Cape Cod's Figure in Black, Page 2

  He slept the clock around for two days before he was well enough to get up and seek out food. He found it a few hundred yards from the hotel at Sam’s Lobster Tank. He didn’t eat seafood however.

  “Just coffee and bread Sam.”

  “How’d you know my name?” asked the bent, old white haired man wearing a spotless cook’s apron over a clean white shirt.

  “Your sign - it says Sam’s.”

  “Yah but I could be anybody. I don’t have to be Sam.”

  “Well then, just mark it down as a lucky guess and bring me my coffee and bread.”

  “That’s about all I can bring you. I’m all out of lobster. That’s why there’s nobody in here at five p.m. on a beautiful summer afternoon.”

  “I know that you’re having trouble Sam. I came here because of it. Tell me about it. I can help.”

  “You are probably a nice guy mister. But there’s no help for me. I have always done well. I’ve been in business here for more than 20 summers but this is the first time the lobsters have been scarce.”

  “A shortage of lobsters on Cape Cod? No Sam. That’s not possible! There’s something else going on,” said the enigmatic stranger dressed all in black, like a minister, an undertaker, or even a sailor.

  Sam wasn’t sure why, but he decided to lay his whole burden on the dark, bearded man drinking coffee and eating bread – his only customer since running out of lobsters in the middle of the lunch hour.

  He owned one small boat and a string of a hundred traps. Sam employed a local youth to run the traps and his craft. Every night around dusk the young man brought the catch directly to the restaurant. Each trap was checked at least three times a week. On a normal summer week, the total catch was about 700 lobsters - which meant that he could serve an average of a hundred dinners a night and make a pretty good living. But this season, traps that usually gave from five to ten lobsters had yielded only one or two at most. Jimmy Butler, his hired man had been bringing him less than two dozen a day – not even enough to cover his overhead.

  The stranger removed his wide brimmed, black hat and placed it on the table, revealing a head of curly, black hair. He scratched his beard with long fingers that looked like they might be suited for anything from piano playing or knot tying, to twisting the knobs of a combination safe. His fingers moved from his beard to a spot above his right eyebrow and then lightly traced the route of a scar that took a course straight up the forehead until it disappeared into his hairline.

  He might have been anywhere from 25 to 45 years old. No wrinkles marred his handsome face and there was no gray showing in his hair. He had a face that people instantly liked and that led to them trusting him without question.

  “Sam. I’m on my way to Provincetown by train. I cannot explain to you the why of it, but I am unable to leave the Monument Beach Station until I help you get your business back on a profitable basis. If you’ll hire me, I’ll help Jimmy Butler, and between the two of us, we’ll coax a thousand lobsters a week out of your hundred traps.”

  “But I have no money to pay you. I’ve not had a single day of profit all season and I barely have enough to pay Jimmy Butler his dollar a day.”

  “My pay shall be a dinner of twin lobsters on the night of the day we reach our first thousand lobsters,” said the stranger.

  “I certainly cannot turn down that offer, “smiled Sam. “Say, what’s your name anyway?”

  “I cannot tell you my name Sam for I do not know it. Seven years ago at a hospital in Boston, a doctor gave me the name ‘John Doe’, but I took offense at being called a ‘doe’. A feminine name did not appeal to me. The Doctor laughed and changed the name on his paperwork from John Doe to John Deer.”

  “Okay then, John Deer it is. You can start work whenever you want.”

  The men shook hands on the bargain and John Deer consumed a whole pot of coffee and a half loaf of bread over the next hour as he pressed Sam for more details of his predicament. Before he left for his hotel room, he promised the restaurant owner that he’d meet Jimmy Butler at the town dock the following morning.

  “I’ll tell him to expect you,” Sam said.

  But John Deer was not on the boat when it set out into the sleepy harbor shortly after dawn. He was standing by himself on the dock watching the small craft slowly head towards Sam’s 100 traps marked by buoys of red, white, and green.

  John Deer had sent Jimmy Butler out alone – giving him an explicit order. In a whispery, but oddly forceful voice he commanded…. “Return at sunset with no less than 150 lobsters!”

  Later, in one of the one of the town’s taverns, the tale of what John Deer had said to the young lobsterman would be told by the Harbormaster and a few sailors who had overheard the brief conversation.

  They reported that - “Jimmy showed up at dawn, which was very early for him and he made the boat ready. There was no sign of Mr. Deer. After a while a voice, firm but not loud, called to the young fisherman” …

  ‘Step out of the boat Jimmy Butler and stand on the dock. I wish to speak with you.’

  “Jimmy followed the order. Walking to the center of the dock, he stood there and waited for the unseen owner of the forceful voice. For what seemed like many minutes there was nobody else in sight. Then, in an instant, the figure in black materialized in front of him, saying, - ‘I am here to help you Jimmy. I do not know why you are only able to bring Sam a few lobsters. But I do know that you should be dragging in many more than you are. Today you will harvest at least 150 lobsters. If you do not do this, then you and I will have a problem. If you do bring in the proper amount, you will earn a reward that you cannot even imagine. Do you understand me?’

  The Harbormaster continued his account… “There was something really eerie about way he spoke. The words were soft and yet they seemed to have the effects of thunder claps on young Jimmy. His knees were knocking together and they produced a much louder response than the ‘yes sir’ that he managed to squeak out.”

  Some 14 hours afterward, as twilight neared and the sun began to fall beneath the tree-line on the western shore of Bourne Bay; Jimmy moored Sam’s boat at the town dock. Just as he secured his moorings, he heard the authoritative voice of the figure in black.

  “How many do you have?”

  “For a change, I had some good luck today sir! For the first time in quite a while the lobstering was good. I have 160!”

  His statement was directed to the dock where the question had seemed to come from – but as he spoke, Jimmy noticed that the man in black was already aboard and was personally inspecting the catch.

  “I was quite sure that you would be able to do it Jimmy. Now it is time for you to speak the truth. Tell me the real story of why you have been bringing such a paltry catch to your employer.”

  John Deer, the figure in black, was not big. He did not look especially powerful. But there was something in his manner that told Jimmy Butler he had no option but to reveal everything to the stranger.

  “Look mister. He only pays me a dollar a day to run his traps. I ‘gotta’ live too. A guy at The Widow’s Peak in Barnstable told me that they pay by the pound at the dock there and they don’t ask no questions. So, this season I’ve been selling most of the catch there. I make much more than what old Sam pays me. Who can blame me?”

  “I can blame you Jimmy Butler!” the figure in black shot back. “Sam pays you only a dollar a day because it is his boat and his traps you are using. It is a fair price and you’ve done him a ratty, despicable service. There is no justification for this theft Jimmy Butler!”

  “I was planning to do it only a few times,” whined the young man, “but it was so easy and the money was so good that I couldn’t stop. I don’t have no family. I got nothing. There’s no one that ever helped me.”

  “I will help you Jimmy. And I’ll give you a way to repay Sam and make up for what you have done.”

  “Okay mister. I know it was wrong and
I’m ready to take my punishment,” muttered the crestfallen youth.

  The sagacious John Deer didn’t speak for a moment. With closed eyes he was rubbing the scar on his forehead with the palm of his hand in a circular motion as if he were trying to smooth away the uneven parts of his skull-bone which had been split nearly in two seven years prior.

  In the last ray of twilight before darkness completely overtook the Monument Beach Town Dock, the figure in black opened his eyes. Jimmy Butler looked on in astonishment. He thought he saw in the whites of those eyes, the flickering of a Thomas Edison motion picture. He clearly envisioned the flashing of lightning bolts with their jagged, flaming arms reaching out in many sharp branches toward the edges of the shadowy man’s eyes. He saw tears like torrential rains descend from the man’s eyelids and put out the fires that had been touched off by the lightning.

  He perceived that the man in black was shaking slightly. Tremors or perhaps palsy had invaded the hands and arms of the mysterious figure. As quickly as these things started, they stopped.

  John Deer spoke – “I have thought about your punishment my young friend and it is this. You will bring these lobsters to Sam. You will also tell Sam that you do not choose to work for a dollar a day anymore. You will inform him that you can make more money by selling lobsters to him by the pound.”

  “How can I do that?” protested Jimmy. “It’s his boat. He’s not going to pay me for lobsters I get with his own traps and boat!”

  “He will happily pay you Jimmy Butler. He will be overjoyed to pay you when you tell him that he’s not going to have the expense of his boat and traps anymore. Those burdens shall fall to you, because you are going to be the owner of the boat.”

  John Doe reached into his coat and pulled out a sheaf of currency - all in large denominations of five, ten, and even twenties. Handing the wad of bills to the young man, he coached him to tell Sam that he had inherited some money from the will of a previously unknown relative. He ordered the young man to pay Sam generously for the boat and traps and to always offer Sam first choice of his catch at a fair price.

  Overjoyed, Jimmy wondered how he could ever repay the magnificent gift.

  “It is not a gift Jimmy Butler. It is an obligation. You must cancel this debt,” said John Deer ominously. “You will repay it five-fold or I shall come back and deal with you in ways you do not want to imagine.

  “Now listen closely Jimmy Butler. This is how you shall repay it. When you see a person in trouble or in need, you must help them as I have helped you. Do this as long as you live and your debt to me will be expunged.”

  Jimmy started to respond but soon realized he was talking to himself. The man in black had disappeared.

  Happily, he started loading his catch on a wagon to bring to Sam, when a distant voice, soft but powerful, floated across the darkness – “I will meet you at this same hour at Sam’s Lobster Tank in one week’s time after you have delivered to him a thousand lobsters. Tell Sam I want my twin lobster dinner served with a fresh loaf of bread and a pot of unsweetened coffee.”

  Jimmy Butler quickly went to Sam’s place and delivered the catch. He told Sam exactly what John Deer ordered him to say. The old fellow was only too happy to be rid of the boat and get cash in hand. In future they both would fare very well in their respective businesses.

  A week later in Sam’s restaurant, now overflowing with customers , the three men all sat down to a lobster feast, served by a new waiter that Sam had been able to hire thanks to his infusion of cash from Jimmy.

  “Mr. Deer, it was a happy day for all of us when you came to Monument Beach. We’re going to be great friends now, the three of us,” Sam said with a wide smile as he finished off the remains of his fourth lobster.

  “We are going to be good friends Sam, but I will not be able to see either of you again. I have business in Provincetown. I fear that once I get there, I will not be able to leave.”

  Goodbyes were said and the figure in black walked toward the Monument Beach Railroad Station. On the track side of the building, he laid down on a bench. His tapered fingers massaged the long, thin scar over his eyebrow – a blemish that covered a mass of frazzled brain bits residing uneasily under the poorly knitted fracture.

  His head ached as though a spike were being driven from one side of his skull to the other. He fell asleep with the palms of both hands pressing hard against his throbbing forehead.

  Chapter Three:

  A Beautiful Diversion

  Bright rays of dawn and warm breezes churned the salt and pepper clouds into a cheery ‘sky-salad’ that woke John Deer at 5:45, five minutes ahead of the arrival of the Cape Cod Central Provincetown Train, making its first run of the day.

  The headaches of the night before had vanished and John Deer felt good. There was no weight of prophecy burdening him on this vivid morning. But still, he could not take the train all the way to the end of the line. He would board when it arrived at the Monument Beach Station in Bourne, only to get off at the very next terminal – the Sandwich station.

  He would walk to the historic Newcomb Tavern in the center of town and take a room in the second floor overlooking a serene pond. He would pay for a week in advance as usual – though often he did not stay a full week at his lodgings.

  He had only a dim foresight in this instance, yet he felt that his stay in Sandwich was going to be far longer than the time he had spent in Gray Gables and in Monument Beach.

  He expected to remain in the Newcomb Tavern until the headaches returned. It was the curse of the headaches that gave him the blessing of his second sight. It was that curse/blessing which had allowed him to make investments of tiny sums that grew to very large amounts that were stuffed into a dozen banks on Beacon Hill and throughout the city of Boston. It was money that he cared little for – but that he needed, in order to fund the tasks that were his obligation.

  The clanging of the bell signaling the arrival of the train roused him from the bench and he stepped quickly to the edge of the platform. After giving a friendly farewell pat to “Post Office Jack” the mascot of the Monument Beach Station, he boarded the train for Sandwich where he would rest and await the inspiration for his next task.

  Post Office Jack, The Assistant Mail Clerk at Monument Beach for 17 years

  Being a delightful summer morning, the train was packed with Bostonians sojourning to the Cape to avoid the heat of the city. There were three passenger coaches in the mixed ‘consist’ which also included a dining car, a baggage car, a newspaper/postal car, four freight cars, and a caboose.

  The train, pulled by a powerful Alco engine, built in Providence, had a ten minute layover in Monument Beach to take on water for the steam engine and to switch a few boxcars.

  Empty seats were scarce, but he found one in the front of the first car behind the engine. This coach was the least desirable since it absorbed the greatest quantities of the soft coal dust that sifted out of the belching clouds of smoke from the engine’s stack. It was also the reason that few of the windows were open despite the extreme early morning warmth of the late July day.

  He sat down next to a pleasant looking young man dressed in a brown business suit. “Hello sir,” the gentleman said, as John Deer slid into the seat. “Wonderful morning, isn’t it?”

  “Gorgeous, but a bit warm,” agreed John Deer. “It’s perfect for the beaches though!”

  They chatted during the remainder of the layover and on the short run to the Sandwich terminal. The man, Jim Davis, explained that he had just procured a job at the Sandwich and Boston Glass Company.

  “It’s a wonderful firm. A businessman with offices in Boston and New York opened the factory about a year ago and already they are shipping fifty thousand dollars worth of product every single month!”

  “That’s a large figure indeed, “agreed John Deer. “But I understood that the glass business in Sandwich had gone bust.”

  “It did. Back a
round 1890 Sandwich was the biggest glass making center in the United States, but the plant was shut down during a nationwide glass maker’s strike and was never reopened until last year (1909) by Mr. Charles Crown, that businessman I told you about. He’s also a newspaper publisher and that’s how I got the job. He ran a big article in his paper about the factory. I filled out an application form that was in the classifieds and I was hired within two weeks. My education certainly helped me secure the position. My studies of glass making were taken in Boston at the Huntington College in Kenmore Square.”

  Listening to Mr. Davis talk about his job and the good financial situation in Sandwich, John Deer’s mind began to wander and he wondered why he had been impelled to go there. For some time he had been obeying an inner voice that had directed him on a journey that had begun in Boston and would end in Provincetown. Along the way, something kept forcing him off the train to help people in need. He wondered what task would fall to him in Sandwich.

  John Deer was perhaps 25 years old or maybe 35, or even 45. He himself didn’t know. He had a memory of only seven years, stretching back to an awakening in a Boston Hospital with almost no recollections of his life before the accident - if accident it were, that split his skull in two. His doctors had told him it was perhaps the worst TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) that anyone had ever survived.

  They alighted from the train together, Mr. Davis and Mr. Deer.

  “Good luck in your new job Mr. Davis. Perhaps I’ll see you in the glass works. I just might be dropping in for a visit.

  “Well I’ll look forward to that sir. Have a good day.”

  The Sandwich Railroad Station in 1910

  John Deer walked the short distance from the terminal to the beautiful downtown area of Sandwich, a thriving village of 1700 people. The town square was built around gentle Shawme pond. His lodging place, the Newcomb Tavern, overlooked the water. There were ten bedrooms on the second floor and John Deer booked one facing the pond.