to be a horse trader, like Sacki, and have a fine painted vardo of my own.

  Tornapo must have fiddled away for two hours straight. But finally he called a halt and went to bed. I stretched my hammock between two trees and curled up for the night.

  I could hear a distant rumble of thunder and the sky darkened over with clouds.

  I don’t know how long I had been asleep when the clouds burst open and a warm, spattering downpour woke me. When I opened my eyes I saw a light burning in Tornapo’s wagon and then I saw a man approaching through the rain. He stopped and looked at me, with the cloudburst pouring off the brim of his hat.

  “Sar shan, Django?”

  It was Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones.

  I didn’t move. I only stared at him. Drops of rain blurred my eyes. Then I curled up tighter and turned my back to him.

  “Come, come,” he said. “Did you think I wouldn’t be back for you? I’m surprised at you, chavo.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You’ll drown in that fishnet,” he said. “Do get up.”

  “Leave me alone,” I muttered.

  “I’ve come to fetch you.”

  I turned my head and peered at him standing in the rain and grinning like the Devil himself. “Fetch your horses,” I said. “I aim to stay here.”

  It was a moment before he answered. “You like being a gypsy, I see. Splendid. But there’ll be time for that later. We’ve treasure to run for, and there’s not a moment to lose.”

  I shot another glance at him. “Don’t think you can fingle-fangle me again!” I declared. I almost had to shout through the roar of the cloudburst. “There was no map on the head of that pin you gave me. Nothing! I looked.”

  “Correct. But didn’t it keep your hopes alive all these long weeks on the road? Admit it.”

  “We have no map. I expect you’ve thrown in with Mrs. Daggatt and General Scurlock.”

  “What a preposterous notion! But I don’t intend to stand out here in the rain all night discussing the matter. Shake yourself out of that hammock and let’s be on our way. I have a boat waiting.”

  This news gave me a proper start. A boat! The very word set my thoughts jumping. But then I reminded myself that he was most likely humbugging me again.

  “You didn’t so much as say good-bye when you ran off,” I declared. “You’re no better’n my own pa, and a whole lot worse!”

  “I did say good-bye. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

  “But why?”

  The rain kept sloshing down off his hat. “After the weeks lost with that fool doctor I was in a decided hurry to reach New Orleans. I drove day and night, trading off for fresh horses. You would have wanted to come along. Now, that’s the truth, isn’t it, Django?”

  “But I wouldn’t have been in your way,” I said.

  “What if they had caught sight of you?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Daggatt and General Scurlock. I meant to learn whether they had landed in New Orleans, as I suspected.”

  I sat up. “Did they?”

  “They did. One glimpse of you would have put them on guard. They knew you had had a chance to examine the whale’s tooth. One glimpse of me and I’d have insisted you had run off long ago. And it almost came to that. I caught sight of them along the wharves trying to book passage to Mexico. But they didn’t lay eyes on me. I’m sure of that.”

  Despite myself I said, “Then they’ve got the jump on us!”

  “They left yesterday morning. By wagon and a string of packhorses. I strongly suggest you stir yourself!”

  I hesitated. But then I got to my feet and began rolling up the hammock. “Why didn’t they take a ship, too?”

  “They couldn’t find one. There’s not a chip of wood sailing to Matamoros for the next three months.”

  “But you said there’s a boat waiting for us.”

  “Indeed there is. I expect to make good time on the water.”

  “But how did you book passage?”

  “I didn’t. I bought the boat.”

  19

  THE RIVER SWAN

  The boat was so old and weathered it looked like driftwood timbers someo
ne had pegged together. It was broad and snub-nosed and seemed dreadful small to make a sea voyage in. There was a crooked pole that served as a mast, with traces of the bark still on it. The cabin was hardly worth mentioning. In the lantern light I made out a potbellied stove, a rail around the stern and what I took to be a cargo of wet sawdust leaking out from under a heavy canvas.

  “Welcome aboard the River Swan,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “Let’s cast off.”

  We had ridden Billygoat and Sunflower bareback through the downpour, which had now slacked off. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones indicated a kind of corral he had had built forward of the mast. We penned the horses and I helped pull in the mooring lines. We began floating with the current and he stationed himself at the tiller.

  “Hadn’t we better raise the sail?” I asked.

  “If you wish,” he answered.

  I had spent hours on end watching the ships in Boston Harbor and thought I had some notion of how things were done. “Sure you know how to sail a boat?” I said.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he answered. “But it can’t be very difficult. The former owner — a Captain Cyprian — was a gentleman of the most impressive ignorance. We’ll get the hang of things.”

  The sail was thin as a bed sheet and I managed to get it raised.

  Fortunately, at that dark hour of the night, we had the river to ourselves and weren’t likely to run into anything.

  I watched the lights of New Orleans drift by. Then I said, “What’s all that sawdust for?”

  “To keep the ice from melting.”

  “What ice?”

  “Under the sawdust. The River Swan is an ice scow. Captain Cyprian was in the trade of cutting ice in the snowfields up north and selling it during the summer in New Orleans. Unfortunately a couple of rats were discovered frozen in his product, and he has been unable to give away his cargo. He jumped at the chance to sell out.”

  I learned that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had scurried about the city painting portraits to raise money, and had had to sell his coach as well. He had stocked the boat with oats and provisions. He hadn’t sold the horses, but traded them back to Tornapo for Billygoat and Sunflower.