The Alamo
Page 2
His friend replied that Paulding would merely have to check the Washington papers to find more than enough fodder for ridiculing Crockett. The man was unschooled, socially awkward and politically inept. Simply transfer the real man to the pages of a theatrical script and hilarity would undoubtedly ensue.
It had turned out just that way. Lion of the West was an immediate hit—in urban centers, anyway. James Hackett found to his consternation that whenever he portrayed Nimrod Wildfire before rural or pioneer audiences, the response could be cold, sometimes downright negative and—at least on a couple of occasions—dangerous. The one time in his life Hackett had literally been driven out of town on a rail was by outraged mine workers in Kentucky, who seemed to consider his absurd theatrical character a direct slap in their collective face.
But in New York, London, Paris, Boston and now Washington City, things were different. There were sophisticated audiences in those cities, people who were willing—indeed, eager—to, for the purposes of entertainment, look down their noses at the lower classes of people who lived in the mountains or on the frontier or in other savage conditions.
A sharp rap sounded on the dressing-room door and the stage manager stuck his head into the room.
“What?” Hackett said, annoyed. “What is it?”
The stage manager smiled slightly. He did not care much for Hackett and his pompous ways, and he had news that he knew would unnerve the actor.
“He’s here,” the stage manager said.
Impatiently, Hackett turned and demanded, “Who is here?”
The stage manager’s smile widened. “He’s here.”
Hackett’s face drained of blood. He had dreaded this day for almost three years. There was no doubt about whom the stage manager was speaking. David Crockett was in the theater. Crockett himself! And who knew how an uncouth barbarian like that would react to being mocked on the stage? Hackett already knew that Crockett was not a bit pleased by being publicly mocked by Nimrod Wildfire, knew that Crockett had even gone out of his way to make sure that people did not confuse him with that ill-mannered, rough-speaking lout. But for the congressman to actually show up at the theater—Hackett knew that this meant trouble. Nervous now, he daubed a little more makeup around his frightened eyes and whispered meekly to himself, “I’m a screamer. . . .”
The theater was packed with Washington’s most prominent citizens: politicians and businessmen in impeccably tailored tailcoats, intricately embroidered vests and cravats of fine silk. Their ladies were resplendent in lavish gowns fresh off the boat from Paris, with full, ankle-length skirts and scandalously low necks, offering for their delighted gentlemen’s enjoyment generous and tantalizing glimpses of décolletage. Their hair was arranged in elaborate cascades of curls and ringlets. There were rich and powerful men in that audience, and women who were the belles of Washington high society. But the murmurs that ran through the crowd all focused on one man. They had heard he was coming, and like Hackett, they anticipated trouble. Unlike Hackett, they were nearly giddy with anticipation; they simply could not wait to see what sort of ruckus their celebrated bumpkin congressman would cause. It was almost bound to be funnier than the play itself.
No one had to announce when David Crockett stepped into his private box, just above the wing at stage left. Everyone in the theater, as if by some mass instinct, turned their heads upward at the same moment. Some, inexplicably, felt like standing. He was a figure of fun, but somehow, at the same time, he possessed a powerful presence. Crockett commanded every room that he entered. Even his worst enemies had to admit that he exhibited enormous charisma and personality.
Crockett was fully aware of the stir he was causing in the theater, but did not pretend to be humbled or surprised by it. Instead, he smiled warmly at the crowd and gave the house a friendly wave. He was greeted by applause, polite at first and then, like a wave of sound washing over the room, a thunderous ovation, mixed with cheers and huzzahs. Crockett’s smile grew wider and, waving once more, he took his seat.
In the wings, only feet away, Hackett peered through the curtain at Crockett, sweating bullets. He was surprised that Crockett was not a bigger man. After all the stories he had heard—indeed, after all the stories he had himself made up—he was convinced that Crockett would be a giant of a man, like a true folk hero. Instead, Crockett stood at about five feet, ten inches tall, and his body could better be characterized as stocky rather than muscular and mighty. He wore his dark brown hair long, curling past his collar, and his amiable face was framed by a substantial pair of muttonchops. There was a slight, almost effeminate, curl to his lip, and his eyes were dark and intelligent. He wore a long, black, expensively tailored frock coat and a cream-colored vest. His silk cravat, the color of gold, was elaborately tied, forcing his collar up high around his neck. He does not look a thing like Nimrod Wildfire, Hackett thought. He looks like a . . . a . . . congressman!
The orchestra gave a flourish, the lights dimmed and the crowd quieted in anticipation. Hackett muttered to himself, “Just another performance, just another performance, just another . . .”
The curtain opened. The rustic wilderness set was illuminated by the golden glow of the calcium limelights that lined the lip of the stage. Backing the scene was a large illustrated curtain depicting various heroic and comic scenes featuring the play’s frontier protagonist. In one cameo, his arm was raised high, brandishing a dagger at a leaping mountain lion; in another, he was firmly standing his ground against an approaching bear; and in another, he sat on horseback, surrounded by stampeding wild stallions. Across the top, over a logo depicting a rifle, fiddle and coonskin cap, arched the words “Colonel Nimrod Wildfire.” Under the logo in large red letters was the title of the play: “THE LION OF THE WEST;” underneath, in smaller black letters, the subtitle: “OR, THE KENTUCKIAN.”
The illustrations on the backdrop were clearly based on some of the Crockett legends that many in the audience had read about in his best-selling autobiography, A Narrative of the Life of David Crockett of the State of Tennessee. Of course, no one much believed that he had actually written the book himself, but it was so filled with delightful incidents and hair-raising adventures that bookstores could not keep it in stock. And even if the sophisticated big-city readers did not exactly believe what they read in the book, that fact did not stop them from repeating the stories and laughing uproariously at Crockett’s antics and adventures, both real and imagined.
Hackett glanced at the backdrop from his place in the wings and thought that the illustrations made it harder than ever to plausibly deny a link between Crockett and Nimrod Wildfire. Peeking back through the curtain, he saw Crockett grinning broadly. That means he was happy, does it not? Hackett thought. Then he remembered all those stories about Crockett “grinning” animals and Indians into submission. One grin, the stories went, and raccoons would simply climb down from their trees saying, “Do not shoot, Davy, here I come!” And now, Crockett was going to unleash that grin on Hackett—and it was working. The frantic actor was ready to surrender already.
The conductor tapped the podium with his baton and the small pit orchestra began playing the lively “Crockett March”—another indication of the congressman’s widespread fame. Hackett began to perspire even more profusely. The gigantic fur hat had never felt so heavy and oppressive. At the sound of the familiar music, the audience burst into applause. Hackett, no longer able to hide, somehow managed to cover his face with a wide smile and stepped forward. The applause grew louder. Hackett bowed slightly in the direction of the crowd but there was really only one audience member on his mind at the moment. To his relief, Crockett was also smiling and applauding but—was it Hackett’s imagination?—he had a sardonic look in his eye. It was the kind of look that said, “All right, Mr. Actor, show me.”
Hackett was not the only person in the room gauging Crockett’s reaction. Nearly everyone in the theater seemed to be keeping one eye on the stage and one eye on the congressman. When the applause
died, Hackett sighed and took a baby step forward, into the limelight of the stage. Still sweating he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your kind reception.” He glanced upward again. Crockett seemed to be hanging on his every word. Hackett sighed. He knew he had to get this out of the way in the beginning or he would never be able to continue the play.
“Before we, uh, begin tonight’s . . . performance,” Hackett stammered, “I should like to acknowledge the presence of the man whose . . . life . . . inspired this humble play.” He smiled, losing himself in the moment—and hoping for the best. “May I introduce to you the real Lion of the West . . . the gentleman from the Cane . . .”
Hackett took the fur hat off his head, bowed deeply in the direction of the box and said, “Good evening, Mr. Crockett.”
A hush fell over the theater. This was it. Everyone in the place watched and waited. Crockett, unsmiling, slowly stood and faced off with Hackett. He remained there for a moment, allowing suspense to build. Then he smiled and bowed himself.
“Good evening, Mr. Crockett,” he said.
The audience erupted into cheers and applause. Hackett smiled widely but his eyes retained their look of shock, like a man who has been pardoned from the gallows after the rope was already tied around his neck.
Standing outside the theater, listening to the faint sounds of cheers and applause, Sam Houston was not inclined to go in himself. It was not that he did not enjoy the theater, but right now he had a lot on his mind. Theatergoers, arriving late, walked quickly past the rough-looking man pacing the sidewalk. He stood over six foot, three inches, and was barrel chested. His stern face made him look like he was perpetually in the mood for trouble. Periodically he took a swig from a silver flask that he kept in the pocket of his tailcoat and mumbled to himself. It was the mumbling that really served as a repellant to others on the street. A man who talked to himself was very likely to be a man who simply was not right in the head. And when a big, muscular, mean-looking man was talking to himself, it was best to steer clear.
Houston’s mumbling was a rehearsal of sorts. He had some convincing to do tonight, and he wanted to make sure that he used precisely the right words. And one of the people he had to convince was in that theater. Sam Houston had no interest in the fictional Nimrod Wildfire, but Congressman David Crockett was much on his mind. Houston knew that there was going to be a soirée at a nearby hotel after the performance and had been told that he could count on seeing Crockett there. If the audience was as filled with movers and shakers as Houston suspected, that soirée would be an excellent chance to talk with a few of them, too.
If anything, Houston had lived a more colorful life than either the real or fictional versions of Crockett. As a boy he had run off to live with the Cherokee, learning their language and adopting their ways. They accepted him, and he was named Kalanu—“the Raven”—by the chief of the tribe. He fought and was wounded in the War of 1812. In fact, the leg wound he received at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend had never healed, after more than twenty years. He was a politician and a Freemason. And he could even call himself an actor; he was a past member of the Dramatic Club of Nashville. And finally, after all those lives, he had become the governor of Tennessee.
It was not long after his election that Houston had married twenty-year-old Eliza Allen. She was beautiful and her father was very rich, and Houston felt that he had made the best decision of his life. It turned out to be the worst. Only three months after the wedding, she abruptly left him and returned to her family home. Neither Houston nor Eliza ever commented publicly on the reasons their marriage failed; indeed, Houston never even talked about it with his closest friends. Nevertheless, the scandal was immense, and ruined his political future. He resigned as governor and went back to the Cherokee, to heal. Although he had not divorced Eliza, Houston married a Cherokee woman named Talihina Rogers.
But now he was back in Washington City with big plans. He often thought of himself in terms of a line from one of Shakespeare’s plays, As You Like It: “And one man in his time plays many parts. . . .” Houston had indeed played many parts in his time—and tonight he had a new role. He was a salesman with a gigantic product and a very important pitch to make. In fact, it was life or death.
Houston stood outside the theater for a while, listening to the laughter from within, continuing to mutter under his breath and fortify his nerve with the help of the flask. Then he headed for the bar in the hotel. That would be a far more congenial place to wait, he thought. When this damned comedy had played out in the theater, his prey would be coming to him.
CHAPTER TWO
Sam Houston stepped up to the hotel bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. The bartender cracked off a chunk of ice with his ice pick and started to put it in his glass.
“Keep your ice,” Houston said disdainfully. He dropped a coin on the bar, picked up the glass and walked back across the room to the two well-dressed businessmen he had lured into his net. They were named, rather unimaginatively, Smith and Jones.
Taking his place by their side, Houston downed his drink in one slow, steady pull. He swallowed the fiery liquid with a grimace and smiled. “If it doesn’t burn going down,” he said in a rather hoarse voice, “how can you be sure it is bad for you?”
Smith and Jones chuckled politely. And they checked around the room for a convenient escape route.
But Houston was not letting them go quite yet. He was right in the middle of his spiel. Nodding at his whiskey glass he said, “I will be interested to see you gentlemen when you arrive in Texas and have your first taste of mescal.”
Mr. Smith, the shorter and balder of the two, asked, “I have been told that in this Texas—this Mexico—men and women bathe together, in the open—in the altogether! Could this possibly be true?”
Houston smiled and said, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
Mr. Jones, taller and broader, with a prominent nose and eyes set a little too closely together, frowned. “How godly can a place be if Jim Bowie calls it home?” he said.
“Now Mr. . . . um, Jones,” Houston said, momentarily forgetting which was which, “Jim married into a fine Tejano family. Yes, sir, he found out you do not have to skirt the law to get rich in Texas.”
Smith and Jones looked at each other skeptically. They both knew Bowie at least slightly. More to the point, they had both heard the stories about him. Knife fighter, killer, smuggler, slave trader, adventurer, drunkard. There was nothing about this reprobate that inspired anything in them but feelings of disgust and trepidation.
Across the room Crockett was holding court to a group of men while Hackett, grinning—and no longer sweating—stood alongside. Crockett’s arm was around Hackett’s shoulders, as if they were, and always had been, bosom friends.
Cocking his head toward Hackett, Crockett told the men, “More me than I am myself. I have half a mind to hire Mr. Hackett here to play me seven days a week—I would dearly love some time away. Of course, the citizens of Tennessee may grant me that wish come next election.”
The men laughed uproariously. Perhaps a bit too uproariously for the mild joke, but Crockett was getting used to that. It seemed to him that as his reputation as a humorist—or, at least, as a source of humor—spread, people were so determined to find him funny that they busted a gut at just about every word he said. That was all well and good when he was trying to be funny. . . .
Crockett noticed Houston across the room. “Excuse me, Mr. Nimrod Wildfire, gentlemen. I need to see a man about a dog.” As he crossed the room to Houston, he shook a few more hands, locked smiles with many a gentleman, and made polite bows to several ladies. Had there been a baby present, he would have kissed it, too. If working the room were a paying job, Crockett thought, he would be a wealthy, wealthy man. When he reached Houston, Mr. Smith was speaking.
“What say the Mexicans of all this? I mean, is the Mexican army not occupying San Antonio de Béxar as we speak?”
“For now,” Houston said.
Houston called after them, “Invest now, gentlemen. Or lament later.”
Crockett clapped Houston on the shoulder. “Making friends wherever you go.”
Houston gave Crockett a sour look and downed another drink.
“Enjoy the performance?” Crockett said.
Houston looked Crockett in the eye and said, with a little smile, “From the day I met you.”
Houston walked back over to the bar and accepted a refill. When he returned to Crockett’s side, Crockett raised his glass. “To Tennessee,” he said.
“To hell with Tennessee, David,” Houston said. He raised his glass. “To Texas.”
“You will turn on an old girl quick, will you not, Sam?” Crockett said.
Houston laughed sharply; there was not much humor in it. “Wait until she turns on you. That is what you deserve for defending Indians.”
Crockett said, “Least I will earn the honor of being diselected.” Houston’s look reminded Crockett that this was still something of a sore spot. “Beg your pardon, Governor,” he said.
Smith and Jones, off to the side, watched Houston and Crockett drink and laugh together. Smith shook his head and said, “Sad, is it not? A year ago we’d have been looking upon two men with their caps set for the White House. Now . . . ?”