Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Sixteen: Swanson
1:48 PM, July 22nd, 1899
A decent while back, there lived a pious man named Abraham in the great country of Israel. He and his wife, Sarah, flourished with a youthful vigor that contrasted vehemently with their impressive age—both had lived spryly for over a hundred years. This virility is what ushered their son, Isaac, into this world, who was the pride and love of both their lives; in point of fact, he was the first son Sarah ever bore. One day at a time when the sun flowered most spectacularly, Abraham heard the voice of God for the first time in over a decade; He ordered the centenarian to slaughter his son Isaac in sacrifice to the Lord on the golden crests of Mount Moriah. So, for three days, Abraham, his child, his servants, and his donkey rode to Mount Moriah—Abraham hadn't questioned the orders of his God for a moment. They journeyed arduously for three days until they arrived at the base of the mountain, and Abraham addressed his servants. "Abide ye here with the ass," said he, "and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come back again to you." Then lay he did the wood for the altar, for the offering upon his son's back and they hunched miserably up the mountain's peak. "My father," called Isaac, who slumped at the rear, slouching from the wood's volume on his back, "Behold I do the wood and fire of the burnt offering, but where is the lamb?" And Abraham spake back unto his son, glimmering silver knife concealed in the sleeves of his brown robes, "My son, God will provide Himself a lamb for the burnt offering." At last, they reached the place God had told them of and fixed the wooden altar, short but rigid on the dark, dry land; the boy was fifteen. Abraham bound his son flat to the table, brandishing the hidden knife with trembling jowls. He raised his shaking arm aloft and thrust it down to pierce the heart of his only son. "Abraham! Abraham! Here am I," chanted the voice of God, through the vessel of one of His angels, "Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me." Abraham lifted his happy eyes to see a ram caught in a thicket by its horns, and Abraham went and slew the ram and offered it up for the sacrifice in the stead of his son. God had rewarded him for he was willing to bear the loss of his own beloved son in honor of his faith, of his complete devotion to the Lord.
And in honor of Him, Orville Swanson couldn't even stay sober for an hour.
He poured the whiskey (or rum or beer or white tiger's milk with a peach slice garnish or whatever the hell it was) down his raspy throat; his arm had been a little raw from the opium injection this morning, so he'd advocated for booze instead. Finally, all the liquid filtered out of the bottle and he set it down, finished. He was in Pearson's room, the closest to the stairs on the second floor, supposed to be packing up the dark green leather trunk that contained Pearson's meager supply of possessions. Can't help my nature, he thought, I'm an opportunist when I'm thirsty, which is most all the time. Having three drinks in him, he wasn't thirsty now, but he'd wager his soul that before two was out he would be, and by four he wouldn't be. That was how the cycle flowed: he'd drink, he'd hate himself, he'd sober up, he'd cry, he'd promise abstinence on the lives of his kids that he hadn't seen in almost ten years, he'd forswear the drink, the needle and all other forms of debauchery… and within the hour he'd be drunk again. Rinse. Repeat. It was like night and day; he couldn't stop and he couldn't stop whining about how he couldn't stop.
"Damn you," he whispered to the dry bottle, although he could have been speaking to its reflection, who knows. "Damn you to hell! I curse the day you were born!"
Then he brought the lid to his lips, hoping to drain out an extra droplet or two. He did, with a euphoric aftershock that hardened his lower regions and instilled wicked thoughts about pretty girls in his head.
Christ! What is wrong with me? How can sin be carved so deeply into me? It wasn't like my parents were cruel and it wasn't like I didn't have folks who loved me. Jilly, Ronald, Maisy… Margaret…
Why does Dutch let me stay? I'm the worst of us, the very, very worst. It's not Molly, it's not Uncle, it's not even Micah, it's me. Least they sin with cause, least they know which way is up. He was like some stupid street dog that followed them around. They felt too bad to put him out of his misery, so they gave him a few pats on the head, a few scraps of food, but they knew in their hearts: he'll drop dead one day and no one'll care. He remembered when Arthur had saved him at the tracks, the disgust in his eyes. He was probably wondering how one man could be so pathetic, so—
"Hard at work, I see!" bellowed the (always, in his experience) bad-tempered voice of Grimshaw and he jumped to the evergreen trunk and vainly stuffed it with whatever was lying around—clothes, leather-working tools, anything.
"I wasn't slacking!" he argued weakly. "Just taking a slight break… but I'm all done now!" His brown eyes closed and his orange Hungarian mustache scrunched up in preparation for her harsh, loud words, and were surprised when they came off even quieter this time.
"What do I get, expecting you of all people to be working?" He turned around, nervous and relieved to find no one was there at the doorway, hands on their hips, beratings muzzle-loaded and ready to fire. He stuck his head outside and saw them going at it from across the hall, fighting like Kilkenny cats.
"Well, excuse me, I didn't realize the Queen of England would be joinin' us today. Sorry I didn't care enough to sweep this dump," fought Molly.
"It ain't about that. It's about your lack of work ethic and inability to pull your damn weight, Miss O'Shea." There went her hands on the hips.
"In case you hadn't noticed, this place was shot to hell! Me not dustin' ain't gonna savage it." Good point.
"Should Dutch have to step on broken glass when he comes back from Saint Denis tonight with our future in hand?" Also a good point. What, that robbery is tonight? Shit, what day is it?
"Ohhh—"
"No. He shouldn't. You've been carried for too damn long."
"—so that's what this is about? Still jealous I'm fuckin' your man?" Molly ended with a smirk even Orville wanted to slap. The Lord mocks the mockers but is gracious to the humble.
He saw Grimshaw's black dress tighten as she sucked in a breath like a dragon, primed to shoot a barrage of profanities; Orville bolted to the adjacent room (the one Bill shot a hole in) to avoid the radius of the blast.
"YOU GODDAMN LITTLE TRAMP! YOU—"
He plugged his ears with his middle fingers, basking in the silence. My word, their bickering knows no end, he thought, before glancing at the women across the room. The first was expected—Abigail, dozing like a bear, blankets obscuring her form so she looked more like a pile of sheets than a person capable of laughter and love. The second was Sadie, seated by Abigail, in the same yellow garbs she'd worn for days straight, sticking out in the dark room like a candle. Her face jolted up from her lap and she wiped it; had she been crying? He unstuffed his ears, trying to ignore the burdensome shrieks across the hall.
"H-hey, Reverend."
"Mrs. Adler. What are you doing here?"
"Oh, nothing much."
"Are you sure? You looked like you were—"
"I said nothing much!"
"Oh," he began to spin towards the door. At least Grimshaw's shouts weren't directed at me. "I'll, uh, leave you alone now."
She stood up and marched over. "Wait…" She pinned her arm against the door, keeping it tightly shut. Physically, she was a little shorter than him, but she stood tall and he slouched all the time, so they were about equal height. "I'm sorry."
"It's… alright?" He didn't know what else to say. She's standing very close, is she gonna kiss me?
"Reverend… I think I made a big mistake," she admitted. She looked at him so intensely, like she was laying herself bare naked to him.
"What… what kind of mistake?"
"I—what does the Bible say about revenge?"
"Uh… well y'know. It's bad."
"Specifically. Verbatim."
"Verbatim?" he groaned. "I-I don't have the words memorized."
"Try," she said, but not forcefully, not like Grimshaw. She seemed to be begging.
"Um…" He racked his brain. "The Lord says… He says… never… uh…"
"C'mon!"
"I'm trying! Never… never take your own revenge. Leave it… leave it for the wrath of God… for it is written… what is written? It is written… uh… He says… vengeance is His… and He will repay."
She unclasped her hands from the door's splintery panel and weakly trudged to her seat once again, the shady ultramarine lighting of the room making her face unreadable when she whispered:
"I saw him die. Watched him bleed out in front of me. I don't feel any better. I left Jackie for him and don't feel any fucking better."
She stayed that way for a while, sitting, her face concealed by shadows, until she remembered she wasn't alone in accompanying Abigail's shell. "The hell do you want? Get lost!"
Bemused, he went back to the door again, only to have it open of its own volition as another figure entered the room, carrying a reddish bowl of baked beans—Pearson wasn't free to make his famous stew.
"Oh great… good to see you're takin' special care of our girl here…" Tilly remarked slyly, hatred channeled into a powerful sarcasm before turning to the red-haired clergyman. "Hey, Reverend."
"I don't need this…" Sadie groaned, clearly having been dragged through this routine before. "I don't need you to tell me I fucked up. I know."
"Fucked up? No…" She set the food by the dresser near Abigail's bed—none had high hopes she'd touch it; underneath the blankets, everyone knew she must be bone-thin by now. "All you did was let a little boy die so you could scratch an itch—"
"My husband—"
"—happens to the best of us."
"—isn't an itch."
"He ain't anything at all no more. He's dead. Killing Colm wouldn't do you no good. And it weren't even you who killed him was it?" Good point.
"Fuck you!" Sadie cried, pouncing up. "Where were you? If you're so damn noble, what were you doin' for that boy? Where was your master plan?" Also a good point.
Orville inched to the door, deciding this conversation wasn't for him. The sad truth was, the kind he chuckled at (because crying wasn't befitting enough), until a few hours ago, he hadn't even known Jack was missing. He still heard them rowing as he closed the door.
"My 'master plan' was put on hold when I got fuckin' kidnapped!"
"I-I just got here, I d-don't owe you folks nothin'!"
A servant of the Lord must not quarrel but must be kind to everyone Orville thought as rushed downstairs, trying to escape to endless streams of bellyaching and fighting he was feted with upstairs. Unfortunately, he did not find sanctuary.
"Thought I smelled shit."
"Oh, leave us alone Bill!" Mary-Beth bemoaned.
"Don't you get… too familiar with this one… this O'Driscoll is a bad omen—"
"I ain't an O'Driscoll!" Kieran grunted, annoyed.
I don't see smoke but this place is on goddamn fire Orville thought as he watched Bill knock the book from Kieran's hand and pulled the boy out of his chair—a mercy, honestly because the seat looked like it was bristling with sharp splinters.
"The longer you're here the worse things get. Uncle didn't keep a close enough eye on ya, did he? Called the calvary didn't ya? Funny how the O'Driscolls attack on the one day you're gone, ain't it?"
"Shut your trap, Bill! Fiddle-faddle is the only thing comin' out it!" Mary-Beth hollered.
"Out of it," he corrected, letting Kieran fall back onto his chair, the blades below making him wince. "If you weren't thinkin' with your lady-dick, you'd know."
"And if you could think at all, you'd stop actin' like a drunken baby!"
Orville turned away from their argument and kept walking, past the glass-strewn floors through the front door, where he almost hissed like a cat under the bright sun. He'd forgotten for a moment it was the afternoon.
He squinted to his left and saw Karen playing poker with Strauss on the spool table near Pearson's unoccupied chuckwagon. She was predictably losing, not that that was due to her being wet with firewater; even sober, no one could touch him in a game of cards. Micah stood aside her, hand laid. He said things to her that Orville couldn't hear, yet she remained woefully ignorant (woeful because of what would happen in the immediate sequel). He lunged like an alligator, snapping his jaws against her mouth, choking her with his tongue; her arms flailed as she battered him with them, and Orville could hear the yawps of fury echoing in Micah's hairy mouth. Strauss turned to his notebook, finding this whole affair quite colorless. (Did you think he would intervene? Are you mad?) Eventually, she pawed the snickering curly wolf off her, reaching for the sawed-off shotgun she kept strapped to her hip, to no avail. Because he was faster and had his double-action revolver out and to her head first. Orville didn't hear what threats he gave, but he saw Karen slowly, with ire, bring her hands skyward, defeat angrily displayed on her face. Micah laughed and sat down to join them; Strauss snapped to life, dealing cards like greased lightning, eager to get back to his game.
Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.
He peered to his right, and saw Uncle sleeping by the gazebo (Orville gave a slight shudder, his memories of that cramped nook were not pleasant), his back pressed up against its side until the polished black boot—that matched its owner's hair—of Javier hit the old man right in the gut. Again, words were fuzzy, but Orville got the jist. Hell and damnation, everyone is so damn jumpy today, he thought. It's like the Orthodox and Catholics. Next time I see Dutch I'll tell him he should take everyone to a whorehouse, let people vent some frustrations.
He strolled around the camp, passing all the wagons and tents, arriving at the small torn-up cottage by the waterfront; the place was so about five feet lower than it should be—the roof had sagged down like a flapjack. He'd remembered seeing Mary-Beth giving the business to Uncle and Strauss at this spot a few days ago, although it had seemed out of character for her.
And just below the front steps was Pearson, big as day, his parched and formerly lively eyes aimed right at the beaming full sun, but they didn't flinch at all. His throat was torn and black, with a few hints of red, and his skin had developed a ghostly pale hue.
"Reverend Swanson!" Dutch called from the front porch of the cottage, meandering down the pretzeled steps in quick strides. Was I going to tell him something? Never mind, I can't remember. "Hey, have you seen Hosea recently?"
"Uh… no," he said, racking his brain. The fact of it was that he couldn't be entirely sure one way or the other. "Not since… this morning."
"Yeah…" Dutch said. "I know he should be just about dead to me now, but still—I'm worried."
"Why? Just been a few hours."
Dutch's face turned as hard as steel then. "He's… disappeared before…"
Orville waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, and the churchman could sense prying was not an advisable action. "He'll… he'll be back. I know it."
"Yeah…"
Trying to change the topic of conversation, Orville remembered the cold Navyman sleeping below them. "Well… aren't ya gonna bury Mr. Pearson?"
"Oh, no…" Dutch said, moving a hand to his temple and closing his eyes. "I-I don't have time for that right now. Plans, Reverend, plans. Our future is decided tonight, for better or worse." He reopened them and saw Orville was not pleased by this answer, so he changed tactics. "I'm sure Grimshaw will get to it as soon as she can. Don't worry about it."
Something caught his eye in the distance and he ran off to it, hollering Micah, Micah! Orville hoped he'd be defending Karen from that creep's advances, but he didn't need to turn around to know that wasn't the case. He kept his gaze fixed on Pearson, the details on him; the buzz buzz of the flies hovering over his neck, the sparseness of his hair on his fat head—did Colm shave it, or was he always quasi-bald? And he made up his mind.
He found a shovel in the cottage (the gang probably had one, but he couldn't remember for the life of him where) and got to work; it took around twenty minutes to dig. Afterward, he gathered a bedsheet from Pearson's abandoned bedroom and laid it out on the ground, spreading it till it was flat as paper.
The next part was the challenge: he grabbed the elephant of a man with his skinny arms and attempted to hoist him onto the white linen—you can imagine the embarrassment for yourselves. Still, he kept at it moving the corpse an inch or so at a time until he had the entire body within the confines of the pallid sheet. (He could have just rolled the body I suppose, but he felt guilty; it would've looked too much like a dung beetle rolling shit.) During this, he discovered twin lumps that proved to be Pearson's journal and bronze pocket watch—which he slipped into his own pocket.
"I gotcha, Mr. Pearson, I gotcha." Orville insisted as he pulled the sheets around his dead figure, pulling them together as tight as he could; Pearson's face disappeared behind the makeshift shroud, and Orville felt a sudden wave of fright and pulled the warm (even when it was cold), calming face of Simon Pearson back to plain sight. He realized just then how much he'd miss the fat, griping cook. He started chuckling. "They're-they're too busy bitchin' and bellyachin', but not us, huh? No, we're men of action. Hell, y'know… I'm-I'm starting to think we might be the best ones here. I really am."
He dragged the corpse into the hole; it fell with a conclusive thump, and Orville hucked a shovelful of dirt down on it before he realized…
"Shit!" He forgot to place the coins on his eyes; payment for the afterlife. It wasn't essential, but it felt sinful to cut corners today—and lo, it was a historic day, because sinning sounded unappealing to Orville. He fumbled around his cassock, looking for some loose change, only finding the sharp needle of his opium syringe. It was empty, but there were still remnants of the friendly golden-brown juice left in the cloudy vial. In the afternoon sunlight, they gleamed a smile at him, as if saying Hey Reverend! We're here for you! Don't you fret 'bout ruining your life cuz you'll always have us! We love you, we love you, we love you!
The urge was building, starting at his sweaty forehead and snaking down to his arm; even though the syringe was empty, the brainless desire to plug it into his vein was overwhelmingly fervent. He recalled he had a little more stored back in his suitcase…
Fuck it. He tossed the syringe down into the ditch. Charon needs this more than me.
The anti-digging process lasted about two minutes, and then Orville tore two planks of wood off the cottage's front porch, linked them with some nails, and brought them together at their centers, forming a sloppy cross (it matched with the maker, at least). On the cross, he etched Pearson's full name (at least the part he knew; he had no clue of his middle name), alongside the only words that seemed appropriate for a man such as him: Semper Fortis.
Ahead of the brown bump of dirt indicating where Pearson was buried, the cross was planted, concluding the burial. Next came the eulogy.
Orville cleared his throat nervously, and took his position on the steps of the cottage so he could look down at all those gathered around; unfortunately, it was a scant crowd—only two folks in attendance, present company not excluded. "Well… uh, what can be said?" he started clumsily, suddenly feeling overmatched, outgunned. "Simon Pearson was, uh… he was a fellow we… we—well no one was unhappy to see him around, I'll say that much. I… I-I don't know. I'm not great with words, never was. Even before… I fell off." He sighed, licked his lips, and tried again. "I-I'll start with quoting the Bible if you please. Figure even I can't bungle that too badly. My God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus… Philippians 4:19. Or, for one all a' you might be more privy to: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want… Psalm 23:1. You see… to me… looking back on it… I see God in our Pearson. Wish I'd noticed it sooner. The Lord provided for us, but it was through Pearson His provisions were delivered. He cooked for us, kept us alive with that foul-tasting stew of his. Pearson might not have been religious, but he served God every day, and I will take much comfort in knowing the resplendence of the Heavens is freely open for him now. I do regret not knowing him better, asides him being a Navyman, I couldn't tell you much about him, and I loathe that fact. But instead of lamenting, I propose we celebrate; celebrate the life of this man, his boring fisherman stories, his kind heart, and his rotund potbelly. I invoke all of God's angels and beseech they comfort and sustain Ms. Pearson when word reaches her of her nephew's death, and I'd like to conclude with a final Bible quote. You've heard it before, so say it with me: Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me—"
"Your rod and your staff, they comfort me," concluded Charles, standing in the shadow of a short, winding tree, invisible until he spoke.
"Mr. Smith!" Orville exclaimed, shocked—but mostly embarrassed—to see him here. "When did you get back to camp?"
"At… Philippians, 4:19, I believe."
"Oh, God… I didn't humiliate myself too badly, did I?"
"No." He took strides closer, examining Pearson's cross attentively. A breeze pushed his long, silky, black hair in front of his face, and he pushed the unwanted obstruction away. "I liked it."
"Are… are you bein' sarcastic? Honestly, I can't tell."
"I'm not."
"Oh. Good," Orville slackened, itching his wide apricot mustache. He eyed the dark man and realized he was just finding out Pearson was dead. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Were you close?"
"Not really," he said calmly, but with a sliver of grief hidden away in his tone. "Doesn't make it any less of a shame. I shoulda been here."
"Don't you say that," Orville demanded, placing his hand reassuringly on Charles, though he could see in his sluggish eyes (the white scleras were almost yellow with weariness) the gesture had no effect. "You couldn't have done nothing."
"That's not true. And we both know it." Detachedly, with a dash of bitterness, he said it. "He was a good man. Told good stories."
"You listened?" Orville couldn't help but ask.
"Yeah. Weren't none of them true, but hey, a good story's a good story."
They heard a commanding string of curses from across Shady Belle and knew who it was before they turned.
"Miss me ya sons a' whores?!" yelled the always delightfully irksome voice of Sean MacGuire, Trelawny riding beside him, looking like he'd been through hell. "Cuz I'm baaaack!"
Karen rushed over from the lion's den with Micah and Strauss, realizing halfway she was running too quickly, too desperately, and slowed to a relaxed strut; it didn't fool anyone. Dutch followed her, keen on asking about their situation with the boat.
"Guess we're on, then?" Charles sighed.
"Y-you don't have faith in Lenny's plan?"
"No." The answer was quick and simple, a fine description of the man himself. "Lenny's a good kid, but he sees the world through maps and photos, not like it is." He turned to him, eyes dormant of emotion as ever, but there was something in it Orville couldn't trace. Fear? "Y'know we're gonna use a gang war as a fuckin' smokescreen? Do you know how many people are going to die in the next few days, just so we can get money that ain't even ours? And if we want to talk on more selfish terms: the plan is to walk into a town where everyone in it wants us dead and hope if we keep our heads down we can get through it. And that's not even considering that we don't even have the guarantee of a payday, beyond the word of a corrupt mayor. All in all, a huge risk."
"And… you're still going through with it?"
"Yeah, sure, I'll always fight." He sighed as if displeased with his credo. "Shall we go?"
As they strolled over to the crowd forming around Sean, as he spat out some tale about a short magician or something, Orville took a look at Pearson's shiny-brown watch and saw the little hand pointed past twelve. Two had come and gone and he'd stayed sober. He looked to the sky and gave silent, yet very much heeded, thanks to the Holy Trinity.
Next chapter, the heist will start up. That'll probably go really well...
Hope you enjoyed! Thought it would be nice to actually see Swanson's recovery rather than here about it after the fact from Sadie like in the game. Of course, this will lead to some illogicalities regarding him getting completely clean so suddenly. I'll try to make the process as gradual as I can but remember I only have so many chapters and so much other stuff going on that I doubt I'll wind up making it a priority.
I do proofread, but I still may have missed things, so please comment and let me know if there's a line or passage that holds an embarrassing mistake I need to change. Thank you!
As always, feel free to message me with any suggestions or criticisms.