Southern Son

by Victoria Wilcox

  “Tante!” Jameson said with a laugh, “you have too much of the old country in you. Or too much Wagner, maybe! Now stop your worrying and start baking that Apfelkuchen for us. We’re only going for the matinee. We’ll be home again before you know it.”

  “Valkyrie?” John Henry whispered as he reached for his hat and headed for the door. “What’s she talkin’ about?”

  “It’s nothing. Just the old stories my family grew up on: legends of the Valkyries—lady spirits who ride the storm and carry away the souls of dead warriors. Richard Wagner wrote an opera about it. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “There’s not a lot of opera back in Valdosta,” John Henry replied, “and not much of anything else either.”

  The rain began even before they reached the theater, coming with a cold edge from out of the north. The wind that carried it was fitful, indecisive of which way it wanted to blow, so that the black umbrellas of the theater-goers were useless against it. Even the sky seemed undecided, changing color by the moment from blue to gray to mackerel green. But the inclement weather didn’t dampen the spirits of the audience, happy to pay thirty-five cents for a matinee ticket for the best varieties show in town.

  The Comique Theater still had an air of elegance left over from its days as DeBar’s Opera House, with faded red velvet stage curtains and torn leather upholstered seats. But the mostly male audience didn’t seem to mind the tattered décor—all a good burlesque house really needed was a solid lineup of entertainment, and the Comique always offered that: song and dance men, clog dancers, trapeze performers, even ballets with plenty of dancing girls. And on this afternoon, the Comique hosted the opening of a touring show about a Russian prince and a spell-casting sorceress, with an actress named Kate Fisher and a horse named Wonder sharing top billing.

  “And now,” the stage manager announced as the house lights faded and the gas lamps at the edge of the stage flickered into brilliance, “I give you Mazeppa!”

  And there before them, painted on canvas but looking as real as imagination would allow, were the Steppe Mountains of Russia, home of the wild Tartar horsemen. In front of the mountains, stretching clear across the stage, lay a lake of some shimmering blue material, and in front of that, close to the gas lamps, stood a rocky cavern where two tethered horses grazed.

  “Behold, the cavern of the Tartar prophetess Korella!” the stage manager went on, setting the scene for what would be played out in that fantastic setting. “‘Tis said that she awaits the return of Mazeppa, grandson of the ruling Khan, last of his line and rightful heir to the throne of Tartary. Although some say Mazeppa perished when an infant in the invasion of the Polish frontier, the prophetess believes that he escaped from death and dwells in slavery. How real her prophecy is will soon be seen, for Mazeppa is not dead, but held a slave in Poland, across the river. And for the crime of falling in love with the Polish princess, he has been stripped naked and tied to the back of his wild Tartar horse to wander ‘till death on the deserts of Tartary. Will he return alive to his homeland? Will he succeed to the throne of his ancestors before another usurps his birthright? The play will tell all!”

  Then in a swirl of dark robes, the prophetess Korella appeared from her painted cavern, her stage voice carrying to the back of the rapt audience.

  “Omens of woe!” she proclaimed. “On Poland the storm cloud driven by the hurricane—my brain is burning! Oh this night’s wild and wondrous visions! Warnings from the skies!”

  John Henry sat entranced. He’d never seen anything like the play that unfolded before him with Tartar chiefs in furs and horned headdresses and the prophetess with her omens and incantations, all underscored by stage thunder and streaks of lightning made by blasts of gunpowder in a tin pan somewhere in the wings. The assembled cast gave out appropriate expressions of terror and the thunder rolled again, this time loud enough that the walls of the theater itself seemed to shake.

  “How’d you reckon they make the thunder sound?” John Henry asked Jameson.

  “Drums, I suppose,” Jameson whispered his reply. “Though I’ve never heard it done so effectively. Sounds like a real storm, doesn’t it? Now watch for the lightning,” he said. “Mazeppa is supposed to appear in the midst of the storm.” Then another flash of gunpowder drew their attention back to the stage, where Korella shrieked as the stage thunder rattled the walls of the Comique.

  “He comes!” Korella cried, pointing her robed arm toward the painted Steppes. “He comes! I saw him in a hurricane of dust! He flies hither from the mountains bordering on Poland. He rides a wild horse which scours the desert like a tempest. He comes!”

  There was another shriek of horror from the onstage cast, then the storm seemed to break loose in all its fury. Lightning flashed across the stage; thunder crashed and echoed through the theater, and in the midst of it all a wild horse came galloping onto the stage, a half-naked rider tied to its back. The horse, a gleaming black thoroughbred with a streak of a white blaze, dashed from curtain to backdrop, rearing and wheeling around, seeming to throw its captive rider at any moment to a brutal death. But the rider, all bare legs and streaming dark hair, somehow caught control of the wild animal, and in a breathtaking show of equestrian skill, wheeled the horse around to a stop, then pulled the animal to a stand on its hind legs.

  “Set me free!” the captive rider cried. “Oh, release me! In mercy set me free!”

  And in perfect timing with the horse rearing up once more, the thunder rolled again and lightning illuminated the entire stage. The cast of aides and vassals cowered at the amazing sight, and even the great Khan seemed overcome. Only Korella had the courage to speak.

  “See the royal star on a chain around the rider’s neck,” the prophetess exclaimed. “The royal emblem of Tartary . . .”

  “Can it be?” the Khan asked, stepping forward. “Can it be my own lost grandson, my own—Mazeppa!”

  And with that the stage thunder roared again, like a living thing this time, and the audience exploded with applause. And yet the sound of the thunder grew louder still, its howling louder even than the ovation, louder than anything John Henry had ever heard inside a building.

  “Sounds like a train comin’ through . . .” but before he could finish the thought, the doors of the theater were blown wide open by a blast of wet wind, and all at once the storm was everywhere.

  “Cyclone!” someone hollered, and the wind whipped at the gaslights at the edge of the stage, blowing them out. But one lamp held onto its flame long enough to catch on the billowing velvet curtain, and in a moment the whole stage was on fire.

  The actors screamed and pushed past each other for escape, and in the fiery light Mazeppa and his horse took one perfect leap off the front of the stage, flying over the orchestra pit and coming down hard in the main aisle of the theater. And it wasn’t until that blazing, fiery moment that John Henry finally saw the actor close enough to see that Mazeppa was no man at all, but a woman. And more than that, she was a woman in trouble, for her thoroughbred’s tail had caught fire and was running like it had a demon after it.

  He didn’t even stop to wonder what would become of Jameson, as he shoved his way past the other theatergoers and pushed up the aisle heading straight into the wind, following after the actress. At the entrance door the rain hit him hard, slanting sideways from the green sky, and he had to hang onto the doorjamb to keep his balance. Before him on what had been the dusty streets of downtown St. Louis, all hell had broken loose along with everything else not securely fastened down. The dirty rain was whirling in every direction at once, flinging aside everything in its path—wagons, trolley cars, uprooted trees, shutters, glass window panes, a dog still tied to the post that should have kept it safe in some shaded yard.

  “John Henry!” he heard Jameson shouting after him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He couldn’t have explained it to Jameson—he could hardly explain it to himself. But chasing after the actress had something to do with honor and gentlem
anly gallantry—something his father had drilled into him long ago when he’d taught him that a man’s duty was to protect his womenfolk. Not that the actress was his, but she was a woman who needed help. And for the moment that seemed all that mattered.

  He pulled his hat down low on his head, put one arm up against the wind-blown debris, and stepped out into the storm. Though the wind was lessening some, it was still so loud that it nearly drowned out the sound of the thunder, and the rain was coming down in sheets. If he were going to follow that wild horse through this maelstrom he would need a horse of his own, so he didn’t think twice about untying a saddled mount from the horse rack outside the theater and the horse seemed grateful to be at a run instead of tethered in the wild wind.

  The actress was a good rider, all right. For even in the storm, dodging debris and jumping muddy potholes, she and her horse, Wonder, were a graceful pair. Though the animal’s fiery tail had gone to a smolder in the rain, it was still running wild enough to give John Henry a good race. If he hadn’t been such a well-trained horseman himself, he’d have lost them both in the wind and the rain. But he pulled his hat from his head and used it to whip the horse to a run, trailing the actress by a long city block.

  He paid little attention to the landmarks they were passing, keeping his eyes fixed on the horse and rider ahead of him, but he could tell they were heading southwesterly away from the heart of the city. Then the wind suddenly settled, the green sky above turning back to blue and the torrential rain changing to mist. Yet ahead of him the horse still ran hell-bent-for-leather, and as John Henry finally drew close enough to see clearly through the misty sky, he had a shock—the mount ahead of him was running not from fright, but because the rider was whipping it to a run. And more amazingly, through the growing quiet of the evening he heard that she was laughing.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said aloud, as he finally came head to head with her, her horse rearing to a sudden stop in front of a Ninth Street livery stable. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

  “Going for a ride!” she answered with a wild laugh.

  “But you were in trouble,” he said, “the storm and all . . .”

  The actress turned brilliant blue eyes on him and laughed again. “I like the storm!” she said, then she slid from her horse and led it into the livery.

  John Henry bounded down from his own horse, grabbing the leather reins as he followed her into the brick stable building.

  “But your mount was on fire . . .”

  “That’s why I took him out in the rain.”

  “But he kept on runnin’ wild . . .”

  “He wasn’t running wild,” she said, turning back toward him, “he was running home. This is where I board him. He knew the way. And what business is it of yours?” Though she stood before him bedraggled, her long dark hair hanging limp and wet around the wreck of her scanty costume, there was something almost arrogant about her. “Well?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  He stared at her a moment longer, then he shrugged. “I just came in to dry off this horse. I guess we’ve both had a soakin’.”

  And for once his sarcastic sense of humor didn’t go unappreciated. “You’re funny,” she said, her mouth curving into a smile. “I like that in a man.”

  It wasn’t a comment he expected, unfamiliar as he was with being countered, and he hardly knew what to say next. But something about the arrogant way she stood there, looking up at him like she was really looking down, felt like a challenge to him.

  “So now what?” he asked, feeling somehow that there was more.

  “Now you tell me why you really followed after me.”

  “I came to save you, like I said.”

  She tossed her head, imperious, and drops of water flew from the dark strands. “Well, I don’t need saving. I’m not some damsel in distress who can’t mount a horse without a hand up. There’s no man who can ride better than me, storm or no.”

  “I’ll give you that,” he nodded. “You gave me a race, and I’m better than most.”

  “You’re not bad, for a horse thief,” she replied, glancing toward the quarter horse he still held by the reins. “And where did you steal this one?”

  He could have lied to her, told her it was his own horse and demanded that she apologize for insulting his integrity. But he didn’t really care what she thought of him. She was only an actress after all and hardly worth the time he was taking to talk to her—though talking to her was stimulating.

  “I found it in front of the theater. But I didn’t steal it, only borrowed it for a bit. I’ll be returnin’ it shortly.”

  “Silas is going to be jealous,” she said, her voice softly accented with something exotic. “He doesn’t like anyone else sitting his favorite mount.”

  “Who’s Silas?”

  “The man whose horse you stole—he’s an admirer of mine. He comes to see all my shows, always sits in the same first row seat, always rides the same blood bay gelding, always makes the same advances when he comes to the backstage door. Sometimes I let him take me out for a ride after the matinee, so he can pretend we’re lovers.”

  “And you’re not?”

  She stared up at him again, haughtily. “I may be in the theater, but I have more refinement than that. Silas is handsome, but he’s not near smart enough, or rich enough, for me.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Besides, he’s married.”

  “So why do you keep leadin’ him on?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, turning away from him to hand her horse to a stable boy. “He flatters me. He buys me things. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s a lie,” John Henry said. “You’re as good as stealin’ from him, if you tease him that way.”

  And once more, she gave him that arrogant, blue-eyed stare. “From one thief to another,” she said. “Why do you care what Silas thinks? I don’t.”

  “So you’re heartless, then?”

  “That’s not true. I am all heart. I’m just saving myself for the right man.”

  “Sounds like you’re sellin’ yourself to the wrong man, more like.”

  “Oh? And who are you to judge what’s right or wrong for me? I don’t even know your name.”

  He paused a moment before answering, then said with a sarcastic shadow of a bow. “Dr. John Henry Holliday. And you’re Kate Fisher.”

  “Doctor?” she said quickly, turning back to face him once more.

  “At your service, Ma’am,” he said with an affected air. “Newly graduated from the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery.”

  “Dr. Holliday,” she repeated, then looked him up and down appraisingly. “You do dress better than the usual varieties follower. What’s your background? Your accent sounds Southern.”

  “And what business is that of yours?” he asked, mimicking her own earlier question.

  Her reply shocked him. “I just like to know something about a man before I take him around to my room. You didn’t really follow me just to save me from the rain, I think.”

  He had never met a woman like her before: arrogant, worldly, unapologetically greedy, and surprisingly self-righteous all at once. He smiled down at her, flattered by the offer, then drawled out an answer: “I wouldn’t want to make Silas jealous, sittin’ his favorite horse. Besides, he’ll be needin’ a ride home by now. Looks like the storm is about over.”

  “Ah, a virtuous horse thief!” the actress said approvingly, as though he’d just passed some sort of test. Then she added with a smile, “Maybe you should come around and take me to supper sometime after rehearsal? The restaurant at the Planter’s Hotel is excellent.”

  And looking into those challenging, captivating eyes, somehow he knew that the storm wasn’t over yet.

  He could have gone on back to Fourth Street then, tried to explain to Jameson’s Tante how he’d left his friend in the middle of a cyclone and how he’d come to have a dinner engagement with a varieties actress, but he was too elated from
it all to be done with the day just yet. So as long as he still had a horse under him, he thought he might as well take a ride around St. Louis to see what kind of damage the storm had done before having to face any more damage at home. But he’d no sooner rounded the corner of Ninth and Washington, headed back toward the theater, than he near collided with a man running toward him down the middle of the red-brick street.

  “Thief!” the man shouted, his face registering relief and anger together. “Robber! Give me back my horse! I’ll have you arrested, or worse!”

  Then the man looked from John Henry on the horse toward the Ninth Street Livery behind him, and his anger turned to suspicion.

  “What is this?” the man said quickly. “Are you stealing my horse and my woman, too? What are you doing at Kate’s place?”

  So this was Silas, Kate Fisher’s admirer: he was younger than John Henry would have thought for a would-be adulterer, not much older than himself. But just because the man was a cad didn’t mean John Henry couldn’t be a gentleman.

  “I was just escortin’ a lady home,” he replied, looking down coolly from his height on the horse, taking advantage of the altitude. “And what are you doin’ here, Silas? Shouldn’t you be home seein’ if your wife is safe?”

  If Silas was surprised that the stranger on his horse knew something about him, he didn’t show it. “I came to check on Kate. I saw her leave the theater, and figured she’d be heading home. I guess you beat me to it, thanks to my horse.”

  “It was available,” was all John Henry offered by way of explanation. Then he made the mistake of dismounting, throwing the reins over to Silas. “But I’m done with her now. You can have her back.”

  But Silas had already lost interest in his missing horse, and let the reins fall as he pulled back one meaty fist and threw it into John Henry’s jaw.

  “That’s for stealing my horse,” Silas said, as he drew back again, “and this one’s for Kate.”

  John Henry was dazed from the unexpected assault, but the taste of blood at the corner of his mouth brought out the Irish in him. Silas was a bigger man, but John Henry had always been fast. He dodged the blow and brought up his own clenched hand so swiftly that he caught Silas by surprise, landing the blow square in the bigger man’s eye. “And that one was for me,” he said with a smile.