Katherine A. Powers
Doc Holliday, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, and Earp's many brothers are known to most of us as they have been shaped successively by sensationalist journalism, dime novels, movies, and TV series. Though biographies of varying degrees of seriousness have also been written of most of these men, their lives might best be suited to fiction; only it can adequately convey the animating tincture of myth that has made them momentous.
This, at least, is the thought that comes to me upon finishing Mary Doria Russell's Doc. This extraordinary novel, whose central figure is John Henry "Doc" Holliday, is both a work of reclamation of the man from his legend as a cold-blooded killer and an inspired evocation of a mythic quintessence. That fundamental aspect of Doc's life is announced from the start: "The Fates pursued him from the day he first drew breath, howling for his delayed demise."
Though set chiefly in 1878 in Dodge City, the story begins with John Henry Holliday's early life as a man beset by misfortune. The son of a Georgia planter, he was born with a cleft palate, later repaired by innovative surgery. His mother, a woman "educated in excess of a lady's requirements," devoted herself to the arduous task of teaching him to speak clearly. She also taught him to play the piano and supplemented his formal education, sharing with him her love of the classics. She died of tuberculosis when he was 15, leaving him in life-long mourning. She quite possibly left Holliday with her disease as well--the tuberculosis which eventually killed him two decades later.
Holliday trained as a dentist in Philadelphia, returned to Georgia to set up a practice, but soon the dread malady began to show itself. He travelled West to ply his trade in an atmosphere supposed to be more salubrious than Georgia's miasmic swelter. Texas was first, then Dodge City. Here, in this "small, bright hellhole in the immense, inhuman darkness that was west Kansas," we have the heart of the book and the entrance of a familiar set of characters. Among them are Bat Masterson, flashy dresser, some-time lawman, and future newspaperman who greatly embellished the old West's already lurid history; James Earp, saloon-keeper and husband of a former prostitute, now running a brothel; Morgan Earp, lawman and the sunniest of the brothers; Wyatt Earp, lawman, straight arrow, and taciturn lover of horses; and Mary Katharine Harony, well-born Hungarian, educated in the classics, and now an enterprising, if bibulous, prostitute known as "Big Nose Kate."
Kate and Doc are brought together by sexual attraction and a sense of camaraderie arising out of the mutual exchange of pithy quotations from the classics. Kate, who is, not to mince words, a termagant, has no patience for Doc's desire to relieve the suffering of others by the practice of dentistry: He can, she scolds him, make vastly more money by gambling. And this he increasingly turns to as his constant, wracking cough--and the whiskey he takes to subdue it--makes delicate work progressively more difficult.
Russell brilliantly conveys Doc's psychological predicament as a genteel, educated Southerner who has been foiled by an unlucky disease and thrust into the life of a hard-drinking gambler. Doc reflects ruefully that the courtesy he shows everyone, regardless of race or condition, is no doubt mistaken as stemming "from an admirable democratic conviction that they were every bit as good as he was. In reality he thought himself no better than they: a significant distinction. It was not a surfeit of brotherly love that informed John Henry Holliday's egalitarianism. It was an acute awareness of the depths of disgrace into which he had fallen."
Much of the story is an imaginative, perceptive recreation of the personalities of real characters drawn from the whiskey- and blood-soaked annals of the Western frontier. A number of fictional persons are also at large, among them a mixed-race youth, Johnnie Sanders, who is murdered--maybe for money or maybe by destiny: "The sad truth was," broods a melancholy, resigned Wyatt Earp, "that a half-Indian colored kid like Johnnie was asking to get killed by standing there in his own skin, minding his own business." The mystery of this death adds more poignancy than suspense to the book, for oddly and quite wonderfully, the real dramatic tension arises elsewhere: out of the state of Doc's lungs, the repair of Wyatt's front teeth, a few hands of poker, and the chances and mischances that drive the actors toward the notorious event that propelled them into history and legend.
That, of course, is the gunfight at the OK Corral of 1881, in which the three Earp brothers and Holliday took part. Nonetheless, it stays over the horizon, a conjunction toward which the actors are stumbling, small incident by incident, seemingly by chance. It is, as one might say, no accident that Doc and Kate, the two spouters of Latin axioms on the nature of fortune, are fingered as central to that celebrated shootout, a neat dovetailing of classical fatalism and Western myth. "If he hadn't talked Kate into going back to Doc," ruminates James Earp, some three years hence, shortly after the deadly confrontation, "that damn street fight in Tombstone never would have happened. Wyatt only got mixed up with Ike Clanton after Kate got mad at Doc one night and then got drunk enough to tell Sheriff Behan that Doc was in on the stagecoach robbery that touched the whole thing off. Her story was horseshit of the highest order, and as soon as she sobered up, she took it back."
In an "author's note," Russell says readers will wonder "How much of that was real?" Her answer is "not all of it but a lot more than you might think." To which I will add that what is "real" includes, paradoxically, what she so deftly transmits: the luminescent aura of a tragic myth.
--Katherine A. Powers
Russell (Dreamers of the Day) brings lethal Dodge Cityto life in a colorful group-portrait of famous frontiersmen yearsbefore many of them would pass into legend at theO.K. Corral. After a tense childhood in Civil War–torn Georgia andthe loss of his beloved mother, young John Henry "Doc" Holliday moves west in hopes of ameliorating the tuberculosis thatwould eventually kill him, relocating in the late 1870s toKansas, where he divides his time among his poorly paying vocation ofdentistry, lucrative gambling, and his fractiousrelationship with Kate Harony, a cultured, Hungarian-born prostitute. In a tale notable more for a remarkable cast than orderliness of plot, therising tension between the corrupt, carousing, and well-armedinhabitants of Dodge and the forces of law represented by themoralistic Wyatt Earp and his brother, Morgan, makes aspectacular background to a memorable year-in-the-life taleof a fiery young Southern gentleman whose loyalty to hisfriends and love of music outshine even his fragile healthand the whiskey-soaked violence of the western frontier. (May)
The author of such acclaimed speculative fiction as The Sparrow moves into the historical fiction arena with this novel about the Wild West. The titular protagonist is Doc Holliday, a participant in the legendary gunfight at the OK Corral, but Russell does not focus on this infamous event that defined Holliday's life in the eyes of the public. The story starts with Holliday's birth and his relationship with his mother, whom he idolized. She later dies of consumption, the disease that will kill Holliday. Holliday trains to be a dental surgeon, but illness prevents him from practicing. He then moves west to Dodge City to prevent his illness from progressing. This is the fateful move that brings him together with Wyatt Earp and his sometimes female companion and prostitute Mária Katarina Harony. VERDICT Full of well-developed characters and rich historical detail, Russell's excellent novel will appeal to readers who enjoy a lively and vivid work of historical fiction or to Western buffs curious about this notorious character. [Library marketing; see Prepub Alert, 11/22/10.]—Kristen Stewart, Brazoria Cty. Lib. Syst., Pearland Lib., TX
If I had a six-shooter…I'd be firing it off in celebration of Doc, Mary Doria Russell's fantastic new novel about Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Since winning top honors for her science fiction 15 years ago, Russell has blasted her way into one genre after another, and now she's picked up the old conventions of the Wild West and brought these dusty myths back to life in a deeply sympathetic, aggressively researched and wonderfully entertaining story.
The Washington Post
From the Publisher
“If I had a six-shooter, I’d be firing it off in celebration of Doc . . . a deeply sympathetic, aggressively researched and wonderfully entertaining story.”—The Washington Post
“A magnificent read . . . filled with action and humor yet philosophically rich and deeply moving . . . more realistic yet more riveting than any movie or TV western . . . Doc Holliday is the tragic hero in this terrific bio-epic. . . . Losing their mythic, heroic sheen, figures like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson become more captivating for their complexity.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Intense, individual characters, so fully realized that readers can almost physically touch them, fill the novel’s pages . . . Doc’s restrained but magnificent struggle to rise above the indignities of his disease and of life in Dodge . . . is one of the delights of this surprisingly luminous and elegant novel.”—The Oregonian
“Fascinating . . . Russell’s women are a match for any of the men in Dodge, and their presence at the center of Doc gives the novel an unforced verisimilitude.”—The Plain Dealer
“Intoxicating . . . Doc reads like a movie you can’t wait to watch.”—The Seattle Times
“Grabs us from the opening sentence . . . Russell makes the narrative hum and the characters come alive.”—Chicago Tribune
“Well-written and provocative, Doc is a book that will haunt you.”—Historical Novels Review
Read an Excerpt
Playing for Time
He began to die when he was twenty-one, but tuberculosis is slow and sly and subtle. The disease took fifteen years to hollow out his lungs so completely they could no longer keep him alive. In all that time, he was allowed a single season of something like happiness.
When he arrived in Dodge City in 1878, Dr. John Henry Holliday was a frail twenty-six-year-old dentist who wanted nothing grander than to practice his profession in a prosperous Kansas cow town. Hope—?cruelest of the evils that escaped Pandora’s box—smiled on him gently all that summer. While he lived in Dodge, the quiet life he yearned for seemed to lie within his grasp.
At thirty, he would be famous for his part in the gunfight at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. A year later, he would become infamous when he rode at Wyatt Earp’s side to avenge the murder of Wyatt’s younger brother Morgan. To sell newspapers, the journalists of his day embellished thin fact with fat rumor and rank fiction; it was they who invented the iconic frontier gambler and gunman Doc Holliday. (Thin. Mustachioed. A cold and casual killer. Doomed, and always dressed in black, as though for his own funeral.) That unwanted notoriety added misery to John Henry Holliday’s final year, when illness and exile had made of him a lonely and destitute alcoholic, dying by awful inches and living off charity in a Colorado hotel.
The wonder is how long and how well he fought his destiny. He was meant to die at birth. The Fates pursued him from the day he first drew breath, howling for his delayed demise.
His mother’s name was Alice Jane.
She was one of the South Carolina McKeys, the third of eleven children. Fair-haired, gray-eyed, with a gentle manner, she came late to marriage, almost twenty at her wedding. Alice was pretty enough and played piano well, but she was educated in excess of a lady’s requirements. She was also possessed of a quiet, stubborn strength of character that had discouraged beaux less determined than Henry Holliday, a Georgia planter ten years her senior.
Alice and Henry buried their firstborn: a sweet little girl who lived just long enough to gaze and smile and laugh, and break her parents’ hearts. Still in mourning for her daughter, Alice took no chances when she was brought to bed with her second child. This time, she insisted, she would be attended by Henry’s brother, a respected physician with modern ideas, who rode to Griffin from nearby Fayetteville as soon as he received her summons.
Labor in Georgia’s wet mid-August heat was grueling. When at last Alice was delivered of a son, the entire household fell quiet with relief. Just moments later, a dreadful cry went up once more, for cleft palates and cleft lips are shocking malformations. The newborn’s parents were in despair: another small grave in the red north Georgia clay. But Dr. John Stiles Holliday was strangely calm.
“This need not be fatal,” the physician mused aloud, examining his tiny nephew. “If you can keep him alive for a month or two, Alice, I believe the defects can be repaired.”
Later that day, he taught his sister-in-law how to feed her son: with an eyedropper and with great care, so that the baby would not aspirate the milk or choke. It was a slow process, exhausting for the mother and the son. John Henry would fall asleep before Alice could feed him so much as a shot glass of milk; soon hunger would reawaken him, and since his mother trusted no one else with her fragile child’s life, neither slept more than an hour or two between feedings, for eight long weeks.
By October of 1851, the infant had gained enough weight and strength for his uncle to attempt the surgery. In this, John Stiles Holliday was joined by Dr. Crawford Long, who had begun developing the use of ether as an anesthetic just three years earlier. After much study and planning, the two physicians performed the first surgical repair of a cleft palate in America, though their achievement was kept private at the family’s request.
With his mother’s devoted care, the two-month-old came through his operation well. The only visible reminder of the birth defect was a scar in his upper lip, which would give his smile a crooked charm all his life. His palate, on the other hand, remained unavoidably misshapen, and when the toddler began to talk, Alice was the only one in the world who could understand a thing he said. Truth be told, everybody but his mamma suspected the boy was a half-wit, but Alice was certain her son was as bright as a new penny, and mothers always know.
So she shielded John Henry from his father’s embarrassment and shame. She forbade the house slaves and John Henry’s many young cousins to poke fun at his honking attempts at speech. She studied Plutarch on the education of children, and with Demosthenes as her guide, Alice Jane set out to improve her child’s diction. All on her own, she analyzed how the tongue and lips should be placed to produce the sounds her little boy found impossible. She filled scrapbooks with pictures and drawings, and every afternoon she and John Henry paged through those albums, naming each neatly labeled object, practicing the difficult words. In that way, Alice taught her son to read by the age of four, and though correction of his speech required years more, their diligence was rewarded. In adulthood, if his difficulty with certain consonants was noticed at all, acquaintances were apt to ascribe it to his lazy Georgia drawl. Or, later on, to drink.
He was quiet and rather shy as a child. Hoping to counter this natural reserve, Alice started John Henry’s piano lessons as soon as he could reach the keyboard, and she was delighted to discover that he had inherited from her an accurate musical ear and a drive to master any skill to which he set his hand. Left to himself, the boy would have whiled away his hours reading, or practicing piano, or daydreaming, but Alice knew that was no way for a Southern gentleman to behave. So when John Henry turned seven, she began to encourage the other Holliday boys to spend more time with him, and it wasn’t long before he held his own in their rowdy, noisy games, riding as recklessly and shooting as well as any of them.
“He ain’t big and he ain’t strong,” nine-year-old Robert Holliday told his Aunt Alice, “but that boy’s got a by-God streak of fight in him.”
And he was going to need it.
Confident at last that John Henry would not be ridiculed for his speech, Alice enrolled him in a nearby boys’ academy. She had taught him well at home: from the start he excelled in mathematics, grammar, rhetoric, and history. Latin and French came easily. Greek was a struggle, but with characteristic determination, he kept at it, year after year, until he could read Homer in the original.
Like all Southern girls, Alice Jane had made a thorough study of the male of the species. She knew the rules by which boys played, so she wasn’t much surprised when her son’s diffident aloofness and scholastic success combined to provoke his classmates beyond toleration. The first time John Henry came home bloody, all Alice asked was “Did you win?” Later that evening, she told the story of the Spartan mother seeing her son off to war. “Come home with your shield or on it,” Alice reminded him the next morning when he left for school.
His cousin Robert followed that moral lecture with another involving applied physics. “Don’t start nothin’,” young Robert advised, “but if some ignorant goddam cracker sonofabitch takes a swing at you? Drop him, son. Use a rock if you have to.”
John Henry never did make many friends at school, but the other boys learned to leave him alone—and to copy his answers on exams.
And what of Henry Holliday? Where was Alice’s husband while their only surviving child practiced phonemes and piano, learned to ride and shoot, and came home from school with bruised knuckles and excellent marks in every subject?
At a distance. Away. At work. At war.
In the 1850s, there was foolishness being talked on both sides of the Mason-Dixon. Throughout John Henry’s childhood, the word secession had come up in conversations among the men. His cousin Robert thought the whole idea of war was glorious, but John Henry’s father and his many uncles were unenthusiastic about the notion, even after the North elected Lincoln in 1860 and as much as told the South, “Secede, God damn you, and be done with it!” When the hotheads of Charleston opened fire on Fort Sumter, his Uncle John remarked, “South Carolina is too damn small to be a country and too damn big to be an insane asylum.” That got a laugh, though the Holliday brothers agreed: it was unfortunate that a dispute over cotton tariffs had become such a tangle. Still, they expected practicality to win out. Why, the entire nation’s economy was based on cotton! Naturally, the Yankees would have to make some token response to the attack on Sumter, but cooler heads would surely prevail. There’d likely be a trade agreement signed by Christmas.
Certainly, nobody imagined that Mr. Lincoln would order an armed invasion over the affair. When he did exactly that, the entire South ?exploded with defiance and patriotism, cheering the new nation—?sovereign and independent—that had just been born.
In April of ’61, Henry Holliday and six brothers rode away to join the 27th Georgia Volunteers. John Henry was still four months shy of ten years old, but he was told, “You are the man of the house now.” He and his mother were not left alone, of course. The household staff was presided over by the aging brothers Wilson and Chainey, who’d been in the family since their own birth and who would have fought the hounds of hell for Miss Alice and her boy. Even with Henry and a half dozen uncles gone, there were all the aunts and the older Holliday menfolk and the younger cousins near, and Alice Jane’s many relatives as well. Hollidays and McKeys never lacked for kin.
Young as he was, John Henry took his responsibility for his mother’s safety seriously, and his solicitude warmed Alice as much as it amused her. She was especially pleased by the very great deal of thought he gave to an outing she proposed when he was eleven, with the war well into its second year. The great Viennese virtuoso Sigismund Thalberg was coming to Atlanta to perform Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto at the Athenaeum Theater. “Sugar,” Alice told her boy, “I wouldn’t miss this concert for all the tea in China! And I do believe you are ready to meet the Emperor.”
“The emperor?” Frowning, John Henry looked up from The Gallic Wars. “Did something happen to President Davis?”
“Mr. Davis is fine. The Emperor is the concerto’s nickname—you’ll understand why when you hear it. The concert is to benefit the Georgia Volunteers,” she added. “What do you think, shug? Shall we chance it?”
Alice watched her somber, spindly son think the matter through. He presented a number of objections. The weather might be bad, and Alice had not gotten over the bronchitis she’d developed last winter. Griffin was a good distance from Atlanta; twice this spring, the front axle on their ancient carriage had been repaired and it could not be considered reliable.
“You’re bein’ very sensible,” Alice observed. “Well, now . . . We wouldn’t have to take the carriage the whole way. We could stay with your Aunt Mary Anne in Jonesboro, and ride the train to Atlanta from there.”
A solution to the transportation problem swayed him, but he was ?concerned about rumors of marauding Yankees and highwaymen, so the discussion went on at some length. Finally, when Alice gave John Henry permission to arm himself with a pair of antique pistols his great-grandfather had carried in the Revolutionary War, the boy agreed to the journey, though he stipulated that Wilson should accompany them as an additional precaution, and that Chainey should remain at home to guard the household in their absence.
“Sugar,” Alice told her son, “it is a comfort and a support to have such a fine young man lookin’ after me.”
It was the sort of thing any Southern woman of breeding might say to flatter a male. What surprised Alice was how much she meant it and how touched she was to see him stand all the straighter for her remark, as though feeling even more keenly a gentleman’s duty to protect a lady from whatever insult or danger a barbaric, broken world might present.
He spent days planning their expedition, serious as snakebite about each of his decisions. It was only on the evening of the concert, with his responsibilities temporarily discharged, that John Henry began to relax. He acquitted himself very nicely during an economical supper at their modest hotel’s restaurant, and when they strolled down the center aisle of the Athenaeum, he offered his mother a young man’s arm instead of a child’s hand. They found their seats—on the left, so they could watch Maestro Thalberg’s hands—and chatted like old friends while the orchestra assembled. At last the house lights dimmed. The audience fell silent. A commanding figure strode across the stage, ignoring the burst of applause as he took his seat at a gleaming black concert grand.
And then: the first great massed orchestral chord sounded.
From that moment to the end, the boy was caught and held in a grip so tight, his mother could have snapped her fingers in his face and that child would not have blinked. He had never before heard the blended timbres of an orchestra, had not suspected there was such music in the world. At eleven, he possessed no words for what he heard and felt; indeed, it would be years before he could articulate the overwhelming impact of the concerto, with its tumbling, propulsive drive, its kaleidoscopic shifts of mode and mood, its euphoria and gentleness, its anger and urgency. Liszt was more showy and athletic, Chopin more sparkling and luminous. But Beethoven . . . Beethoven was magnificent.