Writing Right Challenge: The Power of Art
Created | Updated Jun 8, 2014
The Power of Art
This story has been fictionalised – but only slightly – to match Willem's writing prompt. The actual name of the hero of this story is not available. Or at least, I couldn't find it. So I made him up. The rest of it happened, though. Seriously.
Carlos Fuentes had a pretty good job with the Spanish police. He had a nice uniform, a shiny badge, and a regular seat in the cantina. But Carlos had a secret ambition: he wanted to join his cousin in America. His cousin said that gold wasn't really lying around on the sidewalks there, but the work was good and opportunity beckoned. To get ready, Carlos was saving his pay for a ticket, and trying to learn English. His cousin helped by sending him copies of Harper's Weekly, the go-to paper for news and views from New York. Carlos was getting good at reading English, and he loved the artwork.
Carlos particularly liked the art of Harpers' chief caricaturist, Thomas Nast. Nast was really good. Okay, the German American cartoonist was a curmudgeon. You could tell from the way he drew that he didn't like the Irish at all. But the sentimental inventor of Santa Claus had a special hatred for Boss William Tweed, the corrupt head of Tammany Hall. Nast hated Irishmen, Democrats, and Tweed – not necessarily in that order. In fact, Nast probably hated Tweed even more than he had hated Jefferson Davis and the whole Confederacy.
Reading Harper's Weekly was giving Carlos a political education. He had to admire Nast, even though the cartoonist didn't exactly play fair. After all, the rumour was out about just how much Boss Tweed hated those cartoons. Tweed said, don't care a straw for your newspaper articles, my constituents don't know how to read, but they can't help seeing them damned pictures.' So he had offered Nast $500,000 to stop drawing him. And Nast turned him down. Carlos thought Nast had cojones.
Carlos found Tweed a bit over the top in the corruption department, even by Spanish standards. When they published his 'books', it was discovered that Tweed's people were charging the city $7,500 for a thermometer, and brooms were going for $41,190 apiece. This was de trop, as the French say, and Tweed landed in prison on a 12-year sentence.
Where, of course, he didn't stay. Tweed had connections, and money hidden away, so he had escaped. The last anyone had heard of him, Tweed was in Cuba. Living it up with rum and señoritas, no doubt.
On this particular day, Carlos was helping out at passport control at the port of Vigo. As the visitors poured off the boats, Carlos inspected and stamped their passports, winked at the ladies (even if they weren't pretty, because older women appreciated the attention), and passed pleasant remarks with the men. At the same time, he kept his policeman's eye out for suspicious characters. There was smuggling going on in Galicia, all the time. He needed a good bust…
One seaman stuck out as he lumbered up the gangway. That's odd, thought Carlos. He's awfully fat to be an ordinary seaman. The fellow didn't have much of a tan, either. And there was something familiar about his face…Carlos reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his copy of Harper's Weekly.
At this moment, the fat sailor looked up and saw the paper. He took in the masthead, and the drawing, and the name 'Thomas Nast'. The portly mariner grew even paler beneath his cap.
'It's you!' he blurted out, before turning and running back the way he came.
Carlos looked in amazement from the cartoon to the man. 'It's YOU!' he shouted, and gave chase, red-faced.
Within minutes, it was all over. Carlos had made the most important collar of his police career. With his bonus money, he finally bought that ticket to New York. Tweed, too, was on his way back to New York – in irons, courtesy of the extradition treaty with Spain. He spent the rest of his life – a mere two years – in prison, thanks to Carlos and Thomas Nast.
And that's the way it was, more or less, September,1876. The power of the cartoonist to solve international crime was established in Vigo, Spain. Justice was served.
Homeland Security, eat your heart out.
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