Arizona Blue, Gunfighter, in: The Strutting Negro (1883(36))
Arizona Blue, Gunfighter, in: The Strutting Negro (1883((36))
Now we come to the story of Thomas Jean Le (he never gave his last name to the guards, or police), a stocky, credulous, creature with whom few folks would have nothing to do with. But whose tales of Paris—outrageous as they seemed—gave amusement to the inmates in jail the first night he was there, and to his whites of his eyes they were always gleaming; he would read when bored. His kinky hair was always standing on end, and he had great angrily for dancing, among other things. He was content by himself, playing cards, or games or whatever, as I said, reading, an educated Blackman for his times: himself, perhaps too beguile for the times, in wanting to know and see what he could, and at the same time, not be taken advantage of. I should mentioned, while in jail in New York City, the few days he was there, he did have one friend, a Belgian, whom spoke only when spoken to, never completely happy, unless that is, he was reading (a bookworm you could say, and a scared one at that, fearful like a rabbit looking to be eaten at any moment by rats), so you see, both Thomas and the Belgian had this in common, not much else, and so they clicked, but again I must stress they had little time to click.
He was brought to the jailhouse by two guards, clubs in their hands—as if they were fearful of him, as the tall heavy Negro fumbled about, he was then thrown into the cell with a half dozen other folks, a few whites, an Italian, the Belgian, and a few Irish folk. Arizona Blue was kept in the cell next to this one, alone. Blue was snoring when they brought the big guy in, a huge strutting man, muscles from ear to toe, a young man, perhaps twenty-eight or so (born in the mid-1850s). When he smiled he had the whitest display of teeth god had ever given to any man. As the guards brought him face to face, toe to toe with the members of the cell, they had to throw a cot into the center of the cell, for there were no beds left: he plowed politely through the bodies standing alongside the archway of the iron bared door.
When he spoke, it sounded funny. It wasn’t English completely, but with something foreign connected to it, something his cell mates could not make out, “French;” said Thomas, with a big smile, and cautious eyes.
“I’m called “Sneaky Jack, I’m from down in New Orleans, what’s with the accent, it’s no French thing, and you coming in strutting like a peacock.”
Thomas wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question, so he paid little attention to it, and broke eye contact, and sat lightly on his cot, the Belgian introduced himself to Thomas, and he commented on the book the Belgian was holding, and that started a conversation.
Blue had gotten drunk the night before and he got two days in the county jail, he was simply getting over a hangover. Then Blue was woke up, as was the evening guards disrupted by the laughter and brawling inside the cell of Thomas’. Sneaky Jack, had hit the Book Worm, the Belgian, a surprise knockout punch, and took the change he had in is pocket to buy some tobacco later on. No one said a word, except Blue looked at the Negro, and the Negro looked at Blue, and the two Irish brothers, known as the Fighting Irish Boys from Dublin, they both looked at Blue and Thomas, looking at them.
“Don’t say a word,” said the two Irish, “Sneaky Jack is alright, who cares about a bookworm anyhow, he don’t need a dime in here, doesn’t smoke or drink.”
Well, Blue was not going to say anything in the first place, but he didn’t like being told he couldn’t. And the Negro just laid back, didn’t say a word either, he knew he needed to sleep and if he got involved with such things, he’d never wake up.
It was December in New York City, and the cells were cold, and the Belgian woke up, and didn’t say a word of his several dollars in change missing, and Jack was now chewing tobacco, he knew Jack didn’t have a dime, and here now, he was chewing.
It was the third day for Arizona Blue, and he was to be let out of jail, he paid a small fine, but before he could leave, he had to wait for the jailer to go to the bank and get his money and guns out, they kept them in a safe deposit area for the inmates, during there incarceration period, and now, during this interval of less than an hour Thomas had woke up, and Sneaky Jack was drinking down a pint of booze. Where again did he find the money, Thomas put his hand inside his pants pockets, and his three twenty dollar gold pieces were missing.
It was a rule of the jail you could keep money up to $100-dollars in the jail, but beware they told the inmates, lest someone sill it, and they would not be responsible. With this they could buy extra items, those who were in for long term, like Sneaky Jack, who had six months, and Thomas that was to be bailed out that very afternoon, his second day.
“Sneaky Jack,” said Thomas, in a calm quiet way, “it is best you give me back my gold pieces.”
“I didn’t take them,” he commented.
“Then let me check your pockets?” Thomas asked.
“Not today negro, maybe tomorrow,” then he laughed, looking at the Irish brothers, and they started to laugh also.
Then Thomas quicker than a normal man, hit Jack several times, and he flew against the bars, the depth and power of his blows were remarkable, and the two Irish went to help, and before they could put their fists up, Thomas threw several blows to their stomachs, heads and as they went down, they hit the floor like timber falling in the forest. Carelessly, Jack got back up, put his fists up again as if to continue the fight, “What a fool you are,” said Thomas, because he could reason at this point, so Thomas felt, his opponent must be a professional fighter, and then as Jack leaped to throw a punch, Thomas connected to Jack’s right side of his head, and Jack fell to his feet, as if he was hit with a bullet.
The guards now came in, gave Arizona his guns and money, as they tried to wake up Jack, only to find out he was dead. Then a stranger came into bail out Thomas, and the guard on duty said, “This negro just killed this white man…!”
Said this French looking older man, “But it must had been in self defense, and plus he has a sparing, fighting engagement with John L. Sullivan this very afternoon.
Said the guard, “I think before sunset, he’ll be hanged, if I know the judge, and I’m sure the Irish brothers saw it all, and I doubt it will be self-defense, and I would guess the Belgian wants to keep reading his books, so I think the odds are against him, he’ll make the boxing ring ever again.
Blue walked out of the jail, he knew the people, the laws of the land, the laws nobody looks at, and the people who—for a laugh over a few drinks down the road—would sacrifice a life or two, that was a part of America, the French fighter didn’t know about, but would learn quickly.
Now we come to the story of Thomas Jean Le (he never gave his last name to the guards, or police), a stocky, credulous, creature with whom few folks would have nothing to do with. But whose tales of Paris—outrageous as they seemed—gave amusement to the inmates in jail the first night he was there, and to his whites of his eyes they were always gleaming; he would read when bored. His kinky hair was always standing on end, and he had great angrily for dancing, among other things. He was content by himself, playing cards, or games or whatever, as I said, reading, an educated Blackman for his times: himself, perhaps too beguile for the times, in wanting to know and see what he could, and at the same time, not be taken advantage of. I should mentioned, while in jail in New York City, the few days he was there, he did have one friend, a Belgian, whom spoke only when spoken to, never completely happy, unless that is, he was reading (a bookworm you could say, and a scared one at that, fearful like a rabbit looking to be eaten at any moment by rats), so you see, both Thomas and the Belgian had this in common, not much else, and so they clicked, but again I must stress they had little time to click.
He was brought to the jailhouse by two guards, clubs in their hands—as if they were fearful of him, as the tall heavy Negro fumbled about, he was then thrown into the cell with a half dozen other folks, a few whites, an Italian, the Belgian, and a few Irish folk. Arizona Blue was kept in the cell next to this one, alone. Blue was snoring when they brought the big guy in, a huge strutting man, muscles from ear to toe, a young man, perhaps twenty-eight or so (born in the mid-1850s). When he smiled he had the whitest display of teeth god had ever given to any man. As the guards brought him face to face, toe to toe with the members of the cell, they had to throw a cot into the center of the cell, for there were no beds left: he plowed politely through the bodies standing alongside the archway of the iron bared door.
When he spoke, it sounded funny. It wasn’t English completely, but with something foreign connected to it, something his cell mates could not make out, “French;” said Thomas, with a big smile, and cautious eyes.
“I’m called “Sneaky Jack, I’m from down in New Orleans, what’s with the accent, it’s no French thing, and you coming in strutting like a peacock.”
Thomas wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question, so he paid little attention to it, and broke eye contact, and sat lightly on his cot, the Belgian introduced himself to Thomas, and he commented on the book the Belgian was holding, and that started a conversation.
Blue had gotten drunk the night before and he got two days in the county jail, he was simply getting over a hangover. Then Blue was woke up, as was the evening guards disrupted by the laughter and brawling inside the cell of Thomas’. Sneaky Jack, had hit the Book Worm, the Belgian, a surprise knockout punch, and took the change he had in is pocket to buy some tobacco later on. No one said a word, except Blue looked at the Negro, and the Negro looked at Blue, and the two Irish brothers, known as the Fighting Irish Boys from Dublin, they both looked at Blue and Thomas, looking at them.
“Don’t say a word,” said the two Irish, “Sneaky Jack is alright, who cares about a bookworm anyhow, he don’t need a dime in here, doesn’t smoke or drink.”
Well, Blue was not going to say anything in the first place, but he didn’t like being told he couldn’t. And the Negro just laid back, didn’t say a word either, he knew he needed to sleep and if he got involved with such things, he’d never wake up.
It was December in New York City, and the cells were cold, and the Belgian woke up, and didn’t say a word of his several dollars in change missing, and Jack was now chewing tobacco, he knew Jack didn’t have a dime, and here now, he was chewing.
It was the third day for Arizona Blue, and he was to be let out of jail, he paid a small fine, but before he could leave, he had to wait for the jailer to go to the bank and get his money and guns out, they kept them in a safe deposit area for the inmates, during there incarceration period, and now, during this interval of less than an hour Thomas had woke up, and Sneaky Jack was drinking down a pint of booze. Where again did he find the money, Thomas put his hand inside his pants pockets, and his three twenty dollar gold pieces were missing.
It was a rule of the jail you could keep money up to $100-dollars in the jail, but beware they told the inmates, lest someone sill it, and they would not be responsible. With this they could buy extra items, those who were in for long term, like Sneaky Jack, who had six months, and Thomas that was to be bailed out that very afternoon, his second day.
“Sneaky Jack,” said Thomas, in a calm quiet way, “it is best you give me back my gold pieces.”
“I didn’t take them,” he commented.
“Then let me check your pockets?” Thomas asked.
“Not today negro, maybe tomorrow,” then he laughed, looking at the Irish brothers, and they started to laugh also.
Then Thomas quicker than a normal man, hit Jack several times, and he flew against the bars, the depth and power of his blows were remarkable, and the two Irish went to help, and before they could put their fists up, Thomas threw several blows to their stomachs, heads and as they went down, they hit the floor like timber falling in the forest. Carelessly, Jack got back up, put his fists up again as if to continue the fight, “What a fool you are,” said Thomas, because he could reason at this point, so Thomas felt, his opponent must be a professional fighter, and then as Jack leaped to throw a punch, Thomas connected to Jack’s right side of his head, and Jack fell to his feet, as if he was hit with a bullet.
The guards now came in, gave Arizona his guns and money, as they tried to wake up Jack, only to find out he was dead. Then a stranger came into bail out Thomas, and the guard on duty said, “This negro just killed this white man…!”
Said this French looking older man, “But it must had been in self defense, and plus he has a sparing, fighting engagement with John L. Sullivan this very afternoon.
Said the guard, “I think before sunset, he’ll be hanged, if I know the judge, and I’m sure the Irish brothers saw it all, and I doubt it will be self-defense, and I would guess the Belgian wants to keep reading his books, so I think the odds are against him, he’ll make the boxing ring ever again.
Blue walked out of the jail, he knew the people, the laws of the land, the laws nobody looks at, and the people who—for a laugh over a few drinks down the road—would sacrifice a life or two, that was a part of America, the French fighter didn’t know about, but would learn quickly.
Written 6-8-2007, in Lima, and rewritten 6-28-2007, in Huancayo, Peru
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 12:38 PM
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