“Figured the odds when I signed up. It’s alright. I’ve had close scrapes afore. One of ’em was bound to get me. War ain’t a bad way to go. Something righteous about it. Beats the hell out of old age. Wished I was back in Montana though. Got a little ranch on the Musselshell. Fine cattle country. Sweet sweet grass. It’s where I expected to end my days.”
“I’ll get you home if I have to carry you.”
“Kindly offer, Bill, but you ain’t in condition to carry your carbine. It’d be nice though to spend a few years in Montana watching my bones molder. Ever been to Montana?”
“No. Seen Colorado, Wyoming.”
“If they’s a God, Montana’s where he’d hole up. You believe in God, Bill?”
“There’s something out there,” I said. “God’s as good a name as any for it.”
“My pappy was a preacher. I grew up with the Bible. Read it all my life. Can’t say exactly why. Weird ain’t it. Even carry the family Bible with me. Listen, I don’t want you hauling my bones back to Montana, but I’d sure ’preciate it if you’d see that my daughter Rindy gets my Bible.”
“Sure, Jack. Be honored to. ”
“It’s in my war bag. Rindy lives in Lavina, not far from my ranch. Send it to Clarinda Davis, Lavina, Montana. She’ll get it. There ain’t that many folks in Lavina.”
“Jack, I—”
He was gone before I got out the sentence. I was looking across the way, watching boys die, and I didn’t see the light leave his eyes. A fly flitted around his face, then settled on one of his eyes. I flicked it away and closed his lids.
I sat there a long time thinking about Jack and me and the boys across the way. I remembered one morning at the monastery when Padre Romuald was saying mass. About the time he lifted the communion wafer above his head and repeated the words of Jesus at the Last Supper the sun broke through a crack in the ridge across the way. The light came through a window and lit up the communion wafer and Padre’s hands. Then something happened that’s always haunted me. Padre hisself lit up. I don’t mean the sun lit him up. I mean he was the light itself. He glowed like a lantern. He lit up the whole room. As the light from him flowed through me, I . . . I—I don’t know—I somehow became one person with him. One with all the monks in the chapel. It was like I could feel their blood in my veins. The monks were my brothers. They were me. I was them. I loved them each and every one to the very core of my soul. Some of them I’d never even spoke to.
I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I’d seen Sister Blandina glow like a torch—I told you about that—but I didn’t feel the love from her like I did with the monks. I asked Brother Charles about it after mass. He said that Padre was a saint and I’d had a vision. He reminded me of a conversation we’d had earlier about loving your neighbor. He said he could explain only part of what it meant at the time because I wasn’t ready.
Then he said, “Jesus didn’t say love your neighbor as you love yourself. He said love your neighbor as yourself. As you. Like you and your neighbor are one and the same. Like you loved the monks when they were part of you.”
I thought I’d understood what Brother Charles’d meant, but it wasn’t until Kettle Hill that I figured it out. I realized then that war’s a fools’ game. We didn’t belong there killing our brothers, killing a part of ourselves.
Years ago when I worked at Fort Grant—before I met you—an old Papago worked there. He spoke a little Spanish. I got to know him. He told me that when he was a boy about my age he killed a Pima, the only hombre he’d ever killed. He said that when a Papago kills someone, he goes through a healing ceremony to cleanse his soul. He stays away from his family until he has a vision. Before he goes home he turns his vision into a song. I asked him about his vision song. He sang it for me in Papago, then he told me what it meant.
I did not know,
I did not know,
I did not know,
But now I know.
It took me going to Cuba to finally understand him.
I dug through Jack’s war bag, found his Bible, and put it in my pack. When I stood up I nearly toppled over. I stumbled back up the hill, my head full of scorpions, my belly full of lizards. When I reached the top I dropped to the ground heaving my guts.
“Bully!” Roosevelt roared as he slapped a sergeant on the shoulder.
When I woke up the war was over. We were sailing home.
CHAPTER 27August 1914
I suppose that war always does bring out
what is highest and lowest in human nature.
—THEODORE ROOSEVELT, Theodore Roosevelt, an Autobiography
TWO WEEKS LATER WE LANDED at Montauk, New York. I spent a month there recovering from the fever. Never completely got over it. Still get the shakes sometimes.
Colonel Roosevelt came around the infirmary to see the boys. He shook my hand and thanked me for helping win the war. We talked about the fight at Kettle Hill. He said it was the best day of his life.
Don’t know what happened to Jack. When I got out of the infirmary I tried to find where the bodies were buried. No one seemed to know. I heard later that Colonel Roosevelt wanted to bring the boys home. Some were buried in graveyards around the country but the rest were left in Cuba. Don’t believe Jack ever made it to Montana. Wished I could of done something about that.
Roosevelt didn’t know how right he was when he called us Rough Riders. Times were rough for all of us. We were heroes when we came home, but a good many of us were dead from the fever within a few years.
I’ve thought a lot about the folks I’ve knowed over the years. Amigos, outlaws, soldiers, Indians. Colonel Roosevelt’s the most famous. New Mexico has a county named for him. Can you imagine? Like Lincoln County named after Ole Abe. The Colonel’s one hell of a fighter. He has grit. Never flinched in Cuba. Never asked of his men what he wouldn’t do hisself.
I’ve knowed other famous fighters. Heard the other day that Jim Younger killed hisself. Last time I saw Frank James he was selling shoes in Dallas. The best folks I’ve knowed didn’t make names for theirselves. Folks like Paulita and María. María put fresh flowers on the mantle every day. There’s a woman for you. Wish I knew what happened to her. Truth is I feel worser about her than I do about Paulita. It ain’t right but it’s how I feel. I should of come back earlier. For her and Paulita.
I’ve been powerful fortunate in my compadres too. Fred Waite, Kid Antrim, Jack Davis. Dick Brewer and John Tunstall. Buck and Maddie. Brother Jude—the raven I mean. And Mangel. Lord, I miss him every waking day. The best of them though was Brother Charles. Carlos to you, but he’ll always be Brother Charles to me. He taught me the most. Most of my amigos saved my life one time or another. He saved my soul.
A Great War’s cutting up Europe. Bigger than anything we’ve seen. The Lincoln County War was a pissant war but it was a great war to me. Cuba? That was real war, even if it lasted only a few weeks. You were in the Apache War. It lasted—what?—quarter of a century? That’s longer than any war I’ve heard of. Here anyway. In the old country they had one lasted a hundred years. I can’t comprehend that.
The paper says this one’ll be bigger than the War between the States. Maybe the biggest ever. How generals keep up with wars like that I’ll never figure. Moving men around like they know what they’re doing. Hell, we didn’t know what we were doing in the Lincoln County War when we knew the territory and all the fighters.
They say folks in London and Paris took to the streets cheering when war broke out. Poor dumb bastards. When it’s over there’ll be little left to cheer about. Only widows, orphans, and busted soldiers. Not heroes. Survivors.
Glory stories are bull anyway. Patriotic lies is more like it. But what glorious lies. For most of the boys it’ll be hell. For a few it’ll be a hell of a ride. It was for me. I loved everything about it. I never felt so—I don’t know—noble?
I’d of hated war when I was in the thick of it if I hadn’t loved it so much. The fear made my senses sharp as cactus spines. B
y the time I learned to hate it my warring days were done.
I’ve read a lot about war. Don’t figure much good ever comes of it. Not enough to counter the carnage. I read somewhere that after Napoleon lost his empire at Waterloo, grave robbers stole teeth from the dead and sold the bones for fertilizer. Fifty thousand boys died so Tommies could have new teeth and brewers could have more barley. That there’s your profits of war.
Every war I’ve ever knowed was based on a lie. Lies about John Tunstall caused the Lincoln County War. Lies about you caused the Apache War. Colonel Roosevelt asked us to remember the Maine, like the ship was the cause of it all. Hell, they still don’t know why that damn ship went down. Three hundred boys died in the explosion but truth was the real casualty. I reckon it always is.
There’ll be wars as long as there’re folks to fight them. It’s who we are. Only the dead ever see the end of it. I realized that with Carlos. He knew we were all brothers and shouldn’t be killing each other. He tried to tell me but I didn’t understand him. Not till Cuba. Still, after the massacre at the monastery he was ready to fight. He might of been there killing Comanches if Moze hadn’t done him in. In the end I was grateful for Moze. Reckon Carlos was too.
That’s it. Story’s done. You’re the only one I’ve ever told it to. Didn’t expect I’d be so long-winded. There’re still a couple of drafts of rotgut left. You take one, I’ll take one, then let’s get some supper. It’s on me.
You know, I never believed that story about Tom Horn, why they hanged him. Can’t believe he killed that boy. Wasn’t like him. You and him were friends. Maybe you can tell me over supper what really happened.
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 17