The Congress of Rough Riders

  As with the night the two men had watched the drunken J. B. Studley career across the stage in New York City, the theatre in Chicago was packed to capacity at the Scouts of the Plains opening night. Members of the local establishment, congressmen, and a senator attended, along with the son of President Ulysses S. Grant, who happened to be passing through Chicago with the ageing actress Marjorie Blackwood, still a great beauty, who drew a round of applause of her own when she entered the theatre (last, naturally), and many representatives of the press.

  The play got off to a rousing start. Texas Jack had worked as hard as he ever had over the previous few days and had managed to learn almost all his lines. Those which were still a mystery to him were more than made up for by his presence on stage. Texas Jack possessed a strong deep voice which carried across the auditorium. Watching from the rear of the theatre, Ned Buntline regretted the fact that it was Bill and not Texas Jack who was the true star, if not the talent, of this company.

  Ten minutes later. Bill made his entrance and received rapturous applause. He had already decided that he would not follow Studley’s approach and acknowledge the clapping but would instead launch straight into his performance, a move which proved to be a clever one as the dialogue he had crammed into his head as he paced backstage managed to trip off his tongue quite effortlessly. As they reached the second act, however, it was clear that he was losing control. The whispers of the prompters were becoming more and more apparent to the first few rows of the audience, who were beginning to deliver a low hiss whenever he missed a cue, and the extras seemed to be on stage all the time, whispering in his ear. When Texas Jack remarked in one piece of dialogue that it felt strange for the two of them to be left alone on the prairie like this, it seemed curious to the audience that a bewigged Indian chief and the young girl who played Bill’s wife, were standing on either side of him, whispering in his ear. Realising how foolish he was beginning to look, Bill decided to take the action into his own hands. He waited for Texas Jack to finish his next piece of dialogue and then stamped on the stage, surprising everyone as he launched into a loud shout.

  ‘You know what this reminds me of, Texas Jack?’ he cried and his colleague stared at him blankly, sure that this wasn’t part of the script.

  ‘No …’ he replied with uncertainty.

  ‘This reminds of me of the day that you and I were travelling to Ohio to meet with General Custer about his plans for the resettlement of eastern Wyoming and you got bitten by a snake. Do you remember it?’

  Texas Jack remembered no such incident, for he had never been part of any such thing, but the event in question had in fact taken place, only with a different man. Striding forth to the front of the stage, Bill proceeded to deliver a monologue for the best part of ten minutes, telling a story of adventure and near death which captivated the audience, causing the ladies to hide behind their fans as both men came close to a scalping, and the men to shout raucously whenever he made a saucy joke. Throwing the action of the play out the window. Bill ended his speech and waited until the next character appeared on stage before recounting another incident of adventure which had befallen him during his time on the prairies until the play became little more than an audience with Buffalo Bill Cody. The crowd, however, loved it, applauding each tale with more and more vigour, even as my great-grandfather proceeded to exaggerate and invent stories of his own fortitude as he went along. This was the Buffalo Bill they wanted to believe in. This was the man who would keep them safe and hand them the west on a platter. They hung on to his every word and Bill could feel the power his presence generated. He was a true showman, he realised, the inventor of fictions, a mythologiser of the wild west. Having always believed that he was born to be a scout and a cavalry officer, Buffalo Bill had suddenly found his true calling. He would never let the audience go for the rest of his life.

  When he had grown tired of telling stories he invited all the cast back on stage and a set-to was enacted, one which had fortunately been rehearsed in advance. Naturally, all the Indians were killed and the cowboys victorious, although the fighting and deaths were mostly slapstick and delivered with humour. At the end, the entire cast received the rapturous applause in delight but eventually Buffalo Bill shuffled them all into the wings so he could make the final bows himself.

  Seeing Ned Buntline standing at the back of the theatre, smiling and shaking his head happily, he winked at him. Author! Author! came the cry once again from the auditorium and as Buntline made to take a step forward, Bill raised a hand in the air and the playwright stopped in his tracks, noticing the look of rebuke on his colleague’s face.

  ‘You’re looking at him, ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Bill from the stage, basking in the glory. ‘You’re looking at the author! Buffalo Bill Cody!’

  The stageshow eventually travelled from Chicago to St Louis – where Bill was once again briefly reunited with his wife Louisa – and was intermittently performed for months at a time in Cincinnati, Boston, New York and Philadelphia over the next few years. During that time the text of the play had been altered substantially so that it would include more of Bill’s off-the-cuff reminiscences, which would generally be prompted into speech by Texas Jack, although the show always ended in their trademark slapstick war. Bill and Buntline made a fortune from the show, and in the early days divided the profits evenly after they had paid for the theatres and actors. After a year or two, however, Bill replaced his mentor as producer of Scouts of the Plains and took over the task of renting theatres, hiring actors and organising publicity himself, at which point he began to take most of the proceeds for his own pocket. Buntline had little choice but to accept this arrangement; as the original writer and producer of the show he still received a percentage of the takings, and he was only too well aware that without Bill there would be no show.

  During his time producing the show, Bill made only one disastrous call, hiring his old friend Wild Bill Hickok, whose fame was almost equal to his own, to portray himself in the show. Hickok, however, was a drunk and as his name would imply was prone to unexpected behaviour. While on stage he frequently fired blank cartridges close to the legs of the extras, those hired actors who were playing cowboys or Indians in the closing comic fight, and after injuring several of them through burns, was dismissed from the production. However, since his presence had been advertised Bill made the error of judgement of hiring another actor to play the part. When Hickok showed up unexpectedly in the audience one evening, he was astounded to see a slightly overweight fellow passing himself off as himself and stormed the stage, beating several shades of straw out of the poor individual and had to be carried from the theatre. From then on the character of Wild Bill Hickok was no longer featured in Scouts of the Plains.

  Another turning point was reached in June 1876. While Bill performed his oral histories on stage – stories which, due to lack of action on his part, had taken a decidedly fictional turn – events in the south were taking a darker turn. As more and more ranches sprang up, run by recent settlers, President Grant ordered the Lakota Sioux to leave their land once and for all and organise into special Indian reservations. When they refused to do so, the Great Sioux War broke out, which would indirectly lead to the end of the Plains Indians. This war culminated in the battle of Little Big Horn, where several different tribes fought for their lives against the white armies. In a gesture of solidarity, the Cheyenne, led by Lame White Man, the Oglala, under Crazy Horse, and the Hunkpapa Lakota, under their Chief Gall, combined their forces and one of the bloodiest battles of the time took place. Custer himself led his forces into action against the Indians, his last stand bringing almost a thousand men on both sides on to the plains, and as each and every one of the white soldiers were killed, Custer fought on until a hail of bullets took him too. In terms of victory, it was the Indians’ greatest success, but the scale of the slaughter and the loss of the army’s most popular general, led to a massive insurgence by President Grant and very soon the Indian culture existed
only in an apartheid.

  My great-grandfather was informed of Custer’s death during an intermission of Scouts of the Plains in Philadelphia and when he learned of the numbers dead he felt a fury which had never been known to him before. His own blood boiled for the soldiers’ spilled blood and stepping back on stage it was all he could do to keep his anger at bay. Although their relationship had at times been difficult, fraught with the antagonism of their separate ambitions, Buffalo Bill Cody always considered General George Armstrong Custer a friend. His loss hurt him, all the more because he had not been there to fight at his side as he perhaps should have been. Instead, he had been on stage, telling, stories, making jokes, playing at Cowboys and Indians.

  The second act that evening was shorter than usual; the actors could tell that Bill was not on form for telling stories. When the final climactic battle scene began, it was played out with the usual measure of comedy and action between the participants; only as Bill stepped into the fray to perform what was often a simple choreographed routine, he saw not a stage full of actors, not a performance or a comedy, but a battlefield. He could hear the sounds of rifles being loaded, bullets being shot, tomahawks whizzing through the air and being wrenched from the spinal columns of his fallen comrades. The pounding of the hooves menaced his ears. He could smell the adrenalin of the horses and the fear of the men and at the final moment of the battle, where traditionally Bill would be centre stage, a knife suspended above the head of a made-up Indian, the final freeze frame of the play before the lights went down, he could not see the actor below him but thought only of Sitting Bull, the Indian leader who had masterminded the defeats at Little Big Horn and who he held responsible for the death of Custer. Reaching down he pulled the hair of the actor upwards as he ever did but rather than holding his position and waiting for the applause, on this night he allowed his knife to sail through the air, its unexpected whistle causing the man to close his eyes in terror as the sharp blade sliced through his forelock, leaving my great-grandfather with a fistful of dark, greased hair in his hands and a shaking, terrified actor kneeling before him. He raised his hand in the air, showing the ‘scalp’ to the audience who stared back at him in horror, aware that this was not the way the play normally ended. They had never seen such a look in Bill’s eyes before, the look of victory, of revenge, of blood. The theatre was silent as Bill breathed heavily and closed his eyes. The lights dimmed and the audience waited, unsure what to do next.

  This was how he would avenge Custer, he thought. For the first time he realised the power of his own fictions and his self-creation.

  I grew more and more disconsolate with my failure to track down Hitomi. After two months in Paris I gradually began to accept that either Mayu had made a mistake when she had said that Hitomi had moved there, or that she had simply passed through and had gone on somewhere else. I phoned her brother Tak several times but he was as unhelpful as always, refusing to give me any details whatsoever. Her parents were of even less use. My work was going well and my new employers were pleased with me; I was enjoying the city and, except for the lack of romance, was enjoying my life too. Annette and Luc had continued to suggest that I allow them to set me up with someone but I had resisted, not wanting to admit to myself that my relationship with Hitomi was over and that I should move on.

  Eventually, one Friday evening Annette came rushing into my apartment while I was cooking dinner, threw her arms around my waist as I tasted the spaghetti and nuzzled her mouth against my neck affectionately. It was a warm evening and I had taken my shirt off to allow the breeze from the open window to wash against my skin which had grown more tanned during the summer, and the feeling of her arms wrapped around me, her fingers pressed against my stomach, excited me despite myself and I couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable as she moved her hands to my sides and tickled me quickly.

  ‘Quit it,’ I said, turning around and tapping her on the nose with the tip of the wooden spoon I was using to stir the sauce.

  ‘Get dressed, gorgeous,’ she said happily. ‘We’re going out for the night.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ I said, groaning slightly and she slapped my side playfully.

  ‘William, it’s Friday night,’ she said. ‘And we’re going out. So get showered, get shaved and get dressed. I want you looking your best and that takes time.’

  ‘It’s just the three of us though, right?’ I said, lowering the flame on the cooker. ‘Just you, me and Luc?’

  ‘You, me and Luc will be there, yes,’ she said ambiguously. ‘We’ll just get a couple of beers, that’s all. Sit around and talk.’ I frowned at her and started to lean back, forgetting that the cooker was hot and I felt a quick burning sensation on my skin as the two touched. I jumped forward and cursed. ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘We don’t want any obvious blemishes.’

  ‘What’s going on, Annette?’ I said. ‘You’re not setting me up with someone, are you?’

  ‘As if I would,’ she said. ‘You’ve made your feelings on that topic quite clear.’

  I paused for a moment and squinted at her. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re going to love her, William,’ said Annette with a laugh. ‘Believe me. I’ve told her all about you. She—’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly, turning away from her. ‘No no no. I’ve said no to this already.’

  ‘Oh but William, you’ve—’

  ‘Annette, I don’t want to be set up with someone. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘I know, I know, you’re in loooove. But Jesus, William, you need to meet someone! There’s only so much sitting around moping you can do before you go blind, you know what I’m saying? Just trust me on this one. This girl is gorgeous. And available.’

  I sighed. Although I had already determined not to go along with any such scheme, the combination of sexual playfulness which Annette had displayed towards me together with my sudden desire not to sit around the apartment all night melted my resolve. Why not, I thought. Maybe it would be all right. It was just a drink. I didn’t have to let anything happen that I didn’t want to happen. And if something did, well then that would be my choice too. It was a win-win situation.

  ‘This once,’ I said, wagging a finger at her. ‘This once, all right? I’ll go along with it this once and after that, never again.’

  ‘You’ll never need to again after tonight,’ she said with a wink, heading for the door. ‘Now get ready. Luc’s getting dressed as we speak. We leave in thirty minutes.’

  Annette had chosen a bar which I had never been to before by the banks of the Seine. It was relatively busy but not overcrowded and we were able to secure a table outside on the veranda, overlooking the water. The sun was still high and warm and the sound of the water combined with the low murmur of chatter both around us and in the passing boats below made the evening seem very pleasant and relaxing. I had opted for casual clothes, wearing a new pair of blue jeans with scruffy trainers, and a white cotton shirt, two buttons open. I wore my sunglasses and my hair slicked back from the shower. I could feel the cold beer travelling through my system and it felt refreshing.

  ‘So why tonight?’ I asked them after a time. ‘Why did you set me up with someone for tonight?

  ‘Well we’re not just here for you, you know,’ said Luc. ‘Our world doesn’t entirely revolve around you. We’re celebrating. Annette got a new job today.’

  ‘You did?’ I said happily. ‘That’s great. Doing what?’

  ‘It’s with the same company,’ she said bashfully but clearly happy to talk about it. ‘But I’m going to be line producing a new movie. It’s a big step up for me.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘Congratulations. Jesus, could you win an Oscar or something?’

  ‘They’re called Césars,’ said Luc quickly.

  ‘I’m not going to win anything,’ she replied, laughing. ‘But it’s exciting. I thought I wasn’t going to catch a break there for a while. Thought I might have to go back to acting.’

  ‘
I didn’t know you were an actress,’ I said, intrigued by this side of her character which she had never as yet mentioned.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, shrugging it off. ‘I mean you know my dad’s a producer, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, nodding. ‘You mentioned that.’

  ‘He’s a big-shot Hollywood producer,’ said Luc, holding his hands wide apart as if suggesting the size of the fish that got away. ‘And he hates me. He told Annette that he thought I was too French. I mean what can that possibly mean, too French? I mean I am French, I’ll give him that much.’

  ‘He doesn’t hate you,’ said Annette, tapping his hand lightly. ‘He’s just not good with new people, that’s all. Anyway,’ she continued, turning towards me, ‘when I was four years old, my dad used to take me to the studio with him sometimes and I used to really love it there. I loved all the cameras and the trailers and the way there were always hundreds of people running around like headless chickens everywhere you looked. I mean I wanted to be there more than any other place at the time. I hated it when I had to start school because it meant I couldn’t go to the studio any more.’ She paused and thought about this for a moment before going on. ‘So I’m in the studio one day and I’m running round my father’s office when he brings this woman in to see me. She’s one of these big-time TV producers and he introduces me to her and she doesn’t just say hello to me or shake my hand, she starts asking me loads of questions, wants to know what I want to be when I grow up, whether I can do any tricks or not. You know. She just keeps on drilling me and drilling me for more information. Then eventually she turns to my dad and she says She’s perfect, Louis! Just perfect! And they hug each other and go out of the office again without so much as saying goodbye to me and I’m left standing there all of four years old and I’m like hello? but there’s no one there any more to hear me. Then later on that evening my parents called me downstairs to speak to them and they tell me that something very exciting had happened, that a TV producer is starting a new show, some thirty-minute sit-com, and she wants me to be in it. Isn’t that exciting? they kept saying. Isn’t that so fucking exciting? And I think it kind of is really so I take the part and before I know it I’m like this superstar kid, the show is number one in the ratings, everyone wants a piece of me and it’s bye bye to any kind of sane childhood that I might have had. You’re not gonna believe it, but I was a huge star once. I mean I was massive.’