but one of the boys was up all night singin tejus comallyehs which wlden be so bad but he had a voice wld skin a turnip. there was a fight over it the next day. we put him in the river for himself but only for the sport of it. & then we had an applefight& stickballin
general okeef says when this war is over we wll get in boats & go over to ireland & put out the englishmen which som of the boys reckons a mighty plan. but i think i will have my belly ful of sogerin by then & will go no more to it
i think i wld like if daddo ast the stevedore about takin me for i wld like that life. i wold like to be near the water & daddo & uncle john & come home every day for the dinner & see you & the little ones & mek sure they dont go to trickin on the staircase for they wld hurt theirselves if they ever did fall
i got cnfession on saturday. there was a priest here from indiana fr corbey was his name. he went aesy enough on me. he said to die in a war means you will go immediatly to heaven if the war is a fair one as this is. also it is not agints the commandments to murder someone in a war & not to go thinkin about that
well that is all my news for the present
i think of y. & daddo every day & wish i was at home
will y. say a prayer for me mamma. i know nothin will happen if y. do
a kiss to flor & little alice & baby annie if she wants one & the same to yrself & daddo & uncle johni
love y. mamma, yr lovin son
tj
PS: if you see grace above in the chapel will y. tell her i was askin after her. only dont let on i said i was afraid
Thomas Joseph Foley, aged15 , Mott Street, New York. Letter forwarded
to his parents with personal effects and posthumous medal.
Anonymously returned to O’Keeffe with the words ‘GOD FORGIVE YOU’
scrawled across the last page in red ink.
PART IV
CRAZY JEDDO MOONEY
Wull my name be Jeddo Mooney, boys, outta Baton Rou I come. I runned away from a ornry bitch, went bangin on m’drum. Seen plenty fellers fall down dead an never a one stood mo. An I’ll go no more to rovin’, boys, nor to fight no rich man’s war.
I wennèd up to Canada, boys, but they would not ’low me in. For they niver ’low no orphan come afore he turnt thirteen. The Yankee sheriff found me, then, an I hope he land in Hell. For he whupped me up and down the head an he brung me back to jail.
Now here I am in the western lan, a-livin wid Fat Pat. A-livin wid his whiny wife, an whut you thinks to that? But I means to go in Canada, boys, where the snow lay like a sheet. An I wipe the shit of the Nighted States from off my livin feet.
Done met the blues the uther day all walkin like a man. Says he: ‘dey calls me James O’Keeffe’, an holdin out his han. But I never trust no Yankeeman, nor neither trusted rebel; an I never trust no whinywife for I druther trust the devil.
And one black night when ever thang real quiet in the hall, I’ma gun these bastards one by one, just to watch em fall. Gonna make em beg a murcy, boys. They come to rue the day, When Mooney brung to the mountainland, where he did not care to stay.Chapeau! Where he did not care to stay.
‘The Ballad of Crazy Jeddo.’ Collected at Lefoy, Great Smokecloud Mountains, October1889
CHAPTER 16
AINT GOT NO HOME
Elizabeth Longstreet’s recollections continued
Yes, I had a kind of bivouac when I come in to Redemption…Prospector outta Texas took off someplace north and I stay in there cause it empty…Not evernight…Sometime…Cause it good to have you own. And there talk when a unmarry woman livin up the house with the General…But the white folks didn care for no colored in that quarter. They paintin cusses on the walls: nigger this an nigger that. Look at you hard when you bout you own bidness. So forwhile I stay up the house; just sleep i’ the kitchen. An another party took that bivouac then.
But then Miss O’Keeffe come up an she an the General not too quiet. An it come to where I couldn abide the house no more…Went down the bottomland road where some of the coloreds had they shacks. Hurleyhouse we called em. Caint remember why…An I fixed me a caboose with my own hands and a neighborwoman…Eppie Francis her name…out of Christiansburg, Virginia. Cause the fighting and fussing up the house come too much. An after the child come in the house I was happy to have that caboose. Cause hell breakin loose ever night of the week. An you got to have a place to go…
See, ignorant people dont got no ken of the world: Nigger ain no color, it the place you put to stand. I seen slaves white as milk. Masters darker than me. Ever black they call a nigger, not ever nigger black. That how it go. Mebbe still do. Mebbe always will, to the end. Peoples dont see cause they taught not to look. They did, be a whole nother War in the world. War of the last on the first.
CHAPTER 17
THE DISCONTENTED LAWMAN
How a certain felon was found again, having failed to make a way into Canada – His assault upon a law officer – & other grave matters – & how the traitor Patrick Vinson, of County Louth and Brooklyn, entered the state of Treachery
STATEMENT
February 15th, 1866: I, Patk Vinson, act. deputy Sheriff of Blackstone Rapids say that last Monday forenoon at a quarter of eleven I was above in my place of work which is the Sarsfield County Jailhouse when a man I know come in and tould me I better come up to the Border Post for the Border Post was afire. And I better come along and see about it. So I went along with him. He was Edwd O’Casey, miner. When we got to the Border Post other boys was after comin. On the Canada side they was ringin the bells like a shower of looderamauns in a circus but no fire-wagon comin to answer. You cld see smoke from one of the cabins in the front of the station I mean the room is known as the Guard Room. Edwd O’Casey and self and Dierks Grunsveld, sawmiller, and an oul naygro I dont know his name broke the window and got in to it. There was a wild rake of smoke but I could see the flames was not very fierce. It was that the floorboards of the room was on fire. We crushed it out right quick. Not too much was burnt up. Only it looked to myself like a fire that got set. Says I to myself: God send this int what I think, for if it is, this is trouble comin now.
Shortly after dinner about ten after two I was ridin southwesterly outward of the town intendin to come to Redemption Falls for to collect wages owed me this long time when I seen a boyo was known to me by the side of the road under a tree. I believe I seen this gossoon before at Morton’s Claim on xmas morning last and I believe his name to be J Mooney. He was sleepin under a tree just as bold as a hoeboy, like a hop o’ me thumb so he was. You could see his cloaths was afterbeen scorched by a fire and his face black as bess and smeared. Down I gets from off the horse and soon enough woke him with a good foot up the breeks for himself.
I ast his lordship if it was him was after settin that fire at the Border Post and tell me the God’s truth this livin second itself or I would gev him one ladderin he would not forget in a year’s travel. He said nothin. I pucked him a few clips. He said nothin again. I said if he didnt tell it out I would reef the tip of my boot up his hole so hard my toes would be workin his face for a puppet and he spat at me and hared but I collared him. I med him go long the road with me to the nex town south which was Loomisville and I askt Sherrif Frank English to put him in the jail. He did that but then he said we could not leave no child in the jailhouse too long for it was again the law. Says I: English, you a lawman or you turned a buckin lawyer now, for that int the same bird to my own way of thinkin. He said that mought be but there was rules to the question and him and me went to quarrelin over it an he called me a Cooley Mountain mucksavage so he did. Says I: youd want to take a hoult on yerself Frank English my buck for I’ll piss on your liver if you abuse me no more you counterjumpin melt of a Dublin dog-robber an I am not one bit sorry for it neither. That is one honeyman will end bad and his falutin over everyone King Fucky the Ninth of Mott Street. Any how he wd not have the child in his jailhouse no more and I wd not turn him loose to do no more burnin up of the country. So I med him traipse
long with me to Redemption Falls an I gev him fair warnin he was my legal prisoner and conduct like one or else I wd skelp the all-fired pelt off him.
The bad little cullion fairly bit the fingers off me any time I tried sattin him up on the crupper so I lassoed him and med him go shanks mare behind and I rode. At night I put him in the cuffs for to sleep for he would murder me an I didnt and I only larruped him if he tried to stiver away. He slept in the barns and on Tuesday in the livery stable at Cleburne Hill and never a word of his gob. He would give me the clew to nothin so he wouldnt. He kept at backin and yankin and he actin the hard croppy. An one time grabbed the horses tail an he yankin on it for to mek the beast start away. We got to the Redemption County Office. I boolied him into the cage for himself and what do you think would do him only he thrun the slopsbucket over me from inside in the cell. I got open the gate and was about fit to stave the buckin head of him but then the governor come in and told me to write down what happened which seem to be the governors answer to ever livin thing since he come out here so I did and this is it. And its my opinion fivedollar words is very fancy and fine but he should not be tolerated with treatin a appointed lawman of this country like such. That is one pup wants schoolin with a beltbuckle so he does. He is fortunate I didnt shoot him.
And after all that nice mornin here come in Marshal John Calhoun and he sayin the money didn come from Washington agin and nothin to be done only wait on it. I am SICK SAD AN SORE with how a veteran man is used in this position. Do they know I got a bullet in me yet? Is my uncle and aunt to ate promises back in Brooklyn, so? If I do not git my pay again this month and the 32$ that is legal owed me since the month afore xmas I will do the work no more you may be sure of it. Some of us round here got our patience tried hard. Nearly time the scales was balance right is my opinion. Patrick Vinson int no lackyman to slave for no goverment for the pay of cowld water an brats disrespect. An he dont care who know it if anyones askin. Not that any son of a bitch ever is. Aint a darkey of this country hungry this mornin, forty acres an a mule to ever last one of there majesties, they are laughin at us, laughin, an why wouldn they laugh itself, for the Irishman as fought like the gawms for the so-call union got a fresh air sandwich for his pains an his trouble and a empty pocket for to put it in. You may write THAT to the goverment or any else you please then plant your pen up your hole for an inkwell.
CHAPTER 18
O LORD WON’T YOU LEAD ME DOWN JORDAN WAVE AN’ WASH MY SIN AWAY
Governor O’Keeffe attempts to interview the boy Jeremiah Mooney at the gubernatorial residence in Redemption Falls
The clock placks on. Its rosewood box. There is bird-croak from a nest in the chimney.
They look at each other, alone in the room. James O’Keeffe and the foundling. Outside, in the lane, the old donkey gives a yawp and the boy tilts his head toward the absurd.
O’Keeffe has a folio ledger on the table before him but there is very little to write in it. The child is either unable or unwilling to speak. He does not even acknowledge that questions have been asked. It is as though his weary questioner is furniture, or air. The boy’s arms are folded. He peers at the rafters. His fingertips drumming on his threadbare sleeves. Dixie Land looks away.
First thing he get to tellin me is a lie on a lie.
‘I am General James O’Keeffe. I am in command here.’
Poor crazy coot. Disturbed in his mind. Could wear his damn belly for a kilt. Remind me of an Oakie we use to laugh at in the war. Figured he was John the Baptist.
‘I am the legal authority in this country. I should like to assure you of your safety. Are you attending me, boy? Do you understand what I say? Is something the matter with your hearing?…Boy?…How did you come here? Why are you in the Territory? Have you kinfolk in this country?…Boy?…Are you sick?…Do you know the English language?…¿Cuántos años tienes?’
I had kinfolk in this country, I’d be sittin withyou , Fats. Brain the size of a bullethole.
The child stares suddenly at the table as though it has made a surprising noise. His nose twitches slightly, like a rabbit’s. Elizabeth Longstreet enters the room with a pitcher of water and two glasses. He does not look at the water, or at Elizabeth Longstreet. Or at anything else. Is he blind?
He fastens a button near the neck of his tunic. Peers over the Governor’s shoulder at the wall.
He sippin on the water like a hoeboy suckin hootch. And he writin up a gospel over there. Book about the size of a carpetbag he got goin. Fancy pen with a feather. Purple ink. And he scratchin out the lines. Makin a mare’s nest of it all. And his ink all in smudgeons on his paper.
‘Is your cognomen “Mooney”? What is your Christian name? John? Joseph? James? Jack? Are your people Irish? “Mooney” is Irish. I shall write them if you wish. If you tell me where they are.’
Queer smell all around. Like swamp gas and maggots. You’d think they’d give the pigpen a sweepin.
‘Your people must be worried. Your mother and so on. Your parents and family will be troubled not to see you.’
Like he Muckety Muck way he gabblin on. Beard like a birdnest pie.
‘Are your parents living? What is your home?’
Slap your pappy, Fella. Cause you aint slappin mine.
‘Have you brothers and sisters? Are you hungry? Are you sick?’
Queer how different all the people be talkin. Scotsfeller, Texian, Paddyjoe McGann. Put em all in a room, wouldn hardly ken em a word. Be scratchin on their heads like monkeys. Like Eliza dont talk the way I do nor Mamo. Cause she borned up in Brooklyn where they ate their young.YAW de shitdamn reason. It all YAW faut. That day she beat me bad. Screamin like that.Liddle cooney bastid. I’ll split yuh.
Outside in the street, the donkey bawls again. This time, the boy does not look. The Governor has the sense that if the room were to burst into flames the child would sit among them like a statue in a ransacked church. How can a boy that age be so still?
On the table is the cross he was wearing on his neck. ‘J. Mooney’ needled into its back. Perhaps it is not his. He swapped for it, or stole it, or won it in a game among children of the streets. It could also be an inheritance. It could be nothing at all. It is warm in the Governor’s hand.
‘Where are you from? I have many friends in the south. New Orleans? Georgia?…What regiment were you with?…I have always admired southerners. See: here is a globe; can you point me your state? Are you Georgia? Mississippi?…Sprechen Deutsch?’
The Governor lifts the globe and carries it to the desk. Its axis tilts a little. It spins.
Water look warm and blue on the globe. Blue like July. Or the virgin’s cloak. And I sure enough would like to see me the sea. Cause the sea keep you sane, that’s what Mamo use to say. Folk live too far from the sea get to barkin and thinkin their shit be candy.
Then fare thee well, sweet Liza dear; I ne’er shall see you more.
Chawklid. Woik. I’s boyne up N’Yoik. Owa fada, which oddn hevn, hallow be dy name. Dy kindom com, dy will be don. On oit as it is in hevn. Poor crazy bitch. Aint no wonder she a loola. Speakin like such send you twisted.
I’s in baton rou right now I would mosey to the dock and beg me some fixins from one of them raggyass shrimpers and run em home to Mamo and she fry em up good with a whole bait of collards an a pineapple punch an all go to sleep in the cabin. Singin.
And fare thee well, with the partin glass; to Derry’s goils galore.
He lookin at me hard and I look him right back. Can gawp at him now come Christmas if he want to. All sorts of things runnin hard through my head. Cholera fever. Eliza.
He reminds the Governor of a kitchen-hand at the house in New York. That little Dublin bottlewasher who ran off with the silverware. Lucia used to call him ‘Billy Fingers’ or ‘The Duke’. That night when you laughed about his thievery together. And she told you that she loved you because you didn’t care about such things. And you didn’t. She was right. You weresimpatico .
‘Can you tell me a
bout the mine? About the coachman that was murdered there? Did you see his attackers? Did you hear their names?…Did you hear the word “vigilante”? Or “the O-and-O Men”? What age are you?…¿Cuántos años tienes?’
The smallest of squints is the only response. And it occurs to the Governor that even the filthy uniform might not be the apparation’s property. For it is loose on his frame, as though he filched it, or found it. Its pocketflaps are ripped. It is elbowless.
‘I do not mean to frighten you. These questions are procedural. As you see, I am writing in this great big book…Do you understand what I mean by the word “procedural”?…It is a bore but there must always be a record of what happens. If a very important fellow comes to pay us a visit, we must always write it down…So that it can be remembered later on.’
His eyes search the floor. It’s like talking to a river. The Governor hears himself utter a sigh of aggravation and he turns a heavy page, on which he rules four lines, but even as he draws them he is taken by the thought that there will be nothing more to write between them now. ‘Pointless,’ he writes. ‘Do not know what to do.’ And he underscores those scribbles and inks a circle around ‘Pointless’. Glancing up, he notices that the child is staring at the book.
Maroon-eyed. Blinking. As though caught in transgression.
‘Tell me: do you know how to write, boy?’