The Congress of Rough Riders
Page 37
However, eventually they became used to the unsteady nature of the sea and were able to return to their previous good health and even clean themselves up, ready for their next adventure as the coastline of England came into view through the clouds on a bright April morning.
My great-grandfather enjoyed the attention which he received in London. Every day the newspapers carried news of where he was visiting and who he had met, while the wild west show prepared for its opening performance at Earls Court. He travelled through the city by hansom cab and pedestrians would often notice him and cheer as he was driven past, when he would take off his hat and wave it affectionately at the public, acknowledging his applause. He stayed at the Metropole Hotel and became known as a substantial tipper, resulting in the best service from the bellboys and waiters who worked there. The rest of the wild west show stayed in far less extravagant surroundings but as Nate Salsbury was mostly responsible for putting the show together, Bill saw little of his colleagues during his first two weeks in the capital.
Three days before the opening of the show, Bill was invited by Adrian Parker, who was organising much of the publicity for their own show, to an open-air production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The performance they attended was a special one for it was advertised in the newspaper in advance that Buffalo Bill Cody, along with the Prince and Princess of Wales, would be the guests of honour on the evening. Bill dressed in his finest western uniform for the event – again, a uniform designed by himself and not standard issue of any American army – and was brought to his seat in the royal box a few minutes before the play began. There were about twenty people already seated in the box, mostly guests of the royal party and a few retainers, and Bill was immediately introduced to Prince Edward and Princess Alexandra, who greeted him warmly and invited him to sit in the reserved seat to the prince’s left to watch the show.
‘This is an unexpected honour for me,’ Bill remarked in order to ingratiate himself with the stern-looking couple whose conversational skills at first proved to be somewhat lacking. ‘Where I grew up in Iowa, I little expected to find myself seated in such a place one day. A log cabin is a humble enough place for one’s beginnings.’
‘We hear great things of the show you have brought to London,’ remarked the prince, showing little interest in information about his companion’s upbringing and appearing to barely understand what a log cabin even was. ‘We will be attending, of course, on the opening evening.’ Bill inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘We trust there will not be a great deal of anti-Empire flag waving, however,’ he added, a trace of a smile flickering around his lips as he enunciated each word carefully. ‘Calls for the colonials to invade the mother country, for example?’
‘I assure you that our aim is simply to provide an entertaining evening of performances, demonstrating the different cultures and activities of the west. We’ve proved very popular in America.’
‘So we have heard,’ said the prince, turning back towards the stage where the curtain was beginning to rise for the play. Bill sat back in his seat, unsure whether the offhand manner which was being displayed towards him was typical of royalty’s response to lay people, or whether his nationality was what was giving offence.
‘Oh I wouldn’t worry about him,’ remarked a rather corpulent man during the interval, who had been seated to Bill’s left in the royal box throughout the first half of the play. They had agreed to go to the bar together and my great-grandfather had mentioned that the Prince of Wales had seemed less than friendly. ‘The fact that he invited you to sit with him at all means that he’s interested in you. You’re supposed to take that as a given. Don’t expect politeness into the bargain. That’s not at all part of his make-up.’
Bill nodded. ‘I don’t much care, to be honest with you,’ he said. ‘I’ve met greater men than him in my time. I just don’t want to say anything myself which might be construed as rudeness or ingratitude. I like to think I’m a man of some manners, particularly in another’s country.’
The larger man finished his drink quickly and ordered another, ‘You’ll join me?’ he asked, ordering two more without waiting for an answer, more of a demand than a question.
‘So what’s your position, then?’ asked Bill, unsure who his drinking companion was anyway. ‘Are you part of the prince’s retinue? Is every word I say being taken down to be used in evidence against me?’
‘Not at all,’ said the man. ‘You think I’d be one of his flunkies? Not likely, my friend. But he likes to have me along every so often for a little colour, I think. The princess is good friends with my wife, Constance. You met her inside, did you not?’ Bill nodded and made some gratuitous compliment about her beauty, which the other man took with an amused smile. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’m a playwright, myself. Have a couple of shows running in the West End at the moment actually. So when something new opens I get invited along. Somehow they seem to think my opinion of their plays is important to them while their opinion of mine is the only thing important to me. Assuming their opinions are the correct ones, of course.’
‘I’m sure you have as little control over their opinions as my audience does over mine.’
‘My dear sir, I give them their opinions.’
Bill smiled. ‘Perhaps I should attend one of your plays while I’m here,’ he said. ‘Which one would you recommend?’
Mr Wilde, for that was his companion’s name, shrugged as if deciding between them was a pointless exercise. ‘Any of them is worth the price of a ticket, of course, but tell them at the box that I sent you and they’ll give you a good seat. Anything would be better than this claptrap, that’s for sure.’
‘You don’t like Shakespeare?’ asked Bill. ‘Surely that’s a heresy for a playwright?’
‘I do like him, of course. But this production is hardly the most riveting of evenings, now is it? Titania is talking into her breasts for one thing. Ample as they are. She seems to keep addressing them as if she’s afraid they might run away into the wings at some point. And I’m sure I could see Puck asleep at one point. I wouldn’t mind joining him if that was the case.’
Bill laughed, not quite sure what Mr Wilde meant. He never quite looked at him while he spoke but scanned the bar instead, occasionally raising a couple of fingers to wave to an acquaintance across the room. ‘Look, there’s Carstairs, The Times’s drama critic,’ he remarked after a moment. ‘He looks like he’s having almost as good a time as we are. That’s good news anyway. There’s nothing I enjoy more than someone else’s bad reviews. Gets the morning off to a good start. Along with the tea and pastries, that is,’ he added quietly.
‘Ain’t you got a solidarity among playwrights then?’ asked Bill, smiling quietly for he found his companion amusing and cantankerous at the same time.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We scan the obituaries every morning checking to see whether one of our adversaries has died. Finally gives us a chance to say something nice about each other. The dead can’t compete, you see. But you should know about the nature of rivalry, Mr Cody. Yours is the not the only wild west show touring at the moment, is it?’
Bill nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said, a trace of bitterness creeping into his voice. ‘We’ve had one or two imitators in recent times. Our show remains the best though. And we’re the only one who’s touring the world, that says something about us, I think.’
‘You’re not afraid of leaving America in the hands of your competition then?’
‘None of our competitors have a name like mine in their lead,’ said Bill proudly, his body puffing up in self-congratulation. We also have Sitting Bull, Red Shirt, Annie Oakley—’
‘Oh I’ve heard of her,’ said Wilde. ‘Little Miss Sure Shot they call her, is that right?’
‘Some do.’
‘They say she’s the finest shot in the world. I’d like to see her shooting. I’m something of an aficionado of that myself.’
‘You must come along and see her then,’ sai
d Bill. ‘I’ll leave your name on the box too. How’s that for double dealing?’
Mr Wilde smiled and at that moment the bell rang to indicate that they had only a few minutes to return to their seats for the second half of the performance. A striking young man in a tight tuxedo approached them, strutting towards them with one hand in his pocket and eyeing Bill up and down suspiciously. Wilde got a slightly pained look on his face as the man tapped him on the arm and spoke to him without acknowledging my great-grandfather.
‘Time to go back in, Oscar,’ he said. ‘The old bastard will be looking for you.’
‘Heaven forefend,’ replied Wilde sarcastically. ‘You’ve met Mr Cody, haven’t you, Bosie? Mr Cody, this is Lord Alfred Douglas, a particular friend of mine.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Lord Alfred,’ said Bill, stretching out his hand to shake that of the young man, who offered his reluctantly and even then barely pressed on the fingers of the other as his lip snarled slightly.
‘You’re Buffalo Bill, aren’t you?’ asked Lord Alfred. ‘That’s what they call you?’
‘It is, to my honour,’ replied Bill. ‘On account of the thousands of buffalo I’ve killed over the years.’
‘How lovely for you,’ came the reply with barely concealed distaste. ‘That must give you a taste for dinner. Or do you eat the meat raw off the bone in the colonies?’ Wilde checked his watch and looked as if he wanted to separate the two men.
‘Bosie’s right, I’m afraid, Mr Cody,’ he said. ‘We really should return to the prince. Perhaps we can continue our discussion later? Maybe I will attend your show with their royal highnesses next week anyway. Would that be acceptable? And you could introduce me to your Annie Oakley.’
‘Oscar loves a straight shot,’ said Bosie, leading the way back to the royal box. ‘And how about you, Mr Buffalo Bill,’ he asked as they went inside, uttering the name with slight contempt. ‘What land of shot do you prefer?’
‘Bourbon, mostly,’ said Bill, reaching into his inner pocket for the small flask he often brought with him. ‘Care for a taste?’
Bosie raised an eyebrow with a shudder and shook his head, saying nothing more to Bill as he took his seat. The lights went down and my great-grandfather sighed as he looked around him. With the exception of Mr Wilde, they were a cold lot. He would shake that out of them if nothing else, he thought. Wait till they get a load of my show, he thought to himself, wondering whether anyone would notice if he took ten minutes’ sleep during the next act. That would ruffle them out of their stuffed shirts.
The royal party enjoyed the wild west show so much that Bill and his colleagues were invited to perform for Queen Victoria on the occasion of her jubilee the following month, June of 1887. Although she had been in mourning for her late husband for the best part of thirty years, the queen had agreed to step out in public for a celebration of her fifty years on the throne and a gala performance was to be staged in her honour. When the invitation came for their own troupe to perform, it was agreed that a scaled-down version would be appropriate as many different performers from various parts of the empire would also want to have their moment in the spotlight. However, since the evening when the Prince and Princess of Wales had attended the show and delighted in it, the queen had specifically requested that the wonders of the wild west be presented to her too and it was with great pride that my great-grandfather designed a special performance of the robbing of the Deadwood stagecoach for the evening in question, along with a display of marksmanship from himself and the increasingly popular Annie Oakley.
Hundreds of people were working at the arena that day and Bill’s troupe were but a small part of it and he felt it slightly strange not to be the centre of attention for once. Some of the other performers did, however, take the time to visit him and shake his hand for his visit to London had been heavily reported by the newspapers and the acts of valour which he had invented for some of his stage shows back in America were increasingly being passed off as actual historical facts.
Special tents had been erected behind the arena where the performers could eat and Bill made his way towards one of these as he waited for his call. He was dressed in his regulation showman outfit and had paid particular attention to his hair and beard as he wanted to appear as handsome as possible for this, perhaps his greatest ever show. The tent was empty, save for a few members of an acrobatic troupe who were eating noisily in one corner. They stared at him as he walked inside, resplendent in his uniform, for they knew exactly who he was, the most famous performer at these jubilee celebrations. On any other occasion he would have invited himself to join them and regaled them with stories about his life and adventures but for some reason that evening he did not and instead wandered to the top of the tent, where a young girl was clearing away food from a buffet.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, approaching her and she jumped, startled, for she had been paying no attention to anyone around her and had not even noticed him entering the tent. She stared at him in surprise, for his outfit was unlike any she had ever seen before, and placed a hand to her heart to indicate her surprise, or perhaps her sudden attraction.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, giving a spontaneous laugh. ‘You startled me. I didn’t see you come in.’
My great-grandfather looked at her for a moment, struck by her beauty, and then laughed himself. She had said no more than a dozen words to him but the lack of affectation in them, the honest surprise, was something fresh to him, her youthful voice endearing. He had the impression she didn’t laugh much for within a moment she had turned it into a cough and was looking at him in a more serious, professional way.
‘I do apologise,’ she said. ‘Can I help you at all?’
‘I was hoping for a little snack,’ he said. ‘But if you’re clearing everything away, I can always—’
‘No, no, that’s fine,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘We’re still open. I can fix you something. What would you like? I could make you a sandwich perhaps?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Bill, extending his hand across the counter. ‘Bill Cody,’ he said. ‘I’m putting a show on here for the queen’s jubilee. Visions of the wild west of America, that sort of thing.’
The girl nodded her head slowly and smiled, shaking his hand but pausing before saying anything else. ‘I know exactly who you are, Mr Cody,’ she said finally. ‘Why you’re the man everyone’s waiting to see. Look at them over there,’ she added, nodding across at the troupe of performers at the other side of the tent who were watching the conversation between the two intently. Bill turned to look at them and frowned at their intrusiveness. ‘They can’t take their eyes off you.’
‘It’s probably you they can’t take their eyes off,’ said Bill gallantly and there was that sudden burst of laughter from the girl again.
‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘I know them too well. My name’s Ellen Rose,’ she added, and Bill nodded to acknowledge it.
‘Very pleased to meet you, Ellen Rose,’ he said. ‘And what makes you think that a bunch of honest men like them wouldn’t want to stare over at you?’
‘For a start, one of them’s my father, one of them thinks he’s above me, one of them’s too shy to speak to me, and one of them isn’t interested in ladies at all. And even if any of them was, there’s not too many people these days would show a lot of interest in a crippled girl, now is there?’ Bill raised an eyebrow in surprise, not knowing exactly what she meant, but as she turned to walk towards the kitchen area he saw her reach for a stick and followed her slow, heavy walk with sadness. ‘Come with me, if you like, Mr Cody,’ she called back to him. ‘I’ll make you your sandwich out of the way of their prying eyes.’
Bill stood up and followed her back, sitting now at a tall stool beside a table as she began to fix his snack. ‘What happened to your leg then?’ he asked, determined not to pretend that she had not said what she had said. He watched her as her face betrayed a slight tic; he suspected people were rarely this quick and honest with her.
Bill said nothing but felt his jaw clench in an unexpected anger against this unknown man who had hurt this girl he had never met until a moment before. He considered offering expressions of sympathy but decided against it. ‘What happened to him?’ he asked. ‘The man who let you fall. He’s not out there, is he?’ He nodded towards the tent area and the group of men he had seen when entering. Ellen shook her head.
‘No, he’s long gone,’ she said. ‘Nothing dramatic. He admitted what he’d done and was jailed for it. That’s all. He’s in jail and I work in the kitchens. Not sure which of us got the better deal out of it though,’ she added with a half smile as she took a long knife and cut the sandwich in half, put it on a plate and handed it across. ‘Now Mr Buffalo Bill,’ she said with a smile. ‘Eat up.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. He reached out to take the plate from her and as he did so his hand touched hers and for a moment they allowed their fingers to rest there. He smiled at her. She had long dark hair and pale skin. A slight blush had crept unknowingly into her cheeks and he got the sense from her that she was looking for a release, praying for someone to save her from this life. After a few moments, flustered, she took her hand back and turned away, lost for things to say. What she wanted to do was walk around to this cowboy and kiss him. Instead, she said something she could never have imagined herself saying in a million years to a fiancé, let alone a perfect stranger. But then that was exactly what he was – a perfect stranger.