Thank you, Sklamb, for your help with the language.
Crime and Punishment
Abigail Jones reached for her magnifier. Her cherished Sunday morning – the only time she kept all for herself - was suddenly disturbed by an uncomfortable irritation. Undisturbed time was a treasured luxury for someone who was normally surrounded all day by noisy children. And not only by children - It wasn't always easy to share the house with her mother. But admittedly even that had its merits, since Abigail earned a good income for them both, and her mother cheerfully took care of most of the household chores, especially on Sunday mornings. So Abigail could remain at the breakfast table for a good half hour sipping a last cup of hot, creamy coffee while her mother washed up the breakfast dishes.
As usual, she had unfolded her newspaper with gentle anticipation and had read the newest chapter of the serial love story first. When she was alone she occasionally indulged in romantic feelings which she tried to hide from her pupils. After a sip of coffee she had turned the paper back to the first page to read the not so pleasant but necessary news. First she had read the political articles - the problems between the North and the South continued to increase - and then about a man who was condemned to death because he robbed and murdered two older women - sisters - living alone. Abigail had shuddered when she had thought that she and her mother were in the same situation. What would she do if a murderer with a pistol burst into their home? Good that the man was caught, tried, and condemned. And it was far away - in San Francisco. But then she had seen the picture of the young man – and it seemed somehow familiar to her. The sketch was very precise and her magnifier gave her the confirmation she needed.
Abigail Jones was astonished: it was Flint, Flint Fitzgerald Fisher. Abigail looked again through the magnifier; she needed to see his eyes. Yes, she would never forget Flint's eyes, she thought, and her mind wandered to the day when she had seen those pale eyes first. It was on her first day here at the school in Virginia City a little more than ten years earlier...
She had entered the classroom a little nervously, having been warned by many of her colleagues back East that pupils in the West were uneducated savages. It was a pleasant surprise to find a glass of freshly picked wildflowers on her desk and a class of around thirty-five children of different ages who all stood to greet her politely. When the pupils sat down again she wondered why one of the third graders was alone on his bench. The boy was uncombed, his face and clothes dirty. Did the others not want to sit with this boy? She decided to keep an eye on the situation.
During the day the intent stare of the boy's pale blue eyes followed her steadily when she explained something. Judging by his answers he was intelligent. On the second day she asked a curly haired small boy that looked friendly to sit next to Flint. He tried to protest - they weren't friends - but she was firm that he should try and sit there for at least two weeks. She was startled when she heard Flint saying, "I don't need anybody but if you wish, ma'am, he can sit here." Nevertheless, at that time she was convinced she had done a good thing. - but not for long.
But only a week later she found both eight year olds rolling around in the schoolyard locked together like terriers. Without the help of some older boys she couldn't have separated them. She never learned why the fight started but it led to her first meeting with Benjamin Cartwright, when he came in to discuss the behavior of his son Joseph.
When Mr. Fisher never appeared, she asked Flint why his father hadn't come, suspecting the boy had never delivered her note. Instead, Flint told her, "In the morning he's too drunk from the night before to come, and in the afternoon he's on his way back to the saloon. You didn't know about my father – the town drunk?" The boy's look wasn't ashamed, more defiant, so Abigail decided to change the subject.
"Where's your mother?"
"She's dead."
"Who takes care of you then?"
"Mrs. Brown comes once a week and cooks and cleans and I can take care of myself. I'm fine. But one day I will study at an university and learn everything and earn a lot of money like my mother's father did."
The next day at recess she asked Flint to stay inside. Then she gave the boy a new pocket comb and a bar of soap she had bought at the mercantile.
When Flint gazed at her quizzically she thought she had maybe offended his pride. The boy had looked at his hands holding the items and then at her again. "But I ... but my father ... he won't pay for this."
"It's a gift, Flint. I would like to see you clean. A boy that wishes to go to a college someday must look after his appearance. You can ask me when you need more soap."
The smile in the boy's face gave even his watery-blue eyes a warm glow.
During the next two years there weren't any big incidents with Flint. He sat alone on his bench and she didn't force anybody to sit next to him any longer. Flint learned quickly and eagerly - she sometimes lent him books trying to feed his brain. The boy seemed to like her in his own way even though he never used the words 'please' or 'thank you'. How the ten year old was able to get a copy of "Moby Dick" into his hands - a novel whose issues she wasn't sure were really proper even for adults - she never found out, but she was thoroughly astonished when the boy wrote an essay justifying Captain Ahab. And there were other features she remembered now she didn't like to see in him. The worst one was that he disparagingly snorted or rolled his eyes when another child gave a wrong answer - the more obviously the less bright a child was.
When Flint was eleven an incident happened that took her to her limits as a teacher.
When she went on the porch to ring the bell for school's start that morning she saw a cluster of children huddled together and heard crying. She separated the group and finally discovered little Flora in the middle of the heap. Flora was one of her children of sorrow - plump and very slow witted but good natured and without any malice. The girl was overflowing with tears, her torn long wool stockings showing her bloody knees. "He pushed me from behind, I fell, and then he took my lunch pail," she sobbed.
"Who did such a terrible thing to you, honey?"
"It was Flint, I saw him running away."
Abigail twisted around to confront Flint, who was still standing behind the others, where she had glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye. The boy was chewing, his look defiant.
"Did you do it?"
The white-blond boy nodded and shrugged.
It was that shrug that brought her blood to a boil. She ordered him into the schoolroom and told the class to wait outside. Once alone with him, she tried to calm down and follow the rule of the "audiatur et altera pars"- let both sides be heard - as she had learned in her teachers' training.
"Why did you do it, Flint?"
"Because she is nothing more than fat and dumb. She's useless. An useless mouth!"
Abigail was speechless. Could a child be so insolent? And then she decided that she had to teach the boy a lesson in respecting others. She found the hickory switch she had brought with her on her first day at school that stood unused in the corner next to the wardrobe. After she had told the boy that his behavior was unacceptable she used the switch on him and would have given him more strokes if the dry stick hadn't shattered. Nevertheless she thought her message had come through until she saw his eyes - cold, tearless, and still defiant blue eyes. Maybe this was the moment when she felt worst as a teacher in her whole life. Had the boy reacted so because she wasn't as calm as she pretended? Had she punished in anger? Certainly she was angry, such a behavior must make any teacher angry. But she hadn't punished him overly hard - maybe she would have, but the shattered stick had saved her. No, the anger wasn't the point. The point was the boy didn't feel any guilt or regret for his deed. Was what she had intended as a justified lesson nothing more, to the boy, than one more bout of violence to endure? The marks and welts of his father's drunken rage weren't easily overlooked. On that day she understood it wasn't the punishment that teaches a child right from wrong; it was insight into his misdoing and regret for it. Without that any punishment would only harden the recipient's heart more; and Flint didn't regret. How could she get him to understand and maybe let him do an atonement voluntarily?
"Were you hungry?"
A small nod.
"Why didn't you ask her in a civil manner? Maybe she would have shared with you. She is such an unselfish and friendly girl that she would probably have given you something even though you've never been very polite to her. Or you could have asked me. People can help each other! Intelligence and good grades aren't everything¸ you know? A friendly and generous character often counts for more."
She had never seen Flint's expression so surprised. It seemed a new idea for him. She remembered how she had thought then she could possibly manage to make him understand the Golden Rule. But only a week later he and his father had moved to Carson City. Mr. Fisher intended to master his life again and hoped for a fresh start in a new town. Later she had heard Mr. Fisher died ...
"Abigail? Dear, don't you hear the church bells? Are you ready?" her mother's not too gentle voice called while she tore open the door and came in, full of curiosity. "What are you doing? Why aren't you dressed for church?"
"Nothing, mother." Abigail quickly folded the newspaper and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom. "I'll be ready in a minute," she called down, trying to forget about Flint; trying even harder to forget the one small smile she had received from that dirty skinny little boy.
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Was it only a coincidence that today's sermon was about regret and the Lord's forgiveness? Abigail sat with her mother at the table, spooning up the vegetable soup, absorbed in her thoughts.
"It's not very polite not to pay attention to what you eat, Abigail, dear. Is something wrong?"
"I must see the Cartwrights, mother. They weren't in church."
"It's branding time. Maybe they aren't at home."
"Maybe but I will try it. At least their cook can tell me where they are and when they return. I think Mr. Ben and Adam are the ones who could help me. A carriage ride to the Ponderosa will be a nice Sunday afternoon trip anyhow in this pleasant spring weather."
"You and your Adam!"
"No! It's not what you think, mother! Please, it's important. I'll explain later."
If Abigail wasn't so worried she would had been annoyed by her mother's knowing grin. Maybe she was a bit fond of Adam Cartwright. He was not only a handsome young man but also well educated and a musician. Men who sang were always so romantic. But right now she was faced with a very unromantic prospect. Even if her way led her first to the Ponderosa.
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When Abigail Jones arrived at the big ranch house the door opened immediately and the small Chinese cook bowed.
"Is Mr. Ben Cartwright at home?"
"No, ma'am, solly."
"And Adam Cartwright?"
"No, solly." Again a polite bow. "Only Mistel Joseph here."
"Little Joe?" Abigail tried not to sound too disappointed. It wasn't that she didn't like the young man. He had his qualities but right then ...
"Hello, Miss Jones, nice to see you. What brings you out here?" Joe Cartwright graciously handed her down from her carriage.
No doubt, Joseph was a man now, even if his smile was a bit nervous. Most former pupils were that way when they encountered her. Was she such a stern teacher? But then it wasn't bad to be respected. Abigail smiled. "Joseph, I wanted to talk to your father or your eldest brother - I have a problem."
"May I help you?"
"No, I don't think so. I need the school board. It's about - Flint Fisher."
"Flint, my old classmate? What happened with him?"
Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice that brought Abigail to an unforeseen decision. "Joseph, maybe I can talk to you. Have you read the newspaper? Flint murdered two women. One of them a pawnbroker. He robbed and killed them. Can we maybe go inside?"
"I read about but I didn't ... Sure. Hop Sing can bring some coffee."
"Oh, please don't go to any trouble."
"No trouble; Hop Sing just brewed fresh coffee, we were just sitting in the kitchen..."
"Then I would like to drink a cup and talk with you," Abigail said. "And I wouldn't mind sitting in Hop Sing's kitchen."
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"You are right, Miss Jones. It's him. It's Flint." Little Joe let sink the newspaper, shaking his head slightly. "He's my age. Nineteen years old, and now he will die."
"I thought you didn't like him? You were enemies."
"No - I didn't like him but - we weren't enemies. He was strange somehow. But sometimes I was very sorry for him. You know how bruised he was at times ... "
Abigail nodded and Joe continued, "It was something about him. Don't know how to describe it. Determined. Defiant against his fate. I remember one summer - I think we were ten then - when during recesses he filed on a piece of iron for weeks. He used a wax mold of a key as a guide. When we asked him what he was doing he told us, 'My father will never again lock me in for a whole weekend - without food.' And then he went back to his filing twice as hard as before. I even admired him secretly for making a duplicate key," added Joe Cartwright with a small apologetic laugh.
"I never saw him doing it or heard another child mention it." Abigail was surprised.
"Er, well... copying a key isn't something you would show or mention to a teacher, ma'am." His voice sounded somehow boyish again.
Abigail suddenly gave in to the desire to reveal her intentions. "Joseph, I want to travel to San Francisco. Flint has no relatives. I know he has to die but I can't let him face death all alone. He was a pupil of mine."
Joseph's understanding nod was the last confirmation she needed to go ahead with her plans.
"Now I have only to convince the school board to hire a substitute teacher for when I'm away. That's why I'm here to speak with your father and eldest brother. I thought maybe Adam could teach for a week." Abigail purposefully straightened her shoulders as she prepared to rise.
"Adam and Hoss are staying on the range with the cattle, but my father's coming back tomorrow evening. I will tell him." Little Joe's smile was warm and trustworthy.
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Three days later Abigail Jones sat in the stage coach to San Francisco. Under the leadership of Ben Cartwright, the school board had decided to give the pupils a week longer Easter break with some additional written assignments. A solution that satisfied everyone. She was only secretly a little disappointed that Adam had preferred the branding over the teaching.
Abigail, holding her book with one hand on her lap, looked through the narrow window, staring at nothing. After a while her gaze focused again and fell on the young man curled in the diagonal opposite corner of the otherwise empty stage, absorbed in his reading despite the bumping and rattling of the coach. Had Joe Cartwright volunteered to accompany her or had Ben Cartwright sensed how frightened she really was by this journey and its target? Whichever the reason, she was grateful to have a companion. It was true they didn't have too much in common or many issues to discuss - like she would have had with his oldest brother - but Joseph knew Flint and was willing to support her proposal. So she had bitten her tongue instead of commenting on the dime novel he was reading. She had hoped to refine the literary tastes of all her pupils - she had chosen books by the best authors - but sometimes she obviously failed. She must have sighed since the boy looked up and smiled shyly at her before immersing himself in his book again.
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Her heart was pounding when she went to the wooden box in the dreary green painted hall and told the gruff-looking face behind the window that she had been Flint Fisher's teacher and she and a former classmate wanted to visit him. Even before the officer opened his mouth she knew she wouldn't like his answer.
"Flint Fitzgerald Fisher? You can't visit him. First it's not visiting hours, second you don't have authorization, and third - the prisoner killed himself the day before yesterday. Nobody here's very happy he cheated the hangman. The only good thing is it's cheaper - we don't have to buy a new rope." His cruel grin sobered quickly when Abigail turned on him the same disgusted glare she'd used for schoolboys with squashed frogs in their back pockets. The man cleared his throat, "Are you going to collect his personal effects? You were his teacher? That's better than her!" The officer nodded disparagingly at a young women sitting on the hard wooden bench that ran along the opposite wall. Over her short red dress the young woman wore a thin grey cape and her face, despite its heavy makeup, was pale.
"What did you tell her? I am - I was Flint's fiancée. Why are you so mean?"
Abigail didn't doubt for a second what the young girl's profession was and she was not in the least fond of saloon girls, but this skinny girl with her red-rimmed eyes and her thin cape looked more like a little sparrow than a proud sinner.
"One more word, you dirty little whore, and I will lock you up for at least a week!"
"Wait a moment!" Now Abigail's sense of justice was aroused. "The girl did nothing ..."
Abigail felt a hand on her shoulder - she had almost forgotten about Joseph. "Miss Jones, maybe we had better take the girl and go somewhere else. I saw a coffee shop right over there."
When she turned Joseph drew his hand back, obviously embarrassed that he had touched her. "I only thought - maybe it's better than ... , ma'am."
Abigail took a deep breath to compose herself and then smiled at Joe reassuringly. "You are right, why should we argue with this officer? Clearly we must direct our inquiries to his commander." Head high, she stalked out of the building, confident that Little Joe was well able to charm the young person into cooperating without her assistance.
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When they were seated comfortably around the table, drinking hot coffee Abigail was finally able to absorb what she had been told. Flint was dead. She was shocked even though she had known that the journey would end in that.
She looked at the young girl - she doubted she was older than seventeen - that sat opposite her, eyes downcast. Maybe she could tell them something about Flint so their voyage wouldn't feel so absolutely needless.
"You were his fiancée, Melvie?" Abigail began.
"Not really - but I was the only person who cared about him. Or the only one before you two showed up. I wasn't aware until the day I saw him the last time but I think I loved him ..."
When Abigail exchanged glances with Joseph she saw that he seemed as surprised and pleased as she felt.
Abigail looked back at the girl whose hands were wrapped around the cup as if she was trying to draw the last warmth out of the already empty china. She shivered.
"Would you like to tell us about him?" Abigail asked softly.
The girl nodded, gratefully accepting the new cup of coffee Joe had ordered without asking.
"Yes, I will tell you - maybe it's good to tell. Flint was a ... he visited me. He was different. You know I meet a lot of men I mean but he was different. He was tough. He told me he worked to pay for his studies. When he came he was arrogant sometimes - but when he was nak- with me I mean it was such a loneliness deep inside him." The girl stared in her coffee. "You know I'm maybe an expert in loneliness." After a sad smile that for a moment exposed a damaged front tooth she lifted the cup and took a sip, then continued hesitantly, "He visited me a few times. Each time he seemed more exhausted. Then the day came when he was angry. He paced around and swore and complained about that old witch - that vermin - that grew fatter and fatter off his blood. And not only his - but off the blood of all the poor. I didn't know who he meant and I tried to calm him down but it wasn't possible. Maybe I should have tried harder but ..."
The way Little Joe handed the crying woman his handkerchief seemed quite natural.
"Sorry!" the young woman mumbled when she gave it back after a last sniff, "now it's full of eyelash-black."
"That's really not important. Do you feel better now?" The boy's smile was indeed very engaging.
The girl nodded and smiled gratefully back at Joe Cartwright.
Joe was really good at comforting a woman, Abigail noted again to herself. Maybe it was time to stop calling him Little Joe the way his family and all his friends had always done.
"Yes, I'm better, and I want to tell you the whole story." Melvie straightened herself up and proceeded, "After that night he didn't return for a full month. When he did come again he looked terrible. When I thought he was exhausted before so now he was destroyed. He told me that he had maybe to flee. That he did a thing some people would consider as bad. But what he had done was justified and that scruples were only a sign of weakness. But that the police were after him. Then he left. A week later I heard he was in prison - he was an accused murderer. I heard he had killed the old pawnbroker and her sister too because she came home at the wrong moment. I knew immediately he did it. I hadn't any doubt. But –
I was at his trial where he was sentenced to death by hanging. When the judge pronounced the sentence he stood there very rigid, his head up, unmoved. The whole crowd that attended the courtroom jeered at the killer. But I - I felt sympathy for him - surely the only person in that big room.
I visited him in prison, brought him something to eat. I think he was surprised I came - without - without payment. He was mostly sarcastic but when I left he asked if I would come again. So I did.
When I came the day before yesterday..." She took another sip of coffee before she spoke again. "He sat on that small stool near the cell door. You know it was another officer, a real kind one, who had to watch us - I don't know why but I stretched my hand through the bars and stroke his head, his neck, his back. Nothing more. I had never done something like that before to him. He didn't do anything. He didn't turn. He only let it happen." She looked at Abigail and Joe questioningly. "Something changed. It was odd. I felt it under my hand. Like if a stone relaxed. Something like that. So we were sitting - silent - a long time. Then he pressed my hand to his eyes and kissed it - very tenderly - he was never overly tender before - and when I withdrew my hand it was wet. When I left him he said in a small voice I never heard before from him 'Thank you.' The rest you know, his suicide in that night and that I'm waiting to see if the judge will let me have his things. There's nothing worth much but I wouldn't like for them just to throw it away."
After her long speech the girl looked a bit more confident but her tense grip around her cup hadn't eased, Abigail noticed. Trying to encourage her, Abigail suggested, "Then let's try and go to the judge now, and maybe we can achieve something together."
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When they headed back in the stage to Virginia City Abigail reflected on the last few days. It hadn't been too difficult to claim Flint's few possessions. Except for a few books and supplies for his studies that had been in the small rented room he shared with another young man, the boy had had literally nothing other than what he had carried on his body. But Melvie took the small box that the judge presented to her with great reverence.
Then the funeral. A cheap coffin, a distant corner of the cemetery and no priest. But at least the three of them had been there. They had prayed for his soul and thrown a few flowers in his grave. That was all they could do.
The next day they had said good bye to Melvie. Abigail wished she had had the opportunity to help the girl but she couldn't. She had given her a few dollars and they had exchanged addresses. Maybe there would be a way later? Perhaps she could find a more respectable job for her or maybe Joe would ask Ben Cartwright to help the girl. The stage jolted and Abigail had to catch the leather strap to steady herself. Joseph, who sat opposite her, also looked up and their gazes met.
"I'm still thinking about ... what do you believe, why did Flint do it, ma'am?"
Abigail's hand went in the pocket of her dress to the little item that she had cleaned diligently in the hotel after they had met with the judge. Slowly she pulled out the small scrap of horn that Melvie had let her have. It was filed into a small rectangle with a hole for a string at one end. She wouldn't have recognized it if she hadn't seen the one rough side over which she just rubbed her thumb - the irregular surface where all the small comb's teeth had broken off. She answered Joe's question while her eyes suddenly stung, "Maybe because he wasn't all bad. And at least not so 'without scruples' - and regret - as he considered himself."