Washington City

"I'm a screamer."

James Hackett squinted into the dingy backstage mirror. A disgusted -- and elaborately made-up -- face peered back at him. Even here, in one of the top theaters in Washington City, the dressing rooms were small, filthy and dimly lit. How in God's name could anyone expect an actor to step directly from this squalor onto a stage before a discriminating audience of senators, congressmen and masters of industry -- and to give a good performance as well? Paris -- now there's a city that knows how to treat an artiste. Or London -- ah, London. What marvelous sophistication. But even though this smelly marsh town was the capital of the United States, it still seemed to be populated primarily by yahoos and buffoons who barely knew how to attend a theater, much less maintain one for the comfort of its performers.

Hackett sighed as he daubed makeup onto his nose and cheeks, being careful not to smear any of the paste into his long wig or onto his buckskin hunting frock. 'Twas ever thus, he thought, then murmured, ". . .a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

Shakespeare.

Well, the play he was performing tonight surely was not Shakespeare. Far from it. Lion of the West was a raucous comedy about a rough-hewn, ill-mannered frontiersman named Nimrod Wildfire. It was crude, loud, obvious and totally lacking in poetry or greater meaning. . . and audiences loved it.

Hackett carefully placed the fur cap onto his head and felt Nimrod Wildfire stir to life within him. It was more than a cap made of fox fur -- it was made of a fox. . . in its entirety. The angry face of the creature growled at the front, its jaws open as though ready to pounce upon its unlucky prey. At the back, the long tail hung over Hackett's neck. It was truly eye-catching. And Hackett had to admit that it was true -- the headpiece was the most important part of the getup. Without it, he was just an ordinary man, not very tall, with a weak chin and tiny eyes set too closely together. But with it, he was colorful, bigger than life, outrageous -- a genuine rip-roaring frontier hero.

He tried the line again.

"I'm a screamer."

James Hackett smiled a little to himself. This speech always brought down the house. He spoke louder, relentlessly rehearsing the lines that he had performed hundreds of times before.

"I got the roughest racin' horse, the prettiest sister, the surest rifle and the ugliest dog in the district. I am about the savagest critter you ever did see. My old man can lick anybody in Tennessee and I can lick my old man."

Carefully checking both sides of his profile, Hackett raised his voice to full stage-level volume.

"I can run faster, dive deeper, stay longer under and come out drier than any chap this side of the big swamp. I can outgrin a panther and ride a lightnin' bolt, tote a steamboat on my back and whip my weight in wildcats. I am half horse and half alligator, with a whiff of harricane throwed into the bargain!"

Even alone at his dressing table, it seemed to Hackett that he could hear the screams of laughter and the deafening applause that always greeted this scene. But he knew that it was not entirely the writing -- or his own performance -- that made Lion of the West spring to life night after night, month after month. It was because of him -- the bumpkin congressman, the dim-witted bear hunter who had somehow parlayed his laughable character, his ignorance, his outsized eccentricities into national fame.

Hackett continued, gesturing to himself melodramatically, "I will kill a black b'ar for breakfast every mornin', pick my teeth with a tent spike and go through hostile redskins like a dose of salts. I could tell you folks more, but then I'd be braggin'!"

Hackett paused, smiling, holding for imaginary applause. He always had to stop at this point to take a modest bow.

The character in the play was named Nimrod Wildfire. But audiences everywhere knew who it really was: Davy Crockett.

Of course, Hackett and the play's author, James Kirke Paulding, had always denied it -- in public, at least. But they both knew that the public's association of the congressman with the theatrical figure was no mistake. Indeed, it was the original intention of the piece.

A few years earlier, in 1830, Hackett had offered a prize to the playwright who could come up with a special kind of character. He wanted someone who represented the raw new American spirit, a high-spirited pioneer figure whose fractured English was hilarious and absurd but whose spirit was large. Paulding won the prize by suggesting that he base a play on the wildwood exploits of David Crockett from Tennessee.

The idea struck Hackett as a splendid one. The very backwoods characteristics that had already begun turning Crockett into a legend also made him something of a joke among the movers and shakers of Washington City. Placing this illiterate brute in the midst of high society, like the proverbial bull in the china shop, seemed to offer the perfect formula for crude comedy. Paulding even wrote to a friend to get some specific examples of "Kentucky or Tennessee manners, and especially some of their peculiar phrases and comparisons. If you can add, or invent, a few ludicrous scenes of Col. Crockett at Washington, you will have my everlasting gratitude."

His friend replied that Paulding would merely have to check the Washington papers to find more than enough fodder for ridiculing Crockett. The man was unschooled, socially awkward and politically inept. Simply transfer the real man to the pages of a theatrical script and hilarity would undoubtedly ensue.

It had turned out just that way. Lion of the West was an immediate hit -- in urban centers, anyway. James Hackett found to his consternation that whenever he portrayed Nimrod Wildfire before rural or pioneer audiences, the response could be cold, sometimes downright negative and -- at least on a couple of occasions -- dangerous. The one time in his life Hackett had literally been driven out of town on a rail was by outraged mine workers in Kentucky, who seemed to consider his absurd theatrical character a direct slap in their collective face.

But in New York, London, Paris, Boston and now Washington City, things were different. There were sophisticated audiences in those cities, people who were willing -- indeed, eager -- to, for the purposes of entertainment, look down their noses at the lower classes of people who lived in the mountains or on the frontier or in other savage conditions.

A sharp rap sounded on the dressing-room door and the stage manager stuck his head into the room.

"What?" Hackett said, annoyed. "What is it?"

The stage manager smiled slightly. He did not care much for Hackett and his pompous ways, and he had news that he knew would unnerve the actor.

"He's here," the stage manager said.

Impatiently, Hackett turned and demanded, "Who is here?"

The stage manager's smile widened. "He's here."

Hackett's face drained of blood. He had dreaded this day for almost three years. There was no doubt about whom the stage manager was speaking. David Crockett was in the theater. Crockett himself! And who knew how an uncouth barbarian like that would react to being mocked on the stage? Hackett already knew that Crockett was not a bit pleased by being publicly mocked by Nimrod Wildfire, knew that Crockett had even gone out of his way to make sure that people did not confuse him with that ill-mannered, rough-speaking lout. But for the congressman to actually show up at the theater -- Hackett knew that this meant trouble. Nervous now, he daubed a little more makeup around his frightened eyes and whispered meekly to himself, "I'm a screamer. . . ."

The theater was packed with Washington's most prominent citizens: politicians and businessmen in impeccably tailored tailcoats, intricately embroidered vests and cravats of fine silk. Their ladies were resplendent in lavish gowns fresh off the boat from Paris, with full, ankle-length skirts and scandalously low necks, offering for their delighted gentlemen's enjoyment generous and tantalizing glimpses of décolletage. Their hair was arranged in elaborate cascades of curls and ringlets. There were rich and powerful men in that audience, and women who were the belles of Washington high society. But the murmurs that ran through the crowd all focused on one man. They had heard he was coming, and like Hackett, they anticipated trouble. Unlike Hackett, they were nearly giddy with anticipation; they simply could not wait to see what sort of ruckus their celebrated bumpkin congressman would cause. It was almost bound to be funnier than the play itself.

No one had to announce when David Crockett stepped into his private box, just above the wing at stage left. Everyone in the theater, as if by some mass instinct, turned their heads upward at the same moment. Some, inexplicably, felt like standing. He was a figure of fun, but somehow, at the same time, he possessed a powerful presence. Crockett commanded every room that he entered. Even his worst enemies had to admit that he exhibited enormous charisma and personality.

Crockett was fully aware of the stir he was causing in the theater, but did not pretend to be humbled or surprised by it. Instead, he smiled warmly at the crowd and gave the house a friendly wave. He was greeted by applause, polite at first and then, like a wave of sound washing over the room, a thunderous ovation, mixed with cheers and huzzahs. Crockett's smile grew wider and, waving once more, he took his seat.

In the wings, only feet away, Hackett peered through the curtain at Crockett, sweating bullets. He was surprised that Crockett was not a bigger man. After all the stories he had heard -- indeed, after all the stories he had himself made up -- he was convinced that Crockett would be a giant of a man, like a true folk hero. Instead, Crockett stood at about five feet, ten inches tall, and his body could better be characterized as stocky rather than muscular and mighty. He wore his dark brown hair long, curling past his collar, and his amiable face was framed by a substantial pair of muttonchops. There was a slight, almost effeminate, curl to his lip, and his eyes were dark and intelligent. He wore a long, black, expensively tailored frock coat and a cream-colored vest. His silk cravat, the color of gold, was elaborately tied, forcing his collar up high around his neck. He does not look a thing like Nimrod Wildfire, Hackett thought. He looks like a. . . a. . . congressman!

The orchestra gave a flourish, the lights dimmed and the crowd quieted in anticipation. Hackett muttered to himself, "Just another performance, just another performance, just another. . ."

The curtain opened. The rustic wilderness set was illuminated by the golden glow of the calcium limelights that lined the lip of the stage. Backing the scene was a large illustrated curtain depicting various heroic and comic scenes featuring the play's frontier protagonist. In one cameo, his arm was raised high, brandishing a dagger at a leaping mountain lion; in another, he was firmly standing his ground against an approaching bear; and in another, he sat on horseback, surrounded by stampeding wild stallions. Across the top, over a logo depicting a rifle, fiddle and coonskin cap, arched the words "Colonel Nimrod Wildfire." Under the logo in large red letters was the title of the play: "THE LION OF THE WEST;" underneath, in smaller black letters, the subtitle: "OR, THE KENTUCKIAN."

The illustrations on the backdrop were clearly based on some of the Crockett legends that many in the audience had read about in his best-selling autobiography, A Narrative of the Life of David Crockett of the State of Tennessee. Of course, no one much believed that he had actually written the book himself, but it was so filled with delightful incidents and hair-raising adventures that bookstores could not keep it in stock. And even if the sophisticated big-city readers did not exactly believe what they read in the book, that fact did not stop them from repeating the stories and laughing uproariously at Crockett's antics and adventures, both real and imagined.

Hackett glanced at the backdrop from his place in the wings and thought that the illustrations made it harder than ever to plausibly deny a link between Crockett and Nimrod Wildfire. Peeking back through the curtain, he saw Crockett grinning broadly. That means he was happy, does it not? Hackett thought. Then he remembered all those stories about Crockett "grinning" animals and Indians into submission. One grin, the stories went, and raccoons would simply climb down from their trees saying, "Do not shoot, Davy, here I come!" And now, Crockett was going to unleash that grin on Hackett -- and it was working. The frantic actor was ready to surrender already.

The conductor tapped the podium with his baton and the small pit orchestra began playing the lively "Crockett March" -- another indication of the congressman's widespread fame. Hackett began to perspire even more profusely. The gigantic fur hat had never felt so heavy and oppressive. At the sound of the familiar music, the audience burst into applause. Hackett, no longer able to hide, somehow managed to cover his face with a wide smile and stepped forward. The applause grew louder. Hackett bowed slightly in the direction of the crowd but there was really only one audience member on his mind at the moment. To his relief, Crockett was also smiling and applauding but -- was it Hackett's imagination? -- he had a sardonic look in his eye. It was the kind of look that said, "All right, Mr. Actor, show me."

Hackett was not the only person in the room gauging Crockett's reaction. Nearly everyone in the theater seemed to be keeping one eye on the stage and one eye on the congressman. When the applause died, Hackett sighed and took a baby step forward, into the limelight of the stage. Still sweating he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your kind reception." He glanced upward again. Crockett seemed to be hanging on his every word. Hackett sighed. He knew he had to get this out of the way in the beginning or he would never be able to continue the play.

"Before we, uh, begin tonight's. . . performance," Hackett stammered, "I should like to acknowledge the presence of the man whose. . . life. . . inspired this humble play." He smiled, losing himself in the moment -- and hoping for the best. "May I introduce to you the real Lion of the West. . . the gentleman from the Cane. . ."

Hackett took the fur hat off his head, bowed deeply in the direction of the box and said, "Good evening, Mr. Crockett."

A hush fell over the theater. This was it. Everyone in the place watched and waited. Crockett, unsmiling, slowly stood and faced off with Hackett. He remained there for a moment, allowing suspense to build. Then he smiled and bowed himself.

"Good evening, Mr. Crockett," he said.

The audience erupted into cheers and applause. Hackett smiled widely but his eyes retained their look of shock, like a man who has been pardoned from the gallows after the rope was already tied around his neck.

•  •  •

Standing outside the theater, listening to the faint sounds of cheers and applause, Sam Houston was not inclined to go in himself. It was not that he did not enjoy the theater, but right now he had a lot on his mind. Theatergoers, arriving late, walked quickly past the rough-looking man pacing the sidewalk. He stood over six foot, three inches, and was barrel chested. His stern face made him look like he was perpetually in the mood for trouble. Periodically he took a swig from a silver flask that he kept in the pocket of his tailcoat and mumbled to himself. It was the mumbling that really served as a repellant to others on the street. A man who talked to himself was very likely to be a man who simply was not right in the head. And when a big, muscular, mean-looking man was talking to himself, it was best to steer clear.

Houston's mumbling was a rehearsal of sorts. He had some convincing to do tonight, and he wanted to make sure that he used precisely the right words. And one of the people he had to convince was in that theater. Sam Houston had no interest in the fictional Nimrod Wildfire, but Congressman David Crockett was much on his mind. Houston knew that there was going to be a soirée at a nearby hotel after the performance and had been told that he could count on seeing Crockett there. If the audience was as filled with movers and shakers as Houston suspected, that soirée would be an excellent chance to talk with a few of them, too.

If anything, Houston had lived a more colorful life than either the real or fictional versions of Crockett. As a boy he had run off to live with the Cherokee, learning their language and adopting their ways. They accepted him, and he was named Kalanu -- "the Raven" -- by the chief of the tribe. He fought and was wounded in the War of 1812. In fact, the leg wound he received at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend had never healed, after more than twenty years. He was a politician and a Freemason. And he could even call himself an actor; he was a past member of the Dramatic Club of Nashville. And finally, after all those lives, he had become the governor of Tennessee.

It was not long after his election that Houston had married twenty-year-old Eliza Allen. She was beautiful and her father was very rich, and Houston felt that he had made the best decision of his life. It turned out to be the worst. Only three months after the wedding, she abruptly left him and returned to her family home. Neither Houston nor Eliza ever commented publicly on the reasons their marriage failed; indeed, Houston never even talked about it with his closest friends. Nevertheless, the scandal was immense, and ruined his political future. He resigned as governor and went back to the Cherokee, to heal. Although he had not divorced Eliza, Houston married a Cherokee woman named Talihina Rogers.

But now he was back in Washington City with big plans. He often thought of himself in terms of a line from one of Shakespeare's plays, As You Like It: "And one man in his time plays many parts. . . ." Houston had indeed played many parts in his time -- and tonight he had a new role. He was a salesman with a gigantic product and a very important pitch to make. In fact, it was life or death.

Houston stood outside the theater for a while, listening to the laughter from within, continuing to mutter under his breath and fortify his nerve with the help of the flask. Then he headed for the bar in the hotel. That would be a far more congenial place to wait, he thought. When this damned comedy had played out in the theater, his prey would be coming to him.

Copyright © 2003 Touchstone Pictures