Monthly Archives: January 2020

Hope

“Old age is a slow downward spiral into the abyss. Fighting the inevitable is futile. No doubt about it, life will knock you on your ass and there’s not a thing you can do about it. However, complete surrender means the acceptance of the end without hope. Life without hope is unbearable.” The old man finished his glass of white wine and looked around the table at the young men who appeared to be hanging on his every word. “Anybody want another beer?”
“Oh, yes sir.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The young men, all in their early twenties, smiled and nodded. The old man motioned to the bartender.
“I want another white wine, and give each of these fine gentlemen the beer of their choice.” He waited until all the orders were taken. “Personally, I don’t know the difference between one beer and another. I think I would gag if I tried to drink one. Oh, this is not to impugn the taste of any of you gentlemen. It’s a bit like Bill Clinton when he said he couldn’t inhale marijuana. I knew exactly what he meant. I couldn’t swallow cigarette smoke. Made me gag.”
The drinks arrived, and a low murmur overtook their corner of the bar.
“The reason I cannot drink beer is entirely psychological,” he continued as he sipped his wine. “My brother was an alcoholic—no, a drunk. He didn’t go to the meetings so he couldn’t be an alcoholic. He sat at home and drank one beer after another and told me how I was going to be a complete failure in life.” He took another sip. “He was dead a week before any of the neighbors noticed they hadn’t seen him. Now I can drink almost any kind of liquor. Really like a nice margarita or anything with rum. Southern Comfort makes me sick to my stomach though. Wine is nice. It’s a shame this place doesn’t have a full liquor license.”
The old man looked at his wristwatch and squinted. “I can’t read the damned time. My wife bought me this watch because it looked pretty. It doesn’t make any difference if the watch is pretty if the numbers on the damned face are too small to read. What time is it?”
“Almost nine o’clock, sir,” one of the young men said.
“Oh my goodness,” the old man replied with a jostle, glancing at the bartender. “Will you please bring me the bill? My wife will be here soon to pick me up. The woman has the silly idea I shouldn’t be driving after I’ve had a couple glasses of wine.” He looked toward the bar again. “And add another round of beers for my young friends here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We appreciate it, sir.”
“There are some old farts who say the younger generation isn’t worth a damn, but they’re wrong. You young men listen to me without ever interrupting. Do you know how often I get interrupted at home? All the time, that’s how often. Anyway, I hope to see you all next week at the same time.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Our pleasure, sir.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you decide it’s not worth the free beer to have to listen to this old fart,” he said, standing, “and not bother to show up.”
“Oh no, sir.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t show up, but appreciate it if you do.” He looked at them and smiled. “There’s always hope.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter One Hundred.

Previously: Mercenary Leon meets MI6 spies David, the Prince of Wales, and socialite Wallis Spencer. David abdicates the throne to marry Wallis. He becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Sidney turns mercenary. David hires him as his valet. Wallis eases the pain of Ribbentrop’s hanging.
David didn’t know how many more parties he could host serving beans and hamburger. Wallis appeared to revel in the menu, as though it was some private joke. Golf was the only pastime that pleased him.
His ennui didn’t last too long because he and Wallis soon received invitations from old friends both in Europe and in America. With the host paying, of course. David kept strict books and knew he had enough of his inheritance left to last his lifetime, but his unsettled situation made him insecure about his finances. Opportunities for others pay for his lodging, food and drink soothed his anxieties for a while.
In late 1947, while the Windsors visited Lord and Lady Dudley in London, someone stole Wallis’s suitcase of jewelry. She accused Lady Dudley’s personal maid, which upset her ladyship. Sidney offered to survey the snowy grounds of the Dudley estate for the missing gems. He found the empty case and retrieved a few diamonds in the snow but nothing else. David couldn’t care less about the burglary, but he loved the free holiday.
The Windsors didn’t get invited to Princess Elizabeth’s wedding. David always liked Lillibet when she was a child so he was a bit miffed at the snub. He and Wallis found wealthy friends in Palm Springs, Florida, to assuage their hurt feelings. Often they were in the company of the Donohues. David could tell Wallis enjoyed the extraordinary dancing skills of Jimmy, which made David happy. He had to endure endless dances with Jimmy’s mother Jessie who talked incessantly about their family wealth. After one particular party Wallis noticed Jessie wore a necklace which looked like the one stolen in London. David said it was just her imagination.
As they bounced around Europe and America, David’s weltschmerz didn’t abate. Wallis suggested he write his autobiography—omitting the parts about MI6—and call it “A King’s Story.” The project took a year for him to write, but the book was a bestseller around the world, which solidified his already substantial income.
Also in in the late forties they decided to give up their lease on La Croe because of growing tensions with the Soviet Union. They didn’t want a repeat of their narrow escape in 1940.
By 1950, the Windsors found themselves more and more often being invited to spend time with the Donohues. Jimmy amused Wallis, and the visits was free.
Even though David had enough money to live in royal style the rest of his life, he couldn’t control his fear he would wind up, in the words of Mark Twain, both a prince and a paper. So when Jessie and Jimmy invited them to join them on their private yacht for a fun cruise in the Mediterranean, he didn’t see any harm in saying yes.
David’s interest in parties and dancing waned, but Wallis was insatiable for good times. While Jimmy and the Duchess danced the night way, David was content to sit with Jessie, smoke and pretend to listen to her prattle. This had been his forte as the Prince of Wales, and he was proud of his ability to feign interest.
During the day while Wallis and Jimmy toured the town, David played a round of golf. Jessie said she had a date for a game of bridge, but David suspected she napped instead.
When they returned to New York, David relented to Jessie’s demands they join the Donohues for the winter season in Palm Beach. Their group was smaller than expected—Wooly married and spent most of his time with his wife’s family.
On New Year’s Eve at midnight when the band played in 1952, Jessie grabbed David and was going in for a big kiss when the duke deftly turned his head. Her heavily rouged lips landed on his sallow cheek.
“Well, you’re chintzy with those kisses.” Jessie was in a huff.
David observed Jimmy planting a long buss on Wallis’ snake-like thin lips. David tried to pretend he didn’t care, but he did care, which upset his world in a most uncomfortable way.
Deciding they needed a respite from the Donohues, David lured Wallis onto renting a house in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. Wallis hugged him around the neck and delved into remodeling it, which took her mind off the tall, slender blond man who shared her interest in dancing and gay repartee.
David’s brother Bertie the king died unexpectantly of lung cancer. The family invited him to the funeral, of course, but Wallis was left to her own devices which David suspected included Jimmy. He and his last surviving bother Harry marched in the funeral cortege behind Bertie’s casket. David could not help but wonder how the rest of his life would play out.
When he returned to Paris, David found the Donohues were visiting Bois de Boulogne. He swore Wallis’s cheeks flushed and her eyes twinkled, which disconcerted him. He hadn’t seen her so happy since those days in the Bahamas when they shared Aline. David observed Jimmy looked happy also. Within a few days Jessie talked Wallis into throwing a Valentine’s ball. The Woolworth heiress wore a glittering red gown cut low to reveal a bosom that should have never been exposed to the public in the first place. Wallis, on the other hand, wore a stylish high-neck creation from Schiaparelli.
Worse than that, David found himself in the awkward position of receiving dance lessons from the dowager widow.
“No, no,” Jessie lectured. “Extend your left foot. I thought a king of England would have known that.”
And then she pinched his butt.
Pulling away, David nodded to a group of men in the corner. “Excuse me, Jessie, but I think I see some people I haven’t met yet.”
He withdrew and with admirable speed introduced himself to the men who were engaged in smoking cigars and sipping whiskey. Within a few moments he realized he was within ear shot of Jimmy, who was regaling a young set of gentlemen. The dashing Donohue waved at Sidney who was carrying a silver tray of champagne glasses. One of Jimmy’s friends looked over at Wallis, smirked and whispered into Jimmy’s ear. David didn’t catch the question, but Jimmy roared his answer.
“Oh, my dears, it was like sleeping with an old sailor.”
As the young men laughed, Sidney stumbled and spilt the entire tray of champagne on Jimmy, who took the incident with good humor.
“Now, my dears, I suppose I must remove all my wet clothing right here in front of you!”
David didn’t know how much more attention he could take from Jessie or Jimmy. He soon found excuses to play golf instead of attending to his house guests. He sighed in relief when he heard in 1953 his mother was dying. He took the long flight back to London to be by her bedside. Once again he made the dutiful walk down the street behind her casket.
Evidently Jessie caught the hint David wasn’t going to be her lover and politely spent her time between Palm Beach and New York sans royalty.
Finally in 1954, while sharing a private dinner with Wallis and Jimmy in their favorite suite in a New York Hotel, David had enough of the crass American. The incident began innocuously enough when Jimmy lifted a lettuce leaf from Wallis’s salad plate and ate it.
“Don’t do that! It’s very rude!” She slapped Jimmy’s hand.
David thought nothing of it at first because Wallis had slapped his hand several times at the dinner table, and he found it amusing.
Jimmy did not. He kicked Wallis hard in the shin. She fell to the floor crying.
“We’ve had quite enough of you, Jimmy!” David barked.
Young Donohue knew when to make a quick exit. David helped Wallis to the sofa next to the dining table. Examining the wound, he saw that the kick had drawn blood. His fingers trembling, he reached up her dress to pull down the stocking. He dipped her napkin into her water glass from the table and daubed the blood away.
“How could he do such a thing?” Her voice whimpered.
“Because we let him,” David whispered. After a moment he added, “Do you think you can walk to your bedroom?”
“Of course, I can. He didn’t really hurt my leg. It was my pride that he hurt.”
“What a scoundrel.” David helped her to her feet. “I’ll take you to your bedroom. Put on your laciest nightgown and crawl into bed. And I’ll join you wearing my silk pajamas. And we’ll make love.”
Wallis wrinkled her brow as she limped to her bedroom. “But, David, we’ve never—I can’t.”
“No, no. I don’t mean in the crass, modern American way, but the way people made love when we were young. Soft, gentle, with tender words.”
She caressed his cheek. “I wish we had done this sooner.”
David sat her on the bed, nestled close to her, and whispered, “We shall hold each other in our arms, and pretend we made mad passionate love in all the exotic places in the world. Then we’ll giggle at our lies, until we fall into a deep slumber, made warm by all the love we’ve always had for each other.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Five

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold escape across the river in Maryland. Walt Whitman takes Gabby to New York.
When the sun crept over the horizon on Saturday morning, Booth awoke to searing pain; nonetheless, his spirits soared. He shot the tyrant, and he was destined to be the hero of the South. Flinching, he reached down his leg to feel the brace Dr. Mudd placed on his fracture. If his good fortune continued, Booth would walk with perhaps only the slightest limp, nothing to impair him from returning to theaters in the South, Mexico or any other world stage he chose.
The Mudds had moved him to their finest room to recuperate after the doctor finished attending to his injury. It was not perhaps as grand a room as Booth, a great actor and political hero, deserved, but it was the best this country doctor could provide. It would do for the moment; better would come once his adoring public knew what marvelous things he had done. He was satisfied.
A knock at the bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. A black servant girl opened the door and entered with a tray of breakfast foods.
“Take it away. I am not hungry.” He stared out of the window, noticing the storm of last night had given way to sunshine. He waved his hand dismissively at the girl. “You may leave.”
“The missus said you needed to get some food in your belly, sir.”
Booth’s cold silence shooed her away with her tray of food. His gaze still fixed on the view of rural Maryland. Most of the time Booth felt obliged to treat inferiors with a modicum of congeniality, but the throbbing ache in his leg made the effort beyond his immediate interest. Close to noon, Herold came into the room, a big grin on his face. He plopped on the bed causing Booth to wince.
“Careful, Davey.”
“They don’t want to lend us their carriage because tomorrow is Easter. They want to ride to church in it. The doc, though, he said he’d ride with me into Bairdstown to see if we could find one there.”
“I need a razor, soap and a small bowl of warm water. I cannot be seen like this.”
Herold laughed. “If you get seen, it won’t make no difference if you got whiskers or not.” Booth glared at him. “I’m sure the doc has a spare razor around here someplace.”
“And crutches. I must have crutches. It’s going to be a long journey.”
“Oh, the doc’s already taken care of that. He’s got his man in the shed making you a pair right now.”
“Making them?” Booth’s eyebrows arched. “Surely, he has a finer pair in his office.”
“All I know is that he’s gonna get you some.” Herold stood, causing the bed to bounce again. “The doc is waiting for me to go into town.”
Booth wanted to impress on him the importance of keeping his identity a secret, but Herold was already out of the door.
Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep because he did not know when he would have the luxury of sleeping in a bed again.
Just as he was about to drift off another knock startled him awake, causing his leg to jerk. His face twisted into a grimace; he called for the intruder to enter. If it were the black girl again, he would unleash his greatest fury upon her. Booth fell back on the pillow when he saw that it was Mrs. Mudd with another tray of food.
“You must be famished by now,” she said with a gracious smile on her slightly wrinkled face.
“I’m sorry, dear lady, but my pain has taken away my appetite.” He paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have some bourbon, would you?”
“I don’t think my husband has any bourbon, but I am sure he has some whiskey.”
After she left, Booth closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Only a few minutes, as he supposed, had passed when he heard the front door slam downstairs and then feet stomping up the steps. Herold burst into the room, moving around with a nervous gait as he gathered Booth’s clothing, boots and saddlebag together.
“We gotta get out of here right now,” he mumbled. “The soldiers are all over town. Who knows when they’ll come riding up. I couldn’t get a carriage. Damn Easter.”
“Dr. Mudd told them?” Booth swung his legs off the bed.
“No. Least ways, not in front of me. Maybe he don’t even realize it’s us.” Herold brought his boots to him. “I don’t know if we can get the split boot on you.”
“Is Dr. Mudd with you?”
Herold shook his head. “He stayed in town. I couldn’t tell if he was mad or scared or anything. You know those proper Southern gentlemen. You never can figure out what they’re thinking.”
“What time is it?” Booth clinched his teeth as the boots came on.
“A little after three.”
“We can’t leave until dark. Nobody must see us.”
“They’ll see us all right, if those soldiers come marching down that road anytime soon.”
Booth limped over to the window to peer out. “I want to talk to Dr. Mudd before we leave. I must know if he will inform on us.”
After he dressed, he waited in the room with Herold, continuing to look through the curtains for any sign of someone coming down the road. Herold left him briefly to get the crutches from the man in the shed, returning with a serviceable, if roughly hewn, semblance of crutches. They would have to do. He could get better later, once he made it to the South.
Just after the sun set Booth saw a figure riding toward the house. When the man dismounted and hitched his horse to the post, the actor saw that it was Dr. Mudd. Within minutes, he heard a door slam, excited voices and then the heavy tromp of boots up the stairs. The door flew open.
“Why are you still here?” the doctor demanded.
Booth saw anger in his eyes. “We had to wait until darkness.”
“Of course you thought that. You didn’t want the federal troops to find you!”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had assassinated the President? Do you realize what peril you have placed my family in? I have been seen in your company at church and in Washington City. I cannot deny that I know you!”
“Then the tyrant is dead?” Booth stepped forward, thrusting his fist into the air.
“Of course he’s dead. You put a bullet in his brain!” Mudd went to the window, squinting as the shadows grew across the countryside. “Your presence here is untenable. Leave my house immediately. Never tell anyone who attended to your leg. Do you understand me?”
“You betcha, doc,” Herold replied amiably as he gathered their possessions and pulled on Booth’s arm toward the door, fumbling with the homemade crutches.
As they went down the stairs, Mudd whispered into Booth’s ear, “You have to circle around Bairdstown and then ride south to the Zekiah Swamp. A farmer Samuel Cox is sympathetic to the cause. His place is called Rich Hill. He has a large sign over the gate to his property. You can make it there before the night is over. Now mount your horses and go!”
Outside, Mudd’s man had the two horses ready for them.
“The best I can do for you now is to promise to stay home and silent until the federal troops arrive. I will tell them I treated the broken leg of a stranger.”
“I appreciate your help, dear friend.” Booth leaned down and extended his hand.
“I am not your dear friend.” Mudd turned abruptly and went into his house.