DELIVERANCE – a short story by Des Molloy

Bernie Bayliss passed through the automatic doors of Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, out into the bright summer sunshine.  An elderly, slightly stooped figure with a walking cane in one hand, the other pulling a luggage trolley, he was slow but reasonably steady.  Moving along the concourse 50 m or so to get some space, he paused and reflected briefly before putting his mind to locating the car that had been left for him.

“Every big journey starts with a single step … I don’t know if that is quite what Chairman Mao said before his epic China walk … but I am possibly now on a slippery slope to infamy, with no way back.”

What started this mysterious trek across the world?  A shakily-written letter – a call to arms.  That was the impetus?

‘Bernie, I have a plan to save my country from the big man … the despicable bullying failure that purports to be our leader.  The one whose name I refuse to utter.  In the memory of my Dot, I have to do this … so I can rest easy through my last months.  I want help, and feel only you can provide this.  I’d like you here before the 18th of July and you’ll need your Blisset. Regards, Art’.

Only a couple of days earlier Bernie was just a non-descript Kiwi pensioner, happily living out his allotted time in Golden Bay, shopping for groceries on 10%-off-Tuesday, meeting his bike-riding crew for their Old Farts’ lie-telling session at Roots Bar on Sunday … and filling in the other days in his garage workshop attending to his various hobbies.  Two of which had led him to where he was today.

He had corresponded with Art Higginson for over 40 years, and now was on track to finally meet with him … way over in Idaho, up near the Canadian border.  This was Bernie’s first trip to the US and he knew it would be his last, so had put together a convoluted path to get to Spirit Lake, 25 miles north of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. The route would also show a trail of innocence … should it be needed.  Bernie suspected that the activity that Art needed him for was nefarious.

Bernie and Art’s lives had entwined in many ways since Bernie responded to a piece in Cycle Magazine about the US Vintage Military Motorcycle Club.  That was in 1981 and both were young-marrieds in their early-thirties. Bernie and Adie had two toddlers at their feet whilst Dot and Art were childless, despite enthusiastically trying hard to create a secession lineage.  Bernie had gained ownership … simply because it was under the old house they had bought in the small hamlet of Tukurua … of a rare Indian motorcycle that he wanted information about. Art was not only the membership secretary of the club, but also had the same unique model, the Indian 841.

When the US entered WW2, they got involved in more than just the Pacific Theatre. They were also part of the Allied Forces’ efforts in North Africa and this partially created the genesis of this story.  All participants in the conflict had recognised the usefulness of motorcycles, because of their ability to go almost anywhere and get around things, park anywhere etc. In 1941, the US Government noted that the German shaft-drive bikes were far superior to the models in use from either of their manufacturers, Indian and Harley Davidson … and also better than all the British offerings from BSA, Norton, Triumph, Velocette and Matchless.  The Military-model Harley Davidson WLAs and Indian 641Bs already in use were in-line vee-twins with chain drive.  This format caused the back cylinders to overheat badly in hot conditions and the chains and sprockets to wear quickly in desert use. The US Government asked their two providers to quickly design something similar to the German BMWs and Zundapps, placing an order for 1,000 bikes from each for testing. Thus the Harley Davidson XA and Indian 841 came into being.  The XA was a flat-twin close-copy, whilst the 841 was an across-the-frame vee-twin more like a modern Moto Guzzi.  Both were shaft-drive, with their cylinders out in the breeze, built military-tough.  However, ultimately neither saw service. The powers-that-were, also asked industry for a light-weight 4 x 4 reconnaissance utility vehicle to be created and assessed.  The American Bantam Car Company provided them with what became the ‘Jeep’ and further bike orders never eventuated.  The Jeep could do it all.  Bantam were clearly too-small-a-player, so the government had the production of 650,000 Jeeps made by Willys and Ford.  Harley and Indian did provide 100,000 WLAs and 741Bs to various Allied forces but their more-suited XA and 841 test bikes never got issued.  A few years after the hostilities finished, some of the bikes were auctioned off, and some were scrapped. They hardly even made the history books.

How Barry’s got to Tukurua was never known, and only one other had surfaced within the NZ vintage vehicle world.  Art and Barry soon had letters and photos criss-crossing the Pacific.  This mutual support was great for Barry as obviously there were no parts stockists or model specialists local to him.  Over the years they became Par Avion friends.  Art worked for the Coeur d’Alene’s Sheriff’s office whilst Dot was employed by the Museum of North Idaho as a researcher and cataloguer.  They had a small-holding out by Spirit Lake with several utility buildings where they stored and displayed their hobbies.  Their Indian 841 had been gifted to Art by his Uncle Herbert who had bought it at an auction at the Indian works in Springfield, Massachusetts, when they closed in 1953.  With a steady income and no children to support, a collection of militaria grew.  Firstly a Willys-powered WW2 Jeep was obtained and restored, later the pairing of wartime ‘what might have been’ bikes was completed, with the purchase of a Harley Davidson XA from a fellow USVMMC member across in Washington.  The owner had aged into infirmity and looked to Art for stewardship going forward.  That had been 20 years back and Barry sensed that a further ‘handing on of the baton’ wasn’t far head.

It was Dot who got them into the world of air canes … walking sticks that fired a sizeable ‘shot’ ball pneumatically.  Cataloguing some Lewis and Clarke expedition supplementary notes at the museum, she came across a scholarly discussion about their use of an air gun, demonstrations of which, had intrigued the Indians because of the lack of a loud noise or accompanying bags of gun powder.  The notes at hand had esoterically put forward arguments as to whether it was an Austrian-made multi-shot Girardoni Windbüchse ‘wind rifle’ or a single-shot Lukens, made in Philadelphia.  Dot loved nineteenth century technology and with her interest piqued, subsequent private research led her into another niche world of enthusiasts, one even more obscure than Art’s.  Soon her focus was on subsets in this new field of interest of hers.  She learned that there were not only pneumatically-powered rifles, but also similarly powered walking-stick canes designed to ostensibly look like a benign gentleman’s strolling appurtenance.  There were flintlock or percussion ignition versions of the walking stick but these were of lesser interest to her.

Her first purchase was a walking cane from the 1850s. This was complete with the ornate wooden storage box proclaiming it to be ‘made in London by Gun Maker J.P. HUBBARD of 26 Newgate St, London.’  In those days before the internet, it took all the skills of Dot as a museum researcher, to locate and engage with experts in this ephemeral field.  She learned that the sealing of the air valve was done with a piece of animal horn lapped onto the valve seat using common chalk.  With this knowledge, Art was able to refurbish the Hubbard into working condition.  A blackthorn Reilly followed, then a Townsend and recently a beautiful cased cane by T Conway of 15 Blackfriers St, Manchester, with both a rifled and a plain ‘shot’ barrel.  Along with creating a display case for the air canes, equipment for casting brass ‘balls’ was sourced and skills were developed so they could make ‘shot’ which they also sold to other collectors.

Almost on the other side of the world, and serendipitously, Bernie employed a young lad as an apprentice ‘operator’ in his earthworks contracting business. Blunder as Jacob was nicknamed was a slightly over-enthusiastic, bean-pole of a fellow who had a propensity for low-level mishaps and minor scrapes with the law.  His behaviour entertained Bernie and Adie, so Blunder was always protectively thought of as family.  Not yet 21, in late 1991 he came to them with yet another tale of woe. His third speeding ticket in a year had brought a big fine … and he needed money.

“This was dad’s, and I reckon it has to be worth $500” he mumbled in his coy fashion, unwrapping an oiled, wooden case.  The faint writing on the lid showed John Blisset Gun, Rifle and Pistol Maker, No 322 High Holborn, London. “It’s an air-powered, walking-stick gun, and it is more than a hundred years old.  It works and can shoot a ball-bearing through a 12 mm piece of ply from about 20 m.  Would you be interested in buying it?”

As Bernie shook his head at Blunder, Adie said “Of course we’ll buy it Jacob, I’ve got some cash in my knickers drawer … I’ll just get it.”

And so it was that these two couples living 12,000 km apart with seemingly no commonality, came to be linked by their obscure possessions.  The decades unfolded through tales of rallies ridden to, and events attended … reports from club newsletters always forwarded across the oceans.  In NZ the closest thing to an air cane appreciation group was the Top of the South Black Powder Club.  It was almost yin and yang at their meetings as the flintlock, percussion-activated guns belched a cloud of smoke and a raucous cacophony of sound, whilst the air cane gave out just a muffled cough.  Both gave similar amounts of joy judging by the laughter and collegial chat that the meets gave rise to.

“But those were the glory days” mused Bernie, back in the now.  “Both Dot and Adie have gone, and Art is on the home straight and even the Blisset is out of action.  And somehow he thinks that he and I can do something about ‘the big lie bag’, as Adie called the subject of Art’s yet-to-be explained plan”.

On Level Seven of the carpark, Bernie found the car that Art had managed to get relocated across seven States, by engaging a couple of returning British backpackers to do so.  Art had met them in Spokane and set them off in what had been Dot’s 2016 Dodge Dart, giving them $200 for petrol and instructions to leave it in the airport carpark and the keys at the information bureau.  The Dodge was just a mid-sized sedan and suited Bernie’s purposes perfectly.  His first goal was ticked off on Day One.  He drove the less-than-two-hours up to Milwaukee and found the Harley Davidson Museum, and their display of a Model XA, taking lots of detail photos for Art.  

The two weeks that followed were quite exhilarating for Bernie.  He had a map of the KOA (Kamps of America) holiday park locations and courtesy of a loyalty card, he had good-value nights in their standard cabins almost every time.  Although it was a bit out of the way, he cut down to the Vintage Days swap meet at Lexington, Mid-Ohio.  He’d read about the 80 acre site, hosting nearly 1,000 vendors and the expectation was met by the reality.  Amongst the thousands of parts being offered up for sale he found a wire muffler-shield for one of his crew’s 1969 Yamaha DT1.  This was bought, along with a couple of Norton Commando taillight assemblies for two of the other mates.  The sheer scale of the event was almost overwhelming, and it was a very tired old Kiwi who fell into bed each of the two nights … walked to a standstill.

The subsequent meander westwards on the back roads, was something that he wished he could be sharing with Adie. They’d managed to have a six-week idyll taking in many of Europe’s attractions the previous year, after her diagnosis, but before she was too unwell to enjoy things.  It had been a delight and a fitting reward for their 45 year partnership.  Bernie knew there would be things that she would have railed against, like the overt over-the-top patriotism … with three-stories-high US flags despoiling some buildings in the bigger towns.  But equally there was wonderful kindness encountered almost daily.  Politeness and respect was evident, irrespective of whether he was travelling through a blue or a red state.  This made him feel good.

Finally, Bernie pulled into Art’s small-holding, quite glad to be pausing the daily grind of driving.  In life, Art was just a walking, talking version of the photos he’d shared over the years.  Now wheezing with emphysema, and like Bernie, a bit stooped but still oozing competence and an underlying vitality.  A bear-hug cemented the greeting and soon they were inside the Higginson lakeside log cabin, supping on an Attractive Nuisance Hazy IPA from the local Matchwood Brewing Company.

“Mate, I couldn’t email you, for fear of Goddam AI spying … but I have a plan to plug the Odious Toad with a 12 mm brass ball from Dot’s Hubbard.  I want to use you to muddy the waters for the forensic guys who’ll come in after.  I think I’ve told you about the Patriots’ Parade that we have every year.  That’s in 10 days’ time.  My neighbour Sam will drive the Jeep with his family all aboard. You’ll ride the XA and I’ll ride the 841.  We can swap for the ride back … if there is one.  Quite a few WLAs and 741Bs will ride behind us … but we’re the stars, the leading pair, side by side!  There’s always three or four snub-nose Blitzs there, and a few of the Korean-War-era long-nose Chev 6 x 6 trucks.  They’ll be filled with the local school kids.  A couple of tanks get to clank along with us too.  It is not a big parade but it is fun.

Idaho is an overwhelmingly Republican State.  At the last election the Dems only got a shade over 30% of the popular vote, so it is not surprising that the paraders are pretty much all of the GOP leaning.  We’ve had a tip-off that the orange cockroach is going to drop in for a bit of ‘rallying the troops’.  He is breakfasting in Spokane, then will chopper to the green outside our big Vets Hall, give us 35 mins, then fly away to Bozeman for lunch.  This is a private party-only do, so you won’t be in with us.  Tomorrow I will walk you through what I want you to do.  You just have to fire one ball through a window pane from about 30 yards.  I know that your Blisset isn’t in working condition right now … but that is why I have you here early.  Sup up, and we’ll talk some more in the morning.  Sorry that I have babbled a bit … but it is great to have you here!”

A very American breakfast of easy-over eggs and grits with lots of accompanying black coffee, was enjoyed while Art elucidated further on the rationale behind his intended actions.

“Dot and I come from families that always been Republican … it is what we are.  Voting for the Democrats would be like dancing with the devil to us.  We were never happy when the sleaze-bag came along.  He wasn’t from the party … he hadn’t done any community or civic works … he wasn’t a Senator or Congressman … he just had a high profile and access to vast amounts of money.  We reluctantly endorsed him … and slowly the horror of what we had done dawned on us.  Dot was in tears when the levels of his crass debauchery and treatment of women was exposed through the media.  We’d both been brought up to be respectful of others and expected our leader to be statesmanlike and engender respect.  Instead we got an immoral, amoral, barely literate, draft-dodger who doesn’t even pay his taxes … and he merchandises bibles in his own name.

To top it off, one of Dot’s cousins’ girls signed up for the bogus university course he put his name to … on the sly, after being strongly advised not to.  Of course that ended in tears, all her money gone, the poor thing couldn’t handle the shame and later committed suicide.  Also Coeur d’Alene is now doing a freeze.  We depend on tourism, and a lot of people normally come down from Canada for golfing and adventure escapes … the business genius has screwed us.  Four businesses have gone to the wall in the last month.  Sometimes you have to step up and take direct action … now is that time, I am going to cut off the head of the snake.  Anyway, let’s go out to the workshop.”

Bernie was all smiles exploring the large agricultural shed containing a wonderland of historic military militaria … and then through into the enclosed ‘Gun Room’. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed Dot’s collection of air canes.  Each had a succinct explanation card and there was period advertising for most of them.

“So I’ll tell you what I’d like to do with your Blisset.  I gather the seal seat and the plunger have both broken … hence your certificate from the NZ Police Armourer saying that it is inoperable.  We’ll disassemble it carefully, without marking the screw-slots or anything.  I make a new mechanism … completely, and fit that.  After the event we get back here and reverse the process.  I’ll even put a drop of water on the central thread as I tighten it … and hopefully that will quickly begin a bit of gentle rusting so it all becomes a hundred-and-thirty-years-old again … and still broken.”

Art laid a small square of silk cloth over the seal fixing screw-head and after carefully selecting a straight-bladed screw driver, he gently, yet robustly, applied the requisite screwing pressure … and the screw came forth without a sign of marking.  The bone seal parts were all similarly tentatively removed and all the old bits put aside.  Modern Teflon-type material was machined up to replace the bone seal and within four hours the boys were out in the yard, pressurising the cane and firing balls at targets.

Their time together was an easy companionship.  They knew each other’s back stories … had shared grief in the last few years and both had only limited time left.  Bernie was not totally at ease with being complicit in taking another’s life, but defaulted to Adie’s words “You reap what you sow!”  His thoughts continued in the vein of his departed spouse – ‘the morally corrupt don’t deserve compassion.  He’s an old man already, so you’re just quickening things up a bit … none of us are getting out of this alive.  There are many loved ones not with their families because of him.  He has caused misery beyond words, if you can stop this … please do!’

Art’s plan was clever, yet also simple.  He and Bernie laughed over making an acetylene bomb in a plastic bag.  They’d both done this in their youth … as many young lads with access to a welding set have.  Art’s had a level of sophistication though. The plastic bag of acetylene had a stove-igniter piezometer included, one that could be activated remotely by cell phone instruction.  Trials showed this to work perfectly.  The ‘bomb’ went off with an decent flash and thunderous boom, leaving almost nothing by way of bag residue.  Bernie was pleased to note that Art used a corn starch bag, so eco to the end.

“The acetylene bag will be tied up in the trees on the Temple Hill about 100 yards away in a straight line-of-sight through the window to the dais we have set up for the toad.  You’ll be off to the side quite a bit, sitting on a bench while we have our indoctrination inside the hall.  We’ll have our hearing aids linked to cell phone connectivity.  Inside, I will have a coughing fit, and on my third cough you shoot the window with the Blisset, simultaneously, I will ignite the acetylene and plug the one-whose-name-I-won’t-dignify-by-uttering.  Chaos will break out.  Like most people, I will fall to the floor and slip the end cap back on the bottom of the cane.  You’ll have done the same with yours.  With no smell of gun powder in the room, and the ‘bullet’ hole through the window, obviously being linked to the sound of the shot … it will take forensics some time before they work it out that there is subterfuge afoot.  Now, you will actually be shooting from inside a clump of bushy shrubs under the big sycamore tree.  Needing a piss, you will have slipped in there.   You do your business against the tree stump … and halfway around to the left is one beautiful vee-shaped crotch where the branch meets the trunk.  It is right at shoulder-height and there is a perfect view of the window.”

For five more days they reviewed and practised the plan.  A couple of visits to Coeur d’Alene were had, with Art introducing Bernie to his old Sheriff’s Office crew.  Art was retired but still was considered to be one-of-them, and together they walked the environs of the hall assessing any possibilities of areas of attack.  The local police and the Sheriff’s Office knew that as this wasn’t a scheduled visit, nor was it public, that there’d be no FBI presence.  Security was all down to them.  In a way Art felt bad about the probable fall-out which would result from his actions, but he was also glad it was about to end.

About 10 years previously Art and Dot had covertly procured a second Hubbard.  This was identical to their working one, so for the vermin eradication, Art had planned a bit of sleight-of-hand deception.  He was known to walk with an inoperable air cane.  All his deputies knew this.  They were not aware that back at home there was a fully working one.  Easy-peasy!

Thursday night they went into the Iron Horse Bar and Grill to share a few growlers with all the people Bernie had interacted with.  They knew that after the parade on Saturday he would be making his way to Canada and onwards home.  It was convivial but also for our protagonists … there was a purpose.  After the night quietened down, Art got the acetylene bomb high up into a red maple tree on Temple Hill.  This activity had involved a slingshot, a feeder cord and a clever slip-knot.

Saturday brought nervousness, but firm resolve.  Art knew that he had only about three months left to put his mark on the world.  He was being eaten away from the inside, already on low-level morphine doses.  “Todays the day, Bernie Boy … let’s roll!”

Bernie loved the deep purr of the XA Harley.  It was different from his 841, but so enjoyable and it was such a treat to be part of what was almost a WW2 re-enactment.  Art had plenty of period clothing and Bernie revelled in being clad in an olive drab green M41 GI jacket and M43 trousers and wearing an M1 tin helmet.  He looked the part and felt the part.  He did sense a feeling of ‘going to war’.  After sedately circling through the town the parade of military vehicles were lined up for public inspection in the big carpark adjoining the Vets’ Hall.  The selected party members discretely made their way into the hall to await the arrival of POTUS – the title which the acronymising world had adopted.  11.47 am was to be the arrival time, 12. 28 pm the lift-off.  There was a discreet armed military presence in addition to the police from the area.

Art and Bernie turned their hearing aids to create an open line to each other.  Art went inside the hall, hobbling a bit on his cane.  Bernie took his seat out in the sun, about five yards from the sycamore and shrubs.  A local policeman joined him and they conversed happily in the open area watching the eager public admiring all the parade vehicles.  The tension was palpable and Bernie wondered about his ‘nervous bowel’ and whether he’d manage to keep it all under control.  He couldn’t help but wonder about ‘the afterwards’ and how it would unfold … would they get back to swap-out the canes?  How long would it take forensics to work out that they’d been duped?  Would he get over the Canadian Border unchallenged?

“Damn, I need a piss but I see that they’ve shut up the hall and there is a guard on the door.  I’ll have to tough it out … maybe tie a knot in it!”  It was 11.42 and Bernie really was feeling the effects of three glasses of water.  He hoped he could last the next 10 minutes so he could truly tell the young cop beside him “I’ve just got to go!” … and then slip into position.

Art was in the front row, almost central … right in front of the dais, his cane resting at his side, the tip on his boot … ready to be flicked up and into line once the window is punched through.  Tests had shown that from a similar distance a 75 mom hole in the glass should result … one which would initially give little clue as to which direction the shot had come from.  Hopefully the acetylene bomb would provide that.

11.47 came and the outside eyes all eagerly scanned the sky.  It remained empty.  11.50 passed and there were murmurings of surprise.  The White House timetable did not usually run late.  11.55 saw a bit of concern on the face of the supervising sergeant. 12.00 arrived to a still empty sky.  Finally at 12.13 a police car could be seen coming down the road from HQ, red and blue lights flashing and the siren on full volume.

Art was on his feet in a flash when the duty officer burst into the hall.

“POTUS is not coming!  He took umbrage at something Mayor Robinson said … and it all fell apart from there.  He has already put out a media release saying that we’re not deserving of his visit.  Not enough respect had been shown by Northern Idaho, and we shouldn’t expect any tourism support until things change!”

Art and Bernie couldn’t help but laugh afterwards.

“Let’s just go riding.  I know a bar out on the lake which is great.  You take the 841 this time … and see if you can keep up.”

“So what is POTUS?”

“POTUS? – Piece Of Totally Useless Sh*t!”

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