You ask as to why I am yet here in America, when you are so far away; and you wish to know when, at last, we shall know one another. Believe me, Robert, nothing would bring greater joy. To have a son on whom one has never laid one’s eyes, to have never lofted him in one’s arms, or heard his voice – this is a burden of extraordinary painfulness. When you yourself become a father, you will know better what I mean.
The want you feel for me, this I feel for you. There is never an hour when I do not think of you. But, were I to come to you now, we could not be united. Those who rule that land in the name of the despot would clap your father into jail, and then give him a worse fate; and I know that, being a good stout fellow, you would not wish that to happen. But I make you the promise that I will never rest a night, nor feel happy in my heart, nor take an easy breath in my life, until you and I have clasped hands at the long long last, and I have amended, or tried to, for all that was lost to us, and I can show you to my friends and be proud of you publicly, as any father should be of such a boy. That hour will come, Robert; it surely will. I am sorry to have hurt you. I ask your forgiveness. I do not deserve it to be given – but I dare ask it.
I have a plan in mind now, by which you and I shall be together before too long. I cannot commit it all to paper, for some of its smaller particulars remain to be managed. But you should prepare yourself, Robert, for a lengthy voyage. Friends of mine will be in contact with Uncle Boland relatively soon. Do everything you are told. Ask no question whatever. Queer things will happen, things you will not understand, but do not be afraid, only trust your companions. You will be taken to a certain port, and from there to another, and thence to Marseilles, thence to Paris. I shall be waiting for you there. It is my plan to purchase a house in that city. I have resolved, in short, to leave these United States, and go home to old Europe, where I should never have left. The air out here is too clean for my lungs and I wheeze for the smuts of home.
In the meantime, when you are lonesome, say in your mind: ‘I am not alone. I have a father that loves me.’ These long sad days will soon be changed to the longer and happier years. Until then, never let an adversary know he has hurt you. Make your face a globe of steel. Let all you meet be reflected. Yours is the blood of remarkable people and you are the finest son any man ever had.
Convey my best respects to your Uncle and Aunt and remember me to old Knowles the blacksmith, if he is still with us. I enclose one of our American bills for you to have a belated gift for your birthday. If Uncle Boland takes it to the bank at Hobart, it should translate to a shilling or two – at least I hope so.
I kiss this paper. Kiss it when it comes to you. I hold you in the harbor of my heart.
Be a brave and good fellow, and remain assured, dearest Robert, that you are ever in the thoughts of that fortunate man who is honored to remain the only good thing he has ever been:
Your father, who loves you –
Con†
CHAPTER 75
THE 10 ‘COMMANMENTS’ OF JOHNNY THUNDERS
Gun is the law
Fear non other
Its a son of a bitch that cusses his mother
No liquor on sabbath
Feed y kin
Murderin hypocrits aint no sin
Keep a lock on y lust
Steal when y needy
Lie if y must
But never git greedy
These commanments I graved wit my bullet on stone.
Remember me sinner – after Im gone.
MK1025: February 66†
CHAPTER 76
NARRATIVE OF THE HOURS BEFORE THE DISASTER
WILLIAM FAIRFAX, DOCTOR
Sighting at noon. Then 4.30 p.m –6.15 p.m.
I thank the Tribunal for conveying me permission to testify in this manner and not appear before it in person, for my health is not good. I am a member of the Religious Society of Friends, and as such, I resile from the taking of oaths; but I write the following affidavit having affirmed its truthfulness before a magistrate:
I SAY THAT my name is William Barton Fairfax, medical doctor, retired, ordinarily resident at St Louis, Missouri. I was born at Cambridge, England, but came to the United States in 1860. On January the 1st, 1867, I was in the town of Fort Stornaway, the Mountain Territory, where myself and my wife, who has since passed away, were contemplating establishing our home.
I SAY THAT at around noon that day, I happened to look out of the window of our hotel, which was Smith’s Temperance Hotel, near where the main street rises quite sharply, overlooking a sort of lea to the north; and I saw a party of riders enter the town from the south-western road. I should say the assembly comprised a dozen or fourteen riders. I know this occurred at noon precisely, because I heard the chapel bell tolling twelve.
As they drew closer, a maidservant who was at her work in our room recognized the man at the head of the posse to be Brigadier General James O’Keeffe, Acting Governor of the Territory. I must say that he was indeed an imposing figure. The gray dust of the road loaned him a curious look: that of a statue come to life.
I SAY THAT about four hours later, I was on the hospital shipJohn Gould near the southern bank of the Missouri at 16th Street, a quarter in which the preponderance is of saloons, very poor dwellings, and houses of ill repute. I am told that the quarter is known as ‘the bloodiest block in the west’; but the west can be rather flaunting of such vivid designations, as the east plumes itself for cathedrals.
TheGould was one of several dozen steamships tied up for the winter at Fort Stornaway. Three other vessels, smaller, in want of refitting, had been pressed into the service of governance and commerce, and one was the floating office of a gold assayer.
My wife and I were delivering a child to an immigrant girl, in point of fact a prostitute, whose labor had been not without difficulty for she was aged only fifteen years. A colored boy came in and asked if I was the surgeon, adding that an important personage had been taken ill in the town but that he, the boy, had been ordered on pain of a drubbing not to reveal the patient’s identity. I could not leave the girl but immediately the infant was delivered and the mother had been attended to the best of my ability, I took up my bag and allowed myself to be led by my emissary to the steamerGeneral Ulysses S. Grant . That vessel was docked for repairs about one hundred and twenty paces downriver from us. My late wife, being exhausted, did not accompany me to theGrant but returned to the hotel alone. This would have been at about 18th Street, I am almost certain. On board, in a stateroom, I was startled to find the aforementioned General O’Keeffe, in a condition of considerable distress.
Delicacy dissuades me from fuller candor, but let me say that the General’s garments, especially his lower, were heavily soiled with fecal matter. There was a sour odor in the stateroom, the origin of which was evident. Two of his subordinates, both Irishmen, were attempting to undress and clean him. His wife, also, was trying to assist, as was a gentleman I was told was a cartographer from the States, come into the Territory on Federal Government business. I cannot swear to his name. I believe he was a captain. He spoke with a Bostonian accent.
I SAY THAT the General was in substantial pain, was clutching at his abdomen and lower chest. A remarkably heavy sweat was visible on his face, which was reddened and contorted; and he had bitten quite into his upper lip, which was bleeding profusely as a result. He was at first, indeed, unable to speak at all, but presently he complained to me, vehemently enough, that he had felt what he called ‘a rupturing of the gut’.
With the assistance of his wife, who had nursed in the War, I persuaded him to loosen his remaining clothing and commenced an examination of the abdominal area. There was no internal injury, at least none I could discern, but the suffering being endured by the patient made a satisfactory investigation difficult. The General, I may say, was not speaking entirely coherently, but was accusing unnamed persons of having ‘murdered’ or ‘poisoned’ him. He was also – I hesitate to write it, but I have been asked to be completely
truthful – swearing that he would be avenged and would himself do murder. I have searched my memory thoroughly on this latter point. The precise words he employed were: ‘I will strangle the son-of-a-bitch.’
I am not in a position to state definitely that he had not been poisoned, but such was not my opinion at the time. His tongue was a normal color; so were the whites of his eyes. There was no paralysis or trembling of the limbs. Often, in cases of poisoning, there is foaming at the mouth, or rectal bleeding, or both. Neither of these symptoms was present here. His ears and nasal passages were clear of blood.
Cholera, obviously, must be suspected in such cases, but my conclusion, on balance, was that it was not anything as necessarily grave. My feeling was that the General was suffering an especially bad case of what is euphemistically known as ‘saddle fever’ – in essence, dysentery and severe diarrhea, worsened by prolonged exposure to the sun. It is believed, quite erroneously, that this is exclusively a summer condition, but sun-scorch in winter can be every degree as dangerous – more so, indeed, since snow and especially ice will intensify its deleterious effects. Alas, this family of fevers has been far from unknown in the Territory, and indeed, I would imagine, is still a feature of life there now. The immoderate climate in westerly parts, the astonishing ubiquity of foul miasmic air in the towns, the poorness of standards of cleanliness generally – all these conspire to give our brave western settlers frequent reason to run, as it were. There is disagreement among my colleagues as to the causes of this dysentery, if that is what it is. My own view is that the refusal to wash one’s hands, in especial after having visited a necessary place, has killed more of our intrepid if odorous frontiersmen than have all the Indians in America.
I SAY THAT I gave him syrup of ipecac to induce vomiting, and presently the desired purging was achieved. I had a bottle of blackberry brandy in my kit, which it was my practice to employ as a physic in the case of tooth extractions. I administered one fluid oz. of this, diluted, to the General, for one of its other effects is to subdue disorders of the stomach. After a while the pain decreased in intensity, though remaining. The patient managed to sit upward and to take a little boiled water. He suffered me to stitch his lip, a difficult enough task but manageable. My handiwork did not look too pretty but the bleeding was stanched. The General was running a very high fever but that is not uncommon in such cases. He told me that he was tired, was no longer in such distress but wanted badly to sleep. I forbade sleep for thirty minutes, during which we made him drink a quart of cooled water, which he did not want to do, but I was concerned for his hydration, so I fear I made rather a nuisance of myself on the point, and, as a result, heard some Anglo-Saxonisms not encountered in Webster’s. But I have been among soldiers, so they did not at all bother me. They can often help a patient, in their way.
Consulting my notes, I see that he urinated at 18 minutes past five, and again, more copiously, at 2 minutes to six. This eased my concerns, at least somewhat. I then left him with the promise that I would return in the early morning. The cartographer and Mrs O’Keeffe were in the stateroom as I left.
I hesitate to mention it; but it struck me as strange that the cartographer offered to pay my account. I said this would be quite unnecessary; I had been happy to assist the General. But he insisted on giving me three Union dollars. I felt badly about accepting them – but he prevailed upon me to do so and seemed reluctant to permit me to debark until I had written him a receipt for the monies. In the end, I never spent them, but gave them to two beggar-women on the wharf. His act disconcerted me somehow.
BRIDGET WHITE, MAIDSERVANT
Approximately 7.15 p.m.
I was called up to theGrant about quarter after seven. Himself was inside in the bunk at the time and seemed right enough in himself. His wife was there. I did not like her at once. She had plenty of airs and went to ordering me here and about. I would be uneasy taking orders from one of that type, but says I, better hold my hour.
He asked me where I was from. I told him Dublin, Thomas Street. Then he started addressing me in the Gaelic tongue but I told him I had none of it, as did no one ever belonging to me, nor seed nor breed of us, nor I hoped ever would, for what use is a language not a body remembers but a few oul gawms sucking praties in a shanty and a few proddy flutes with the leisure for guilt. I have no graw for Fenians nor troublemakers, I told him, and no time for the rawmashe they do never stop spouting, for liberty don’t butter no bread that I knows of, nor freedom don’t grease no skillet. Well, he laughed at that, for he thought I was joking him. I was not joking him, but it does not matter, for a man always laughs and an honest woman talking to him and he don’t understand what she is saying.
[The witness was requested to answer the questions more directly.]
No, I cannot say I saw anything unusual about him. He seemed an ordinary enough sort, for all the great talk of him. But bone and horn idle. That was my opinion anyways. There was nothing wrong with that Jacobin, saving your presence, that a hard day’s work wouldn’t cure.
He went to walking around the stateroom, cleaning a pistol, which I then saw him load and aim out of the porthole. He shot it at something – a curlew, I think. The sound of it going off put the heart backards across me, for which he said he was sorry. He came in and out a few times. Sometimes there was a man with him. I did not know the man.
I cleaned the sty of a room after him and made him up a settle, for he told me the bunk was too hard. He fell asleep after a while and I went on with whatever I was at. Herself jaunced back in and she looking around. ‘There is a terrible lot of dirt in here, Maid,’ says she. ‘Faith, and I didn’t bring any of it in with me, Ma’am,’ says I. And she told me right and plain to get out.
I was on the deck talking to a man I know. I heard them quarreling, or no – more bickering. No, I can not remember the actual words that was spoke. It was only a quarrel between man and wife. I think she wanted him to lie down for himself on the bunk, not the settle, but he wanted to walk around in the God’s good air. I felt sorry for herself then. He seemed a contumelious oul get. But after all he was ailing and wanted peace.
When she came out, I could see she was afterbeen crying. The man I was with – John Doran, the pilot – went over. But she did not say anything. She was silent with John Doran. She went away below. And I went home.
JOHN DORAN, RIVERBOAT PILOT
8.07 p.m. to approximately midnight
It was one of my duties to make a note of the time of First Watch, and this I did, at seven minutes past eight. You can see it in the log. Yes, sir, I went in to the General. He was sitting at a desk, writing I think. I do not know what he was writing, sir. I did not see it.
The General spoke to me in a friendly style, I think because I had assisted his wife in small ways on her passage into the Territory in the summer of eighteen and sixty-five. Yes, I was on the ship brought her in that time. I have somewhere a letter he wrote me about that subject. It was mighty courteous so I kept it. I recall that we spoke for a while about the War and suchlike. Oh, it was soldiering talk mainly, nothing of consequence. I think we talked about Fredericksburg.
He told me his wife was after retiring to rest a while and he had a fancy on him to see a little of the town. Would I be his companion for a little gallavaunt? Yes, those were his words, to the best of my recollection. I said that I had rather we do that another night, that more sport could be had of it when he was feeling better in himself. At this, he only laughed and leapt up from his seat. ‘We shall be a long time dead, Johnny Doran,’ he said. He took up his pistol, checked that it was loaded, and then nothing would do him only to take a saunter on the dock.
We walked down the front to where there is a row of oul cabins, mostly framed. Folks in the town would know them and what they are about. Since what happened that night I am reconciled to the Bible and churchgoing. I know I am on my oath now, so I must tell the truth and say that some of them was used for the entertainment of gentlemen. There was faro table
s and Spanish monte and a game of poker now and again and there would be girls going in and out of them sheds.
Into one such we went and there was a company there. An oul colored boy, he used to be a slave in Kentucky, was there with the rest. His name is Nate. He is a good, reliable sort. It was his employment to sweep a little and keep the place right and he sold tobacco sweepings and beer and such. And I think he used to pick up pecans in season someplace. I remember the General asking Nate about some ear-rings he had on him. They was like a gypsy’s, I guess.
The General got in a conversation with a cowboy-looking feller. I think he was out of Kanzas. It was Fenian talk I think. I did not understand much of it. I heard the queen of England being cried down, so that was fine by me, but it was only in fun, it was nothing. Some of the boys started into singing songs and larking. The General gave out a poem, or maybe the words of a national Irish ballad. It was the usual oul flim-flam. People liked it fine. No, I have nothing agin the English people. I have people belonging to me in England.
There wasn’t no trouble, it just was liquor talking and mockery, the kind of thing goes on when men gets into company.
I won’t lie, there was girls there. I cannot remember their names and that is the truth so help me. They were not personally known to me, only one of them, Bridget Shine. Anyway it was only talking and passing the time, I would want Mrs O’Keeffe to know that. The General went out two or three times to avail of the bushes, but would not be accompanied, thinking it unmanly if he were.
Not long after midnight I accompanied him back to theGrant . I cannot lie, he was a little merry in himself by now, and singing, and talking, and going on with oul nonsense I did not pay much of a mind to. I did not think it any harm, or not much at any rate. He said we’d have another scoop or two again we got to theGrant but I was only humoring him along. He seemed to be in lighter humor than earlier. I put him into the settle bed – a kind of a shakedown it was – for he would not go in the bunk, I don’t know why.
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