Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 443 I am Arthur Morgan!

Lionel's body froze instantly, as if his blood had congealed.

The other man tapped Lionel's wrist, the hand holding the Colt revolver, with the barrel of his gun, and then tapped his shoulder.

The meaning was obvious. Lionel casually tossed aside the Colt he was holding, spread his hands, and slowly turned around.

Under the moonlight, he saw a tall, slender man standing in front of him, whose face was also covered with a headscarf, revealing only a pair of bright eyes.

He was wearing a long linen trench coat and a bowler hat, and looked very polite.

He held a short-barreled shotgun in his hand, the muzzle steadily pointed at Lionel's forehead, without moving an inch.

At the man's feet, Edmond de Goncourt was terrified and speechless.

The gunman first looked at a newspaper in his hand, then at Lionel's face, then glanced at Goncourt on the ground, nodded, and muttered something.

Then he paused, as if thinking of words.

Then, he switched to extremely broken, oddly accented French, stammering, "Everyone calls me... 'Black Knight'... actually I..."

Lionel immediately interrupted him, saying in fluent English, "I speak English, you can speak English."

He tried his best to keep his voice steady so as not to provoke the desperate criminal in front of him.

The gun barrel twitched slightly, and the other person breathed a sigh of relief, switching back to English: "You should have said so earlier! This damn French sounds like you have phlegm stuck in your throat!"

Lionel asked cautiously, "So, you're the 'Black Knight'? The 'gentleman robber' who leaves behind poems after every robbery?"

The robber behind him was clearly taken aback: "You...you've heard of me?"

His tone was filled with disbelief and surprise, and even a hint of joy.

Lionel nodded solemnly: "The Pinkerton detectives have mentioned your deeds. I think... I think you have a very romantic temperament!"

Black Jazz's voice rose an octave, filled with surprise, as he eagerly pressed, "Romanticism?"
Like…like Lord Byron? Like those true poets?

Lionel affirmed, "To leave one's own poem on the spot is romantic in itself! Maupassant agrees with me!"

He was quickly calculating in his mind; this guy seemed to care a lot about this evaluation.

Black Knight exclaimed excitedly, "Ha! It's true?"

His gun barrel was almost out of Lionel's forehead: "Did you hear that? The great writer from France! He said I have the temperament of a poet, a romantic!"

Those bastards, those Pinkerton bastards, and those pig-headed newspaper reporters, they all say I'm pretentious! They say I'm a pretentious clown!

He sounded indignant, yet excited by Lionel's "approval."

Lionel pressed his advantage, attempting to negotiate: "Mr. Black Knight, I understand your artistic pursuits. How about this? I have a check on me, a substantial amount."

I'll give you everything, just let me and my companions go and let us leave safely.

He slowly raised his hand, indicating that he was reaching into his pocket: "Take the money, and we'll pretend we never met."

He thought the suggestion made perfect sense—weren't desperate criminals after money?

Unexpectedly, the Black Knight scoffed, his tone full of disdain: "Checks? Just those few scraps of paper you have?"

He patted Lionel on the shoulder with his free hand, stopping him: "Come on, great writer. I'm not here for your money."

Lionel was genuinely stunned, and asked in bewilderment, "Not for money? Then why did you come to us? Taking such a huge risk to attack an entire train?"

Black Knight continued, "The train robbery was done by 'Billy the Kid' and 'Sundance Kid,' and that's why I did it..."

While still pointing the gun at Lionel, his other hand deftly pulled a thick stack of papers from the inside pocket of his vest.

The stack of papers was rough, with frayed edges, and covered with dense writing.

He shoved the stack of papers into Lionel's hand and commanded, "Take this and look at it!"

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More than half an hour later, in the wilderness of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, next to the attacked train.

Torches and makeshift lanterns illuminated the surroundings.

Armed train guards and police officers who had rushed from the nearest town gathered together, tensely guarding their surroundings.

The bandits had already vanished without a trace under the cover of night, leaving behind only bullet-riddled carriages and terrified passengers.

Zola, Maupassant, Daudet, Huysmann, and others helped each other as they counted the number of people.

They were covered in mud and grass clippings; Maupassant's palm was cut and simply bandaged; Huysmann's suit had a large tear in the hem.

Everyone was disheveled and looked terrified, as if they had just survived a disaster.

Zola looked around anxiously: "Where's Lionel? And Edmund?"

His face was full of worry: "And that Pinkerton detective who was with them?"

After counting and recounting, only these three people are missing.

James McParlan was talking to a police captain when he heard the question and came over.

Seeing that there were indeed fewer people, he tried to reassure everyone: "Maybe they went a bit too far, and went straight to the town I mentioned before. It's easy to get lost in the mountains."

Zola categorically denied it: "Impossible! Lionel is very cautious; he is just as unfamiliar with this place as we are."

So their first choice after escaping danger would definitely be to return to the train! They didn't come back; they must have encountered an accident!

Then, trembling, he voiced his worst guess: "Either he was caught by Billy the Kid's gang, or he got lost in the mountains."

Or… or someone got hurt, or even…” He couldn’t finish his sentence; the word “death” stuck in his throat. Maupassant slammed his fist against the side of the carriage, making a dull thud: “Damn America! Damn robbers!”

Daudet and Huysmann, among others, also looked somber; the joy of escaping danger was overshadowed by their worry for Lionel and Goncourt.

Just then, a rustling sound came from the edge of the woods. Everyone looked over nervously, and the guards and police raised their guns.

James McParlan shouted angrily, "Who?!"

A weak voice came: "It's...it's us..."

Then, the Pinkerton detective who had left with Lionel and Goncourt emerged from the darkness, supporting Edmond de Goncourt.

The detective seemed alright, but old Mr. Goncourt was pale and trembling, practically being half-dragged along the road.

"Mr. Goncourt!"

"They're back!"

Everyone rushed over and helped the two over, handing them water bottles.

Zola grabbed Goncourt's arm urgently: "Where's Lionel? Where is he? Why isn't he with you?"

Goncourt took a sip of water, gasped for breath, and looked shaken.

He looked at the anxious faces around him, opened his mouth, and said in a tearful voice, "Lionel... Lionel... he's been kidnapped by 'Black Knight'!"

James McParlan frowned: "What? 'Black Jazz'? That pretentious bastard, doesn't he just rob stagecoach carriages?"

How did he get involved in the train robbery? What did he want with Mr. Sorel? Was it for ransom?

Goncourt shook his head violently: "No...it's not a ransom...that 'Black Knight'...he...he wants Lionel...to revise his poetry collection!"

In an instant, the area around the train wreckage seemed to be muted.

Torchbearing guards, armed policemen, an anxious Zola, a hot-tempered Maupassant, a sarcastic Huysmann, a composed Daudet, a shrewd James McParlan…

Everyone froze, the only sound the crackling of the burning torches was particularly jarring.

Revising the poetry collection?

Zola blinked, thinking he had misheard; Maupassant's mustache twitched, as if he had swallowed a fly; Huysmann's mouth opened so wide it could fit an egg.
Daudet rubbed his forehead, wondering if he was hallucinating...

James McParlan was the first to realize: "He kidnapped Mr. Sorel just to edit his poetry collection?"

Seeing everyone's stunned expressions, Gong Gu'er nodded heavily: "Originally, I was also going to revise it with him and write a preface."

But Lionel said I was too old and insisted that I go first, so 'Black Knight' released me and the detective.

Just then, a night breeze blew by, and the firelight flickered, as if mocking the bewildered group of literary giants.

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One day later, at noon.

A chilling wind swept through the dusty streets, making the wooden signs creak.

This is a typical small town in the American West called "Windbreak". Simple wooden houses stand sparsely on both sides of the road, and in the distance are desolate mountain ridges.

Two strangers rode their horses one after the other, slowly making their way into the town.

In front of him was a young man, quite handsome; behind him followed a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard, his hat pulled low, obscuring most of his face.

The idle gunmen on the street, the merchants driving their freight wagons, and even the children playing all stopped what they were doing and stared warily at the two unfamiliar faces.

Ignoring the stares of their surroundings, the two went straight to the town's only tavern, dismounted, tied the reins to a wooden post in front of the door, and went inside.

The tavern was dimly lit, and several men were playing cards around a table. When they heard the door open, they all looked up and sized up the newcomer with unfriendly eyes.

The two walked to the bar, and the middle-aged man spoke up: "Two beers. Anything to eat?"

The bartender, without looking up, said: "Stewed beans, hard bread."

The middle-aged man said, "Two portions." Then he tossed down two coins.

The bartender poured two glasses of beer and pushed them over; after a while, he brought over two iron plates with thick stewed beans and a few pieces of black bread.

The two took their food to a corner and ate quietly, barely exchanging a word.

After finishing his meal, the middle-aged man used bread to wipe the soup off the plate, put it in his mouth, and then stood up and went back to the bar.

He said to the bartender, "Give me a room."

The bartender raised his eyelids, glanced at him, and then looked at the young man sitting in the corner.

He didn't say anything, but bent down and took out a greasy registration book and a short pencil from under the counter, and pushed them in front of the middle-aged man.

The middle-aged man picked up a pen and smoothly wrote a name in the register: CE Bolton.

Then, he pushed the notebook and pen toward his younger companion and stared intently at him.

The young man took the pen, thought for a moment, then bent down and wrote another name below Bolton's: Arthur Morgan.

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　Charles E. Bolton (c. 1829–?), also known as Black Jazz, was an English-born American outlaw best known for the poetic messages he left after two robberies. Friends often called him Charlie, and he was also known as Charles (or CE) Bolton. He was considered a gentlemanly bandit known for his style and elegance, and was one of the most notorious stagecoach robbers in Northern California and the surrounding Southern Oregon region during the 1870s and 1880s.

　　Like many of his contemporaries, Boles read cheap, serialized adventure stories in local newspapers. In the early 1870s, the *Sacramento Union* published "The Summerfield Affair" by Caxton (a pseudonym of William Henry Rhodes). The villain, dressed in black with a unkempt black head, a thick black beard, and wild grey eyes, robbed a Wells Fargo stagecoach, instilling great fear in those unfortunate enough to encounter him. Boles may have read the *Sacramento Union* story. He told a Wells Fargo detective that the name had suddenly come to mind when he was writing his first poem, and he had used it.

　　On August 3, 1877, on his way from Cape Arena to the scene of a carriage robbery in Duncan's Mills, California, he wrote his first poem:

　　I have toiled for bread, honor, and wealth for a long time.
　　But you've been stepping on my corn for too long.
　　You fine-haired bastards.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)