STICK WILLY
based on a well-known Icelandic saga, translated in time and place
STICK WILLY
Old Yancy McDermott lived on forty acres upland, all that was left of the boundless tract his Yancy granddad had wrested from beasts and savages. Yancy had stood with Longstreet at Chickamauga and the Wilderness. Even then he’d been a feisty bastard, given to bragging about brawls and duels he’d fought in his ante bellum glory. Fifteen years after the Betrayal, he was crippled with rheumatism, nearly blind, and cantankerous as ever. He had a son, Fitzwilliam, tall, broad-shouldered, red-haired, a throwback to Gaelic yore. Fitzwilliam, called Will, did the work of three hired hands, yet he never grumbled over his tasks. Most of the scanty cash that passed through McDermott hands was earned by Fitzwilliam’s horse-breeding. His colts were always high-spirited, a fact he kept in people’s minds by racing them against all comers.
Downcountry, where the soil was deeper and the holdings less clouded, lived Old Yancy’s kinfolk on his mother’s side, the Iredells. Randolph Iredell— Senator Iredell, Judge Iredell, Colonel Iredell, depending who addressed him— had survived the Betrayal with more of his holding and more of his darkies than his neighbors, so he rode the county as roughshod as an ancient border chieftain. Iredell had an ostler, Mordecai Burke, an ex-slaver who seldom swaggered forth in public without his bullwhip. Even diehard Klansmen kept their backs to the wall when Burke was at hand, but he did his job effectively so the Colonel kept him on. Besides the ostler, Colonel Iredell employed two young men, Jemmy and Andrew Trask, nephews of his wife’s cousin, to groom his horses and to intimidate the sharecroppers. In fact, the nephews did little but carouse at the county fairs, where there were always races and brawls to wager on.
To one such fair in Catawba, Mordecai Burke and Will McDermott both came with outstanding colts to sell. Naturally, a race was got up, with heavy betting on both sides. The two men chose to jockey their own horses. Will’s colt took the inside on the first curve. When Mordecai saw his mount lagging, he slashed at Will’s horse with a birch stick he used as a riding crop. Will felt his horse shy toward the fence, and slapped the nose of Burke’s steed with his own loose rein. The crowd whooped its appreciation. To foul another rider’s steed was not deemed unworthy of a gentleman on such a track. Mordecai’s colt stumbled but the rider kept his saddle. Pulling even in the back stretch, Mordecai slashed McDermott’s horse across the withers, then struck McDermott in the face so ferociously that his cheekbone shone through. Will McDermott torn the pocket off his buckskin shirt, pressed it on his cheek to staunch the blood, and spurred through the final corner to win the race by a nose.
After the race, the gamblers in the crowd were already laying wagers on who would emerge less mangled from the brawl they foresaw between Burke and McDermott, the odds heavily favoring the latter. But Will McDermott disappointed them. He shook Mordecai’s hand, collected his winnings, and let it be known that, in rough sport, only a ruffian would resent an accident. And there the matter would have died except for the brothers, Jemmy and Andrew, who jeered at McDermott behind his back, accusing him of cowardice, christening him with a new nickname—Stick Willy.
One morning a few months later, Will returned from pasturing the horses to find his father in his Confederate grays sitting stiffly on the verandah. Will stood at the stoop.
“How come you up so early?” asked the blind father, hearing his footsteps.
“Seems like there aren’t many to share the work,” Will answered.
“You got a toothache, boy? That why you talking slow?”
“Not that I noticed,” Will replied cautiously.
“Then how come it’s taken you so long to tell me about that ruckus in Catawba last summer?” growled Yancy. “Rumor has it you was whipped like a dog by that trash Burke, and you just walked away.”
“There’s no glory in it for me treat an accident as a personal affront.”
“Hell’s bells,” muttered the old man, “I never figured to have a yellow-belly for a son.”
“Watch your tongue, Pa,” Will snapped. “Don’t say anything you might live to regret.”
“I ain’t saying half what I got a mind to say,” snarled Yancy.
Will McDermott stalked into the house, strapped on his pistol, and rode off without another word. It was the next morning when he trotted up to the Iredell plantation. Mordecai Burke was alone in the stables, grooming a stallion.
“I’ve come to ask,” Will said, “whether it was accidental when you lashed my face during that race, or deliberate. If it was deliberate, you’ll owe me satisfaction.”
“Well now, it seems to me,” sneered Mordecai, “that a double-tongued feller like you oughta be able to call it an accident in public and deliberate when he’s by hisself. There’s all the satisfaction you’ll ever git from me.” With that, Burke uncoiled his bullwhip and cracked it at Will’s boots. It was his last act. A moment later he was slammed into the hayrack by the force of a bullet ripping through his trachea and shattering his spine at the base of his neck.
Will strode across the barnyard to the rear of the manse. A colored maid was beating rugs outside the door. “Tell the Senator his groom got kicked by a horse,” Will said to the maid, “and say he’s waiting in the stables.”
“Yassah,” the maid replied, but her thoughts were more like “gw’on home, buckrah! I ain’t no slave a yourn. I be tellin’ the marse in mah own good time.”
McDermott rode home, as the maid continued thwacking the rugs.
Later that morning, Judge Iredell sat in his study, awaiting his diurnal reckonings from his overseer. It was odd for Mordecai Burke to be tardy in attending to his patron’s expectations. Curtly, Iredell dispatched Jemmy Trask to hunt him up. But the colored maid happened to overhear the summons. “Lawd, us wimmins is frail vessels,” she gasped, “Young Marse McDammit tol’ me t’ say Marse Burke done got kicked by a horse an’ he restin’ in the stable! But I was fearsome to wake de Co’nel so early on, an’ den I plum fergot.”
Iredell rushed to the stables, where he found the ostler stone cold. Burke was buried, and the sheriff given a warrant to arrest Will McDermott for murder. Judge Iredell himself presided over the trial. Even so, the jury refused to convict the young man, deliberating for only thirty minutes before reaching a verdict of justifiable self-defense. Iredell considered imposing a fine for dueling, an option which the carpetbagger legislature had written into law despite the Judge’s strenuous objections. But no proviso for collecting such a fine had been approved, and no duelist had ever volunteered to pay, so the Judge released Will to return to his father’s farm.
One day in the autumn, Iredell was tromping past the stables towards his favorite pawpaw tree when he heard men’s voices wrangling in the stalls. He stopped and put his ear to the outside wall. Andrew Trask was ranting: “Be damned if I evah thought, when I come heah to help the old man out, I’d be shovelin’ horseshit while that skulkin’ coward Stick Willy rides tall in the saddle all ovah the Blue Ridge. The Senator musta had his balls shot off durin’ the late hostilities.”
His brother Jemmy guffawed. “You got that right, Brotha’ Andrew. I’ll piss in mah own hat before the Judge wipes that smear off’n the family scutcheon.”
“You fellers sure mus’ be achin’ fo’ trouble,” said another voice, a darkie’s. “Liken de Co’nel don’ cotton t’ strip de only support fum his blind an’ crippled kinfolk ol’ man McDammit. Y’all let de Co’nel heah you dancin’ dat kin’ o’ chin music, you be shovelin’ someone else’s shit ‘fore long.”
Colonel Iredell stalked back to the manse without signaling his presence. At supper, he bantered with the brothers as if nothing had transpired. But the next morning, he roused the two before sun-up, telling them to gird their loins to redeem the family’s honor. “You gentlemen ever hear of Abelard and Heloise?” he chuckled.
“Can’t say as I have,” answered Jemmy.
“Not t’ my recollection,” responded Andrew.
The Colonel dryly narrated the tale of revenge by castration. “Now I want you boys to ride upland today, and bring me Fitzwilliam McDermott’s balls by sundown tomorrow. Seeing how proud you all are of the Iredell escutcheon.”
The brothers realized that they’d been overheard, that their comfortable berths on the Iredell estate depended on proving their mettle to match their words. Within minutes, they were galloping up the trace toward the Ridge.
When they trotted into the McDermott clearing next day, Will was toiling alone, sharpening a scythe on a wheel. The Trask brothers were leery of a direct assault on the sturdy McDermott, so they’d concocted a plan, while riding, to lure him into the hickory thickets and gun him down there. Will greeted the mounted visitors civilly. “You gentlemen here for business or pleasure,” he asked. Andrew replied that they’d come to inspect the filly Will was offering for sale.
“She’s grazing yonder in the meadow,” Will said. “She’s not been gentled much yet, but she’ll let you approach.” Jemmy, however, said they wouldn’t feel right sashaying up to an unbroken pony, so Will started across the field on foot while the Trasks maneuvered their steeds to either side of him. Soon as they were beyond the fence, Jemmy Trask drew a pistol from under his saddle blanket and spurred his mare toward the walker. Will lunged aside, smacked the mare’s fetlock with the handle of his scythe, the mare reared, Trask crashed to the duff, and Will skewered him through the giblets with the business end of the scythe. The remaining Trask grabbed for his carbine, but Will snatched the pistol from the hand of the writhing Jemmy and plugged Brother Andrew through the forehead.
Will lashed the corpses of the two over their saddles, tied the reins to the pommels, and sent the horses galloping down the trace. A few days later, the animals ambled into the Iredell stables, their grisly jockeys still astraddle. The darkie groom shuffled up to the big house to tell the Judge. “Marse Jem an’ Marse Andy home, sah,” he said, “an’ I reckon they’s brought what you sent ‘em for.”
The Trasks were buried, but no attempt was made this time to charge Will McDermott with murder. There were no witnesses and no evidence.
Everything was quiet until the next spring. Then one night, Colonel Iredell having performed his conjugal duty, he and his wife Isannah were lying in the darkness of their bedroom. Isannah, as usual after fornication, was chattering about their neighbors’ pratfalls. “You must know,” she murmured, “what everyone in the county is saying these days.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” sniffed her husband. “Most of what they say may be presumed to be rubbish.”
“Oh, Randolph,” she sighed, “it’s about that dastardly Stick Willy and his shriveled villain of a father. Everyone says they’re gloating horribly. They’ve slain three of your faithful retainers, and now the other servants are wondering what security they have under your auspices.”
“God help me,” Iredell groaned. “It’s the same old backstairs slander. No one seems willing to judge another’s virtue except by his own scurrility. I tell you, Fitzwill McDermott has never killed anyone without damned strong cause. But I suppose I’ll have to defend my honor by taking issue with his.”
With that, he rolled over and feigned sleep to foreclose further discussion. In the morning, Isannah woke to find her husband polishing the hilt of his military saber.
“What on earth are you doing?” she gasped.
“The time has come to demand satisfaction of Fitzwilliam McDermott,” the Colonel replied.
“Good heavens, Randolph! Who are you taking with you?”
“This is an affair of honor, madam, not a military expedition. Seconds would be supernumerary, so far from any settled township.”
“Merciful God, Randolph! No! You can’t mean to risk your life alone against that vicious killer!”
“Isn’t that the eternal feminine!” Iredell exclaimed. “Bemoaning the very thing you were urging a few hours ago! I am a man of limited forbearance, my dear Isannah, as you must well know. I can only abide so much taunting, and once my mind is made up, there’s no point in quibbling with me.”
Judge Iredell mounted his stallion and rode hard all the way, reaching the McDermott farm by mid afternoon. Will was sweating over the forge. “You’ve done me no harm by killing those three knaves,” Iredell declared, “but people have begun upbraiding me over you. What do you intend to do about it?”
“I’m not conscious of any intentions,” Will replied.
“Then you’ll fight me on the hillock there beyond your pasture, but not with pistols inasmuch as we are both fine shots and would likely both fall. I presume your father has a saber?”
“He does. But I’m scarcely adept with it,” Will said calmly. “I give you my word that, when Father dies, I’ll light out for the west with the first wagon that passes. Better yet, a man of your wealth and a kinsman to boot could provide the old man with help to run the farm now, and I’d be gone tomorrow.”
“It’s no use,” the Colonel said. “One of us must satisfy the public’s lust for honor. With any luck, I’ll wound you severely enough that you yield before I need to kill you.”
The young man smiled. “Surely you’ll let me go and see my father first,” he said.
“Certainly,” Iredell replied.
Will went indoors and told his father that Colonel Iredell had come to challenge him to a duel. “Course he has!” the old man muttered. “You oughtn’t to of killed them three right under his nose, when a shot in the dark woulda been enough for such trash! Well, you’ll just havta take your chances. In my younger days, I never took no grief from any man, not even a bigshot like Iredell, and I’d rather have you dead than think I raised a coward.”
Will took Old Yancy’s saber from the pegs on the wall. He and the Colonel marched abreast to the hillock. After a few thrusts, Iredell realized Will was a better swordsman than he’d supposed, and the outcome of the duel seemed less obvious. Slash and parry, slash and feint, neither man was able to inflict a scratch on his opponent, though they battled until both were flushed and sweaty. When they’d been fighting for a good half hour, Iredell grimaced, “This guarding of one’s honor is thirsty work! I’m not as used to chopping as you are.”
“Go down to the pump and have a drink,” Will said, and he lowered his guard. Iredell lay his saber on the duff and strode downhill. When he returned, Will was holding both weapons, stropping the Colonel’s on his boot. “You must have carried a different sword at Antietam,” he said. “This blade is fit for parade but not for war.” And he handed it to its owner.
Iredell said nothing. Again the two men clashed swords, skirting warily, each watching for a slip in the other’s guard. They battled fiercely a fair while without either gaining ground, though the sleeve of Will’s surcoat was slashed along the forearm. Finally Iredell’s saber snapped just above the hilt.
“I’m at your mercy,” he said. “But mind you, if you don’t kill me, we’ll be bound to resume another day.”
“I’d sooner be done with it here and now,” said Will. “Catch your breath a while. Father has a second saber.” With that, he turned and walked downhill. In minutes he returned with a cavalry saber in a sheath. “This weapon has more bite than that butter knife you were using,” he said, tossing the saber to the Colonel. “But I tell you in earnest, I’m getting mighty sick of dancing and hewing, and I’m ready to call it a draw if you are.”
“No point quitting now,” Iredell snorted. “One of us had best lose an arm or an eye, else there’ll be no proof we faced each other.”
“I’m not about to volunteer,” Will scowled. Just then, Iredell jabbed his blade under McDermott’s, and the young man suffered a nick in the thigh.
“First blood!” cried Iredell. But Will countered with a slash that almost ripped the older man’s saber out of his hand and smote his thigh with enough force to have ended the duel instantly, had it not glanced off his scabbard.
“That was an unkind cut,” the Colonel declaimed.
“Yours wasn’t much kinder,” Will answered.
“Seems to me your strokes are getting stronger the longer you fight,” averred the Colonel.
“I’m not eager to let you kill me, if that’s what you mean,” Will said, “and the more scared I get, the more likely I am to kill you. But I can’t stop until you do.”
By this time both men were so weary that their thrusts, however ferocious, were far betwixt. “It would be a colossal folly,” the Colonel gasped, “for either of us to claim victory, for the winner would be hounded by challenges from every vainglorious scoundrel in Carolina for the rest of hisdays. Youngster, I’d consider myself ripely compensated for the loss of those three rascals if you took their place as my factotum and overseer.”
“You haven’t given me much room to refuse,” grinned Will. “I reckon, Senator, I’ve had a chance or two today to prove how highly I respect you. Damn straight, I’d rather work for you than chop at you any longer.”
The two lowered their blades and clasped hands. “Old Yancy has every right to be proud of you, young man,” the Colonel beamed. “Had either of my sons survived the war, I should wish him to be your peer. Will you allow me to go inside to discuss arrangements with your father?”
“By all means,” said Will, “but don’t expect much hospitality.”
Iredell proceeded to the house and into the bedroom where Old Yancy lay. The blind man asked who was there.
“Your kinsman, Randolph Iredell,” said the Colonel.
“What’s your news, kinsman?” said Yancy.
“The death of your son, Fitzwilliam,” said Iredell.
“Did he put up a decent fight?” the blind man asked.
“I’ve never seen a man fight harder or die braver.”
“That so? Then it’s a wonder them damn Yankees whipped us, with boys like Will and you around,” muttered the father.
“I intend to do what’s right, sir,” said the Colonel. “Having deprived you of your only support, I want to invite you to my home, where you’ll have a place of honor and comfort as long as you live. I’ll try my best to play the role of son to you.”
“Well, well,” Yancy growled. “Reckon beggars can’t be choosers. But promises from rich folk don’t keep no better’n cracked eggs. Come closer here so’s I can shake your hand. I’m a mighty keen judge of a handshake, bein’ blind, though I’m predisposed to you on account of your service to the Cause.”
Iredell stepped closer to the bed and took the old man’s gnarled hand. Yancy clasped the Colonel’s hand as firmly as he could, and flailed at him with a footlong skinning knife which he’d held hidden under the quilt. Iredell jumped back. “You bloodthirsty old devil,” he cried. “I promise I’ll never come that close to you again! Your son is alive and well. I’ve offered him a place as my overseer, and who knows but I’ll make him my heir, but it’s easy to see that he didn’t acquire his sterling virtues by taking after you. I’ll send a dependable hand and a parcel of darkies to till your soil and tend your stock, but I suspect we’ll all be happier if we meet next in the hereafter.”
Will McDermott did go to live with Senator, Judge, Colonel Iredell. He took charge of the stables and quickly built a reputation for breeding the finest horses in Carolina. A few years after, the Colonel suffered a stroke and withdrew from active life. Will married a niece of the Colonel’s wife, so that folk in the county generally assumed he would inherit the plantation, as indeed he did.
Old Yancy lived another seventeen years, bedridden and blind, raging bitterly to the end against those who had failed the Cause of White Man’s Freedom.