by John Boyne
‘I can’t believe we waited so long to see what she could do,’ said a breathless James Regis, the co-owner of the circus as he sat smoking his pipe late one evening with Russell. ‘We should have guessed that with you for a father she’d have no difficulties up there. Should have had her up there years ago. How old is she now anyway? Nineteen? Twenty?’
‘Seventeen,’ corrected Russell. ‘And how were we to know? Bessie and I always kept her away from the act because we were afraid she’d do herself an injury. I still can’t say I’m that happy about it.’
‘You haven’t seen my box office receipts then,’ replied James Regis greedily. ‘I’m thinking of putting her name higher up the billing. She’s becoming famous, you know.’
‘Fame’ll be no good to her if the celebrity goes to her head. Believe me, James, when you’re on the tightropes fifty feet above ground, you have to keep your feet firmly on the ground.’ Regis chuckled at what he perceived to be a joke but was quickly reprimanded. ‘You know what I mean,’ Russell said quickly. I’m not trying to be funny. If she thinks she’s more of a star than she is, if she loses concentration for even a moment and thinks about the applause of the audience rather than the rope beneath her feet, she’ll tumble. I promise you, she’ll tumble. Maybe we should start to use a net,’ he suggested in a quieter voice. Regis almost choked on his pipe smoke and turned on his friend quickly.
‘Not a chance, Russell,’ he said. ‘Not a hope in hell. The Regis-Roc Trapeze Company is famous for not using a net. That’s part of the entertainment, the excitement. How long has the troupe been performing now?’
‘Eighteen years,’ he replied.
‘Eighteen years,’ repeated Regis firmly. ‘And in all that time, how many accidents have there been? Well?’ he asked, sensing Russell’s unwillingness to reply. ‘Come on then. How many have there been?’
‘None,’ admitted Russell. ‘But that’s no reason to be complacent. I just don’t want all this attention to make the girl think she’s something she isn’t. I don’t want her to lose her head up there some evening.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Regis. ‘She’s a smart girl. She’ll be fine.’
Russell wasn’t so sure, but while his worries were directed towards his daughter’s well-being on the tightropes and trapezes, her mind was elsewhere entirely. For although she was gaining a reputation as a talented performer and her name and picture had appeared on the bill for the first time, the lure of celebrity had captivated Ellen in a different way.
The undoubted star of the Regis-Roc Circus was a young man named Howard Losey. He had begun his career with a different circus but James Regis had lured him to his own after a substantial salary offer. Losey, twenty-five years old and by far the most athletic man in the company, had thick blond hair and the bluest eyes that Ellen had ever seen. He was a lion tamer and in charge of six of the loudest and fiercest lions in England. Without appearing to give it a second thought, Losey would march those beasts around the circus, bringing them as close to the spectators as he dared, allowing some to stray while at all times managing to keep them under his control. Those who came near him while he was working could detect a low whistle which he emitted and they swore that this was some land of subtle signal to the lions which kept them under his control. He performed stunts with them, placing his head in their jaws, lying on the sand while they trampled all over him, grappling with them in wrestling contests. By rights, this should have been an act which Ellen Rose would be unable to watch as she feared lions more than any other creature, but from the day Howard had joined their company, Ellen Rose had been besotted with him. She sat in the bleachers whenever he prepared new tricks or was simply working with his charges. She would find excuses to pass by his trailer when he was feeding the animals and often sat in the audience after her trapeze act to watch as he entertained the audience with his own stunts. When he began to romance the knife thrower’s assistant, a girl closer to his own age than Ellen, she found herself devastated for the first time by love.
But whatever Ellen was feeling for him, there was another who was feeling similar emotions towards her. Russell Rose thought his daughter’s greatest danger lay fifty feet above the sand of the circus floor; in reality it was only a few wagons away.
A week later, the following letter, forwarded from the Tokyo newspaper office, arrived.
Dear William,
I haven’t heard from you since you left and I’m worried about you. Things weren’t right there and I know you think it’s my fault but you shouldn’t have run away like that. All right, maybe I said I was sicker than I actually am but let’s face it, son, I’m seventy-six years old now and won’t be around for that much longer anyway and if you can’t see your way to spending a little time with me while I’m still here, well then I just don’t know what.
The bank say they won’t lend me the money to start the wild west show without a partner and guarantor. I’m sending you the forms here. You don’t have to have any part of this thing if you don’t want to but I’m asking you to do this one thing for me, that’s all. But if you think about it and want to make a life and some money for yourself well then maybe you’ll reconsider and come back and help me run it. I’m telling you son this thing’s gonna be huge and make no mistake about that. I’ve spoken to some talent agencies and they’ve lined me up some people who could perform. Of course I’d have to audition them first as they say but that’s something you can help me with too because you’ve got to have a good eye for those things, am I right? I don’t know if we should get someone dressing up as your great-grandfather – that could be the icing on the cake or maybe it would be disrespectful. What do you think? You know the first time old Bill set up his show, he had to get sponsors too, although of course they
Anyway, write and let me know how you are. I miss you, William. Maybe I don’t show it like I should but there we are. I need these papers signed soon, son. I’m not getting any younger, you know.
Yours faithfully,
Isaac Cody
I felt guilty when I read it because in my anger against my father I had neglected to tell him that I had left Japan for France. The original postmark indicated that he had sent the letter five weeks earlier so he was probably already cursing me for not having had the decency to reply. I read the letter several times, noting how he had changed his mind about telling me one of his Buffalo Bill stories at the end, scoring it through but not rewriting the letter, as if he wanted to let me know it was still there but he was saving one for me. Then the forced humour of the last line, followed by the ceremonial sign off. I didn’t know what to make of it. Signing his surname – how many other Isaacs did he think I knew? I decided to write back immediately. Although he had handwritten his, I chose to write mine on my word processor and I wrote quickly, not changing a word after I had finished it.
Dear Isaac, [I wrote]
Sorry for the delay in replying to your letter. I’ve moved from Japan to France. I met a girl there and we’ve been seeing each other for a while now. I would have told you about her while I was back in London but there never seemed to be the right time for it. Anyway, she’s moved here so I’ve followed her. Still writing the columns. Got more now. Working hard.
I’m sending the forms back to you. I’m sorry but I can’t sign them. For a start the numbers on them – I just can’t be responsible for loans of that much money. I’m sorry but like I told you, I’m just not interested in setting up a wild west show. I don’t know for sure but I just don’t feel there’s a market for those things now, maybe a hundred years ago, but not now. I know this is your dream and I know how much it means to you but Isaac I’m sorry – I just can’t be a part of it.
I don’t want there to be hard feelings between us. I was angry when I left London but in fairness you dragged me halfway around the world on a lie. Okay, you’re right, I should visit more often but it’s not easy getting the time and now that I’m in France maybe I’ll be able to get across to see you more often.
If I’m welcome. Let me know.
My new address and number’s on top. I’ve got a nice place to live. Made some friends. I’m pretty happy, all told. Sorry I can’t help you more but anyway it’s too big an enterprise for a man your age. You’ve got to take it easier.
Speak soon,
William
I re-read it after I had printed it out and thought I’d said pretty much the things I wanted to say, although I wasn’t sure about the last paragraph. It seemed a little patronising but I couldn’t think of a better way to say it. And then I posted it.
When it was announced that the famous Buffalo Bill Cody was going to portray himself in a new play which would open in Chicago in September 1872, the applications for tickets came close to breaking box office records. The play, which was to be called Scouts of the Plains, was presented as another dramatic work by Ned Buntline and was initially advertised in the major cities of the north. Buntline hoped that the prospect of the play would generate enough excitement that people would come from states all across the union to Chicago in order to see it. As ever, he convinced Bill of the sense of this plan through promising him a great deal of money.
Bill was put on the payroll at a price of five hundred dollars a week – a huge sum at the time which would guarantee his status as a wealthy man – and one of the conditions which he made of his employment was that Texas Jack Omohundro would also be given a part in the production. Buntline agreed to cast him, regardless of any talent or audition, and it was decided that he would also play himself on stage.
As the group made their way to Chicago a couple of weeks before the opening night, Bill grew increasingly concerned about whether or not he would be able to perform in front of hundreds of spectators every night. ‘I know you say I’m a natural actor,’ he told Buntline, ‘but don’t you think it would make sense to begin rehearsals as soon as possible? My lack of experience is bound to show through otherwise.’
‘Soon, soon,’ replied Buntline quickly, for he had yet to show any of his actors a copy of the proposed script and while everyone was beginning to worry about learning their lines, Bill and Texas Jack were growing even more anxious, as they were novices in this world. ‘When we get to Chicago I have to strike the deal with Jeb Nixon about the theatre and once that’s sorted, we’ll head straight into rehearsals.’
Buntline, always pushing things as close to the wire as possible, had advertised the play and taken bookings without yet confirming with Nixon, the manager of the theatre, that they would be able to put their show on there. While Bill was aware of this and fretted about it constantly, one thing he did not know was that Buntline had yet to write the script for the play, which explained why he had been reluctant to show it to any of his cast. He had a vague idea in his mind of what the story would contain but other than that, he had not set pen to paper yet.
Once settled in Chicago, however, Buntline and Bill arranged a meeting with Nixon and they were shown into a shabby office in a splendid theatre where, as ever, my great-grandfather was treated as a great celebrity. ‘What are the cavalry doing without you, Mr Cody?’ he asked as he poured them each a shot of whisky. ‘Who’s keeping those damn Indians in line down there?’
‘Officially, I am not a member of any cavalry, Mr Nixon,’ explained Bill quietly. ‘And no one has the responsibility of keeping anyone “in line”, as you put it. The army and the Indian leaders are attempting to reach peaceful settlements on the land and the various issues of ownership regarding it. And please feel free to call me Buffalo Bill,’ he added, always keen to keep the legend alive.
‘If I had my way I’d shoot the whole blasted lot of them,’ countered Nixon, who had apparently been hitting the bottle before their arrival. ‘The stories that come back to us in the civilised states about scalpings and the like …’ He shuddered. ‘Well it makes my skin crawl, I can tell you that.’
‘I’ve seen just as much civilisation at a Lakota Sioux camp as I have at any military fort, I can assure you of that, Mr Nixon. Oftentimes more. Certainly a good deal more than I see in cities like this where rudeness appears to be the order of the day.’
Nixon eyed him carefully, his tendency to argue threatening to get the better of him, although he was aware that it would be a brave man who picked a fight with Buffalo Bill. ‘Well that’s as may be,’ he said, brushing the conversation aside. ‘All I know is that I have a theatre to fill and haven’t been paid a penny yet. And ain’t this show of yours due to begin next Monday night?’
‘It is indeed, sir,’ said Buntline in a hearty tone. ‘And as today is only Wednesday, I believe we can take a little time to get to know the Windy City before daring to tread its boards.’
Nixon grunted. He had little time for pretentious actors and even less for writers, most of whom had never treated him with anything even approaching respect. His nightmare situation was when the writer was also the producer and director of the show, as Buntline was. Triple trouble, he felt. ‘Here’s the fees anyway,’ he said, laying out a sheet of figures before the two men. ‘All up front of course,’ he added casually.
Buntline glanced at the sheet and laughed, as if the idea of payment was an insult to a civilised man. ‘These are a little on the high side, I would have thought,’ he said.
‘They’re standard,’ replied Nixon with a sigh.
‘Well you do realise we’ll have to wait and judge the success of the play before we pay you.’
‘Money up front,’ insisted Nixon. ‘I’m not getting stung if the whole thing’s a disaster.’
‘As if that could even be a possibility, with the team you see before you. No, what I propose is that we pay you two weeks up front in order to rent your theatre and, assuming we’re all happy with the arrangements at the end of that time and the seats are filled each night, we will rent from you on a monthly basis from then on.’
Nixon narrowed his eyes and thought about it. Looking away from Buntline for a moment, he stared at my great-grandfather and, appreciating that it was an actor he was addressing and not an army officer, his level of respect diminished slightly. ‘Is this the first time you’ve acted?’ he asked. Bill nodded. ‘And how do you think you’ll be at it, if you don’t mind me asking that is?’ he added politely.
‘I hope I’ll be good,’ said Bill. ‘We haven’t had much rehearsal time yet,’ he said, making a dig at Buntline who shifted uncomfortably in the seat. ‘Truth be told, Ned here has been a little precious with his writing. None of us has seen a word of it.’
Nixon looked at Buntline in amazement. ‘You haven’t shown them the script yet?’ he asked.
‘Soon. Today,’ said Buntline, looking at Bill as if he wished that he had kept his mouth shut. ‘We’ve been busy securing actors, you see. We’ll begin rehearsals tonight.’
‘You’re supposed to be opening on Monday! And you haven’t shown your actors their scripts? Let me have a look at one now. See what the learning’s like.’
Buntline opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish and decided he had better be honest. ‘Truth be told,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘I haven’t actually written the script yet.’
‘You what?’ cried Nixon and Bill in unison.
‘I’ve got a title,’ said Buntline, as if this would suffice. ‘It’s not as if I’ve been idle. It will be called Scouts of the—’
‘We know what the title is, you damn fool,’ shouted Nixon. ‘It’s plastered on billboards all over the northern union! How do you expect to put on a show on Monday night when today’s Wednesday and you haven’t even written a script?’
Bill was saying nothing; simply sitting there, looking horror struck. His stomach started to churn slowly; he wished he was back on Buckskin Joe, riding across the Kansan plains, the wind blowing in his hair, freedom ahead.
‘We’ll settle for the theatre,’ explained Buntline in a cool tone, as if he was addressing a child. ‘Then this afternoon I will write the play. We will begin rehearsals this evening and by Monday I guarantee you t
hat my entire cast will be word perfect.’
Nixon barked a laugh. ‘For your sake they better be,’ he said, opening up his receipt book and starting to write in it. ‘Two weeks, you say? Three hundred dollars to you, Mr Buntline.’
Buntline handed over the money and stood up to go, all the time aware of Bill’s eyes piercing into him, although he managed to avoid having to look at his friend. They left the building and Buntline waited for the onslaught. Fortunately for him, none was forthcoming as my great-grandfather was pale with worry that rather than achieve a new level of fame the following week, he would end up destroying his reputation instead, making a mockery of himself in front of hundreds of strangers in an unfamiliar, cosmopolitan city. He felt sick inside. They returned to their hotel without saying a word and when they got there, Buntline retired to his room to write the play while Bill sought solace in the bar with Texas Jack.
Within two hours, Buntline reappeared, his face tomato red once again with his exertions and the play was ready. He hired a couple of clerks to make copies and immediately handed two to his lead actors who retired to their rooms to learn their lines, a task to which they proved wholly unsuited. While reading aloud from the scripts, Texas Jack displayed a natural talent for drama but Bill appeared hopelessly lost. Over the next few days, as the entire company rehearsed on the stage, there seemed little chance that he would be ready to perform by the Monday night. Prompters were set up at stages left and right and in the orchestra pit below and it was agreed that some of the extras would, if necessary, pass him by on the stage and whisper the lines to him. Rather than simply becoming increasingly nervous, Bill began to face the ordeal of Monday evening with a growing hysteria, believing that he had made the worst decision of his life and that he would regret the day he had ever allowed the Grand Duke Alexis to make him consider a career in the footlights. Ego had got the better of him and the great scout Buffalo Bill believed that the Chicago theatre would, quite unexpectedly, prove his downfall.