by Lon Williams
Doc, for some time, was too busy to take more than passing note of any individual patron. Poker players, who had not yet drawn their guns and laid them out handily, were calling for whiskey; it was an exacting job to catch up with calls. But at last it was done and Doc, relaxing behind his bar, observed a tall, top-hatted character who, he suspected, had been lying in wait for him, hoping to mooch a drink.
This character, long-haired, clean-shaven and thin, leaned against Bogie’s bar and surveyed card players and drinkers with a philosophical eye.
Doc bent forward and tapped his shoulder. “Something for you, my friend?”
There was a delayed, condescending response. “Sir, it is quite presumptuous of you to so address me. Only celebrities are privileged to call me friend. I am Wadsworth Jefferson Heath, actor of world renown, portrayer of Hamlet, interpreter of Aristophanes, idol of London and of every city of consequence in America. Yet you dare to touch me and demand if there is something for me!”
“My humble apology,” exclaimed Bogie.
Doc Bogannon himself was tall and large, with handsome face, high, broad forehead, dark hair, and friendly, understanding disposition. What had brought him to Forlorn Gap was his own secret; he lived with a half-breed Shoshone wife and to all appearances made his living as owner and operator of Forlorn Gap’s only saloon. One quality he possessed served him well when he was confronted by queer ganders like Wadsworth Jefferson Heath—he understood and found them interesting.
By way of appeasement, he said, “Now that I realize in what majestic presence I stand; may I have so great an honor as to present with my compliments a glass of wine?”
Wadsworth Heath squared his emaciated shoulders. “Now you speak as a true gentleman. I accept your apology graciously, and in recognition of your gentility, I shall also accept your proffer of vinous libation.” He added, as he lifted his glass, “Thank you, sir. And here’s to great days and great dreams.”
Heath drank, smacked his lips appreciatively, put down his glass and drew a handkerchief from his left sleeve. Bogie waited until Heath had dabbed his wet lips, then said off-handedly, “I don’t suppose you happen to be a Boston Heath, do you?”
“No, my good man,” Heath responded. He walked a few steps to right then back to left. He paused and tapped Bogie’s bar with a tarnished, brass-headed walking stick. “But I have performed in Boston, sir; I’ve been toasted from Back Bay to Beacon Hill. ’Twas in Boston that my rendition of Hamlet brought from Harvard College an offer to confer upon me a doctorate and a chair as professor of dramatic arts, an offer which I, of course, respectfully accepted in part and declined in part.” He strode back and forth, cast upward meanwhile a reminiscent eye, then paused and assumed a meditative posture. “To be or not to be, that is the question!”
He rushed back suddenly and banged with his cane. “Wine, sir. Wine, I say. An inspiration is about to come upon me. It is a moment that must not pass.”
* * * *
Bogie lifted his wine bottle, but as he did so his batwings swung hard and a tall, wiry, weather-beaten man with a star on his vest stepped in.
“Winters!”
Winters strode up and planked down a coin. “Wine, Doc, and don’t be slow.”
“Winters, am I glad to see you!” Doc hastened to pour wine. “Didn’t happen to see a ghost on your way in, I trust?”
“No, Doc, but I’ve got a feeling I’m going to see one.” Winters glanced up and discovered himself being severely scrutinized by a beanpole in a top hat. Winters jerked his head. “Who’s he, Doc?”
“Do pardon!” exclaimed Bogie. “Winters, meet my new friend, Wadsworth Jefferson Heath; he’s an actor. Dr. Heath, my friend Deputy Marshall Lee Winters.”
“Your friend,” said Heath, “is a rude, disreputable hireling, a varlet and a knave. As on too many former occasions when magnificent inspiration was descending upon me, and some uncouth groundling dispelled and obliterated my terrific moment, so entered this dull and ill-mannered constable when greatness as of old was again about to be mine.” He rapped sharply with his cane and once more strode grandly back and forth, shoulders squared, chin close to his chest, eyes a-glitter with dramatic ferocity.
“’Tis a rare sight, Winters,” Bogie observed quietly. “Napoleon had a thought that fits it perfectly. C’est non de loin genie a insense, or words to that effect.”
Winters twisted his mouth and said dryly, “My thought exactly.” He drank his glass empty and set it down. “You know, Doc, this Wadsey Heath reminds me of a feller down in Texas when I was a yearling in Trinity Valley. Name was Highlander Fifoot. He was so stiff and straight that every witch and wizard for miles around was offended; finally they pooled their talents and changed him into a hoop snake.”
“My, my,” exclaimed Bogie. “Did they have to be so extreme?”
“I’ve often wondered about that, Doc. But ain’t there something about desperate diseases requiring desperate remedies?”
“Well, yes, there is,” said Bogie. “But I can’t say I’d recommend theirs in all cases.”
Actor Heath paused and confronted them, spread his scorn equally upon both. “I am no more affected by your cheap remarks than a lion is disturbed by a hyena’s laughter; or a mountain, by its babbling brook; or time’s relentless roll, by a feline yawn; or moon and stars, by a coyote’s bark or an owl’s discordant cry; or—”
Winters slapped down another coin.
“Doc, give Wadsey a drink, with my compliments, and good night.” He left Heath orating and went out.
A glass of wine brought Heath’s remarks to an abrupt pause. Once more he drank with elegance, once more neatly dabbed his lips.
Then Bogie’s batwings swung again and a colorful procession filed in. Some wore hats with plumes, or with no more ornaments than plain band clasps. Some had high boots; some, silver-buckled slippers. Coats were red and black. They doffed their hats and bowed, whereupon their classifications were disclosed. Those with powdered, curly wigs, of course, were Cavaliers; those with close-cropped hair were Roundheads. They crowded noisily up and demanded drinks.
Small coins clinked.
Bogie eyed them curiously and, glanced at their money. He served his least-expensive rum. “Quite distinguished looking, you gentlemen,” he remarked. “Play-actors, no doubt?”
“That we are,” their leader replied promptly. “We are putting on a play in your fair city. It’s called Cavaliers and Roundheads. You, I presume know who Cavaliers and Roundheads are?”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Bogie. “You fellows had a right lively war with each other in dear old England many years ago.” He glanced at their leader. “You, I imagine, are Sir Thomas Fairfax, commander of Parliament’s New Model Army of that day.”
“That I am, sir.” He indicated a stocky, glum number at his right. “This gentleman is my second in command; Oliver Grumble, of course.”
“Oliver Cromwell,” his second in command corrected grouchily.
“Yes, of course,” said Fairfax.
Another said, “I am John Pym.”
Fairfax corrected him. “You are John Pym’s ghost.”
Others introduced themselves. “I,” said one, “am Lord Mayor of London.” Another, “I’m John Eliot’s ghost.”
“And I am Laudy Laud’s ghost.”
“You are Archbishop Laud’s ghost,” said Fairfax.
“So you’re putting on a play in Forlorn Gap,” mused Bogie. “Far be it from me to discourage entertainment, but isn’t your subject over most of our heads? So few of us know anything about Cavaliers and Roundheads.”
That started a storm of protests and abusive words, but Fairfax quieted his noisy followers with a sharp command. “Silence, mutineers!” He faced Bogannon with vast patience. “Sir, action is understood by all. We give action; we wage heroic war against tyrants; we win great battles. We lay waste to half of England.”
Oliver Cromwell spoke grumblingly. “And we cut off a king’s head.”
&nbs
p; That remark cast sadness over them. They emptied their glasses.
Fairfax said gloomily, “Alas, we are presently without a king. How can we put on our play without a king?”
Bogie’s glance at Heath was neither malicious nor deliberate. He said helpfully, “You need look no further. There is your answer—none other than Wadsworth Jefferson Heath himself.”
They all turned and stared at Heath. He returned their stares with a most disdainful and contemptuous eye.
“Heath!” Fairfax breathed in awe. “Ah, we would not suggest a role in our play for one so famous.”
“I have been listening,” said Heath with an arch of his brows.
Fairfax looked at his companions. “That’s encouraging; perhaps he would join us, after all.”
“An old trouper never loses his hunger for bright lights,” said John Hampden’s ghost.
Others nodded.
Fairfax and Cromwell conversed with their eyes.
Fairfax nodded and faced Heath. “Your greatness and renown make us timid—but, fortunately, our troupe is minus a character for its greatest role. Only that of king could be offered to you without infringing upon every requirement of respect. Sir, if you would only condescend to play as King Charles—” He left his thought suspended as one not worthy of pursuit.
“I fear we propose too much,” said Cromwell. “It is our society he disdains, of course. Not our entreaty, for he is of generous spirit. Our intimations respecting his royalty he naturally recognizes and fully appreciates. But—”
“I am listening,” said Heath loftily.
Fairfax looked at Cromwell and shook his head. “No. We dare not. We are overawed merely to have seen so great an actor as Wadsworth Jefferson Heath. I think we had best depart, Oliver.”
“Perhaps if we would attach apology to entreaty,” Cromwell suggested humbly.
One of Bogannon’s remote customers yelled, “Whiskey! Where’s that lazy barkeep?”
Bogie lifted an answering hand. “Coming, sir. Coming.”
He left his actor friends regretfully. When he returned, after unanticipated delay, they were leaving, Heath striding grandly in front, London’s pompous Lord Mayor going last—and taking with him one of Bogie’s half-empty rum bottles.
* * * *
Heath found a coach-and-four awaiting him outside. He and his fellow troupers crowded in and were whirled away to Forlorn Gap’s abandoned and gloomy opera house. Though it was but an empty shell, Heath found it had a stage, with scanty properties recently supplied. Candles furnished eerie light which gave to cobwebs overhead a ghostly look. Yet Heath laid his top hat aside, stroked his thick gray hair, and strode back and forth with pleasure, in his mind’s-eye this gloomy place transformed into elegant vastness and filled with clamoring people.
“Ah,” he said, assuming command, as he doubted not was his right, “this theater shall resound again and with praises of Heath. Set up your properties, underlings, and let us proceed to rehearsal, for time presses hard upon us.”
“How truthfully he speaks,” a voice said in monotonous accents.
Heath glanced around. “Who said that?”
“Oh,” replied Fairfax, “that was merely John Pym’s ghost.”
“True, true,” said Heath. “So we do have ghosts, naturally. And my role is that of King Charles. What scenes do we rehearse tonight?”
Fairfax and Cromwell stood close together. They made signs with their eyes and nodded.
Fairfax said, “We have rehearsed our lines, except for that final scene at Whitehall, where his late majesty King Charles is beheaded. That, we thought, should be a good scene for this present rehearsal.”
“Agreed,” said Heath.
Attendants arranged a chopping block and a hooded headsman stood by it with a battleaxe.
“A book,” said Heath. “For just tonight, I shall read my lines.”
“You don’t have any lines,” said Cromwell. “King Charles, you see, has already been tried and condemned to die. He may not, therefore, speak, for he is already dead in law.”
“Fa!” scoffed Heath. “’Twould be no play at all without dramatic lines for such historic moments. That future years may revere his memory, King Charles should here achieve his hour of sublimity. If your play contains no lines for him, I shall fashion some.”
“Of course,” said Fairfax. “We do not object, do we, Oliver?”
“Not at all,” said Cromwell; “even a king should have a last word of some sort.”
“He gave me no last word,” said a ghostly voice. “I, poor John Eliot, died a prisoner in London Tower.”
“Silence, thou miserable ghost,” shouted Fairfax. “We waste time.” He stepped forward, paper in hand, and faced Heath. “Charles Stuart, erstwhile king, but king no longer, I hold here thy death warrant. It has been decreed that thou shalt die by having thy head severed from thy body.”
Heath faced his imaginary audience. “Then you shall see a king who is not afraid to die. Men of common breed are destined to obey laws, not to make them. A deo rex, a reo lex. These villains here, and all who are responsible for what they do, shall be known in history as regicides. From every nook and corner in which they hide hereafter, they will be hunted down and slain. And thou, Cromwell, shall become anathemy and be called Grumble, and hands of another year and of another king shall dig up thy bones and hang them to a gibbet.”
“Ooooo,” moaned a voice, “he doth speak with prophecy.”
“Methinks he’s said enough,” interposed Fairfax; “to thy chopping block, O Fallen One.” Wadsworth Jefferson Heath cast about disapprovingly. “That chopping block should be farther backstage. Attendants should be seen bringing in their head basket, but during this make-believe execution a low screen should hide it.” Cromwell nodded at Fairfax. “Carlos Rex has some mind after all, or he reads our minds. That is exactly how we planned it: A block, a screen to hide his comely head, a basket to catch it when it falls. Yes, indeed. We even have a leaden ball wrapped in cloth which will fall when its suspending string is cut, to give realism to our ghastly deed.”
“Well planned,” said Heath. “And I see your execution block is rather long from front to back, which leaves plenty of room for our headsman’s axe to strike without peril to my priceless neck. That screen to hide my neck and head, a descending axe, its thud upon wood, and a falling weight, all will combine to produce a harrowing illusion. Sirs, it is marvelous.”
“Brogdoom,” shouted Cromwell, “bring in thy basket. And thou, black-hooded Logan Brodswig, see thou art not careless with thine axe.”
“Soldiers,” shouted Fairfax, “to thy work.”
Two soldiers stepped in beside Heath and with halberds urged him toward his doom. He moved back and stood for a moment looking down. Logan Brodswig’s chopping block at its forward end had been covered with a clean white cloth. This, thought Heath meditatively, was a final and appropriate gesture of respect to one of royal lineage.
He said in mournful, yet defiant tones, “Of this day shall England forever be ashamed. Today a king dies, only to become immortal. For a poet will hereafter note that upon this unseemly block King Charles bowed his comely head down as upon a bed, and a Shakespeare will weep because they could not kiss this dead Caesar’s wounds and dip their napkins in his sacred blood.”
A voice moaned, “O woe is me.”
Another cried, “On with justice! He was a tyrant. Let him die.”
“Enough,” said Cromwell. “Hush thy ranting, Charles Stuart, and accept thy fate manfully. Perhaps then somebody will remember that you were not a coward, as well as a despot.”
“Alas,” said Heath, “no man can resist his fate. Die, then, bravely, royal Charles.” Heath knelt and put down his head, making sure it and his neck were properly screened from his imaginary audience. He said aside to headsman Brodswig, “Have a care, varlet. If you so much as scratch me, I’ll put a hot derringer slug in your gut.”
He raised his voice then. “Strike, thou dark,
infernal headsman. Has fear paralyzed thine arms? Doth thy dull brain reel before enormity of this crime thou art about to commit?”
Cromwell stepped backward to where he could see details of what was about to happen. “Brodswig, do your duty.”
Heath, whose face was toward his executioner, watched proceedings with a contemptuous eye, at last despising this wretched role he was playing and thinking of his fellow troupers only in terms of scorn. Brodswig spat on his hands and gripped his battleaxe by its handle. He swung then like a woodchopper trying to split a knotty stick of dogwood; his axe subscribed a great arc and descended with a wham!
Heath’s mouth opened in such astonishment that it never closed. It had been his head, and not a leaden ball, that dropped with a thump.
“Oh, misery!” exclaimed Fairfax, turning his back and walking away. “Now we’ve got to go and find us another king.”
Cromwell waved his arms up and down. “At this rate, we’ll never put on a play.”
“What we need,” said Fairfax, “is an idea.
Possibly a king with a neck of iron. Or an axe that is not so sharp.”
“Or,” said London’s Lord Mayor, “a headsman who is not so strong.”
“Something must and will be done,” said Cromwell. “No problem is insurmountable, once it is assailed with intelligent purpose.”
“Then,” declared Fairfax, “we shall so assail it.”
* * * *
For Deputy Winters, his being at home before midnight was an especial treat. It gave him a hot supper with his wife and time after supper for pleasant conversation, or reading. Myra Winters, in addition to beauty, had good taste for words and an eager, retentive mind. She had an extraordinary liking for history, and Winters— being chief beneficiary, next to Myra herself, of her extensive reading—had glimpsed worlds and eras he’d never before known existed.
Her present excitement, however, had only incidental relation to history. She said, as she filled his cup with coffee, “Lee, do you know what’s coming to town?”