Greenberry - A Dishonest Day's Work

A thin shaft of bright yellow-white sunshine thrust though a crack in the old barn’s siding hitting Greenberry right between his closed eyes. He winced a bit in the early hours of this new day, but in his repose, supported by straw beneath his ragged jacket, he began his slow but steady waking process. He gloriously stretched his 24-year-old body leading with his hands, then arms, then shoulders and then back. He gazed around as if trying to recall last night and realized his clothes were still damp from the Indian summer rainstorm that forced him to find this shelter.

Beside him lay his worn black leather valise that he obtained during his service in the War of 1812. He opened it and pulled out a potato, a rather peculiar breakfast indeed! With the pocketknife his wife Elizabeth gave him as a marriage gift, he began slowly, deliberately peeling his potato being cautious to waste no potato and meanwhile gazed around his adopted nest. His foggy mind now clearing, he recognized the familiar barn smells and sights. His smooth and confident wrists worked quickly, and he took the first slice into his mouth and crunched, apparently with much pleasure. And so, he continued with his potato until his last small bite was ready at which point, he again reached into his valise and now pulled out a small vial with an eyedropper. He judiciously dropped a drop on this last bite of potato which promptly turned black.

“How about that! It’s danged true!”

 Greenberry knew that it was time to leave this barn and was in fact surprised to have remained undiscovered. He stood up, stooped over to retrieve his jacket and he threw it over his shoulder while picking up his valise and strolling out via a missing board in the barn’s siding.

 He walked rather slowly that morning, taking in the fresh morning air that smelled of wet earth and leaves, along the tree lined town road toward the stable where he had boarded his horse and buggy. The road paralleled a small stream at the head of which was a natural spring. He bent down and had a several handfuls of water before filling his canteen and then washing his face and wetting his hair.

 He made an interesting appearance. He stood about six feet tall, primarily all skin and bones, except his calves which appeared exceptionally well muscled in his buckskin pants while his blue checked cotton shirt hung loosely about his stooped shoulders. And atop those shoulders sat one large head with a homely face that his mother thought to be quite handsome. His hair was unusually disheveled, and he desperately needed a hat.

 A black cat ran across his path as he neared the small town of Forest, Virginia. The residents were just starting their day and presently, the stable owner appeared as Greenberry stepped into the stable to claim his horse and buggy.

“Quite a storm last night Mr. Johnson,” exclaimed Benjamin Clark, the stable owner.

 “Yes indeed. It was a real frog choker!” replied Greenberry nearly forgetting his pseudonym.

Greenberry reached into his pocket for his coins. There were five coins left, and he quickly selected a large cent for Mr. Clark.

 Upon receiving payment Mr. Clark said, “Thank you Mr. Johnson, I will be happy to stable your horse in the future. And good luck with your business in Liberty.”

 “Why certainly Mr. Clark. You enjoy this fine day.” And Greenberry took his horse’s lead and walked him over to his rather stylish wagon and proceeded to hitch up his horse. After a short while he was on the road to Liberty, cheerily singing an Irish drinking song he had learned last week while in Washington D.C.

It was early Fall, and the trees were just beginning to show signs of colors. A few leaves turning yellow among all the green could be seen here and there as he made time toward Liberty. An occasional farm could be seen along the township road but soon there came no farms, no remarkable features, just woods that prevented the morning sun from penetrating the tree canopy. Greenberry cared little for the darkness of the wagon ride along that stretch of road, and it was made worse by the rain that puddled the rutted road here and there.

As he drove the wagon trying to avoid the ruts, he came to a section cut into the side of a hill where some of the hillside had failed. Fortunately, Greenberry had a shovel in with his gear, and he began to clear himself a path through the mucky mess. After an hour of hard work, for which Greenberry had little tolerance, he made his way by, grabbing another potato from his wagon load and had a midmorning snack.

 Two hours later, Greenberry and his wagon reached his destination. It was Market Day in Liberty, and the trade was usually brisk as people came from the county into the city to find their food bargains. Greenberry had been there a few times before but usually remained low key, but that was not the plan for today. His prior trips were what he termed “work opportunity trips” but what most people call reconnoitering.

 His wagon now parked, Greenberry strolled towards the grocery stand of Mr. John Anderson who trades in potatoes. He paused to observe Mr. Anderson’s interaction with his customers. It seemed that Mr. Champ Boland, whom is a grocer in a nearby town, was about to buy potatoes from Mr. Anderson. The two of them were at the introductory stage of their conversation, this apparently being their first meeting.

 As the two exchanged pleasantries, Greenberry innocently walked towards Mr. Anderson’s bin of potatoes and deftly reached into his pocket to pull out his iodine bottle, dropping drops of iodine over the potatoes. Once finished, Greenberry tucked the bottle back into his pocket, nobody having been the wiser, and inserted himself in the discussion.

 “Good morning gentlemen!” exclaimed Greenberry. “My name is Bartram Johnson. I could not help overhearing this transaction unfolding.”

Perturbed by the intrusion, Mr. Anderson curtly said, “Good morning to you. Please excuse me a moment while I finish my business with Mr. Boland.”

 “Certainly,” said Greenberry with an air of expectedness.

 “I am sorry, what was that name again?” said Mr. Boland.

 “Bartram Johnson,” stated Greenberry with a charming yet homely smile.

 “Anderson, I need 20 bushels of potatoes for my grocery business in Midville. I don’t want seed potatoes; I want good Irish potatoes to cook!” protested Mr. Boland.

 Sensing an opportunity, Greenberry intercedes, “Well, Mr. Anderson’s potatoes are Irish potatoes, and they are not seed potatoes, but they look like they have gone bad.” He picked one up in his hand showing both Boland and Anderson.

 “What in the name of Hates??” shouted Mr. Anderson.

 “Why these potatoes are spoiled!” Mr. Boland exclaimed picking one up himself for closer inspection.

 “They all appear to be ruined to some degree,” said Greenberry adding fuel to the fire he just sparked.

 “No deal Mr. Anderson,” said Boland.

 “Wait, I will sell them at 30 cents per bushel,” said Mr. Anderson trying to salvage the deal and rid himself of the bad potatoes.

 As Mr. Boland began to walk away, Greenberry followed quickly along and said, “Mr. Boland, I hate to see anybody get bamboozled.”

 “I don’t know where I am going to find enough potatoes for my store. This is a huge problem for me.” said Boland.

 “Well, I was on my way up to Lynchburg with my load of Mercer potatoes to sell but, if you like, you could buy my potatoes. It would save me the time and trouble of continuing my travel up there. What do you think?” said Greenberry.

 And they walked to Greenberry’s wagon where Boland could plainly see this load of fine potatoes. “I know potatoes sir, and these are mighty fine ones. Worth every bit of 50 cents per bushel.” Greenberry’s words were carefully measured while Boland bit into one.

 Boland says, “Very fine indeed Mr. Johnson. But 50 cents per bushel? That is high for a bushel.”

 “I will take 42 cents per bushel since this transaction will save me so much time and trouble,” he said in a deliberately troubled voice thinking he was about to cinch the deal.

 “Fine,” said Boland and offered his handshake to seal the deal. Boland then counted out four dollars and twenty cents. Then Greenberry and Boland started transferring the goods from Greenberry’s wagon.

 Walking away from his wagon and back toward the stand of Mr. Anderson, Greenberry did some quick math in his head and remarked to himself that it was quite a deal, 10 bushels of stolen potatoes has now made him $4.20 to which he added to his pocketful of coins.

 “You did something to my potatoes!” yelled Mr. Anderson as he looked at Greenberry with some disgust while busily throwing out the top layer of potatoes to salvage what was left. 

 Greenberry just smiled at Mr. Anderson and said, “I will buy those that remain for fifteen cents a bushel.”

 Anderson turned his back to Greenberry and when he turned around to accept the deal, Greenberry was nowhere in sight.

 Meanwhile, back at the barn where Greenberry had spent the night, Harley Lones was discovering that his ten bushels of fine Mercer potatoes were missing.