I’ve tried to condition myself never to be surprised by anything Major Nathaniel Peabody says or does. It has not been an easy task. I’ve been at it for years and there were times when I believed I had succeeded, but I was always wrong.
I was truly surprised when the Major announced he was going to attend a party organized by the members of the Desmond County Woodcock Watchers Protective Society. The Society is widely known for its violently anti-hunter and anti-gun activities. Among other propositions, each year the DCWWPS sponsors legislation designed to declare the hunting of Woodcock to be a crime requiring capitol punishment. I could think of no rational reason why Peabody would agree to be present at one of the Society’s functions.
When I cautiously wondered why he was going to the meeting, my surprise was magnified to incredulity. Peabody advised me the Society was so-named because it was dedicated to the protection of Woodcock Watchers and that he was interested in meeting kindred spirits. Just like the members of the Society, he, too, was an avid Woodcock Watcher. He carefully watched for them when he was carrying a shotgun in the autumn woods and lowlands.
The reason for the Major’s erroneous interpretation of the Society’s purposes and activities became apparent to me when he said Doctor Carmichael had arranged for his attendance at the meeting. Doctor Carmichael has a peculiar sense of humor. I suspected this was his way of getting a degree of pay-back for some outrage the Major had directed toward him. I could understand how the doctor would mislead him for the pure joy of watching the Major’s extreme discomfort when, surrounded by Society members, he discovered their true objectives.
Peabody asked me if I would drive him to the party site. Of course, I immediately agreed. This was one party I wouldn’t miss for all the tea in China (and in India and in England, too). Frankly, I looked forward to watching him try to control his temper and avoid the crude and combative comments he would normally be expected to make when he learned of the Society’s enmity toward bird hunters in general and to Woodcock hunters in particular.
When we arrived at the home of Mr. Frederick Goodfellow, the president of the Society, the party was in full swing. I half expected a veritable explosion when those in attendance discovered a bird hunter in their midst. I stayed close to the Major, hoping to restrain him if he appeared ready to engage in a fist fight. The first test came at the hors d’oeuvres table, I found myself in a position where I had to introduce Major Peabody to our host. My fears evaporated when it became apparent that Frederick Goodfellow knew nothing about Peabody or his obsession with shotgun hunting.
Those fears quickly re-appeared when Goodfellow bemoaned the shooting of Woodcock and characterized all hunters as uncivilized, cruel and bloodthirsty criminals who should be arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to death by firing squad. I held my breath as Peabody curled his upper lip, just as a pit bulldog might do. Somehow, he managed to control himself. In the face of such a set of particularly obscene comments, the Major limited himself to emitting a few unintelligible gurgling sounds which Goodfellow interpreted as an indication of full agreement with his statements.
During the rest of the afternoon, Peabody showed few further signs of needing restraint. I watched as he mingled and chatted with the members and though often provoked, only once did he temporarily lose his composure. I noticed a rather large, tweedy lady, wearing flat heeled, brown walking shoes and a severe hairdo. She had been surreptitiously watching the Major.
Finally, she swooped down and cornered him. It looked like trouble to me. I shouldered my way through the crowd and to the Major’s side. I got there in time to overhear her introduce herself, proclaimed her widowhood and, rather coyly, I thought, questioned him about the sex life of the Woodcock.
The lady listened attentively as Peabody described the electric-type “peeent, peeent” call of the male birds as they circled, flying high in the dusk-time skies. He explained how the birds tumbled to an open area on the ground and how the females surreptitiously watched them, made their selections, and then swooped down and cornered them.
As he spoke, the lady studied the Major in a speculative manner. She responded to his discourse by asking if he were married. Peabody’s eyes opened to their widest. He stepped back half a pace. I believe he panicked. It took him a few moments to compose himself. Then he answered.
“Yes, Madame, I am married. I have two wives. One does the cooking and the other takes care of the housekeeping.” Then he studied her in a speculative manner and asked; “How are you at washing clothes?” The lady’s eyes opened to their widest. She stepped back half a pace. I believe she panicked. Regaining her composure, she excused herself and went to hunt in more productive terrain.
As the afternoon came to a close, the Society members dispersed and I searched for Major Peabody. He had behaved admirably. He had been proper and civil and even polite in his conversations with the enemy. When I found him, he was chatting pleasantly with Frederick Goodfellow. I heard the last part of the conversation.
“Why, Major Peabody,” Goodfellow gushed, “that’s very nice of you – comparing me to a Woodcock. It is such a noble bird. It lives free in nature’s wonderland. In spite of the dangers it faces from owls, foxes, those terrible hunters and other equally nasty predators, it survives and maintains its dignity. Thank you for your most considerate compliment.”
As we drove back to Philadelphia, I couldn’t help but think of the extraordinary events of the day: Peabody voluntarily remaining in the very midst of his sworn antagonists; Peabody, nevertheless, refusing to adopt either verbal or physical assault tactics against the enemy; and, Peabody actually complimenting Frederick Goodfellow. The Major explained that later wonderment.
“I hope Mr. Goodfellow will take the trouble of studying the Woodcock,” he said. “If he does, he will find the bird’s eyes are placed near the back of its head, not close to its beak. He’ll learn the Woodcock’s ears are below and in front of its eyes, not above and behind them. He’ll also discover the Woodcock’s brain is located near the bottom of its skull and is upside down. Then perhaps, he’ll understand I was not complimenting him. I was trying to tell him that he, too, had his head on backwards.”
* * * * *
A few days later, Major Peabody and Doc Carmichael enjoyed a successful day in the field. The sun was setting when the two hunters returned to Major Peabody’s apartment.
“A great day, Nate,” said the doctor.
“Yes it was,” Peabody answered. “Come on up and have a drink or two.”
“Certainly, if you promise not to try to give me the blended stuff someone passed off on you.”
“I only offer that to people I don’t like,” Peabody answered and he took his Leg o’ Mutton gun case and a dead Woodcock from the back of Carmichael’s vehicle.
Carmichael wrinkled his nose and, in a tone of disbelief asked; “You’re not going to eat that, are you?”
“Of course not, Doc. I’m going to have it mounted. I’ll send it to that Goodfellow guy. It’s the least I can do for him. After all, he’s the one who told me where his bird watchers found the highest concentrations of Woodcock. He gave me reports on three more likely spots. We’ll try one of them next Saturday.”