Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (3 page)

Waltz looked up at Weiser, surprised this stranger knew so much about his personal affairs. After a minute he said, “So I do the fighting and you get half the money?”

“I can understand your confusion,” said Weiser, “but managers have expenses involved in setting up a bout. I have to make sure they are covered.” He paused, then added, “I wouldn’t call it hard work putting Karl Schultz on the mat.”

“Who?” Waltz said, his deep set eyes widening.

“Karl Schultz,” Weiser repeated. “Karl is their current champion.”

“But Karl is my friend, a man I spar with at the gypsy camp,” Waltz answered slowly, a frown furrowing his brow, “I don’t know if I would feel comfortable fighting a friend.”

“What’s the matter?” Weiser asked. “Don’t you want easy money?”

Waltz met Weiser’s eyes and said, “It isn’t about the money.”

Weiser’s trim brows curved in surprise. “What else is there?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Honor,” Waltz replied. “It wouldn’t be ethical to take advantage of a friend.”

“Why not?” Weiser asked, amazed by Waltz’s attitude.

“It just wouldn’t be right,” Waltz said firmly.

Weiser knew when to back off. “Well, you just think about it, Mr. Waltz. But don’t take too long deciding. There are plenty of other fighters who’ll jump at a chance like this!”

“I’ll do that,” Waltz said. Remembering his manners, he added, “Thank you for dinner.”

“It was my pleasure,” Weiser responded smoothly, confident Waltz would go along with them once he thought it over.

The following afternoon, Waltz arrived at the Gypsy camp earlier than usual, seeking Raoul’s advice on Weiser’s proposal. A small group of Gypsy boys were playing beside Raoul’s tarot table. To Waltz’s surprise, Weiser was also there, deep in conversation with Raoul. From the ease of their postures, it was easy to see the two men knew each other well.

Without thinking, Waltz left the footpath, concealed himself in the trees, and moved closer.

Weiser was giving Raoul an account of his evening with Waltz. When Weiser described Waltz’s refusal to make a deal, Raoul threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Puzzled, Weiser asked what was so funny.

“You are, my friend,” Raoul replied. “Sometimes you have the sensitivity of a shoebox.” He paused, then said, “You don’t understand a man with ethics because you have none of your own.”

“What does ethics have to do with it?” Weiser asked.

“Everything,” Raoul replied, “an’ you’d better get out of sight before Waltz gets here.”

Furious at being double-crossed, Waltz stepped out from his hiding place, strode over to the tarot table, and flipped it on its side, sending the cards flying.

Weiser jumped up and hid behind Raoul, who was on his feet with his fists on his hips and his elbows turned outward. For a frozen moment, Waltz and Raoul stared soundlessly at each other.

The Gypsy boys were the first to move, quietly picking up tarot cards and placing them at Raoul’s feet.

As they did, Raoul’s face softened. He put his hand on the head of the smallest boy and said, “Thank you, my son.” Raising his eyes to Waltz, he continued, “You, Jacob, are one of my sons also. Why are you angry?”

Surprised and confused, Waltz’s fury melted in the face of Raoul’s gentleness and he realized he wanted desperately for Raoul to explain his part in this fraud.

A master at turning awkward situations to his advantage, Raoul replied, “Your mother is gravely ill and you need money to pay for doctors and medicine.”

Waltz nodded without speaking.

Raoul laid his hand gently on Waltz’s arm, meeting Waltz’s clear hazel eyes with his own coal-black ones, and said, “It isn’t wrong to use your boxing skill to help your mother.”

Waltz was silent for a moment, then asked, “But is it right for me to fight against a friend who I can beat so easily?”

Raoul peered intently at Waltz, measuring his words carefully before replying, “You’re wasting your time worrying about Karl Schultz. He has already made his father proud by his successes — but he has also risen as high as he can with his limited ability.”

“Maybe so,” Waltz agreed, “but does that make it right for me to take advantage of him?”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Raoul replied. “But bear in mind that you, Jacob Waltz, are the best fighter in this town. An’ you deserve the rewards that go with being the best.”

Raoul’s feigned concern was convincing enough to make Waltz believe it was wrong to walk away from what was rightfully his. “All right,” he said, with a cynical smile that was new for him. “I’ll fight — but in addition to the prize money, I want a share of the betting proceeds.”

Raoul threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Welcome to our brotherhood,” he said.

Raoul spoke to Schultz’s father and hinted that the Boxing Club could pay off its mortgage if they opened their championship match to anyone willing to pay a hefty entry fee. The board approved with enthusiasm and erected a temporary tent to accommodate the expected crowd. As a result, on the night of the fight excited boxing fans from Nagold mingled freely with members of the Boxing Club and filled the tent to overflowing. Vendors sold beer and pretzels and sausages, a brass band played rousing marches, and everyone bet as they waited for the fighters to appear.

Schultz was heavily favored at first, as Boxing Club members backed their man. But the betting became brisk as men who supported the Gypsy matches put their money on Waltz.

Fearing that the odds would change too quickly, Weiser whispered to Waltz, “Don’t forget to make sure Schultz and his fans think he has a chance of winning.”

Waltz’s face reddened and he snapped, “Don’t you tell me what to do, mister. I’m going to win this match, an’ you’d better not suggest otherwise!”

“Whoa there, Waltz,” Weiser said quickly. “Don’t get excited. You’re the expert and I’m just here to support you. It goes without saying that you’ll win, but you don’t want to humiliate Schulz, do you? At least let him think he has a chance. It’s the right thing to do, and if it happens to raise the odds, all the better!”

Mollified somewhat, Waltz adjusted the tie on his robe and stepped into the ring, where Schultz was already waving to the crowd. Surprised, Waltz realized this Schultz was more confident than the man he had been back at the Gypsy camp.

The crowd roared as the referee announced their names. Schultz bowed gracefully and Waltz bobbed his head briefly, raised his fists, and began bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

At first the men moved warily, circling, exploring, moving in and out with stinging jabs, but the crowd quickly grew restless. A man in the third row stood up and shouted, “Come on, you sissies — we didn’t pay to see a dancing exhibition.”

Other spectators joined in, whistling and catcalling in agreement.

Schultz didn’t realize how badly he was overmatched, didn’t understand that Waltz had held back when they sparred at the Gypsy camp. In fact, Schultz thought he’d held his own. Moreover, he had no idea that the boys at the Boxing Club were pushovers compared to Raoul’s men. Responding to the crowd, Schultz ventured a quick jab with his left fist.

Waltz blocked it with his right and countered with a left hook to Schultz’s ear. It stung more than Schultz expected, but it didn’t shake his confidence. Not yet, anyway.

But the spectators knew the difference between feigning and fighting. A heckler in the third row stood up and shouted, “Hey, you pansies — my sister can hit harder than that.”

“Yeah, but she ain’t as pretty,” his buddy rejoined.

Weiser caught Waltz’s eye and signaled for him to take a few hits. Although it went against the grain, Waltz lowered his guard slightly and let Schultz land a couple of quick jabs. Schultz’s odds rose.

Emboldened, Schultz caught Waltz on the side of his head with a stinging haymaker, swung again with his right, and connected with Waltz’s left eye. Schultz’s odds rose higher and Weiser put more money on Waltz.

Waltz was furious — he hadn’t bargained for a shiner. He went down on one knee and glared at Weiser with his good eye.

Weiser turned away, avoiding Waltz’s look.

And Waltz began to suspect he was the one being betrayed.

On the far side of the ring, Schultz glowed with satisfaction. This was going far better than he’d hoped. His odds soared.

Waltz had had enough. Fed up with pretending to be a loser, he pounded Schultz’s torso with a quick left-right, left-right, left-right, followed by a left uppercut to Schultz’s jaw that sent him reeling.

The crowd gasped as Schultz fell to his knees and put his left hand on the mat for support; they watched in shocked silence as he struggled to stand; and they groaned as he tried valiantly to get to his feet — and failed.

Poor Schultz looked up, saw three Waltzes ready to finish him off, and realized it was over. With as much dignity as he could summon, he closed his eyes and collapsed on the canvas.

Stunned, the crowd watched in silence as the referee held Waltz’s right fist high overhead and proclaimed him the new champion.

Regrettably, an unexpected result of defeating Schultz was that Waltz lost of most of his students at the club, who didn’t appreciate him making a fool of their best boxer. And other men, who might have challenged Waltz earlier, were too intimidated to even consider getting in the ring with him. And although Waltz made a little off the match, Weiser kept more than his fair share and what was left wasn’t going to help Waltz for very long.

One evening at Otto’s bar, Waltz told Otto his secret dream was to have a farm of his own. Otto grinned and said, “You’re going to have to move to America, if that’s what you want, lad.” Taking Waltz’s silence for agreement, Otto continued, “My cousin Herman went to St. Louis five years ago, an’ now he has enough money to buy a shoe factory. If you really want to get ahead, you ought to go work for Herman. He’d jump at the chance to hire a hard-working man like you.” Warming to the subject, Otto said, “If you worked for Herman, you could save your money an’ get that farm!”

Weiser had come in as they were talking and sat down to join them. “What’s this about a farm?” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “I’ve been reading about gold strikes over in America. If you and I went to America, we could find gold and buy anything we want. How’s that sound, Waltz? A strong man like you could get rich in a hurry in those gold mines.”

“Maybe I could,” Waltz said, “but I can’t leave my mother. Who would look after her?”

Getting into the spirit of the conversation, Otto said, “That ain’t a problem. If you go to America, Hilda an’ I can look in on your mother.”

“An’ take her meals,” Hilda said, taking off her apron and sitting down beside Waltz.

Warming to his idea, Otto went on, “Besides, if you go to America, you’ll have plenty of money to send her.”

“It’s nice of you folks to offer,” Waltz said slowly, “but I can’t go to America — I don’t speak any English!”

“You won’t need to, if I go with you,” Weiser spoke up. “We’re still partners, aren’t we?”

On the tenth day of April 1840, Jacob Waltz and Jake Weiser set out for America from the port of Bremen. They survived violent Atlantic storms that tossed their ship like a child’s toy, and reached New Orleans six weeks later. Although they craved a couple of days on solid land, the seething city of New Orleans stank too strongly of garlic and garbage to linger there. They pushed their way past stoic Swedes with arms akimbo, swarthy Italians kissing and waving their arms, and chestnut-skinned Swahili chained like animals to reach the Mississippi River and embark on the last leg of their journey.

Fourteen days later, their steamboat chugged into the humid heat of early summer in St. Louis. Otto’s cousin Herman had invited Waltz and Weiser to stay at his home, and Weiser’s English was fluent enough to hire a horse-drawn buggy to take them there. The driver worked his way through traffic to a wide boulevard lined with stately homes. Halfway down the block, he turned into the circular drive of a stately three-story red brick home and stopped in front of its white columned entrance.

A black man in overalls hurried to unload their suitcases as a coffee-skinned maid opened the door and said, “Master Herman regrets he is not able to welcome you himself. I am Selma. I will show you to your rooms. You are to make yourselves comfortable. Master Herman will be home at six o’clock.”

Waltz looked uneasily at Weiser. He hadn’t expected such a grand house. Weiser, however, seemed quite at ease and followed Selma up a broad staircase. Waltz followed.

Their rooms were on the second floor, looking out on a trim lawn that sloped gently to a stream. Weiser took Herman at his word and spent the afternoon on the veranda sipping lemonade. Waltz stayed in his room and wrote a letter to his mother.

After supper, as they sat sipping tiny glasses of kirsch, Herman said, “You men are welcome to stay with me as long as you like. Any friend of cousin Otto is a friend of mine.”

Waltz took Weiser’s silence for agreement. Delighted to show off his limited English, Waltz said, “Thank you Herman. We will like to do this.”

“Good,” Herman said. “Now, how about jobs for you lads? I can use a couple of strong young fellows like you at my factory.”

Waltz thought Herman’s offer of jobs was very generous. “We will like to work for you very much,” he said quickly, without bothering to ask what Weiser wanted.

Waltz’s boldness surprised and irritated Weiser. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have been caught dead working in a factory, but this was not an ordinary situation. They were in a strange place without many options. Grimacing inwardly but confident he could manage to avoid any hard labor, Weiser put a smile on his lips and said, “Your offer is most kind, Herman.”

Waltz liked living in Herman’s house, but Weiser wanted to live in the city’s fanciest hotel, and moved into The Planter’s House as soon as he received money from his mother. Meanwhile, Waltz sent his money back to his mother in Germany. Waltz liked being in a city where a man could go for a walk on a spring evening with his head full of plans for the future, and Weiser liked living in an agreeable hotel where no one cared what time he came in at night or got up in the morning.

Always on the lookout for extra money, Weiser found boxing clubs where Waltz could use his Gypsy skills and win fights easily. As they had done back in Germany, Waltz took home the prize money and sent most of it to his mother, while Weiser surreptitiously pocketed the lion’s share of the betting proceeds.

The evening Waltz won the city boxing tournament, Weiser said, “You need a little fun in your life. I’m taking you out to celebrate.”

Polka music filled the air as they entered a tavern filled with merrymakers.

Adam Peeples watched Waltz and Weiser come in. He was in St. Louis promoting a wagon train to the newly-discovered gold fields in California. An enterprising young man who was paid a percentage of the price of tickets, Peeples thought these men had the indefinable but unmistakable look of potential customers. He also knew he’d seen the hefty one in the boxing ring. He stood as they approached and said, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Jacob Waltz, the well-known boxer?”

Waltz blushed and said, “Yah, I am him.”

Peeples smiled and said, “I’m Adam Peeples, and as a rule I don’t take up with strangers, but I’ve seen you fight and it was the best boxing I ever saw. I’d like to buy you a drink.” Seeing Waltz hesitate, Peeples raised his right arm to include Weiser and added, “I’m just visiting St. Louis for a few days, and I could use some company.”

Waltz’s natural caution competed with his thrifty nature, and frugality won. “We accept your invitation,” he said and sat down.

Over generous steins of beer, Peeples adroitly turned the conversation toward his wagon train as he said, “Have you gentlemen heard about the new gold fields in California?”

“No, we have not,” Waltz said. Normally, he would have stopped here, but Peeples’s good-natured charm encouraged Waltz to continue and he said, “Me and Weiser here have been saving up to go prospecting in South Carolina.”

Peeples grinned and he said, “Now ain’t that a coincidence. I come from a long line of prospectors myself. Me and my cousins have dug for gold all the way from Pennsylvania to South Carolina.”

Weiser, who had been admiring Peeples’s tailor-made jacket, said, “I can see you’re doing all right for yourselves.”

“We have our little strikes that keep us from going hungry,” Peeples said modestly. He glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, then said softly, “Would you fellas like an inside tip on the next big strike?”

“Yah!” Waltz said, leaning forward.

“Of course,” Weiser echoed.

“All right then,” Peeples said. “I have it on good authority that the next big strike will be in California.”

To Peeples’s surprise, Waltz leaned back in his chair and snorted, “Ha ha ha, that’s a good one!” Turning toward Weiser with a big grin, Waltz winked and said, “He is making joke, yah?”

But Peeples did not smile and his dark eyes narrowed to slits as he said, “I don’t joke about gold, Mr. Waltz. Not now and not ever.” He paused, then continued, “Nor do I joke about California.”

Embarrassed by his unintentional gaffe, Waltz looked down at his beer and said nothing. And Weiser’s thin lips curved up at the corners as he thought he recognized a kindred spirit in their new acquaintance.

Just then a waiter appeared with their tab. As Weiser and Waltz reached for their money, Peeples forestalled them by saying, “Drinks are on me tonight. Perhaps we’ll meet again before I leave.”

“I’d like that,” Weiser replied.

Although he did not usually reveal much of what he was thinking, Waltz was in an expansive mood as he and Weiser walked toward their respective living quarters, and surprised Weiser by saying, “I like that Adam Peeples, but he’s making a big mistake to go to California.”

“Why do you think so?” Weiser asked, as if he valued Waltz’s opinion.

Waltz smiled proudly and replied, “I know because I study history of America with Herman. He says there’s no gold mining in California since the Spanish went home.”

Two nights later, Weiser and Peeples met again at the beer garden. Over steins of new bock, Peeples said, “Have you thought any more about going to California? My cousin Abraham’s getting up a wagon train, and you’d be welcome to join it.”

“Thanks,” Weiser said, tightening his thin lips in a wry smile, “but my partner would be dead set against it. Besides, if he’s going anywhere, he has his mind set on going to South Carolina.” He paused, then said, “But that doesn’t matter anyway, because Waltz sends half his paycheck home to his mother and I couldn’t convince him to go anywhere right now.”

“I admire his loyalty,” Peeples said.

“So do I,” Weiser agreed quickly, wanting to rectify any image of insincerity that his previous comment may have presented and, although loyalty was not part of his personal ethics, added piously, “It’s the basis of our partnership.”

Peeples pulled his watch from his pocket, checked the time, and yawned. “It’s getting past my bedtime,” he said.

“Mine, too,” Weiser said quickly, reaching into his pocket slowly.

As Weiser had hoped, when the waiter appeared Peeples said, “Put it on my tab, Charlie.” Turning to Weiser, Peeples said, “Now you be sure to keep my wagon train in mind if your circumstances change.”

“I’ll do that,” Weiser said.

One week later, Waltz received a letter from his mother with a note from Otto informing him of his mother’s death. The letter had been found on her bedside table. Holding his mother’s letter in his right hand, Waltz sat down heavily and passed his left hand across his forehead. As he gazed at his mother’s handwriting, tears filled his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. He leaned forward, sighed, and let his head sink onto his folded arms.

After a time he rose, pulled on a grey sweater that matched his mood, and walked down to the harbor. He often came here at the end of the day. Wagons that had been piled high with goods from New Orleans were gone, and the horses that pulled them were unhitched and grazing in a nearby field. There were no ships unloading, no teamsters cursing — just the quiet wash of the Mississippi River splashing gently against the shore.

A stray dog, his brown coat mottled from scratching fleas, limped beside Waltz a little way, then left him for a promising pile of garbage.

Waltz sighed. His mother was gone and he would always treasure her memory — but with her passing, he was free to go prospecting, save his earnings, and buy land. In his mind’s eye, he saw a pretty white farmhouse surrounded by fertile fields. Chickens strutted around the yard pecking in the dirt and cows waited to be milked at the end of the day. Vegetables grew near the house, and perhaps a few flowers. He sighed again, sad that his mother did not live to see it.

The next morning, Weiser sought out Peeples to say, “Waltz’s mother has died and left Waltz free to go to South Carolina, but I’m not so sure that’s the best place to go.”

A little put off by Weiser’s insensitive response to Waltz’s tragedy, Peeples met Weiser’s eyes and said, “Why did you come to me?”

Surprised into candor, Weiser replied, “Because I’d rather go to California.”

Peeples wasn’t quite sure he wanted the likes of Weiser in his company, and his response came as a surprise to Weiser as he said, “Right now you’re better off going to South Carolina.”

Weiser’s eyes widened. “I thought you’d agree with me,” he said.

Seeing Weiser’s dismay, Peeples grinned and said, “California gold is just rumors right now. You should go to South Carolina and learn how to prospect.”

Suspecting Peeples of selfishly trying to shut him out, Weiser frowned and said, “You’re changing your tune mighty fast.”

“It ain’t that,” Peeples said. “Big strikes take a while to get going, and it takes real mining experience to be successful when they do. My cousin Edward in Spartanburg can take you into the mountains and get you ready for the California Gold Rush when it comes. If you and Waltz learn how to process ore with Edward, I’ll let you know when our wagon train is ready to roll.”

“All right,” Weiser said reluctantly, as serious work had not been part of his agenda. “You’re the expert.”

Seeing an opportunity for a quick sale, Peeples winked and added, “Just between us, I’ll go with you as far as my trading post and sell you supplies for less than you’d pay here in St. Louis.”

Two weeks later, having settled their accounts and said their goodbyes, Waltz and Weiser once again went aboard a Mississippi River steamboat and sailed south to Adam Peeples’s trade station at Cairo, Illinois. Adam gave them a roof to sleep under and a letter of introduction to his cousin Edward in Spartanburg. He also sold them two horses and the gear they’d need for camping along the way.

The next morning, as the pair resumed the journey toward their future, Waltz grinned with satisfaction. “We’re finally on our way,” he thought, “and I have the finest partner a man could ask for. He’s real good at talking and arranging things, and he wants the same things I do — like this pretty little farm we’re riding past. And more than anything, I can trust him. Yessir, I’m real lucky to have Weiser for a partner.”