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Chapter Two

Bill was still good naturedly chiding me for not bringing my baggage to the depot as

he’d requested, forcing us to go back to my house. I tried, to no avail, to tell him that wouldn’t

have been practical. The transatlantic fare being so prohibitively expensive, no one goes to Great

Britain for just a week but rather for at least a month. Such a trip would require my packing at

least two suitcases full of clothes, toiletries, chemicals and et cetera. Then there was the issue of

my equipment. The tripod alone would’ve required dedicating one free hand or an arm not to

mention the large wooden box of my camera. Plainly, I would not have been able to lug all that

into Grand Central Depot by myself nor am I so trusting a man as to leave virtually all my

worldly goods in the hands of an unattended hackney in the middle of New York City. Luckily,

our ship wouldn’t get underway until three o’clock that afternoon and it was still late morning.

It wasn’t lost on me that Bill alone came with no less than four large suitcases taking up

much of the coach, leaving very little room for us and Sitting Bull. Annie and Frank followed us

in a separate hackney and they had five suitcases of their own, although I’m sure much of that

space was occupied by their famous firearms. Sitting Bull, as far as I could see, brought nothing

but the clothes and blanket on his back.

Yet during the carriage ride back to my parents’ home on 69th Street, he continued

haranguing me for not being ready to go straight to the pier. Still, beneath all his hectoring, I

could see something was occupying his deeper thoughts although he would not tell me what they

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were neither would I ask. I knew Bill well enough to be confident he indeed would tell me when

he was ready. Buffalo Bill was many things but being shy and taciturn was not among them. The

man spoke his mind plainly and forcefully when he had a need to.

Other than that, we’d hardly said a word as we began the 27 block journey uptown to my

parents’ house. Yet, as quiet as we were, making brief note of one Manhattan landmark or

another, it would’ve been difficult to be quieter than Buffalo Bill and I yet somehow Sitting Bull

managed it. As he looked out the glass window, huddled in his blanket, he looked just as

impressed with New York City as he seemed to be at the depot, which is to say not at all.

After approximately half an hour, our driver delivered us to my parents’ brownstone. As

the three us left the carriage, Annie’s and Frank’s own taxi had arrived behind us. It was just cold

enough so that the blowing horses’ breath could be seen shooting out their nostrils. Bill passed

before the horse that had transported us and patted its snout, and even pulled a few sugar cubes

out of his coat which the animal gratefully accepted. This got the curiosity of the horse behind us

so Bill duplicated his action then instructed both hacks to wait to take us to the pier as Sitting

Bull patted the horses, as well. The equestrians were the first things he’d seen in our metropolis

with which he was suitably impressed.

My father was at work at his bank on Wall Street and Mother was at her weekly

Gardening Club meeting, leaving only our maid Miss Chambers to greet us. It took me aback

that our maid, who rarely ventured out of doors except in the commission of her duties,

immediately recognized Mr. Cody, whom she’d warmly welcomed. Then her wide, expressive

mouth grew even broader when she saw Annie Oakley. She took both the sharpshooter’s hands

into her own and vigorously shook them, one woman’s appreciation, I suppose, of another

woman’s amazing accomplishments. If she recognized Frank Butler or Sitting Bull, it didn’t

register on her open face but she’d nonetheless graciously welcomed them into our foyer. After

the time-wasting socially obligatory pleasantries were over with, I announced I was going

downstairs to bring up my belongings. Annie and Frank walked toward our parlor while Sitting

Bull remained near the door as if a self-appointed sentry.

As Miss Chambers briskly walked to the kitchen to get some refreshments for our guests,

Bill offered to help me bring my equipment up from my basement lab, although I could tell his

motivation for going downstairs with me was for an altogether different reason. Knowing my old

friend as well as I did, I was right.

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As I gathered my possessions, Bill finally told me the particulars of our trip and it was the

most incredible story I’d ever heard up to that time.

“So that’s when this Abberline feller had a chin wag with the Old Girl and asked for her

permission to put together this l’il ad hoc team of ours.”

“Bill, we’re not policemen! We’re not trained for this!”

“And maybe that’s what’s called for and what Abberline had in mind. Listen, Scotty, this

here lunatic in London’s a new breed entirely. Yeah, we ain’t trained as peace officers but ya

know something? They ain’t trained for this shit, neither, ‘cuz they ain’t seen nothing like this

before. And when ya think about it, we all got a Goddamned good reason for bein’ there.”

“Which is what?”

“Some asshole either in the press or the police dragged my name into this, speculating

maybe one of my injun performers did all the killings after we left him behind or some such

foolishness. And that gives Sitting Bull the perfect reason to be there because I use only Lakota

Sioux and them’s his people. So he’s got a stake in the matter.”

“And what about Annie and Frank?”

“Think about it, Scotty,” he said, pressing his index finger into my forehead, “use your

bean. You’ve known Annie long enough to know she gets all bristled up like a porcupine with its

dander up every time she sees a woman gets roughed up or given an unfair shake. Frank ain’t so

enthusiastic about this trip and is only comin’ along to keep an eye on his wife.

“And look at it this way, if we actually come face to face with this maniac, wouldn’t you

feel better knowin’ we got two of the world’s best shots on our side? Besides, did you know

them English bobbies ain’t got firearms? They got whistles and billy clubs and that’s it!”

I had to agree with his logic but that still left one big, nagging question:

“What you’ve yet to explain, Bill, is why me? How can I possibly help you with this half-

baked scheme cooked up by you and this… Abberline?”

“Science, Scotty, science. If we’re gonna defeat this lunatic, we’re gonna need science

and technology that the London police just ain’t got. Imagine being able to film a crime scene

instead of just taking photographs like they do now? Yeah, maybe someone else can crank that

machine of yours but there are very few people on earth who know how to set it up and develop

the film.”

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“You mean… we’d have to wait until someone else gets killed before we can document

something?”

“Sadly, yes. Police the world over came to that conclusion a long time ago. Sometimes,

they ain’t got no choice but to wait until a killer strikes again so they can start harvesting new

clues, hopin’ the guy makes a mistake.”

While I could appreciate his logic in wanting me there (and I had to admit I would’ve

been piqued if he’d invited Edison or one of those French poseurs instead of at least inviting me),

I was doubtful I’d be any good at a murder scene featuring blood and gore if I was regurgitating

every few seconds. I get woozy if I just cut my finger to the point of letting blood, as I

commonly do on my film stock. When Bill saw that my trepidations remained, he put his hand

on my shoulder and plainly spoke to me for the first time since our reunion as any man

would’ve.

“Plus, look at it this way, Scott: Think of the great service you’ll be doing to mankind if

you help us put this rabid dog out of his misery. Forget about my reputation or Sitting Bull’s and

his people and Annie and even that of women in general. If your technology and this here

wooden box of yours actually helps us catch this maniac, imagine what that would do for your

invention? Valee-day-shun, my son. It’s what you’ve always wanted since you took that first

film in London last year.”

I still recalled that film I’d shot in London’s West Side. The scene I’d shot was the part

where Bill had finished closing the show with his magnificent white show horse, Isham (Not Old

Charlie, as it had been erroneously reported. Old Charlie was his hunting horse.). I’d filmed

roughly 20-25 seconds behind Bill with the Queen of England in center frame at the exact

moment Isham bowed to the queen while Bill bent his head and doffed his hat. It was a

magnificent moment that had almost brought a tear to my eye. And it was a moment that had

never seen the light of day because of an accident in my lab. This is why, to this day, any claims

I’d made to be the inventor of moving picture photography cannot be proved and Buffalo Bill’s

show for the Queen’s Jubilee would have proved in spades that I’d beat everyone to the punch.

But it was not to be. And I have the scars sustained in the accident to prove it.

I began packing my equipment. Bill helped me.