She frowned and nodded. ‘Well all right,’ she said. ‘Give her my love, though, won’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, standing up and giving her a kiss on both cheeks, Parisian style. She seemed shocked now by my forwardness and walked away quickly with a wave. Her friends were staring at me and I think one of them must have recognised me for he said something as she returned and she shook her head before looking back at me, confused, as if she was wondering why someone was claiming that I was the popular young newspaper columnist in Kyoto when I was actually supposed to be living in Paris. I gave her a wave and didn’t look up again for a few minutes, until I was sure that she was gone.
Sayonara, Kyoto, I thought to myself.
Ellen Rose devoted the best part of a year to trying to persuade her parents to allow her to join the trapeze company of the Regis-Roc Circus. Her father, Russell Rose, tried everything he could think of to dissuade her but it was to no avail. Eventually it became clear that if he wanted anything resembling a peaceful life he had little choice but to train her.
‘Think about it,’ said Bessie, Russell’s wife, the evening before her first lesson. ‘Her insistence is probably based on the fact that we’ve always said no before. Maybe once she starts to learn and has to spend hours working on the routines, she’ll get bored with it and give up.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Russell, although he was not hopeful that that would indeed be the case. The trapeze company always used a net while training but removed it for the performances. The possibility of death made their act more exciting to the spectators and in their fourteen-year history, they had never suffered any serious accidents. It was agreed that Ellen would not be allowed to perform in front of spectators until all the members of their troupe were absolutely convinced that she was proficient in their art. Ellen was only five feet two inches tall; she weighed about a hundred pounds and in theory was perfect trapeze material. It was decided that she would partner Joseph Craven, a twenty-seven-year-old veteran of the troupe, who was only an inch taller and about twenty pounds heavier than her. Craven had been performing for eight years and was considered one of the most daring and inventive of the company; he was delighted to be given the task of training Ellen because it gave him an opportunity to spend time with her and he had long considered her to be the most beautiful woman he knew.
By now, Ellen was seventeen years old and still single. She suspected that her new tutor was enamoured of her but tried to discourage him, as she was not at all attracted to him, and found herself growing irritated by the look of excitement which came into his eyes whenever he had to twist her around by the ankles or throw her up in the air and catch her lengthways by the waist. Often, while in mid-air, she could see a faint line of perspiration forming on Craven’s forehead, some tiny beads along his upper lip, and felt her body grow rigid with distaste.
‘You have to be more fluid with your movements,’ he would say on those occasions, almost collapsing under her as she fell. ‘It’s like catching a dead weight. You have to try to lose all sense of your body when you’re in the air.’
‘I’ll try,’ Ellen muttered, wishing that she could change partners, but having tried so long to join this troupe, there seemed little chance that she could simply pick and choose who to work with now that she was finally in.
Russell and Bessie often watched from the bleachers as Craven taught their daughter the routines and each worried in different ways. Russell was afraid that his daughter’s idolising of him was eventually going to cause her harm, thereby making any potential accident his fault. Bessie, on the other hand, had hoped that Ellen would not stay with the circus at all but would find for herself a life outside of it. She had made her own life there and been very happy, but it was an enclosed world which she had joined from the outside. Ellen had never known anything except for it and the way things were going, she never would. This was not something she wished for her daughter and actively prayed that she would grow bored with the whole thing.
In the meantime, Craven continued to teach Ellen and continued to lust after her as she dreamed of only one thing: making it up the ladder of the Big Top for that evening when she would give her debut performance as a trapeze artist. She was convinced that she could become a star.
The Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovitch arrived with a large entourage a few weeks after my great-grandfather had spoken to Chief Spotted Tail and arranged that both their people would work together to present an image of harmony to their illustrious visitor. He had travelled from Paris to New York and spent several weeks there, meeting with the governor and several members of Ulysses S. Grant’s cabinet before heading southwards to a dinner engagement with the president. However, it was the appointment with the famous Buffalo Bill Cody which was most exciting to him and when he arrived at Red Willow, he greeted him effusively. General Custer was a little irritated by this since he, as ranking officer, headed the official greeting party for the Duke, but he tried not to allow his feelings to be too obviously displayed.
‘I have never seen land like this,’ the Duke told Custer through an interpreter. ‘Today, we have ridden for hours across prairies that are more open and free than anything we have at home.’
‘Don’t worry, Duke,’ said Custer quickly. ‘We hope to change all that soon. The government plans to create great cities across these lands. America can be an even greater country a hundred years from now with the work we are putting in place.’ The Duke looked aghast, Custer having misinterpreted his comments about the land as being negative ones.
‘But that would be a disaster,’ he said, looking around as if it might all be swallowed up within minutes. ‘You cannot destroy such beauty, surely?’
Custer looked a little flustered but tried to carry on as best as he could. ‘We’ll be making it better,’ he explained. ‘In the name of progress there are always sacrifices which need to be made, don’t you agree? Is your father, the Czar, not doing similar things in Russia?’
The Grand Duke snorted, his expression implying that he was merely a fortunate relative and not one given to inclusion in the plans of his mother country. ‘The Czar would never want to destroy lands like this,’ he said. ‘Even if we had such places, which we do not. It would be unforgivable. It’s lucky we came here when we did. Perhaps there would be no hunting in a few years’ time?’
Custer laughed and looked a little awkward, turning now to my great-grandfather for some assistance. ‘We plan on bringing more people to these areas,’ explained Bill, touching the Duke lightly on the elbow. ‘So that they can experience what we have come to know as one of our great natural resources. You have heard, no doubt, of how we are building great railroads across the country?’
The Duke smiled and paused for a moment, wishing to frame his response without giving offence. ‘I know that there are thousands of immigrants building your railroads. They come from very far away to this America in order to make you great, isn’t that so? From China, Japan, Tokyo. Tens of thousands of people climbing on board boats to bring themselves here for a better life and they end up building your railroads. The ones that don’t die either getting here or building them, that is. This is a clever country, I’ll give you that.’
Bill smiled but Custer could feel his anger beginning to surface. This was not a good start to three days of diplomacy. The Grand Duke, a heavy-set man with a prominent jawline and dark eyes, stared at him, silently daring him to respond to this deliberately provocative conversation, but Bill changed the subject to one concerning his reasons for being there. ‘Do you do much hunting in Russia, Duke?’ he asked politely, receiving a gruff shake of the head as a response.
‘The hunting there is nothing like what you have here,’ he replied. ‘From what I am told you have thousands of buffalo roaming free to hunt whenever you want. Where I come from, such animals would be killed and eaten immediately.’
‘We do have strict guidelines,’ pointed out General Custer. ‘It’s not as if anyone can simply come
along and kill as many of the beasts as they want. This land, for instance, is reserved for hunting by the Lakota Sioux, one of the tribes common to this part of America. They have always—’
As Custer began a potted biography of the Lakota Sioux for their guest, Bill remembered that their Chief, Spotted Tail, was standing a few feet away with the leading members of his tribe and had not, as yet, been invited into the conversation. Motioning him to approach he interrupted the general and introduced him to the Grand Duke.
‘Spotted Tail has graciously allowed us to hunt with the Sioux on the Red Willow land over the next couple of days,’ Bill explained. ‘It is a great privilege for us to hunt with such brave warriors,’ he added, a true diplomat who didn’t particularly believe what he was saying, but was enjoying irritating Custer with his homely good humour. The Grand Duke stared at Spotted Tail in surprise, for he had never met a member of an Indian tribe before. The chief was dressed in his full formal attire and presented a colourful, if slightly threatening, appearance. The two men shook hands awkwardly and the group retired to the tents for refreshments and rest. The night was drawing in and a feast was planned for the evening with an early finish so that the hunt might begin properly the next morning.
Despite his enthusiasm for the hunt, the Grand Duke slept late the next day and looked a little the worse for wear when he eventually joined his three hosts at the head of the hunt. He had stayed awake too long the night before and drunk too much wine and now his head was pounding with the hangover it had produced. Spotted Tail stared at him defiantly for they had come dangerously close to trouble when the Russian had spent more than an hour flirting with the chief’s oldest daughter, a sideshow which by coincidence had kept his eyes away from the fact that my great-grandfather was busy seducing his youngest.
Although the Grand Duke was an experienced huntsman he had no experience with animals of the size of prairie buffaloes and Bill could tell that he felt a little intimidated to be riding alongside himself, Custer and Spotted Tail, any of whom could have felled half a dozen animals with little more than an angry look. Because of this, and thinking that it might give him more confidence, he had invited their guest to ride on his own horse, Buckskin Joe, whose own fame was growing alongside that of his master.
‘When I was in New York,’ the Duke told Bill as they ambled slowly along the prairies, taking in the sight of the roaming buffaloes before beginning the kill, ‘I went to see The Killer on the Prairies at one of their theatres. You have seen it, I presume?’
Bill laughed. ‘I haven’t, as yet,’ he replied. ‘Although I have read reports that it’s a popular entertainment.’
‘It’s only the finest piece of theatre I have ever had the joy of watching,’ replied the Duke. The Killer on the Prairies was the first adaptation of the Buffalo Bill dime novels to be performed on the stage and had been the hit of the season on Broadway. The well-known actor Ned Buntline had written the script and was playing the part of Bill himself in a melodramatic adventure which concerned the kidnapping by the Cheyenne of a young girl, the daughter of one of Bill’s friends, and my great-grandfather’s attempts to bring her back before she could be violated. It was playing to packed houses in New York and it was rumoured that another production would soon be going on the road and travelling across the country.
‘As it happens, I’ve never been to New York,’ said Bill contemplatively. ‘Perhaps I should go. But I’ve always felt that the big-city life may not be what I am destined for.’
‘With a fame as wide as yours, my friend, I would imagine you could go anywhere and be given a hero’s welcome. When I saw that play, the audience applauded so wildly at the end that had you been there you may well have been torn limb from limb.’
‘Well if that’s the response I can expect, then perhaps it’s best that I stay away.’
‘I exaggerate, of course,’ said the Duke quickly. ‘But it’s not everyone who has the bravery to perform such deeds. That was one of the reasons I wanted to come here, you know. I’ve read all the stories about you. I’ve followed your career with great interest. I wanted to hunt with the great Buffalo Bill Cody. Money offers us some advantages in life and I wanted to use mine for these things.’
‘Then you’re wasting your money,’ replied Bill with a laugh, although he was revelling in the compliments. ‘Those stories … they’re mostly fiction. They choose events that have taken place and spin them into some grand adventure story. Really, they’re only based on very limited information. This play, for example. None of that story ever happened. Although I did spend three weeks chasing a Cheyenne from town to town across Ohio last year for he had killed a man, a friend of mine, but there was no girl involved.’
‘And what did you do when you caught up with him?’ asked the Grand Duke.
‘I killed him, of course,’ came the reply. ‘What would you have me do? Hand him in to the authorities? An eye for an eye, Duke. That’s my motto. Perhaps not as heroic as the novelists would have you believe, or the playwrights, but there we are. The truth is not always as exciting as the reality.’
Custer chose this moment to slow down and pick up the pace with the two men. ‘Should we begin?’ he asked. ‘There’s a fine herd of buffalo just over this hill. Ripe for the plucking, I would say.’ He called to the group to stop and the three men, along with Chief Spotted Tail, rode a little forward to survey their prey. ‘As the guest of honour,’ Custer began, clearing his throat and speaking in a loud voice so that all could hear him, ‘you have the privilege of taking the first shots.’ He had addressed the Grand Duke, whose face betrayed a slight twitch when these words were uttered. He looked around nervously.
‘I do?’ he asked. ‘Do we not hunt together?’
‘Traditionally, the guest of honour rides first into the pack and only when he has killed his first buffalo do the rest of the party join in,’ said Custer. He was torn now between his obligation as host and his enjoyment of the Grand Duke’s discomfort.
‘Grand Duke,’ said Bill quickly, reaching into the side bags of his horse, an unfamiliar beast to him since he had lent his regular steed to the other man. ‘I brought something for you to aid you in your first buffalo hunt. Something which has brought me luck in the past.’ From the saddle bag he removed the Smith & Wesson gun which his father had owned before him and had given to him as a gift after he had saved his life; the same gun which Bill would one day leave to his own Sam, who would pass it on to his son Isaac, who would place it on a hook on his living-room wall and forbid me to ever touch it without his permission. ‘This was my father’s gun,’ he explained, handing it across to the Grand Duke Alexis, who examined it carefully. Bill had spent a portion of the previous evening cleaning and shining it and it looked as good as it ever had, the elegant carvings glistening in the noonday sun. ‘It shoots well and true,’ he continued. If you would like to use it today, then you are welcome to.’
The Grand Duke accepted the gun gratefully, checked that it was fully loaded and, aware that everyone was watching him, he gave a loud shout and dug his stirrups into the side of Buckskin Joe, who reared up and charged down the hill towards the buffalo below. Within moments, the Grand Duke was circling the herd and discharging his gun at will.
‘He is no hunter,’ said Spotted Tail, who sat on his horse between Custer and Bill. ‘How many times has he shot already?’
‘He better shoot one soon,’ muttered Custer in reply. ‘Or we’re all in trouble.’
Fully reloaded now, and without once looking up at his hosts, the Grand Duke circled the herd once again and began to shoot. Bill counted the bullets in his head with each discharge of the gun and when he was sure it was empty again and that nothing had been killed he kicked his own horse in the side quickly.
‘Don’t follow me,’ he said to the other two men as he began to ride off. It will only make things worse.’
Bill gave a loud shout as he galloped down towards the buffaloes. The Grand Duke looked terrified as they approached a
particularly tame-looking animal.
‘Shoot,’ said Bill in a firm voice. ‘Shoot now.’
The Grand Duke lifted the Smith & Wesson and pointed it directly at the head of the beast and fired. The animal’s legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the ground. A huge sense of relief was felt by all and immediately Custer, Spotted Tail and their various entourages charged down the hill, causing the herd to stampede, charging away from the men as fast as they could. The adrenalin rushed through Bill’s veins for it was the sound of the hooves racing across the prairies that excited him like no other sound and, forgetting about his charge, he galloped forward and gave chase, keeping one eye on Custer at all times, aware that they would be challenging each other in an unspoken contest throughout the day.
Later that night, exhausted but happy with the day’s outcome, Bill found himself alone with the Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovitch, both men now happily drunk and pleased with their day’s activities. The Duke had become a better killer once the first animal had been killed and had finally acquitted himself well, killing almost two dozen buffalo.
‘I think I owe you a debt of gratitude, my friend,’ said the Grand Duke. ‘You came to my assistance today when I needed it.’
‘It was an unfamiliar horse to you,’ said my great-grandfather kindly. ‘And Buckskin Joe is not accustomed to anyone’s else’s behind but my own. You were a worthy hunter.’
‘True, but you helped me anyway when I could have embarrassed myself. All I am saying is thank you.’ Bill accepted the words of gratitude with a polite nod and said no more on the subject.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘About what you were telling me earlier. The Killer on the Prairies? The stage show?’
‘Ah yes,’ said the Grand Duke. ‘You wish to go see it now, do you? Bask in the applause which is meant for you?’
‘Not quite,’ said Bill, an idea forming in his mind which would be the genesis of the next stage in his life, the end of his careless youth and the beginning of his life in show business. ‘You said this man Buntline was good at playing me in this show, yes? He was a good actor?’