Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887)

Dutchman and the Devil:

The Lost Story

Pat Parish

Copyright 2013 Pat Parish,

All rights reserved.

Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

http://www.eBookIt.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1288-7

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

My
Dutchman
book began when I was an aspiring illustrator studying with master artist David J. Passalacqua. It came to fruition with the invaluable help of author, columnist, and master teacher Chris Benguhe.

The layout and design were done by Dawn Crichton, who took my text and drawings and turned them into a beautiful book.

Special thanks to my friend and neighbor Johanna Kirk for her unflagging interest and support, as well as her patient proofreading of my seemingly endless early revisions. And, of course, thanks to my official proofreader RaeAnne Marsh, who not only dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, but took the book to the next level.

If it were not for the optimistic support of my family and friends, this book could easily have remained in the realm of a work-in-process. My deepest thanks to Ken Mulholland, Susan Parish, Jim Hsu, Dave Parish, Sara Peebles, Megan Parish, Tonya Parish, Ingrid Klinkhart, John Theodore, Joan Kimura, Deborah Slater, Cattryn Somers, Carsten Wilms, Liz Stover, Deirdre Wallace, Ruth Herman, Susan Jaramillo, Kelli Glancey, Dalia Kaplan, Carolyn Musgrove, M.G. Enderle, Sally Boyd, Chris Boyd, Ed Darley.

A treasury of information was provided by archivists and librarians of the following institutions: Gerry Giordano and Kathleen Garcia in the Arizona Room, Gladys Mahoney in the Rare Book Room, and Elaine Meyers in the young peoples’ department at Burton Barr Central Library (Phoenix, AZ); Diane Bane and Keenan Murray in the Reference Library at the Arizona Mining and Mineral Museum (Phoenix, AZ — now closed); the Phoenix Museum of History (now part of the Arizona Science Center); David Tatum at the Arizona Historical Society Library and Archives (Phoenix, AZ, and Tucson, AZ); Clay Worst at the Superstition Mountain Lost Dutchman Museum (Apache Junction, AZ); Arizona Museum of Natural History Mine Display (Mesa, AZ); and Sharlot Hall Museum (Prescott, AZ).

Helen Corbin’s books
The Curse of the Dutchman’s Gold
and
The Bible on the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine and Jacob Waltz
led me to T.E. Glover’s books
The Lost Dutchman Mine of Jacob Waltz, Part 1: The Golden Dream
, and
Part 2: The Holmes Manuscript
.

And finally, thanks to Clay Worst, who generously gave me an afternoon of his time to share memories of his friend Brownie Holmes, whose father was an acquaintance of the Dutchman.

To K.M.

Jacob Waltz was a big man, but two years in the army living on meager rations had turned him into a giant scarecrow of a man. Slightly embarrassed by his emaciated look, he had grown his bristly black beard out in full to hide his gauntness as much as he could. Ecstatic to be home in one piece, he walked with a bounce in his step, enjoying the late afternoon sun as it shone through towering Linden trees that lined his path. The spicy scent of German sausages and sauerkraut filled the air. After two years of army food, he was ready for a pint of lager and a platter of Otto’s sausages. He grinned, thinking how good it was to be home, with a steady job and enough money for a good meal.

Reaching Otto’s Biergarten, Waltz pulled off his workman’s cap and stooped to keep from hitting his head on the threshold.

The bar was empty except for a dapper young man in a well-tailored suit, who sat by himself at the end of Otto’s gleaming oak bar. He glanced dismissively at Waltz, adjusted his paisley silk tie, and went back to studying his reflection in the ornate mirror behind the bar.

The entrance to the biergarten was open, and Waltz could see Otto wiping tables, getting ready for the evening’s Oktoberfest celebrations. He raised his voice and called out, “How about some service in here?”

Otto came in, wiping his hands on a sparkling white bar apron. His look of impatience changed to a huge grin as he greeted Waltz with a bear hug. “Welcome home, lad,” Otto said. “It’s good to have you back.”

Releasing Waltz and stepping back, Otto examined Waltz from head to toe and shouted, “Hilda! Our Waltz is home from the army an’ they’ve been starving the lad. Bring him a plate of our finest sausage!” Then, without asking, Otto drew two tankards of lager, placed one in front of Waltz, and raised the other. “Prosit, my boy,” he said, and they both drank.

Two minutes later, Otto’s wife Hilda appeared with a huge platter piled high with white sausages, sweet mustard, boiled potatoes, and sauerkraut. She set it down in front of Waltz, put her hands on her ample hips, and beamed with pleasure as he shoveled the steaming food into his mouth.

When his belly was full, Waltz reached into his vest and pulled out his coin purse.

“Your money’s no good here,” Otto said. “You were our son’s best friend, an’ you tried to save him when our truck turned over an’ crushed him. You tried to save him when other men didn’t even try.”

“Johann was my friend,” Waltz replied. “I only tried to do what was right.”

“That’s not true,” Hilda said. “I don’t know where you found the strength to lift that wagon off his legs. An’ you stayed beside him until he died. That makes you a hero, in my eyes.”

Waltz was silent as he remembered that sunlit October afternoon so long ago. He and Johann had been unloading beer barrels for Otto, joking as they worked. In his mind’s eye, Waltz saw the barrels shift and the cumbersome wagon begin to tilt. He shuddered, remembering his helplessness as the wagon fell on Johann, pinning his legs under its weight. And he remembered the tremendous strain of lifting the wagon as Otto pulled his son from under it, and the sickening sight of Johann’s crushed body. Too moved to speak, Waltz patted Hilda’s hand, nodded to Otto, and started home.

Lost in memories, Waltz failed to notice three men following him. As he turned down a deserted street, two of the men closed in and grabbed his arms and held him as their leader stepped in front of Waltz and spat, “Thought you could steal my job, did you?”

Spittle from the man’s lips sprayed Waltz’s face, and his sour, whiskey-laden breath made Waltz turn his face away.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” the man spat, grabbing Waltz’s hair and pulling his head back. “You stole my job an’ you’re going to pay for it,” he snarled, driving his fist into Waltz’s unprotected belly.

Waltz gasped and would have fallen, but the two men holding his arms jerked him upright, dragged him into the alley, and threw him to the ground. Two stout sticks lay beside the wall, ready for the thugs to pick up and thrash Waltz repeatedly and violently until he passed out. Only then did they reach into his pocket and take hold of his wallet.

This attempt caused Waltz to try to fight back, but the thugs saw him move. Mercilessly, they stomped on his hands and kicked his ribs with their steel-toed work boots until he passed out again. To make sure he stayed down, one of his attackers kept his boot on Waltz’s belly until they’d emptied his wallet and stuffed his money into their own pockets.

As a parting gesture, they covered his motionless body with garbage.

An hour later, Waltz opened his eyes and struggled to stand, but could not. He felt like he’d been run over by a runaway horse. Helpless, he stood at the alley’s edge hoping for a Good Samaritan to appear, but no one came to this part of town after dark if they could avoid it.

A policeman passed, but Waltz knew better than to ask him for help — the way he looked and smelled, he’d be arrested for vagrancy and thrown in jail.

As he waited for the policeman’s steps to fade, Waltz saw the sticks his attackers had beaten him with. One of those sticks would make a good crutch.

Gradually, his strength started to return. What time was it? The moon was not yet overhead. It must be before midnight, he decided. Otto’s place would still be open. He could go back to Otto’s.

Each staggering step shot arrows of pain through his battered body. As Waltz turned the corner, he heard the oom-pah-pah of a polka band and saw Otto’s lights. His last thought, as he reached Otto’s porch and sank into oblivion, was, “Otto will help me.”

Otto’s last customers went home at midnight. If any of them saw Waltz, they assumed he’d had too much lager and left him to sleep it off.

With no idea Waltz was lying helpless on his porch, Otto went about the business of closing, humming quietly as he emptied ashtrays and put chairs neatly at their tables. He always enjoyed the quiet after the evening’s crush of merrymakers. The last of his rituals was to make sure his door was securely fastened. And as he stood testing his lock, Otto heard a noise outside, a whimper like an injured animal.

Too softhearted to ignore it, Otto undid the lock, peeked out, and found Waltz collapsed beside his porch, his face and clothing covered with blood. Looking more closely, Otto saw Waltz’s hands were swollen, and bruises were darkening on his face.

“Mein Gott!” Otto exclaimed, although Waltz couldn’t hear him, “You look like you were run over by a beer wagon.”

Otto’s familiar voice was enough to rouse Waltz. After a moment, Waltz looked up through swollen eyes and whispered, “I’m all right, Otto. Nothing to worry about — just tripped on some trash in the alley.”

Relieved to see Waltz conscious, Otto ran to the bar, grabbed a bottle of schnapps, and came back. Kneeling down, he raised Waltz’s head and helped him take a sip of the fiery liquid.

Waltz drank, sputtered, and drank again. So did Otto. After a few minutes, Waltz was able to stand. With Otto’s support, Waltz made it past the bar and into a storeroom where a small cot stood in a corner. Otto eased Waltz down onto the cot and covered him with a blanket. He was asleep before Otto reached the door.

The next morning, Waltz was awakened by the clang of pots and pans. His head throbbed, his eyes were swollen shut, and excruciating pain in his ribs made him want to scream, reminding him with a vengeance of last night’s beating. Aware of how he must look, Waltz struggled out of bed.

Otto was seated at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. Waltz limped over and carefully lowered himself into a chair. Hilda brought him a mug of coffee laced with brandy and went back to chopping vegetables for soup. Peering over his spectacles, Otto looked at Waltz, shook his head slowly, and said, “You need to learn to fight, Waltz. Didn’t the army teach you nothing?”

Feeling better with coffee and brandy under his belt, Waltz said, “I was too busy marching an’ cleaning toilets. Besides, I know how to take care of myself.”

Otto raised an eyebrow and said, “Take a look in the mirror. You got taken care of, all right. Listen to me — I want you to find Raoul the Gypsy an’ take some lessons. When he gets done teaching you how to fight, there won’t be nobody around who’ll even think about taking you on.”

That evening Waltz made his way to the Gypsy camp in the forest at the edge of town. Torches lit the circle of caravans and gypsy children crowded around visitors asking for pfennigs. Waltz asked for Raoul and was led to a swarthy man of medium height dressed in a tattered shirt and pants with more colors than a rainbow. Gold hoops dangled from his ears, a wrinkled bandana showed greasy black hair beneath it, and his coal-black eyes would have caused a timid man to stammer. Waltz’s first thought was to be wary, but he had faith that Otto would never send him to someone he couldn’t trust.

Waltz returned Raoul’s stare without blinking and said, “Otto sent me to learn how to fight.”

Raoul studied Waltz’s battered face and hands. When he finally spoke, his thin lips curled upward in a smirk and his eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I can help you? I’m just a poor gypsy. There are fine gentlemen fighters in Nagold who can give you boxing lessons.”

“I don’t want to fight like a gentleman,” Waltz replied. “I want to fight like a gypsy. Otto says you’re the best.”

Raoul smiled, the gold stars in his front teeth sparkling in the firelight. “Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Otto is a smart man. Come back tomorrow at this time, Mr. Waltz,” and he turned his attention back to a pack of greasy tarot cards spread before him.

Waltz wanted to ask how Raoul knew his name, but was forestalled when Raoul looked up from his cards and said, “I will accept you as my student because Otto is my friend. An’ because you ask me no questions.” He paused, then said, “You will be the best fighter in Nagold, Germany.”

Waltz started home, but before he had gone a dozen steps he was taken from behind. Face down in the dirt, he could smell the Gypsy on his back and feel the garrote against his throat. After a moment Raoul loosened the cord and whispered, “Lesson one is watch your back.”

The next evening, Raoul locked his fingers in Waltz’s black hair and battered his face until his knees buckled. As Waltz lay on the ground, Raoul said, “Lesson two is cut your hair short an’ grease it with lard before you fight.”

In the weeks that followed, Waltz became as tough as any Gypsy, as Raoul taught him countless ways to overwhelm an opponent and pin him to the mat. As Waltz’s skill increased, Raoul set up matches that drew crowds of fans, who relished seeing a white man defeat a Gypsy. His prize money was more than Waltz had ever earned before. And on top of that he was being asked to teach younger men to box like him, and they were ready to pay for his lessons. For the first time in his life, he had enough money to buy meat for his mother’s stew.

Six months later, the dapper young man who had been at Otto’s the evening Waltz came home was sitting at the end of the bar, again staring at his reflection in the mirror. His name was Jake Weiser. As the second son of a prosperous merchant, he had no hope of inheriting his father’s business or property — and no money of his own. But he was also his mother’s darling on whom she lavished money and attention.

Weiser was also a young man with vaulting ambition, who saw his wealthy schoolmates as ready-made targets to swindle. His first success had been four years earlier, when he had manipulated Irwin Braun, one of his wealthy classmates, into a wager to climb the crumbling tower of an old church. The tower was 500 feet high, a challenge no arrogant schoolboy athlete would resist. And although the climb looked easy, Weiser had known the tower was slippery with old leaves and moss. The likelihood of the moss pulling away from the tower had made Weiser’s bet almost a sure thing.

The day of the attempted climb had dawned crisp and clear. The tower had loomed above them in the pale morning light. Without prompting, Braun had winked at his friends and said, “I bet a dollar I can climb this tower.”

Weiser had looked up at the tower and said, “I bet two dollars you can’t.”

Braun’s friends had crowded around, eager to add their dollars to the growing challenge. And Weiser had accepted every bet with the certainty it would take a miracle for Braun — or anyone else — to scale that slippery tower.