Where is Thy Sting
Major Nathaniel Peabody is the sole beneficiary of the Peabody Family Spendthrift Trust. It was established to insure him of a comfortable life. Major Peabody and the trust instrument have different definitions of the term “comfortable life”. The Major thinks it means “whatever he thinks he needs”. The trust document, however, clearly defines the amount of his monthly stipend.
Unable to negotiate an increase in the amount of his first-day-of-the-month remittances the Major has been forced to compromise. He lives quite frugally - if you don’t count aged single malt Scotch whisky, imported cigars and every conceivable expenditure vaguely associated with shotguns, hunting equipment or hunting expeditions.
Some of Peabody’s expeditions take him to exotic places in Europe or Africa or Latin America and are quite expensive. Others are more informal and less costly. Where Peabody hunts depends entirely upon the amount of cash contained in the cigar box he hides under his bed. Last month, the cigar box was nearly depleted. Peabody wanted to go to Maine. He came to me and explained the reason for his trip.
Unruly gangs were taking over large tracts of land in the northern part of that State. Behaving in a generally riotous manner, they violated the rights of the local inhabitants by disregarding No Trespassing signs and adversely possessing some of their properties. The Sheriff flatly refused to act on any of the complaints registered with him. He contended he had no jurisdiction because woodcock are considered to be migratory waterfowl and, as such, the problem was one for the federal government. Everyone knew it was an excuse. The sheriff was afraid of them.
According to Peabody, a friend, Jim Zimmerman, owned a cabin and a few forties in that part of the State. It was October and Zimmerman’s property was infested with migrating wood-cock. Outraged by their presence and desperate for relief, the man decided to take the law into his own hands. He bought a shotgun and a case of 7 ½ chilled shells and prepared to defend his property.
Days later, though his upper arm was black and blue, Zimmerman had failed to reduce the woodcock population. (Afterwards, he claimed he had only been trying to frighten them.) Zimmerman called Major Peabody and Doctor Carmichael, begging them to join him and a few friends and rid his property of those damned birds.
With this lengthy explanation and an appeal to “my well-known charitable impulse to help a fellow human being in dire straits”, Peabody asked for an additional piece of the trust corpus in order to make his trip “more comfortable”. It wasn’t the end of the month. I refused his request and gave him a lecture on the need to more carefully control his expenses. Peabody had to undertake his expedition with no help from the trust monies.
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The following day, Peabody and Carmichael met with the group convened at Jim Zimmerman’s cabin. They formed a Vigilante Committee and sworn to maintain the peace, be kind to widows and orphans and drive the woodcock from the County. Peabody’s initial impressions of the Committeemen were, by and large, favorable.
Their shotguns and hunting clothing did not have an unused look and one of the men brought dosages of top quality medicinal single malt Scotch to be used in the stead of the blended stuff provided by the camp. After paying for his air transportation, the Major’s delicate financial condition did not allow him to provide for his own refreshments. His liquid funds were insufficient.
One of the Committeemen, however, did not pass muster. He was the camp cook. The Major had not seen a more disgusting, shifty-eyed and untrustworthy looking specimen since he visited the United States Senate. (This assessment of the man was confirmed when the cook admitted he was a banker from Milwaukee.)
The next day’s hunt was successful. The Vigilantes had reason to believe - once their presence was more widely known - the hated woodcock would abandon the area with fear and trembling and decide to quickly migrate south, leaving the good people of Maine in peace.
After another good day in the field, when the hunters returned to the cabin, the Major’s opinion of the cook proved to be correct. The man was unreliable. He neglected to bring a supply of soda crackers and milk for the pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres. His lack of planning forced him to provide substitutions. Without consulting the other hunters, he prepared smoked oysters, ground round steak with onions and pepper on dark rye bread, aged cheddar cheese, and a clam dip with whitefish roe.
Peabody did not bring the man’s failing to the attention of the others. The hunters were all good sports and used to adversity. They accepted the substitutes without complaint and proceeded to relax and review the day activities. By the time they were called to the dinner table, the sun was down, the kerosene lanterns were lit and the Major was telling a story about a gun with a crooked barrel and a constipated owl.
Perhaps it was the dim light - or the beverage - or the distraction caused by the stories. Major Peabody had not paid attention to what was going on about him. He had the fork inside his mouth before anyone was able to shout a warning.
The cook had soaked a dozen dead woodcock breasts in a marinade. Then he put them inside the woodstove oven. They lay there in that terrible heat for almost two hours before he took them out. Then, without warning or notice any kind, he served them to the entire company - just as if woodcock were edible.
Peabody doesn’t like the taste of woodcock. No, that isn’t right. Peabody detests the taste of woodcock. He has often warned me to turn and run if anyone suggests I take even the tiniest taste of one. He has assured me the flavor of the bird is improved by soaking it in kerosene for five days and then throwing it away.
Thought Peabody spit the disgusting woodcock onto his plate without swallowing, the taste lingered in his mouth and in his memory. It had been a very close call. I’m sure it was this brush with catastrophe that caused Peabody to consider his own mortality and begin to “make provisions”.
As soon as he returned from Maine, he called on Peter Klemmens to take care of his mortal remains. Peter Klemmens is not a funeral director. He is a taxidermist. Peabody was impressed by his work when he saw a deer head mount Peter had done over twelve years ago. Not one hair had fallen out. “When the time comes”, Peter has agreed to stuff the Major for eight dollars an inch.
Peabody felt he had done a good job in negotiating the price. He proudly told me how he was changing his ways and watching his non-hunting expenses.
Providence
Major Nathaniel Peabody and two companions were in a hunting lodge in northwestern Uruguay. They came to hunt the Perdiz runing in the fields surrounding Hector Sarasola’s hunting lodge and the Gray Spotted Pigeons clouding the skies above it. The lodge’s ads assured the hunters they could fire at least two cases of shells per day. Hector confirmed that promise and assured them they would arrive in Uruguay during the most productive part of the season.
This was not the first time Peabody hunted with the other men. They became acquainted in a field full of pheasants in South Dakota. A second meeting took place in a Minnesota grouse camp. This would be their third reunion.
A small chartered plane carried them from the airport at Montevideo to the city of Mercedes where a waiting truck delivered them to Sarasola’s Lodge and their countryside hunting grounds. After promising to re-convene for a pre-dinner period of libation and relaxation, the men went directly to their assigned quarters. The outlook for the three day hunt was most promising.
As Major Peabody unpacked his gear, he reviewed the results of his most recent poker game. It occurred the evening before he left Philadelphia for this hunt. Those results were not entirely satisfactory. Those results were in no way satisfactory. The results were terrible. Peabody had been nearly wiped out.
It was the twenty-fifth day of the month. The Major would be back in Philadelphia one day before the end of the month when his grossly inadequate supply of money would be replenished. In the meantime, however, the Major had to have enough cash to buy shotgun shells, pay for personal expenses