Redemption Falls

by Joseph O'Connor

  PART VI

  THE BALLADS OF JOHNNY THUNDERS

  An author should consider hard before spelling a character’s dialogue phonetically. It is usually a failure of the imagination. He thinks his own pronunciation the standard from which all others deviate, are primitively charming, delightfully melodious, or shamefully inferior to the norm. But this is a matter of standpoint, not style…He is trying, perhaps unconsciously, to tell us something significant about his creations. That they are somehow not as human as their creator. He does not grasp that his own accent could be rendered phonetically too. To others – to his characters – to most of the world – what he speaks is a bizarre Creole.

  Robert Oates Ellis [Lucia-Cruz McLelland-O’Keeffe]. From her review ofBleak House by Charles Dickens andMaurice Tiernay by Samuel Lever.The Gramercy Quarterly , Spring1854

  Nothing reveals the dreads and desires of a nation as does the song of her common people.

  O’Keeffe. From his abandoned memoir.1865 ?

  CHAPTER 33

  HIS FATHER’S ARRIVAL FROM IRELAND & THE BURT O’ JOHNNY TUNDERSor DERE’S GOODNESS IN US ALL!

  By ‘Mr. A. N. O’Nymous’†

  Dear Mammy, tis Danny, I’m here in New York,

  Tis a willage most big & alarmin’.

  O I’m just off de boat and dey’ve gimme ten votes

  And de ladies is poifectly charmin’.

  Dere’s one I eshteem, she’s de right suddern queen,

  An’ her faytures is dark as de noight.

  I don’t understand ’er, but she’s sweet an tender –

  O Mammy, do ye tink it’s all roight?

  CHORUS: An it’s o dear, ah musha macree!

  How I loves her dushky smile.

  Don’t be tick, sez Pat to Mick,

  Quick, waltz ’er up de aisle.

  But arrah, she’s from Dixie-Land

  And meself’s from Donegal.

  Fwat harrum in dat, sez Mick to Pat,

  Shure, dere’s goodness in us all!

  Dear Fadder O’Kelly, I’m here in Phildelly,

  In nade of some holy advice;

  For de love of me soul, she’s de color of coal,

  Ah, but Fadder, she’s powerful nice.

  She’s from Alabamee, her mammy’s a sammy,

  But dis is de craythur I love.

  Tis it sinful mullarkey, a-coortin a dharkey?

  Will dis make a differ above?

  Dear Molly, me cherry, I ast ye to wait,

  Till wid riches I come sailin’ back.

  Now I hope ye won’t cry but I’m biddin’ good-bye,

  For de berry I druther is bl––ck (oh!)

  She’s me dark Rosaleen,

  Sweetesht one dat I seen;

  Shure it makes yeh feel feckliss an free,

  When ye’re kissin ’er there – arrah, don’t ashk me where!

  On de banks of de oul Swan-ee!

  Dear Mammy, tis Danny, I’m in Alabamee,

  An sendin a wee invitayshun.

  Tis time you ship’d over, shure life here is clover,

  In dis-here American nayshun.

  We’ve a liddle brown Johnny, he’s bright and he’s bonny,

  But shure, mammy machree, dat’s not all:

  He’s de owney mul-ayto

  Likes aytin potayto,

  From Dixie to ould Donegal.

  CHAPTER 34

  THE DEEDS OF AN OUTLAW

  WANTED!

  FOR MURDER, ARMED ROBBERY,

  VIOLATION OF WOMEN, & TREASON

  AGAINST THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT

  $10,000 REWARD

  Cole John Laurence, McLawrence, or Lawrenson– alias “Johnny Thunders,” “Mongrel John,” “Black Johnny

  Conqueror,” “Johnny Colonial,” & cetera.

  This VICIOUS BANDIT & HIS GANG are sought for numerous crimes, including armed robbery of the banks at Varina City & Westport (formerly Manchesterville), & of the Union mail stage at Blindman’s Ridge, on which occasion they tortured & murdered the guards & 5 male passengers. Two women were subjected to that dishonor which is worse than death before being forced to witness unprintable horrors done the men. Southerner; sometimes described as half-breed, almost certainly is not. Possesses lethally fast draw, & his age is between 20 & 40 yrs. Has brother, Thomas Michael, his equal in depravity, and many associates of reprehensible character. McLawrenson disgraces the name of IRELAND by claiming ancestry there. Was born, so claims, in Kentucky or northern Tennessee. (Mother’s name Cooney, Joyce, or Furey.) Hates the United States. Fanatic secessionist. Was once Confederate rifleman, later rode with bushwhacker mob, “The Tennessee Lincoln-Killers” in the War. Latterly rides with gang, sometimes alone. Has been seen in Kanzas, Nebraska, Indian Territory, Westn Minnesota. Stands 5 feet eight or nine inches. Long copper hair, pale complected, scrawny built, “china-blue” eyes. Is believed to know the SIOUX and BLACKFOOT tongues & to be missing portion of wedding-ring finger. On right forearm the TATTOO of a BLACK FLAG. Witnesses have spoken of his COLD & MERCILESS STARE. Is given to blasphemies of the Holy Bible. Has desecrated churches & graves. Has claimed himself to be “A Sign of God.” Is armed & munitioned copiously. Should not be advanced upon except with lethal force. A LIBERAL REWARD is attainable for information that shall conduce to his apprehension DEAD or ALIVE. Apply to Acting Governor J. C. O’Keeffe, Territorial Offices, Redemption Falls, or to any one of his Marshals. All right-thinking citizens, regardless of party, are exhorted to aid public justice. Every man should consider his conscience so charged. STAND WARNED: PERSONS ABETTING THIS MISCREANT OR HIS ACCOMPLICES IN TERROR ARE EQUALLY GUILTY & SHALL BE TRIED TO THE MOST DREADFUL EXTENT OF THE LAW. FURTHER: THIS MAN IS RECKONED LUNATIC AS WELL AS BRUTALLY EVIL. ON NO ACCOUNT ADVANCE EXCEPT YOU MEAN TO SHOOT, IN WHICH CASE: SHOOT TO KILL.

  Published by James C. O’Keeffe,

  Territorial Governor, April 1866

  CHAPTER 35

  THE FAUSE KNIGHT ON THE ROAD

  Eliza Mooney asks herself a question – Mormons – Her reflections on

  Marriage – Three angels & a hammer – The Truest Beauty of Truro

  Three hundred miles south-east of the town of Redemption Falls, a woman in a shabby tabard is standing on a sunken road. She has come a vast distance, has seen many wonders. Her weight is that of a child. She has left behind what little protection the United States might afford her, is entering the Mountain Territory, land of renegades and runaways, but there is nothing to inform her that this crossing has taken place, that she is drifting over the edge of the world.

  She pauses, considers the Wanted poster again. Butterpaper-yellow. Wrinkling. It seems odd for such notices to have drawings like that: the Face in the black bandanna. It’s of limited usefulness, you can’t help but feel. Like looking at a poster of a skull.

  She wonders do they use the same face on each placard they print, and if so, who was the original model. One right savagiferous bastard, that must have been. Probably a congressman now.

  It occurs to her as she walks: perhaps it would be possible to print a poster of her brother, nail it along the roadside as she goes. Could she draw a sketch from the tintype?You couldn’t draw water . Could somebody else?Somebody else, my hole . And where to find a printery.And what would they demand of you ? No doubt it would take money; a rake of Yankee greenbacks.And you’re broke as a cockney’s promise.

  And where would you advise the finder, if there was one, to find you? And, anyways, what would you write?Runaway brat. Eight yrs when he kicked. Parents was Darkey and Irish. Didnt know nothin. Ornery and stupid. Couldn find his own dick for a dollar. My name for him when I wasriled was ‘Little cooney bastard’. But I swear I didn’t mean it. He called me ‘Crowjane Irish bitch’. There was a lithograph picture on the wall of the cabin we lived in. The Holy Family of Bethlehem.

  You can be Irish and colored together, Eliza, that don’t mean shit. Better to put black and white. But he aint a buckinzebra . Then ‘Negro’ and ‘White’.
But Jeddo don’t look mulatto, so why mention that at all? Christ’s sake, the ignorant melon-head thinks he’s Mexicano. But who told him such a gum?You did, you liar. I never.Yes, you did . What height would he be now?

  The shade of his eyes? Has he cropped his hair? Did he fatten in the army?Has he started to shave ? It sprouts in her stomach like a red-veined weed – she is beginning to forget what he looks like.

  The Mormons were good for alms and advice. They would talk the cock off a pirate. She became skilled at pretending to listen as they doled the soup. Well at first, she did listen; their story was wonderful. Jehovah (or was it Jesus)or maybe it was Yahweh. One of the Gods anyway (ormaybe it was Joseph) one of them struck a revelation on these platters of gold and revealed them to a prophet called Smith (or was it Wesson)and all the true faithful had to live by those directives, else a thunderbolt up the britches was what you got comin but the Mormons didn’t put it like that. And out here they had journeyed, to that flatted-out bowl of Lakeland, and built the shining city, and married many times, and Eliza had wondered if God was that much of a shake if he commended the multiplication of marriage.

  For who would want to marry more than you absolutely had to? Like climbing back up on the crucifix, the nails as your footholds; the vinegar to toast your guests. To have to listen to their bellyaching, the way poor Mamo had to do, with their bleats and their aches and their get-me-this-and-that and their smiling in the lane but their fists behind the door, and the cudgels of their words, and the coshes of their silences, and your having to let them do it to you and carry their children, and fix and fetch, wash their stinking duds in ginger, and their opinions, theirestimations , their stupidities on the world, when the most of them you couldn’t trust to go out and milk agoat without them trying to get a suck on its titty. And never a rest. And never a kindness. And never a sympathy. And never a ribbon. I was passin a pedlarboy an I reckoned this’d be nice on you. It aint Christmas come, no, I just figured you’d like it. Go head. Try it on. Why, you’re pretty as an apple. I’m glad I didn’t spend it on whiskey.

  Her beggings she gave for a little food at that farm – five small goose-eggs, a couple of gristly ribs – but it will have to be rationed carefully. There is no one to beg from out here any more. The land is like rubble. There are no fields, only rocks. Wild ponies come visible; hides shaggy, black-blue. Jesus and His Mother! Two buffalo!

  Her hair is too long but she had nothing to cut it. She breaks a moldering porter bottle found in a burn-pit. Saws off handfuls she throws to the wind. The last strands she keeps, ties them into a bracelet. It is said to quell sickness of the lungs.

  The mountains are terrifying, like none she has ever seen. They do not slope or slant, they are walls with no summits. They soar out of the ground: stone giants. You can walk right up to them and touch them with your hand and crane back your head to look up toward the clouds. And all you will see is a mile of black granite, a rock-protruding road into Heaven. You could walk up that road like a spider into Paradise. Where spidergod spindles the harpstrings.

  The Face on the poster becomes a roadside Imp. It is nailed to every tree for thirty miles. When she blinks she sees its afterimage photographed on her retinas. She comes to know its every inkblot, every crosshatch and smudge. It is as though the masked portrayal is watching her progress. If progress is what she is making.

  Lately, her aim with the catapult has been worsening, for her sling-hand is developing a tremor. A palsy, perhaps; she does not know the word. Her fingers quiver like leaves. But God is good and this country is blessed. Wild grapes, blackcurrants, plums, gooseberries, buffalo berries, ground cherries – it’s like walking through Eden. Trudging past a shack, she hears a song waft out, like the stench of a rancid stew.

  O I am a gallant blah blah blah, now that’s just what I blah.

  For the United States of Tyranny, I do not give one blah.

  They will never stop singing about their doings in the War. Like the Irish, that way. Long-memoried. Quare trickers, the Americans. You’d want to be up early to understand them. They can never let anything lie.

  Colored. What does it mean? Does anyone not have a color? Somewhere are there humans with invisible skin? Jellyfish people. Like the faeries of Connemara. Their innards and bones on display. If they swallowed, you could see the food inside them. If you lay with one, you’d get magical powers. A changeling you’d be, and the world terrified to vex you. By Jesus, you’d give them reason.

  Golden snow falling. A spendable mannah. She approaches the Face and is able to remove its bandanna; blackpowder dust on her palms. The mouth works, yawningly, unstiffening like a tendril, but it is unable to speak, though she pleads with it. It is wrinkled, like an old woman’s, the lips are thin and pallid. She can see the doggish stubs of its bicuspids. The artist has rendered the eyes as grubby discs of black. The cheekbones brutally angular, the chin juts apelike, the head too cumbersome for the stalk on which it lolls. She feels, on her hand, the breath from the paper. It stinks of high summertime sewers.

  ––Are you alive? she asks the Face. What is your country? Ever seen you a boy come up this road like the rain?

  ––Cut me down, whispers a voice. I’ll give you a bag of dust. I stole it owa the bank at Westport.

  And the underbite is almost comically grotesque, as though attempting to gnaw the tip off the nose. She wonders if this criminal truly looks like an ape, or if the artist has tried to represent his nature, his deeds. For it’s an artist’s opinion that nature and deeds is the same; that’s why they draw the Savior so whited and lighted, when He wasn’t no whiter than a plug of tobacco, and that’s why they call a bandit ‘that black-hearted wretch’ when his heart is pink as a pope’s.

  There are times when she can see them up ahead of her on the road: the trio of poster-nailers and their mule. Youngish men, gangly – they might be boys. They don’t notice her, or, if they do, they don’t show it. They shimmer in the heat-haze like the seraphs of Isaiah. One of them is tall; he slides his hands into his back pockets. It appears to be his function to oversee the work. Or maybe he is just lazy. It is difficult to know. His comrades appear unbothered by his scrutiny of their labor. Sometimes he hands them a water-gourd.

  See me? I’m a faerywoman, you son of a bitch. I’m a no-navel, seal-buckin, tree-livin nightmare. I will magick my broomstick up your uglified ass and wave you around like Ole Glory.

  Often, come sundown, they shoot at the crows, which plummet from the sky like stones. Why they’d want to shoot crows, she cannot imagine, since there is no eating in the bones of a crow. Are they showing off their marksmanship? To each other? To the birds? Who are they attempting to impress?

  Three hundred thousand Yankee dogs is stiff in Southern dust!

  Three hundred thousand curs we got, afore they conquered us.

  They died of southern fevers, friend, of rebel steel an shot,

  An I wisht we’d got three million more, instead a whut we got.

  Oh shut up your hole, oh shut up your hole, oh shut up your hole again.

  She seems to walk perpetually toward the trinity; their presence shortens the road. Sometimes they drop morsels of leftover bread, which she harvests and adds to her store. It is as though they are doing it deliberately. Can this be so? Can they see her in the dust, like a conscience behind them? Is it possible that they would want to assist Eliza Duane Mooney, a girl they do not even know?

  And the days roll on, and the nights grow shorter, and the morsels on the road more substantial. A baconrind. An applecore. A sinewy chick-enleg. The dregs of a bottle of beer.

  A yawwwwwn one dawn as she clambers from the ditch. Her fingers stretching, curling, flexing, as though wishing to be plants, not fingers. Half a mile into the day she stops as though slapped. Stones on the road have been arranged to read:

  HOWDY

  Up ahead the angels beckon. They are chuckling, expectant. Two of them come lumbering toward her. She slinks back into a grove in a welter of fr
ight but there is nowhere safe she can flee to. She shins up an oak. Half an hour passes. She sees them in the distance, shambling idly toward the north, slapping each other’s shoulders like schoolboys on a skite, and kicking the poor burro up the backside.

  She scrapes a way back down and the forest floor is leafy. A pounding in her head as she regains the road. A fold of cornbread placed carefully on a milestone. They have rearranged the pebbles, so that now they read:

  SO LONG

  The day has a vibration, a throb of unease. Every corner she approaches, she expects them to be in wait. Every thicket could bring a rape, each stonewall a bullet. Then a long straight lane overhung by an arcade of salleys and they materialize in the distance, maybe half a mile beyond her. One poster has been hung horizontally, another is nailed upside down. They are playing with Eliza again. She comes up to a crossroads, in the center of which, black stones have been placed to ask:

  ?

  She picks up the pebbles and gathers them to her bundle. They’re the luckiest she’s had since Louisiana. With the first she kills a rabbit; the second fells a grebe. A third knocks a cluster of wild grapes from a tree. Balthazar’s feast is hers.

  As dusk comes on, she hears the percussion of their hammer. Thepok of heavy iron striking wood. She pictures a prisoner alone in the death cell, his gallows being constructed in the yard.

  Night descends. Their campfire in the distance. When the wind banks down she can make out their laughter, the scrape of out-of-tune fiddling. It’s the worst sound in the world, an incapable fiddler. It would make you hate music forever.