Читать книгу The Book of Duels - Michael Garriga - Страница 35

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.