The Book of Duels Page 3
This controversial piece of ledger art was uncovered by Professor Scott Gage in an antique store outside St. Augustine, Florida. It is a fine specimen; however, its authenticity is disputed and has come under some level of scrutiny. The artist purportedly witnessed this event when he was a teenager and a participant in the Second Seminole War. Some forty years after the event, according to Dr. Gage, Bloody Hands created this art piece while serving in a US government internment camp for Aborigines. Interestingly, he is one of the few ledger artists who are not of Plains Indian origin. In support of the artwork’s integrity, Dr. Gage argues that, after the Second Seminole War, many Florida peoples were forcibly relocated to the Oklahoma Territory where, perhaps, Bloody Hands fell in with Sitting Bull and participated in the hit-and-run attacks on US forts in the upper Missouri area during the 1860s. In support of this claim, Dr. Gage points to the fact that Bloody Hands was incarcerated in Fort Yates, where his name appears on various government documents. Later, he was shipped back to Florida and imprisoned in Fort Marion, where he purportedly composed this picture and, later, in 1898, died of pneumonia, accompanied by what doctors at the time described as dementia praecox or, by today’s nomenclature, acute schizophrenia.
Steel Hole by Hole: Henry v. MacKenna
Laying Train Tracks through the West Virginia Mountains,
September 27, 1871
John Henry, 28,
Steel-Driving Man
Done drove twenty durn miles of line and that machine on my heels steady behind, comin down on me like rain on the tin roof above where I slept as a youngun—chicken and dumplins stewin in the pot lure me out a dream of Daddy comin home from the workhouse with a sackful of orange rock candy, back into the world of Ma Ma Ma and she be hammerin home her orders with that two-inch-thick belt she call “Mercy”—Get yo ass out that bed and slop them hogs, boy, and gather them greens fore I tan yo hide—I shore do as she say and when I come back it’s her ladlin in our best bowl the chicken and ramps and carrots and pellets of dough—I come over the top again for the ten one thousandth time today and my bones brittle beneath my muscles all stove up and tight—a pang of fire runs right through my arm and catches a stitch in my heart—I hear a poundin there and know that machine gonna pound on past, poundin, like Ms. Freeman poundin on the front door, her askin Ma if she’s seen the egg layers that skidaddled out her yard, and if we find em, wouldn’t we please just please let her know and I get the guilt-face lookin at the food afore me but Ma just suck her teeth and say, Nah, Miss Lady, I ain’t see no bird ’round here today—I like to of died from shame but Ma say Miss Lady a uppity-actin old biddy anyway, say she just wish I’d drop dead of a stroke fore she’d even give one yard bird back to that uppity-actin old biddy—I remember a dozen times when I squeamed at loppin the head off a hen but Ma would grab that heavy axe out my hand quick as you please and say, What kindly man you gon be? And she’d cut that thing clean in two and hand me back that tool and say, Don’t never you need to send no man to do what a woman can damn well do, because she will, by God, and do it even better too.
I am my mother’s stout arms steady swingin my axe down on chicken necks and it clangs and sparks and trues the rail and I slip to a knee and my hammer fails and I grab up my arm, it burnin like the stew on the stove top, burnin, and I can’t hardly breathe—breathless, headless—I fall on my side and see Ma Ma Ma in the mountaintop cawin like crows shakin they tail feathers, she shakin her head, sayin, Who is the chicken now, my big baby boy?
Conor MacKenna, 57,
Protestant & Foreman of the L & N Train Line
I willna lose this contest, not to him nor any of his kind, what lost me both me boys, Owen and Callum, in the war conscripted by Lincoln, leaving me alone with the great herd of hogs and slop and row upon row of wheat and corn and oats and the rye I’d fashion into a fine little whisky—I was forced to sell our Pennsylvania farm—both me boys killed wandering in the Virginia, cold and hungry, fighting for the freedom of these blasted brutes and for what, so this black blow-in could destroy me livelihood now by unionizing me labor, well by God, industry will win ever time, boyo, and these men can become memory a-fadin just like that Yokum boy what jumped me back when I was but a lad and I come home with the torn collar and the bloody nose and upset me mam, saying through me tears, That Lamar Yokum and his two big brothers ganged up on me and salted me somehow fierce, now thinking I’d get me a coddle, but me mam caught me up by me eartop and marched me down to their shack and shouted their ma to the front porch and called her all kinds of nasty names—bitches and cunts and such—said, Look here at what your little monkeys have done, and me lip throbbed great against each pounding pulse and I smiled as their ma beat em about the heads with the ladle she held and the boys begged and scurried and Lamar swore he’d done the deed his lone self and so me mam said, Well, I don’t believe that for one feckin second now, do I? and me tongue swoll in me mouth, liked to of choked me dead, it did, and we tumbled and we tussled and he busted me lip once more and he busted me nose this time too and I slipped in the slick grass and he pinned me arms down with his knees and I could smell that sour pig smell on him and then he just vanished—heroically, me mam had snatched him from off me but then she began to beat me gob with the ham of her fists, yelling, I’ll teach you to lie to me, you rotten bastard, you! and for what all I know she was right—I have never even laid eyes upon me father—I cockroached out from under her and lost me shoes and still I ran all the way home in me sock feet, which got all soaked and one slipped halfway off and flopped and flapped about me, but she caught me up and she beat me arse-end with a thin switch for a good long while and to this day I still have the scars to show for it—
And then this here bluegum he falls and I know he’s not to prove whatever he thinks he was set to prove and his union will be busted, me machines are the future of labor, aye, and sure now I can visit me mam’s grave and tell her, You were right all along, dear—can’t no coon whip me, Ma.
Seamus O’Reily, 54,
Catholic & Union Representative for the Railway Employees’ Department of the AFL, June 18, 1922
Sure now, I seen him do it, lads, and with me own two blasted eyes when I was but a baby boy—he beat that engine and then he beat that fat cat West Brit too, just as they’re doing back in the old country now, aye, and he stood tall as any two of yous and his chest was big around as a Jameson barrel and he had two hammers for fists and a black hound what would follow him ’round both day and night but was nowheres to be found on that day yer man Henry left us—I was but a boy, as I’ve said, but, by Jeanie Mac, he was swinging those fists so furious that a whirl of wind whipped up and spun from the ground and the earth shook and the sweat rained off him like yer cow pissin on a flat rock but then that rainbow bloomed above his broad shoulders and haloed his head as he beat that machine, which moaned and wheezed about—and when yer man cried out for his dear ma-ma, I swear to the Virgin Herself, that engine whined ma-ma as well—but afore he left us, Mr Henry hisself reached over and took that hard-driving boss man Protestant piece of shit what he was, the kind who scuttles about doing the bidding of the Big Boss—the same man who’d stake claims to half yer wages but keep ya blistered in the sun all day a-dyin—Mr Henry took that same bastard by his ankles, turned him half over and up’ards and drove him as a spike right clean through the line and the skies parted and Mr Henry rose through the clouds, unbeaten even by death, and I seen it I swear with me own two eyes—Mr Henry, he was a deadly sharp man, much more than any single man among us, but if we all band together, brothers, band as one, we could walk off this job and picket this Wheeling Way Line, and even with their strike busters and their Pinkertons, we could shut her down the same as Mr Henry shut down that damn machine and we can hold out till we get what’s right and ours, aye—so I stand afore you now, lads, one machinist among many, so you may see with your own two eyes, me, the man you’ve elected to represent ya, use my very own voice, like Mr Henry’s hammers, to bring down the call for a strike!
Into the Greasy Grass: Custer v. Ska
During the Battle of Little Big Horn on the Crow Reservation, the Montana Territory,
June 25, 1876
George Armstrong Custer, 36,
Lieutenant Colonel of the US Seventh Cavalry
As I drive Victory through the river and urge my men to follow, a whole horde of the heathen rise from the brush of the banks and train their rifles and arrows on us, so I fire my carbine till the barrel tip glows red and my cheek burns and my ear becomes a ringing hollowed bell—one shot hits my trunk and carries me off my mount, and when I hit the water, my breath quits me and all I can see is the face of Grant—his general stars taken out and polished by his black manservant; his swollen fingers wrapped ’round the stem of the champagne flute he hoists, muttering a toast to our nation’s centennial; his yellowed eyes steadfast upon the bottle—I rise from the water, rivulets streaming behind my ears, my twin English Bulldog pistols barking in my hands—I unleash handfuls of shot and I am enshrouded in hot white smoke, thick as the bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace I gave Libbie on our wedding day—I should be the one standing before the assembled Congress, entreating our Lord to protect our nation, my adoring Libbie by my side, silk spilling over her bustle, as an artist makes our portrait for the White House walls—Grant sent me here because of the kickback scandal and to avenge his foolish brother Orville and Secretary Belknap for the truths I spoke of them before Congress, but I always did look good in the press, so I acquiesced, It shall be my honor, Mr. President, to serve at your behest and clear the way for peace and progress, but you, sir, shall know my cavalier genius and pin all four stars to my blue coat, the one Libbie will clean and press with her own hands—now the guns’ ivory handles lie cool against my skin and before me stands my assassin, the man I have missed with each damn shot—he levels his rifle and all I have left is this one prayer: perhaps a single bullet lies hidden in the guts of these guns. So heave-chested and steely-eyed as the morning sun, I aim my sidearms and charge, high-stepping through the water, the wind cooling my skin as I squeeze the triggers on these empty chambers, squeeze them as gentle as if they were Libbie’s pale hands.
His last bullet, Lord, has found its mark and passes through every folding drape of my brain and I fall back again and see the sky one final time before the cold water clouds my eyes but it does not hurt, Libbie, I swear, not a bit compared to never having you sew epaulettes square on my shoulders again.
Ptebloka Ska (a.k.a. White Cow Bull), 28,
Oglala Sioux Warrior
I had soaped myself in bull lard against the cool waters of the Greasy Grass, where I swam this morning ahead of battle with the bluecoats, and I was lying naked to the loincloth in yucca and sage grasses when like the hawk they bushwhacked us—crossed the coulee upstream unannounced and raided our camp—I crawl behind the rocks where I had stood my weapons, wanting only the head of their leader, Long Locks, who years ago kidnapped fair Mo-nah-se-tah and forced his baby inside her and though I have spoken to her only through the open flaps of her teepee, I love her and have wished in my best heart to walk with her under a courting blanket and make her my wife, but she has rejected me because I said I would even welcome her bastard blond boy, the one they say twins Long Locks’s likeness, so last night I sang the suicide song and I danced till the drums and my heart were one and I came out here to war with no belief I would ever return alive to my tribe, and since I cannot find the man I want, that coward and rapist, I will, in his stead, have the head of another, so I blast from his saddle the first pink man who rides through the cottonwood trees and the water weighs down the buckskin clothes he wears to hide his hairy body but he rises from the river like Great Medicine itself, his voice growling like a wolf as it eats—one brave white man at last—I freeze and let him fire his bullets but they will not have me—they fly by whistling like notes played through an eagle-bone flute—and so he charges and I put my next shot straight through his skull and shrill and take my hatchet for a coup, hoping some Sioux will later tell Mo-nah-se-tah of my courage.
Like a lover, his half-Sioux traitor collects him in his arms and I drop my rifle and I catch by its mane the dead man’s pinto and spring to its back and heft my hatchet high and holler the war cry Crazy Horse has taught us to live by: Hoka hey, I shout, hoka hey: it is a good day to die, but an even better day to kill.
Mitch Bouyer, 39,
Custer’s Chief of Scouts, Half French & Half Sioux
When Custer went down, I hopped from my rack-of-bones pony and ran in after him, my heart tight as a fist in my throat, yet fore I could reach him he rose and charged into the hornets’ nest and still I followed and the warrior stood awfully still with clumps of earth and prairie grass clinging to his skin like Wakantanka’s own revenge—bullets and dogs are everywhere and Custer’s head explodes against my face, a chip of bone blinding my right eye, and I catch his falling corpse and some bastard calls to me, Let him go, you goddamn half-breed, and kicks me loose and takes him away—the earth under the water trembles as the braves thunder by on horseback, routing the whites who scatter like blackbirds, and I am kneeling half blind in the water when a chill-shadow covers me, a silhouette horse rearing, its stockinged hooves thrashing, and I make out its belly and chest and neck and giant head, and I know I should not be here and I know I should not have befriended Custer. I should not have translated the Blue Coat treaties, which I knew to be lies and, because they came from my lips, became my lies too. I should have stayed with Magpie as she suckled our newborn and I should have chased our children about the teepee, laughing, and I should have roasted them rabbits on spits as the moon crested the hills and the ponies whinnied in the distance. I should have made clear to Custer that Sioux and buffalo are not two but one and that slaughter of the animal is slaughter of the man. I should have killed Custer in his sleep. I should have braided my horse’s mane with feathers and colored twine, put my blue clay handprint on its haunch and ridden alongside this warrior here who now sets his pinto down, the man rising in sight like something come over the horizon, yet he remains only a shadow, a shade, with his hatchet held high.
I put my arms across my bloody face as if to block a brilliant light but then drop them by my sides and rise to my feet and raise my chin and say in my purest Lakota, Go ahead, tanhanši, and try to cleave me in two any more than I already am.
Fiesta de Semana Santa: Fuego v. Lopez y Avaloz
During the Fifth Corrida de Toros of Easter Sunday in Granada, Spain,
March 27, 1932
Sueño de Fuego, 5, 584 Kilos,
Miura Bull from La Ganadería Miura Lineage
Scratch and snort and huff and puff and put my hoof-print in this earth—this my place and this my time and here I’ve come to fuck or fight—here I find no cow nor steer to my delight, so stomp and spit and huff and thrust and put my rut in this beast here—six legs, it has, three arms, two heads—has it come to muscle me, to make a morsel out of me—but truth be told, I want it more, so I drive my horn straight through its torso, and even as it barbs my hide, I lift it from the earth, shift my hump and dump it rump-wise and tear its insides out—I stomp and bellow, grumble and dig and suffer as it dies.
Jabbed and hooked four men today and drove them each and all away—they barbed and barbed but I drove them each away—now comes their god, skin of shiny lights, who cries and spins and shouts and hides behind a bright red cape that goes a swishy sway, and it ripples like heifer scruff when I mount and huff and puff and grunt my calf-make rut—I rush and rush but it twirls and I spin and crash and fall again until the red is me running from my snoring snout and coming in strings from my open mouth—still the cape goes wiggle waggle more—I rake my hoof and miss my mark and grunt and puff and thrust my horn twice more into earth, holes each the size of this god’s waist—about me roars the horde who wave their small white rags and shriek for ears and tail and more—Toro, he cries and Toro, again—and my wind blows out the holes in me and so too goes my b
lood—I cannot lift my head, I am bone-rattled and beaten, defeated in battle—and now my nape lies smooth, my tense muscles unknot—I’ll soon be leaving this body behind, rise over the moon to the Great Pasture beyond, in time to join my harem of grazing long-lashed gals who will swoon and low when they gaze at me and raise their swishy tails.
Toro, he calls again, and though my mouth is slick with blood, I will not show my tongue nor shake the sticks stuck near my spine; no, let them whistle till their lips go numb but I will bristle at dirt no more nor snort nor snore nor warn nor bluff, but wait till time is mine and true and ripe with proof, and then, horns low, I will charge.
Ignacio Lopez y Avaloz, 31, 64 Kilos,
Famed Matador from Priego de Córdoba
I urge the bull to meet my half-cocked thrust and bravely die same as he fought but now he balks and so we stare like the last two lovers alive, each facing death without the other: Oh Lord, bring this noble beast to rest before my feet and tonight I will spread Your word to the heathen women of Granada, passing my tongue through their plump lips as if they were plucked rose petals pressed between the pages of Your book. Toro, toro, I call yet he does not move, though I have twisted him in pass upon pass, spinning blood from his hump to freckle the ochre earth, packed hard as my cock I sacrifice to virgins who come nightly to cool my nerves, which thrum as did the organs of La Catedral de Santa María when I was but a babe and wiry and ill-behaved, wriggling in Mama’s lap, and the music bellowed through the open mouths of pipes as large as lances and I would shriek, a sound lost among the din, and she would rub my face with the soft skin of her hands yet deny me suckle again and again and I’d cry the more demanding milk, my earnest hunger never filled. I set my jaw and stamp my foot and holler yet again, Toro!