The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion (6 page)

Ablaze with his discovery, he was exasperated not to be able to find April. The old dragon who stood sentry in the lobby of the women's hotel where she lodged reported that she'd been out all day. Their preferred table at the Planter's House, where they met regularly to commisserate, was occupied by a middle-aged German couple with faces as sour as
braten
. He decided that April was scouting an evening performance, but could find no mention of where in his notes. He returned to his rooms and paced the floor until the hour when the theaters let out.

Back at the Planter's, he drank a quick brandy and ordered another. It had not yet arrived when April swept in, ravishing in green satin, her cheeks afire with excitement. She was seated opposite him before he had time to rise. They both started speaking at once; stopped, laughed distractedly, and started again: “I've found what we've been seeking.”

Johnny played the gentleman and sat back to hear her out. She'd been talking less than a minute when he lunged forward and grasped her wrists, cutting off both her circulation and her narrative. “Don't tell me their names,” he said. “I shall guess. Major Evelyn Davies and Mme. Elizabeth Mort-Davies.”

Nothing in their association, including accosting her on the street and threatening her with a knife, ever so astounded her in his presence. Her mouth formed an adorable crimson O and her unforgettable eyes widened to their full extent. He struck a mental photograph of the expression, and was loath to dispel it with an explanation; but theirs was a professional enterprise, with no place for egoism outside of costume. Through an oversight, Johnny and April had duplicated each other's effort, attending both the matinee and evening performances of
The Diplomat Deposes
. It was proof of the unity of their vision that both had recognized the object of their goal when it presented itself.

Ambuscaded at the stage door following the next day's matinee, the Major and the Madame were sufficiently motivated by the beauty and charm of their admirers to join them for supper. Once again, dessert—pears this time, pan-fried and drizzled with maple syrup shipped at fabulous expense from New England—worked its magic. The Major, who claimed service with Queen Victoria's horse guards before the Call drew him to the London stage, was
hesitant in regard to the larceny, as his knowledge of law enforcement was based upon the compact efficiency of Scotland Yard, but by that time it was clear he was not the one who made the decisions in that union. Mme. Mort-Davies quizzed them closely concerning practical details. She'd been an acrobat and high-wire artist until age alone had directed her into spectacles less demanding physically, and she was far more interested in mechanics than risk. Accord was reached, and of morality no mention was made. Exchanging observations later in private, Johnny and April agreed that the Davieses' account of their years on the circuit had been edited to remove a veritable cross-country crime wave of petty proportions.

She lifted her glass. “To the Prairie Rose.”

He shook his head. “That would be premature, and bad luck. We still need a second lead: a Tybalt. The prospect of Major Davies bounding about with a foil would provide comic relief where none is required, to say nothing of its effect upon the boards. We must appear to be legitimate.”

“Oh, dear. More auditions.”

“Take heart. Now that we're four, we each need attend half as many.”

Fate spared them even that ordeal. The next morning Johnny, deeply regretting last night's overindulgence, stumbled out of bed in his nightshirt to answer the door and found himself facing a physical manifestation of his own fragile condition. The young man on the landing was a half inch shorter, disregarding his stoop, and underweight; sunlight seemed to shine through him as if he were made of bone china. His ears stuck out from his cropped head and a black ribbon dangled from his wire spectacles.

“Mr. Vermillion, my name is Cornelius Ragland. We've met.”

“I think you're mistaken.” Johnny was on his guard. This fellow in his shabby suit, holding a shabby hat before him in both hands, bore all the marks of an extortionist, with his guilty evidence stuffed inside the even shabbier leather portfolio pinned under his left arm. Perhaps he'd been betrayed before he'd even begun.

“I am Peter Argyle's private secretary. I showed you into his office some weeks ago.”

Johnny was certain now of his suspicions. He did not remember the fellow, but Cornelius Ragland appeared easy to forget even when he was standing in front of one. Argyle had been the Prairie Rose's first reluctant investor; perhaps he'd left his transom open during their transaction, and here came his secretary to turn the tables. He did not represent Argyle. The banker had gotten off easy at five hundred dollars. He stood to lose far more by exposing their arrangement.

Abashed by Johnny's silence, the visitor stammered ahead. “I—I couldn't help but remember your card said you were with a theatrical company. I've been asking around for you ever since that day. Your address wasn't on the card.”

He drew the portfolio from under his arm, dropping his hat in the process. There was some funny stage business during which he dropped one, then the other in trying to retrieve it. Johnny wondered if he ought to crack the fellow on the head with a water pitcher while he was bent and search his case. Perhaps it contained Argyle's canceled bank draught.

He was muzzy-headed, however, and did not act. Upright again, Ragland untied the portfolio and sorted through the mass of foolscap inside. “Here is
Sleepy Hollow
, and
The Count of Monte Cristo
, and two of Dickens', abridged of course. A full staging would consume several hours.”

“
What are Sleepy Hollow
and
The Count of Monte Cristo
? What manner of game are you playing, Mr. Ragman?”

“Ragland.” Red spots burned on the stranger's cheeks. Johnny guessed he was consumptive. “They're adaptations, Mr. Vermillion. Stage plays, based on great novels. I'm a playwright.”

“I thought you were a secretary.”

“That's temporary. I—I've heard that repertory players are always in need of material. I thought—perhaps—” He muttered something apologetic and turned to leave. The tips of his ears had turned as red as his cheeks. He'd mistaken stunned relief for rejection.

“One moment, Mr. Ragland.”

The young man turned back swiftly, nearly losing his hold on his bundle of loose pages. He let his hat fall in order to grasp the case with both hands. Johnny's misery fled before an urge to laugh. Ragland amused him to the bone.

“We're a small troupe. We ask everyone to pull a deal more than his own weight. If—and I mean
if
according to Mr. Webster's definition of the word—if we decide to use your scribblings and employ you to scribble more, we will expect you to perform other duties as well.”

“What would they entail?”

“Have you studied fencing?”

Cornelius Ragland tested the tensile strength of the Prairie Rose. April Clay was bemused by the naïve, eminently seductible young man who claimed Baltimore as his home, but whose infirmity had prevented him from serving with the Southern Confederacy. Major Davies, who distrusted all things French, including their support of the South, thought him a bad risk. Mme. Mort-Davies, a trouper since her birth in the Gold Ribbon Theater in Atlantic City, saw potential in his guilelessness, but wondered if he had the stamina to withstand a prolonged tour. Johnny Vermillion brushed aside all objections.

“This conversation is pointless,” he said. “I've told him he's hired.”

“We don't even know if he can act,” said April.

“I don't know if
you
can, dear. You've all expressed your opinions as artists of the stage, which is an attitude I encourage. However, you've overlooked young Mr. Ragland's principal value to our company of players.”

“His writing talent?” The Major blew out his moustaches. “A monkey can scribble.”

“
The Diplomat Deposes
is evidence of that. I'm not referring to his literary skill.”

“Certainly not his presence,” said Mme. Mort-Davies. “He is barely there.”

“That can be manufactured. But you're right; it isn't that either.”

“What, then?” demanded April.

“He and I are roughly the same height.”

This announcement was met with the silence of selfrecrimination. With proper coaching, particularly as to posture—identical costumes, and an expert application of makeup, Johnny and Cornelius could stand in for each other onstage while the man the audience thought it was watching stole away to perform elsewhere. In the flurry of rehearsals and arrangements, the troupe leader alone had remained on mission.

“Mind he doesn't turn sideways,” grumped the Major. “He'll vanish into the backdrop.”

They engaged the tumbledown Empress Theater for their debut. It was located near the levee—a factor of prime importance—and the rental fee agreed with their budget. The purchase of duplicate costumes, and of material for the versatile Mme. Mort-Davies to add certain features to those costumes that could not be duplicated, had strained their resources, to say nothing of the cost of hand properties. These included foils, a brace of duelling pistols, and a Colt revolver large enough to impress patrons in the back row and cashiers at close range. The costumes were Elizabethan. The Major, a superstitious old thespian, held that no successful season had ever begun without a Shakesperean comedy; he would not budge from the position, and so Cornelius Ragland's
original scripts were laid aside in favor of selections from
Twelfth Night
, scaled down to the size of the company. April squealed in delight. She'd seen Ada Rehan on tour in the role of Viola and since then had worshipped at her shrine.

“You'll have more than her measure your first time out,” Johnny said. “I'll warrant Rehan never played Maria in the same production. You'll make a fetching sailor as well.”

He assigned the Major to the role of Sir Toby Belch, with a walk-on as a priest. The Madame—Lizzie, as Johnny made bold to address her—fitted Shakespeare's description of Oliva quite nicely, and would wear whiskers as Viola's sea-captain friend. Cornelius, who had no stage experience, was confined to the part of young Sebastian, which would be challenge enough; although he would double for Johnny as Orsino for one brief scene.

“And who will you play other than Orsino?” April asked.

“So far as the printed programme is concerned, I shall appear in a variety of undemanding roles apart from the lead, but the programme is a fraud. I shall perform only two.”

She asked what was the other. He smiled.

“You won't find him in the dramatis personae.”

Rehearsals were intense, and twofold: This troupe must not only block out movements and commit the Bard's lines to memory, but also practice switching costumes backstage. Many a long night was spent in a swirl of flying fabric until, within seconds, countess became captain, lady fell to maid, knight ordained himself priest, Viola's brother became her lover. This last transformation was performed with the most ease, as they had managed to procure duplicate costumes for Orsino and Sebastian, and the pair had only to exchange sashes to complete the substitution. With the plume of Johnny's hat covering half of Cornelius' face, and with
his back turned toward the audience for most of the scene, the illusion was satisfactory. Madame Lizzie, a gifted scold, berated the former secretary to stand straight and dissemble his stoop. She was also a talented seamstress, and with scissors and string had reengineered all the one-of-a-kind costumes so that they came off with a twitch and refastened in a twinkling.

Bald head streaming, the Major groped in vain for a handkerchief. He'd forgotten he was dressed as a priest and that the cassock had no pockets. “At this point, we could empty five safes during the first performance.”

“We'll start with one, during the last,” Johnny said. “We're virgins, don't forget.”

Twelfth Night—An Abridgment
opened at the Empress the second week of October 1873, to uninspired reviews from a press that had seen Henry Irving in a full-scale production of the same play. Audiences trickled in, as did water; the sky wept through all six performances, the roof leaked, and at times it seemed more seats were occupied by buckets than people. None of the city papers mentioned the show's closing, at the end of the Monday matinee. They needed the space to report the daring daylight robbery of the steamboat
Czarina Catherine
by a lone bandit that afternoon. The vessel had docked at St. Louis to take on fuel and passengers, one of whom, described as a tall man in a long coat with the collar turned up and the brim of his hat turned down, produced a large revolver in the purser's cabin and demanded the contents of the safe. The purser, alone at the time, complied, and the mysterious stranger left carrying six thousand dollars in a satchel, an amount deposited for the most part by professional gamblers hoping to squeeze one more profitable season out of a mode of transportation made obsolete by the railroads.

The owner of the Empress, more tidy in his dress and grooming than in his finances, clucked over the Prairie Rose receipts, a disappointing four hundred dollars and change. “You didn't even make back your investment.”

Johnny was sanguine. “St. Louisans are overentertained and jaded. I expect a warmer welcome out West, where diversions such as ours are rare. And the weather will be kinder in the dryer reaches.”

“People starve to death on the plains.”

“You underestimate our little party. We intend to develop a system for living off the land.”

You've seen it before: a succession of stoked boilers streaking toward the screen, intercut with close-ups of charging wheels and plunging drive rods. On the soundtrack, short cello strokes imitate the chomping of pistons and steam whistles blast from the brass. Depot signs loom at us from the far perspective: KANSAS CITY; OMAHA; SIOUX FALLS; CHEYENNE; SALT LAKE CITY. Quaint old-fashioned broadsheets spin and stop long enough to display headlines: BOLD ROBBERY OF THE FARMERS TRUST (
Kansas City Times
); LONE BANDIT HOLDS UP STOCK SHOW (
Omaha Herald
); WELLS, FARGO OFFICE RAIDED (
Sioux Falls Journal
); CATTLEMAN'S BANK STRUCK BY DESPERADO (
Cheyenne Leader
); MORMONS FORM VIGILANCE GROUP FOLLOWING OVERLAND OUTRAGE (
Deseret News
). Solitary figures in big hats and bandannas appear and dissolve, gesticulating with a revolver (can there be just one?). They are tall and short, comically fat and thin as water, substantial and slight. We pan past actors in elaborate costumes
making faces, fencing, and soliloquizing, across a row of frightened clerks and cashiers raising their hands, around an auditorium filled with people clapping hands, dissolve to a pair of hands scooping piles of money into gunnysacks and satchels. Stacks of banknotes and gold coins grow before our eyes. Bottles of champagne foam over in the dressing room of some frontier theater—steer horns hung among the generic collage of playbills and atomizers—where our little band has gathered to commemorate the success of their inaugural tour. And out.