It can be hard for a man to give utterance to the secrets of his heart. He wants for the words to do it, perhaps, or makes of reticence a shield, thinking such expressions were effeminacies, the province of the weaker sex. Better had I spoken more often and openly of the measureless depths of my feeling for you, dearest [name]. But think not that my silence betokens the slightest discontent. Can the fire say that it is burning, the river that it flows? I have never been dissatisfied by you; not in the slightest. All I have in this world, whatever I am as a man, I owe to the providential grace of your love, for the discovery of which I thank Almighty God. I wish only that I had merited more your acceptance: unworthily bestowed, faultlessly generous. To have been your husband [and the father of our children] was the holiest honor of my life.
War is a cruelty, my darling friend; to write you anything else were a pretense. The cause may be noble, and surely there is none nobler than ours; yet to see brothers fight one another can never be happy. Despairing thoughts lure one. All about is sadness. And yet, as I remind myself when tempted by bleak feelings, how beautiful is any world which has you in it – My dearest, dearest love.
Should the verdict of fate be that I do not return from the contest, know only that my last thought shall be of you, darling [name] [and of our children], and of the happiness with which you have blest your husband’s [their father’s] being. Could I name such a meager existence a life had it not been sanctified by our union? How poor it were without you, my only precious [name]. You have been, by every measure, the companion of my soul, the helpmeet every man should be privileged to find. May our Holy Mother ever intercede for you, dearest [name], at the glittering throne of her Resurrected Son, whose modest abode on earth she filled with gladness, as you, my love, filled ours.
If our home was humble, it was enriched by affection. If our hearth was by times empty, it was warmed by your kindliness. Thanks to you, staunchest friend, most valued counselor, I can say with immortal Shakespeare who fathomed all hearts: ‘for thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings.’
And if, indeed, I should fall tomorrow, be counseled by me on one important question, which, though painful to think upon, will in time naturally occur: that I should [/should not] be happy for you to marry again. I know that you will defer to my wishes on this question and be obedient to me, always, as you have been before.
In conclusion, dearest [name], I should like you to know that I and my comrades are in a peaceful spirit. I saw a priest not an hour ago and through him made the fullest account and received of his hand the Blessed Sacrament. Not one of us here is afraid to do his duty. We did not seek this fight, this calamity for our adopted country, but, now it has come, I know I can not be found wanting. The cause is too great, the prize too sacred, to suffer the intrusion of self-interested feelings.
My commanding officer, Brigadier-General James C. O’Keeffe, has asked me to tell you that he counts me a good friend. He adds that, if ever you [or our children] should require his assistance, you need only to let him know of it and you shall never want for anything he can do. You are to write to him at home: 1, the Fifth Avenue, New York City, or care of Mrs General O’Keeffe at that address.
I kiss this paper. Touch it to your lips; and hold me ever in the safety of your heart.
Until next we meet, at a happier place and time, my own very kindest, my truest [name], I humbly and devotedly ask your prayers.
God bless you, dearest Light. Do not be afraid. Be a brave and good girl, and know always that I remain
Your loving husband,
[sign and print your name/make your mark here]
CHAPTER 23
SURVEILLANCE
The watching commences of the Governor’s house by those that did not love him
MARCH17TH,1866. DAWNREPORT.
3.07 a.m.Observer saw a candle lighted in subject’s wife room. Then LCO’K (her shade) pacing by the window. Walked 21 minutes. Candle extinguished 3.28 a.m.
Subject did not leave the house yesterday, nor all the night, St Patrick’s Eve festivities in the town notwithstanding. Shutters on his casement remained closed throughout.
5.47 a.m.Boy came out the house in nightgown and boots. Fed the dog, which was tethered in the yard in back.5.59 a.m. Went back into the house.
7.21 a.m.Violent quarrel audible from within the house. Insulting words exchanged between subject and his wife.
8.01 a.m.Watch was relieved. Quarrel intermittently continuing.
CHAPTER 24
BY THE SHORES OF SALT LAKE CITY, LOVE, I LAID ME DOWN AND WEPT
A photograph of two soldiers – A Farewell to a loved one
DATE:March 21st, 1866.PRISONER:1 female, age unknown, 17-25 yrs.NAME OFINMATE:Eloisa Jane Mooney.CHARGE:Loitering, public nuisance, obtaining by deceptions.DESCRIP:Five feet six inches, very filthy & disreputable, green eyes, white hair.REMARKS:Itinerant prostitute, b. Louis’ana. Melancholia. Hysteric. Lunatic type.POSSESSIONS:A bible, a slingshot, a daguerreotype of a boy.SENTENCE:4 nights, bread water. Cut rations if she kicks.
You have seen her these last few weeks as you come from your place of work. She stands outside the Post Office approaching passers-by. Showing them something. What can it be? Handsome. Would be. But obviously poor. Shouldn’t be allowed drift about like banshees. Could there not be some refuge? Workhouse, perhaps. Gets a town a bad name when they’re loose in the streets. Should write to the authorities. Or maybe.
If you please? Do you have a moment? It will only take a moment. She would like you to take a look at this tintype she carries.
The boy’s face is bony. The nose is a little crooked. In the way of early daguerreotypes, the eyes are curiously expressionless: fishlike, whitened, dead. He is drowned in the grays of a Confederate rifleman. From his shoulder, on a lanyard, depends a drum. You have seen other pictures of boys from the War; but what makes the depiction shocking – well, it is shocking in several ways – but what stamps it apart, what commands you to look again, is that a sergeant is aiming a revolver to the side of the boy’s head.
And the boy is trying to smile. The pose is a joke. And the sergeant is smiling, too. He is plump and mustachioed, and his tunic is not quite ample enough to contain that porcine belly and the buttons across its front have not all been fastened. It is easy to imagine him a jocular old soak who loves his seven children and wouldn’t aim a weapon at them. Yet here he is, three hundred pounds of southern fun, having chosen this attitude by which to be remembered by the eternal gods of photography.
Well, perhaps he did not choose it. The daguerreotypist suggested it. In any case, it is the boy she is asking you to look at. Have you seen this child? Can you look again, closely? Jeremiah Mooney, sir. He goes often by ‘Jeddo’. He was here in your city. Oh yes, she is sure. Well, if you turn the picture over, you will see on the back – the typography is minuscule, you might have to squint to decipher it – but stand over here, sir, into the sunlight, and you will be able to see what she means:
“LeFanu et filsPortraiture Studio. S. L. City. Sweethearts, & Wives, a Specialty.”
Yes, what you are saying is quite correct. It only means the photographer had his premises in this town, not that the picture was made here. Probably it was made in the field of battle. This boy and that sergeant could be anywhere now. They might even be, as it were, not living any more. You are sorry you cannot assist. You must be getting along.
But please, look again, sir. Spare a poor girl a moment? Those clouds in the background are painted, not real. And surely that is canvas they are standing on, not clay. And how can they be so clean? In the middle of a battlefield? And protruding in from the side – isn’t that the arm of a chaise-longue?
She has been to the street where the studio used to be, but a signboard reading commercial opportunity has been placed in its window, and out back, in the alley, a bonfire of depictions is being stoked by the fuming landlord. The photographer, a Frenchman, skipped town a while
back, he and his helpmate, a dwarf. Skedaddled, absquatulated, vamoosed, cleared out. And the landlord doesn’t know where the renegades went, but if he did, he’d be loading his Winchester.
The boy took away, sir. We quarreled at home. I beat him for stealing and he ran off away. I should never have done it. I lost my reason with the child. I was weary, and hungry, and didn’t know what we should do. And I thought he’d come back in a couple of days, for he had took off before but he always come back, and now, and now, I’m sorry sir for crying, and now he’s been gone for all this time, and I’m a year on the roads for to find him again, and he sent me this picture, and a letter he writ me, but that’s all the word I have of him and no address or nothing else, sir, and I don’t know what I can do without that child coming home for he’s the only one belonging to me left in the world and I’m begging you for help sir, I’m begging you to think, if you ever seen that child in these streets.
You which, sir? God bless you, sir. Thank you, sir. Here it is:
deAr eli5A: i tAek5 the oppuhtunity of w?itAin thi5e line5 to y hopain to fAn y in god helth as this lieve5 me, idun bin in thi5 heAwA? i wA5in theA umy, idun got me lostt f?om m b?igAde an wnet on a lonn wAlk, hea i com to5A int lewi5mi5uori mi55 ou?i a coAtchfelle? giv m wo?k if i wuold go lonn wid him in2 the utAw te??toA?y, iA mAliev inyhow,
i do vey offen git to thinkain of y it mAke me feel bAd for dAun ?ong thing5, i am 5o??y for ive?thAin i dAun to mAek y hit me, iA m 5o??ry for sAyAin i hAte y thAt wAdn t?ue
thAnk y for fiddAin me whin i wA5hunga?y whin mamo winA wAey, thAnk y for heppin me whin i wA5AfeAd. i wi5ht i hAd of not riled y 5o
wel – idon no ifn y in bAton ?ou no mow but ifn yA ?e then i hop yA ?e hAppyie? now iA m fixin to 5tay up he?e in the te??itoAy fowhile then go in to cAndAAn fin my pa up theAit is a big plAece. i hee?d meA mAn say it is 40 tieme the bigne5 of loiusiwel – godby, i hop yA ?e wel & shul hAveA hAppy lief &A fAmbly, iA m 5orry for ive?thAin,
co?jul wi5he5 f?um
y? b?uthe?,
jed mooney
Another pathetic story. But there is nothing you can do. You hand her back the crumple. A dirty penny. She is weeping again as you hurry away. That war was a terrible business.
You would like to lead her home with you, to bathe her, perhaps. Or watching? Yes. Tiny crack in the door. You would have the servant bring food, a little wine, clean things. And then, if she wanted – no question of compulsion – but only if she wanted, which surely she would, and if discretion could be assured, which surely it might. And every night when you came from your place of work, from the beggars and indigent who molest you in the streets, with the dust of the town in the roots of your hair, and the cares of your position like a cobweb in your eyes, you would open your door and find her waiting in silks and oh how you would make her pay for her poverty and oh how she would be grateful for your pity.
But as you ponder in your bed, beside your capsized, sleeping wife, you find yourself thinking: perhaps she wrote it herself. Because you would put nothing past them, the poor and their schemes. The lengths to which they will go to deceive the respectable.
Slut is a liar. Says she walked from Louisiana. But she did not walk from Louisiana. Nobody could. Nobody walks those mountains and lives to tell the tale. Not without friend or compass.
You will go to the Sheriff and have her arrested. Wanton Irish bitch.
CHAPTER 25
SURVEILLANCE
Further observances in Redemption Falls
NIGHT OFSUNDAY,MARCH 27TH TO DAWN OFMONDAY,MARCH28TH,1866
6.42 p.m.Subject’s wife left the residence, very formally attired. Black skirts (hooped), mantilla, gloves, pleated cloak. Appeared tired, drawn. Accompanied by boy who was very reluctant, in ill-fitting britches. Proceeded by foot to church, where shift-miners have Mass on Sunday of an evening. Boy demurred. She slapped him across the ear. They entered. Heard the Mass. Was the only woman present. Gave greenback bill to dues plate, I could not see the denomination. Did not receive sacrament but made boy join line to do so. Departed 8.02 p.m. Was shunned by many townspeople as she returned to residence. Saluted by certain others, all Irish, dirt-poor. Stopped and gave alms to negro child, identity of latter unknown, female, seven yrs approx. Observer unable to hear conversation owing to trundle of passing waggon. Proceeded presently. Entered residence. Did not emerge for remainder of the evening. Retired shortly after nightfall, 9.42 p.m. Governor’s candle burned all night.
Boy emerged unnoticed (through a window) at 3.12 a.m. Got him into crawlspace beneath floor of the house. Remained in situ all the night. Appears to prefer sleeping there? Investigate.
CHAPTER 26
MI TIA LUCIA orTHE SPANISH LADY†
From a very poor book published many years after the events at
Redemption Falls – written by the editor of the present volume
How a hero of Ireland met his American wife – A speech
A supper – A wedding – A war
Aunt Lucia could be jittery, of nervous disposition. Sudden happenings, strange noises, alarmed her. Even an excursion to the theater could be difficult. The presentation must not be bloody or she would become distressed, would insist on departing if seated near the edge of the row. At other times she would watch through the grid of her fingers like a child observing a caning.Mi Tía , as I called her – the Spanish term she preferred – was a woman of passion, of courage and ardor. But as is often the case with such deep-feeling people, her vulnerabilities, if hidden, were many.
Lucia-Cruz Rodríguez Y Ortega McLelland. Even in her winter, she was handsome – in the way that a rose, encountered in an old book, is not young any more but is handsome. In the years before the War, before everything changed, she was the belle of a city of beauties.
There is a portrait by Loring Elliott painted in the late summer of her début year, the year her beloved mother died, the year in which O’Keeffe would sweep from the seas like Bacchus descending on Naxos. She looks like an Hispanic saint: mercurial, dark. Enraptured by something going on behind your shoulder. Her hands demurely folded. Rosary beads on her breast. Her mouth is almost insolently kissable.
My grandfather, who could be stuffy, an old-world man, could never accommodate to that portrait. He often said there was something ‘not quite decent’ about it, and in this he was correct, though he could never name what it was. It must not be placed, so he always insisted, in any room likely to be slept in by an unmarried male. It was shunted around the house like an inconvenient lodger – placed in rarely visited nooks, on the maidservants’ landings – until finally it was quartered in a locked-up loft like a lunatic wife in a novel.
It did not look very like her. You can see this from photographs. But it is the Dulcinea in the portrait I imagine O’Keeffe meeting, in 1854, in New York. He was in his thirty-second year; she was not yet twenty-one. Already he was famous in America.
It began at the Jefferson Theater on a sweltering night in June. Her journal records ‘the stench from the river this morning’, the ‘reek of parching lilacs’ in the house. As she and her sister, Estafanía, and their eldest brother, Rodrigo, set off from Fifth Avenue for the Blade’s much-anticipated Manhattan appearance, their landau was besieged by a throng of Irish beggarwomen – (‘some water, Miss, for Jesus, a mercy for the child’)– and Steffa had remarked, in that coolly insouciant way, that here, now, were some of Mr O’Keeffe’s disciples.
Estafanía had no interest in lectures, not really. She regarded them as opportunities for being admired. She disliked intelligent men, thinking them unpredictable and gloomy; she preferred dancers or billiard players to scholars. (‘I hope my husband shall be moon-silly,’ she wrote a cousin in Spain, ‘full of laughter and stories, and all sorts of foolishness, with his only true talents in his feet.’) By the arrival of that night, which would change many lives, she had endured disquisitions on the importance of fossils, on the Famines in Europe, the death of Little Nell, the Romantic Movement in Art, Germanic philo
sophy, all the time knowing, as the beautiful always do, that her presence, for many, was the event. This burden she suffered with bored acquiescence. It was a matter of style under pressure.
Lucia-Cruz and Estafanía: the McLelland girls. How I wish I had known them when they were young. Steffa, with her perpetually regenerating mob of suitors, her Parisian gowns, her arsenal of mimicries, her practical jokes, her exquisite flirtatiousness, her hats so fantastically feathered that she quipped they had caused extinctions; Lucia with her books and old vellums. People said she would ruin her looks with all that squinting. What could be in those volumes was useful to a girl?
She was slender, with high cheeks – like a Cherokee, some said – not as gay as Steffa, but more striking, more paintable. She moved with that unselfconscious elegance so frequently possessed by Iberians. She had never had to dress herself, nor draw her own bath, nor make up her bed, nor put salt on her own toothbrush. She had been told she could rely on seventeen thousand a year. The truth was that she could rely on millions.
Her eyes, almost black but with a richening hint of purple, were the exact shade of blueberries, and their lashes were long. (The poet Robert Cardew, that scholar of American physiognomies, would write to a friend in the fall of ’59, that when you met Lucia’s gaze over the rim of a fan, ‘you felt God was a Roman Catholic’.) Her hair curled into tresses of a chestnut gloss, which she spent an emperor’s ransom attempting uselessly to straighten. It was one of her concessions tola vie de la mode . That season in Europe, you wanted straight hair.
What an entrance they must have made, my beautiful aunts-to-be, as they arrived and took their seats at the Jefferson that night. I see them gliding along the rows of prosperous New Yorkers, excuse-me-ing their way to the appointed place. Men jumping up. Raising their hats. There was nothing so unrepublican as a Royal Box at the Jefferson, but had there been, that is where they would have belonged.