The Christmas Trespassers

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “Oh,” Horatio proffered, “I’d say more of a military man.”

  “Possibly both,” young Ophelia opined.

  “A man in his time,” the Wise Old Man replied, “plays many parts, someone once said.”

  “You’re old enough to play my part.” Polonius stroked his bearded chin.

  “And he has a better resonance,” chimed the queen.

  “The trouble with you, dear lady,” Polonius retorted, “is that you’ve let failure go to your head. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. To thine own self be true and . . .”

  “Now, children, let us not squabble in front of Mr. Stargazer,” Hamlet rebuked. “Are you a drinking man, stranger?”

  “An occasional brandy . . . and on rare occasions . . . beer.”

  “Will coffee satisfy?” Hamlet indicated the pot over the campfire.

  “Verily,” the Wise Old Man smiled.

  “Does it seem most strange to you, Mr. Stargazer,” Hamlet also smiled, “that a theatrical company, even such as ours, would lack so much as a modicum of alcoholic libation?”

  “I am not an authority on such quandaries.”

  “The truth is,” Polonius once again stroked his hirsute chin, “that some distance after Lordsburg we ran dry, but intend to replenish our larder in Saguaro.”

  “In the meanwhile,” Hamlet picked up the cue, “let us make do with a nightcap of mocha java, before we scent the morning air.”

  They did.

  * * *

  Hamlet raised his tin cup.

  “What shall we drink to?”

  “Birthday? Death? Anniversary? Special occasion?” Laertes proposed . . . “A memorable event?”

  “What about you, Mr. Stargazer? Suppose tonight, for a change, we are the audience,” Hamlet suggested, “and you come up with some memorable event to entertain us . . . fact or fiction . . . that might compensate for the coffee . . .”

  “And your hospitable companionship,” the Wise Old Man added.

  “Thence pray thee proceed with the libretto, Mr. Stargazer.” Hamlet waved.

  “Very well.” The Wise Old Man inhaled a puff from the meerschaum, then proceeded.

  “Ten years ago, this month, this week; it was a time to commemorate. For some, to celebrate. For others, to contemplate. Winners and losers. The war was over and we were the survivors. But winners or losers, we would never be the same. It seemed as if there was not enough land to bury the dead, but buried they were. There was land enough for all the dead, and for all who lived. But the living had a choice. The dead would stay forever in their little plot of land they fought for.”

  “So be it, Mr. Stargazer,” Hamlet nodded, “but the play’s the thing. Where do you come in, make your entrance?”

  The Wise Old Man sipped from the coffee cup, relit his meerschaum . . . and went on with his story.

  “It had been almost a week since the surrender at Appomattox. That night I made camp alone. A strange thing happened.

  “For days I had drifted aimlessly, not far from what had been battlefields, and before that, villages and farms. I wanted to be away from everyone and everything. I was tired. For the first time in a long while I realized just how tired I was. Of being on the alert for an enemy who might have broken through the lines. But now there were no lines. And there was no enemy. I told myself I could relax. I had survived, unlike so many who fought on either side, more than half a million casualties.

  “The night was cool and becoming cooler. I had built a small fire, even before unsaddling my horse. And for the first time in years I was not in uniform. Even though I was proud of it, I wanted to be myself again. Not a soldier . . . but soldier, or not . . . it happened.

  “I had relaxed too much. In trying to wipe away too many memories, too soon, too hard. Victories and defeats. While looking into the yellow flames of my little fire, I was unaware until the man on horseback was too close.

  “Another time, another place, if the man on horseback had worn a uniform different than mine, I might already have been dead.

  “But the man wore no uniform. He was dressed in civilian clothes, fine, expensive clothes but now dirty from what had to have been a long, hard ride. The horse, a buckskin, was lathered and seemed hardly able to stand.

  “Against the glimmering firelight, the man looked ghostly. His garments and face were spotted with dirt, but a face still handsome, and finely chiseled, though thoroughly exhausted from the ride. The eyes were like living jewels, black and weary. Hatless, his long, dark hair curled down his formidable forehead. Reflexively, my hand went toward the sidearm I still carried, but stopped short as the man spoke. His voice, deep and cultured.

  “‘You here alone?’

  “‘Not now.’

  “‘Were you Blue, or Gray?’

  “‘The war’s over.’

  “‘Is it?’

  “The man smiled, a warm, charming smile, but I wanted to talk about something else. ‘That animal looks beat.’ I pointed to the buckskin.

  “‘It is.’

  “‘So do you.’

  “‘I’m . . . not.’

  “He said the two words slowly, emphatically, and once again I chose to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  “‘Well, would you like to step down off that horse and have something to eat?’

  “‘I would.’

  “The man nodded and began to dismount. But it wasn’t easy. It took great effort. He strained and grimaced. I started to move toward him as if to help, but he shook his head and waved me away.

  “‘I would,’ the man repeated. ‘I would like to stay and enjoy your hospitality, but I’m afraid it was not meant to be.’

  “‘Why not?’

  “His aspect suddenly changed.

  “‘Because of this.’

  “The man had removed a six-inch derringer from his pocket and pointed it at me.

  “‘And because I need a fresh horse and need it now. To avoid any bloodshed, yours or mine, I must ask you to remove your sidearm . . . with your left hand . . . slowly.’

  “I complied, then looked back at him, still pointing the derringer.

  “‘I wouldn’t have marked you as a horse thief.’

  “‘I’m not.’

  “‘I paid eighty dollars in gold for that animal as it stands. Four double eagles.’

  “The man’s left hand dug into another pocket. He held the contents in his fist for a moment, then let them fall to the ground. They glinted by the firelight.

  “‘Five double eagles and my buckskin in the bargain. ’

  “He pointed toward his horse.

  “‘He’ll be fit to ride by morning.’

  “The man limped as he moved toward my horse, but with the derringer aimed directly at me. He was drained, but not too drained to squeeze the trigger.

  “‘And now I have an appointment to keep.’

  “‘Unless it’s with a nearby doctor I don’t think you’ll make it, but I won’t try to stop you.’

  “‘I’ll make it . . . just as I made a prior appointment with destiny.’

  “I watched as the man struggled, then finally boarded my horse, and spoke dramatically.

  “‘All good soldiers must fight for their cause.’

  “‘Most good soldiers are dead.’

  “‘But not all, and not all wear uniforms. We all have different roles to play. Good night and Godspeed.’

  “The man wheeled the horse and rode into the night, south.”

  * * *

  The Wise Old Man took a breath, relit his meerschaum, removed his gold watch by its slim gold chain out of his vest pocket, snapped the lid open, and noted the time.

  “Nearing midnight.”

  “Dear fellow,” Hamlet intoned, “are you telling us a story, or telling us the time?”

  “Birthday? Death? Anniversary? Special occasion? Memorable event?” Laertes smacked his lips. “And you speak of a horse thief . . .”

  “He didn’t even steal t
he beast,” the queen exclaimed. “I’d say you got the better of the bargain.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Supernumerary blinked and nodded.

  “It’s past my bedtime,” Ophelia yawned.

  “Depends on whom you’re bedding,” Hamlet amended, then turned to the Wise Old Man. “Mr. Stargazer, if there’s more to this tale, kindly hasten thy story . . . ‘So shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather.’” Then, almost as an aside: “Whatever the hell that means.”

  “’Tis so, my liege,” Polonius was at his beard again, “The wind sits at your shoulder. Pray, set sail.”

  “There is a final chapter to this memorable event,” the Wise Old Man went on. “It had occurred on April 14, 1865, shortly before my meeting the man who limped, but I was unaware of that event at the time.

  “In Washington, at Ford’s Theatre during the performance of Our American Cousin, President Abraham Lincoln, his wife, and their guests sat in the Presidential Box of the theatre. Every seat was filled since it had been announced that President Lincoln would be in attendance.

  “An hour earlier, John Wilkes Booth, the actor and fervent Southern sympathizer, had left the National Hotel. At nine p.m. he arrived at Ford’s Theatre, where he, himself, had previously performed. The actor made his way along a back corridor with which he was familiar to the unguarded Presidential Box.

  “Within, Lincoln, drained of most of his energy, sat in a rocking chair, nearly asleep, as the others in the box were enjoying the stage play. During the laughter and applause Booth silently opened the door and stood for a moment behind the occupants.

  “Booth quickly took aim with a derringer at the back of Lincoln’s head and fired. One of the guests, an officer in the box, sprang at Booth, but the assassin managed to free himself and leap from the box onto the stage, breaking his leg as he landed.

  “Amid the confusion and shock of all the spectators, Booth turned to the audience and proclaimed:

  “‘Sic semper tyrannis!’ and then declared in English, ‘The South is avenged!’

  “Most in the theatre were not completely aware of what had happened, and Booth ran limping through the wings to a horse he had stationed in the alley.

  “The other conspirators and would-be assassins were unsuccessful in their attempts to kill Secretary of State Seward and the other human targets.

  “But the dreadfully wounded president was carried across the street to a private residence, where several doctors did all that was humanly possible to save Lincoln’s life.

  “Their efforts were in vain.

  “At 7:22 the next morning, Lincoln’s secretary of war, Stanton, spoke the words, ‘Now he belongs to the ages.’

  “Abraham Lincoln was dead.

  “On April 26, twelve days after having killed the president, the end came for John Wilkes Booth in a tobacco shed in Port Royal, Virginia.

  “After a frantic two-week search by the army and secret service forces, and during which time, Booth had received medical aid from a Dr. Mudd, Booth had been discovered hiding in a barn by a man named Garrett. The barn was set afire, and Booth was either shot by his pursuers or shot himself rather than surrender.”

  * * *

  The Wise Old Man’s story of the stranger who limped had ended. During the telling he had captured the attention of the group of actors, but at the first mention of the name John Wilkes Booth there had been a silent, but visible, reaction from his audience of play actors.

  In a way, they were kinfolk, all related by profession, and all aware of the great theatrical reputation of the Booth name, from the paterfamilias, Junius Brutus Booth, to his sons, Edwin Booth, the greatest, most renowned Hamlet of his time, and John Wilkes, who, himself, had been famous until that fateful night when he had become notorious by a shot fired at Ford’s Theatre.

  The reaction and excitement of the players around the campfire was palpable.

  They didn’t want the story to end. They all wanted to know more.

  One by one, stepping on one another’s lines, they fired questions at the Wise Old Man without waiting for answers.

  “At your campfire, did you have any suspicion, or inkling, as to the limping man’s identity?”

  “On which side did you fight? Blue or Gray?”

  “Did you ever see Edwin Booth’s performance as Hamlet?”

  “Whatever happened to Booth’s horse—the buckskin?”

  “Were you ever aware that there was a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of John Wilkes Booth?”

  . . . and more questions that were jumbled together.

  The Wise Old Man puffed on his meerschaum and shook his head, smiled, and spoke slowly.

  “Some questions are better left unanswered.”

  Hamlet rose and took a step forward.

  “Every play has to have an ending with a closing curtain.”

  “Life,” the Wise Old Man said softly, “is not a play, and are we really certain that the curtain ever goes down?”

  The actors gazed at the Wise Old Man, who, now, was looking at his watch again.

  “As for John Wilkes Booth, he, too, was a great actor, but the most memorable, historic, and devastating role he ever played . . . was offstage.

  “And now methinks I scent the morning air.”

  The next morning when the actors awoke, the Wise Old Man of the West had already made his exit.

  THE WISE OLD MAN OF THE WEST and BLAZING GUNS OF THE BIBLE

  For

  STEPHEN LODGE

  Gentle Buckaroo

  of Western Writers

  and of course

  for

  MARY FRANCES

  “Indians don’t attack at night,” said Lieutenant Kevin Connors.

  “Too many white men, thinking just that, died in the dark,” a voice responded from out of the purple gloom.

  Soldiers around the campfire snapped guns from holsters while others grabbed rifles and pointed toward the voice that came from the direction of the unseen intruder.

  “Step out here by the light of the fire, mister!” Lieutenant Connors’s voice converted into harsh command.

  The man and the voice obeyed as a silhouette moved closer.

  “A pleasure, Lieutenant. I welcome the warmth of the fire and the company of the United States Army.”

  For an instant the soldiers stood mumchance at the anomalous sight of the nocturnal trespasser—age, indeterminate, but older than each of them. Dressed, in mufti, but more like a stage actor, complete with malacca walking stick, high-toned homburg, tailored suit coat—clear blue eyes, and clean-shaven, except for a speckled military mustache, with cultured bearing and utterance, in response to Lieutenant Connors’s next question.

  “Who the hell are you, and how’d you get here undetected?”

  “As for the first part, just an old man, and as to the second—the way our red brothers would, past your semisomnolent sentries.”

  “A wisenheimer,” Connors rasped.

  “Not all that wise, and quite harmless,” he smiled and lifted the cane, “except for this trusty crosier, as you must’ve already gleaned.”

  “What are you doing out here all alone?”

  “Nothing—except hoping for a cup of coffee from your commissary.”

  The old man pointed the tip of his walking stick toward the oversized coffeepot half settled on the grate of the fire.

  Private Nicholas Adamchock, who served as cook of the expeditionary platoon, glanced at Lieutenant Connors, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Adamchock poured the steaming black liquid into a tin cup and extended it toward the old man.

  “Thank you, Private . . . and you, too, Lieutenant . . .”

  “Connors.”

  “A fine old Hibernian nomen.” He sipped from the cup. “And good strong brew.”

  “Are you afoot?” Connors asked.

  “For the nonce.” The old man sipped again. “But I’ve journeyed from donkey
to canvas to Conestoga.”

  “You headin’ to Fort Concho?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Wherever the wind is at my back.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Seth Coolidge said. “I think I’ve heard tell of this jasper from time to time . . . full of tall tales and highfalutin confabulation. . . showed up onc’t at a prayer meetin’ where my Uncle Hawkins was attendin’ . . .”

  “You a preacher, mister?” Connors asked.

  “I do not have that distinction,” the old man smiled.

  “Uncle Hawk said he was known as the Wise Old Man in some parts.”

  “That true?” Connors persisted.

  “‘Wise’ is a nebulous appellation.”

  “Just the same,” Connors pointed to one of the troopers, “Davis, check the sentries. Make sure they’re okay . . . and awake.”

  “Yes, sir.” Davis was already on his way.

  Connors’s attention again turned to the Wise Old Man.

  “You see any signs of those red-coated coyotes out there?”

  “I presume you’re referring to the native tribal inhabitants. The answer is negative; but there’s no assurance they haven’t seen me . . . or you gentlemen.”

  “That’s why I’m checking the sentries.”

  “A sensible precaution.” The Wise Old Man nodded and proceeded to remove a curved meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. “May I inquire as to your mission, Lieutenant?”

  “Routine scouting expedition. We’ll be back to Fort Concho in three days.”

  “And nights,” the Wise Old Man added as he lit the meerschaum.

  “You intend to spend this night with us, ol’-timer?”

  “If I may presume upon your hospitality, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me. You’re not in the army. Hungry?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Armed? Beside that cane?” Connors smiled.

  “I carry a revolver . . . unloaded at the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is it unloaded? I expended my last cartridge into a jackrabbit I consumed some hours ago.”

  “Maybe we can refill your pistol . . . just before you leave.”