Portrait of a Dead Man

The trapdoor groaned under the weight of his sins, hinges wheezing like a thawing lake. If the true weight of his misdeeds had been known, no scaffold could have supported him, but then none would have been needed. The crushing load, accumulated over a lifetime of villainy, would have driven him like a stake through Earth’s crust and straight into hell. There he’d have lain, sniggering at the sickened devil.

Mr Dixon’s stories had provided Florence with a welcome distraction from the ungreased squeal of the cart wheels. They had shared the clutter of the last cart in the train since he broke his leg on the fifteenth day of their journey from Fort Garry to St Paul. Although confined to the cart, he lay across the rear opening with his rifle in his lap, keeping watch, the only part of his job he could still do in his weakened state. Everything else now fell on Mr Cane, who lead the train from the front, riding its length several times each day to check on the welfare of animals, drivers and passengers alike.

Florence worked on her art in the back of the cart during the mornings, when the light was best. She did so mainly in silence until, on the seventeenth day of the journey, when Mr Dixon had come to terms with his pain and found a tolerable way to secure his splint, they struck up a courteous acquaintance which soon relaxed into engaging conversation.

Mr Dixon was more than happy to regale Florence with stories of his travels on the Mississippi, to Fort Benton and the Republic of Texas.

“My tracks have drawn the lines on more than one map. Between here and those blank spaces I have met many people. The world can be a very hard place, but despite this, maybe because of this, most people are good,” said Mr Dixon.

“Most people, Mr Dixon?” said Florence, spotting a doorway to the dark adult world that so intrigued her.

“Most just want to live a life and let others do the same,” said Mr Dixon.

“What about the bad ones?” said Florence, leaning in. “The thieves and killers. The sinners. What are they like?”

“The bad ones are like the good ones. Just with a bit more bad in the mix.”

“No, the really bad ones. The ones that are all bad. What are they like?”

“What are colours like?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Dixon. I don’t fully understand your question?”

“How many colours did you use in your last painting?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. I used a pallet of half a dozen pigments, but the end result showed none of them in their original form. Blending is key to depth you see.”

“I must bow to your knowledge of the fine arts, Miss Florence. Your works are truly marvellous.”

“You are too kind. I hope to get good enough to compete commercially with the daguerreotypes which can be purchased in St Paul.”

“I have one I posed for myself. It was some years ago now, but the impression holds.”

Dixon rummaged a small leather wallet from his saddlebags and opened it to Florence.

“This was my aspect ten years ago in Chicago.”

Mr Dixon’s younger self stood trussed and buttoned in coat and collar. His hoof of a chin jutted towards Florence, his mouth only a thin shadow of his thick, black moustache. Dressed for church but ready for anything.

“That is a fine image of a fine man, Mr Dixon.”

His cheek leather had long since lost the softness needed to blush. The thick curtain of grey moustache hid the small, stiff smile that twitched under it.

“But I could do better,” said Florence.

Florence spent the next morning sketching Mr Dixon as he scanned the passing trail from the back of the wagon. He was determined to be as much use as possible to his partner Mr Cane and cradled his well-oiled rifle, occasionally bringing it to his shoulder to explore site lines, as the landscape rolled and pitched around them.

Florence rocked with the action of the cart and captured her subject loosely in three-quarter profile. Realising the futility of resisting the jolting of her ox-borne studio, she allowed her wrist to play freely over the paper, accepting the contribution of the bumps to the life of her piece. She produced several sketches, chose the finest and added some precise details in the stillness of their midday stop.  

When she showed it to Mr Dixon he swallowed, paused and stared.

“You are a magician,” he said quietly.

“Had I my proper materials, and a less mobile studio, I think I could do better.”

“I could barely write my own name in the back of a moving ox cart, let alone produce a likeness that is… alive. It’s alive! Mr Cane’s gonna be furious. We’ve got another mouth to feed!”

Florence could not contain a short bursting laugh and impolite grin. She regained control of herself and assumed a professional demeanour, storing her joy for later.

Dixon sat for a while with the portrait and daguerreotype resting on his splinted leg, six inches and ten, maybe a more honest fifteen, years apart. The man’s life was captured in their gazed triangle.

“Good afternoon, Narcissus,” said Mr Cane, halting his horse by his entranced partner.

“Miss Florence, I do believe Mr Cane is jealous of my fine portrait,” said Mr Dixon.

“If you keep starin’ at that you’ll turn into a flower,” said Cane. “Although I can’t imagine what type.”

“I ain’t no tansy!”

The two men laughed as Cane swung down from his horse to help Dixon back into the cart.

“Healin'?” said Cane.

“Had worse,” said Dixon.

“Had worse and given worse,” said Cane in a low voice, smiling at his friend and heading back to his horse.

Florence was fascinated by the muttered suggestion and insufficiently naïve to imagine that a man so comfortable with a rifle on his lap and a pistol in his belt had never used either.

“You must have encountered much danger on your travels, Mr Dixon.”

“All travel involves some danger, most can be mitigated by prudent provisioning and planning. As on this journey; Mr Cane and myself have seen to that.”

“But you must have met some dangerous men. Evil men.”

“Evil and dangerous are not the same thing. All men can be dangerous if someone else has what they need.”

“Bandits?”

“Miss Florence, I’d sooner not discuss bandits while we’re still so far from St Paul.”

“Describe one to me and I will draw him. It will be an artistic exercise.”

“It feels like tempting fate to describe a bandit when we have a chance of meeting one.”

“Describe one we might meet!”

“I wouldn’t risk scaring you, Miss Florence.”

“Corinthians chapter two verse eleven says that we will not be outwitted by Satan if we are not ignorant of his designs. I should know a bandit when I see one.”

So, with some reluctance, Dixon described to Florence the bandit Beaujeu Le Voleur. He described the face he had seen several years before when Beaujeu had attempted to rob a train that Mr Dixon was riding with. He had unmasked the bandit during a furious fight that had started with traded shots and ended in blows. On hearing bellowed oaths Mr Dixon had galloped from his post at the back of the train, spotted the masked bandit and exchanged fire with him. Beaujeu had spent his ammunition without scoring a hit on the mounted Dixon. Dixon dismounted and holstered his own pistol in the spirit of a fair fight. Beaujeu managed only one wild lunge with a hidden buck knife before Dixon’s right-hand reply deprived him of weapon and wits.

“That right hand would have stunned a mule. I think he damn near shit himself! Oh my lord. I’m sorry, Miss Florence. I got lost in the vivid recollection.”

“It’s quite alright, Mr Dixon. Did you kill him?”

“No, unmasked him, but while I secured some startled horses the coward fled.”

Mr Dixon spent the rest of the afternoon describing the features of the bandit Beaujeu. Florence scribbled the light away. The next morning, she presented her new work.

“That’s him! The hair’s too smart, you’ve given him clean centre-parted hair, but if he’s still alive, that’s the face he’s walking around with. Although, you’ve given him a nose like a dog’s back leg.”

“I think you gave him that. You hit him with a right hand that would have stunned a mule, didn’t you?”

“Suppose I did.”

“So hard he damn near shit himself?”

“Er, yes, Miss Florence.”

“Then I think his nose might wander a little to his right these days. Take this one too, Mr Dixon. A trophy for your victory and payment for the story I pried out of you.”

Florence wrote under the portrait: The Villain Beaujeu – by Florence Crow. A gift to Mr Dixon 1856, and signed her name with a flourish.  

The train rolled on over grasslands for several more days before beginning to climb into rougher, wooded country. Florence, bored of the endless sweep of the plains, was doubly transported as they entered the sylvanian lair. Her enjoyment of fairy tales had not ended with the commencement of her orphanhood, but had become something she kept to herself. Rolling along the tree-lined track she recalled father’s warm cabin and tales. The light became filtered by needle and bough and all the world was green. Mud slowed progress, but soothed the screeching of the axles. Too cold to draw, Florence sat swaddled in the back of the cart behind Mr Dixon who, in a heavy fur coat, looked like a great bear guarding the entrance to his cave. The bear appeared in several of the fairy tales that Florence told herself as the train tunnelled into the dark woods.

Florence was lost in a half-dreamt tale when the cart lurched to a halt.

“Tree fall,” came the cry from the head of the train. The sounds of men gathering tools and ropes to clear the blocked track could be heard.

Florence watched as Dixon grimaced, irritated by his invalidity, but then straightened suddenly to stare out of the back of the cart. A snapping of branches brought his rifle to his shoulder. A louder crack rang out and Dixon’s rifle fell back into his lap. Florence looked on stunned as, through the steam of the friendly bear’s last breath, a hobgoblin appeared from the woods and crept spindly up to the cart.

As the hobgoblin dragged her down to the mud the bear stirred and raised his head.

“Leave her.”

“Oh no, I think she wants to help me make a deal with your friends, don’t you, Mademoiselle?” whined the hobgoblin in a voice like an ungreased axle.

“I know you!”

“Hmm, I think perhaps you do.”

The second shot ended the conversation, and by the time Mr Cane got to the rear of the train the hobgoblin had a blade to Florence’s throat. Cane saw Dixon’s body and drew his gun.

“Ah, yes, I will take your gun, Monsieur. And, the last cart and its contents. Merci.”

Cane saw the masked face peeping impishly over the girl’s shoulder. The weasel cowered, shrinking behind her, sweeping a pistol around the gathering crowd.

Cane weighed his chances of killing his bobbing target without harm coming to Florence. The coward was too quick with nervous energy. Cane damned himself for considering the hopeless gamble.

Florence breathed the sulphur that wheezed from the mouth sniggering next to her ear. She raised her chin to a solid, hooflike jut.

“I would like to live, Mr Cane. Please do as he says and be on your way. Remove Mr Dixon and his papers from the cart, but leave my valuable art supplies.”

“Non! Leave the papers. I want everything.”

“You want the personal effects of a man you just murdered? Worthless papers that could link you to the crime?” said Florence with a sideways glance at her captor.

“Take his papers.”

Florence stood at the point of the blade until the howling lament of the last cart’s axle was swallowed by the forest. Then, blinded by a stinking sack, she was driven, staggering alongside the stolen cart, through clawing branches and frigid puddles. Eventually they stopped and a shot’s echo brought a pattering of meltwater from the surrounding trees, a braying moan and heavy thud. Then sounds of hacking and sawing and an iron tang filled the cold air, all the while Florence’s boots sinking slowly through pine needles into the iced slurry of the forest floor.

When the sack was removed, she saw one of the oxen hanging by its rear legs from a branch lashed between two trees. A slick pile of offal steamed on the ground.

“You are an artist, Sir.”

The butcher wiped his crooked nose with the back of a bloody hand. A final organ farted from the ox and plopped to the floor.

“Mademoiselle?”

“Such strength! To butcher an ox on your own, not to mention singlehandedly holding up a train and saving me from the dubious designs of an old man. If that were not enough, we stand before your Rembrandt.”

“My Rembrandt?”

“Your recreation of his Slaughtered Ox. I am an artist, Sir, familiar as you no doubt are, with the work. May I paint the scene?”

“The scene will be removed, before the wolves come to remove it. I will take the carcass, the wolves may have the entrailles, and maybe you, for dessert.”

“Do you know how much portraits cost, Sir?”

He ignored the question and set about lashing the carcass to the cart and reharnessing the remaining ox to pull it.

“I could produce paintings for you. You could sell them, or trade them. I could paint you.”

“Who would want a picture of me?”

“For yourself, sir. Powerful men pay huge sums for portraits of themselves. Yours would be free, a record of your success and notoriety.”

“I am notorious.”

“Everybody on these trails knows the name… Beaujeu?”

“You know my name?”

“You are a legend, a fine subject for a painting.”

He pulled the sack over her head without comment and whipped the ox into motion.

The next time the sack was removed Florence found herself in Aladdin’s cave. Her art materials lay on the floor beside her. The scant light from a small lamp flickered over the clutter of the cabin. Through the muddled spoils of a thousand raids stepped Beaujeu. He wore the too-large jacket of a hussar, heavy with braid, festooned with trinkets in a mockery of medals. Scrubbed of ox blood, hair scraped back, he placed one hand, wearing what appeared to be a woman’s lace glove, on his hip. Raising his chin heroically, the limits of his ablutions were exposed, a crusty tidemark of bloody grime peeked from his embroidered collar.

“You may begin.”    

Florence began to sketch her victory. She plotted quietly, reminding herself that she worked well in difficult circumstances.

Shoulders were broadened, jaw strengthened, the instinct to capture Beaujeu’s true nature resisted, and a hero conjured. Among Beaujeu’s stash was a passable oil of a severe old woman. Her puritan glare became the undercoat for the new portrait which began to take shape on the canvas. Florence silently apologised to the woman, consoling her that she was assisting the downfall of a sinner.

“Monsieur Beaujeu, am I right in thinking that I am the only living person who has had the opportunity to study your masculine face?”

“You are.”

“In that case, I have a proposal for you, Sir.”

Florence explained her plan to the posing bandit. They would travel to St Paul as a rescued girl and her heroic saviour. They would dine out on the tale of how the brave man had defeated the bandit Beaujeu and saved his prisoner. There was sure to be a reward.

“I will become my own killer! Ha!”

“Yes! People will easily believe that a man such as yourself beat the weasel Beaujeu.”

“Er, perhaps.”

“And I will not be lying when I tell them that you are my saviour. You have given me shelter, food, allowed me to paint. All debts will be settled in St. Paul.”

In a stolen suit rummaged from his horde, Alexander Bonaparte, rescuer of the damsel Florence, rode in to St. Paul. He was washed and shaven, hair neatly combed, on Florence’s advice, into a smart centre parting.

The new arrivals caused a sensation in the town. Curious crowds were drawn to hear their exciting tale, which was spun to ever greater heights in the saloon. The hero grinned as he played both parts in the reenactment of his dramatic battle. Flushed with free drinks he spun from one admirer to another, until eventually he turned to face his own image. He saw his own crooked physiognomy, staring out from a framed pencil sketch. The frame held the image of the villain Beaujeu on the left and the portrait of the noble Mr Dixon on the right, looking sharply across at him. The frame held the pictures, Mr Cane held the frame.

In the grey morning Beaujeu looked around the unsmiling crowd. His wheezing titter spiralled to a squeak and gave way to wet breaths heaved through clenched, brown teeth. He trembled as Cane tightened the noose and pulled a stinking sack over his head.

Cane saw Florence’s easel in the crowd. The board on the tripod shook with the click and scrape of her work. She stopped to peer at the detail of the scene, then ducked back behind the board, which drummed with the taps and scratchings of her flicking point.   

Beaujeu heard the snare drum of Florence’s sketching stop, and the whole world lurched heavenward.