The melodrama continues.
Ensign Tom, horribly tortured by the cruel Dagoes, is warned of their monstrous plot, then helped to escape by a dusky Cuban girl. The stage is black for a moment, then a spotlight catches the beaten, bloodied tenor crawling to freedom across the ground as a single cello echoes his plight. He reaches the wings and the light fades up again on the Maine, a single Jack Tar walking the deck on watch, as below, out of his sight, a sinister pair of Spanish saboteurs row out and attach a device — it looks like a metallic limpet — to the prow of the anchored ship. The sailor does not seem to hear the loud warning from the audience, Harry perhaps loudest of all, nor the call from the bedraggled Ensign who has only just arrived at the shore, does not see the sinister boatmen row away into the wings leaving their infernal machine, does not sense anything but the gentle rocking of the great vessel and the orchestra’s sweet lullaby until—
KABOOM!
Harry levitates with the rest of the audience, his bottom lifting completely out of his seat at the shock of the explosion, black smoke filling the stage, the white hull of the great ship suddenly engulfed in leaping red and orange flames! Many have risen to their feet in the audience, a few already bolted into the aisles, before they realize it is only another illusion, powerful stagecraft, the conflagration nothing but colored celluloid and projected light. The waves beneath the ship are churning, faster, higher, and there are at least a dozen poor sailors flailing within them, crying out for help that will not come. Harry thinks of the stage direction at the end of the one theatrical he has had a hand in producing—Tumult with all.
The smoke clears, some of it drifting out over the first rows, and the hull of the Maine is now a verdant field sown with the white crosses of the dead, the rows trailing off in a forced perspective as the strings in the pit weep. The Ensign, back in uniform, and his sweet Aura Lee have been reunited, each with a black band of mourning on their arm. They stroll solemnly along, regarding the simple stone monuments. A small girl with a bouquet of white gladiolas in hand turns and sees them, and tugs at the arm of the naval man. It is the lovely assistant Rose again, dressed in pinafore and sun hat, and it seems that she can sing as well—
My father was a sailor just like you
My father was a sailor and wore a coat of blue
My father was a sailor and I’ll ne’er see him again
My father was a sailor sir, a sailor on the Maine
As always it is the innocents who suffer. Harry feels that his cheeks are wet and is glad that Niles is not here to kid him for being a sap. Handkerchiefs flash among the seats ahead. Captain Sigsbee appears then, beginning to speak to the Ensign and Aura Lee, but then turning to face the audience and address them directly. An offstage chorus softly hums a familiar melody.
“We will not allow these brave men to have died in vain,” says the Captain. “We will snatch up the torch of liberty from their fallen hand and raise it, raise it on high over that poor, benighted island that lies below our southern shore. We will battle the forces of greed and cruelty, we will rout the decadent European from his imperial lair and bring the shining light of freedom into this dark corner of the world—”
Harry recognizes the melody now, as the voices humming it grow louder — it is The Stars and Stripes Forever that Sousa has made such a hit with.
“For we are Americans — north and south, east and west — and Americans will not long allow the iron boot of tyranny to trample upon their hemisphere! The sacrifice of these brave men shall be repaid in blood a hundred times o’er, heroes arising from all corners of our great land to strike fear into the hearts of despots everywhere! Cuba Libre! Down with treachery! REMEMBER THE MAINE!”
Every piece in the orchestra is a part of it now, drums pounding, brass blaring proudly, fifes trilling above it all, and the players, all of them, march onstage in uniform, no blackened faces among their ranks, singing out as the cemetery view gives way to their country’s banner, enormous, red, white, and blue—
Hurrah for the flag of the free!
May it wave as our standard forever
The gem of the land and the sea
The banner of the Right
Harry is weeping with pride now and can see he’s not the only one. Somehow they have done it, have brought all of Thalian Hall to tears by hoisting the yankee flag. Maybe it is a dream the others have kept quiet in their hearts the way he has, that something could bring the sections together, that they could march shoulder to shoulder once more on some gallant quest, could live up to the fine words of their common Fathers and clear the foul stain of contention from their souls. He wishes Niles was here to see this, to feel this. People are on their feet on the ground floor and in the balconies, clapping and stomping time and singing along in full voice—
Let despots remember the day
When our fathers with mighty endeavor
Proclaimed as they marched from the fray
That by their might
And by their right
It waves forever!
Niles is halfway to Dock Street when the pony gig pulls up beside him. It is Bramley Dupree, and he is smiling.
“The reports of your death have been premature.”
“Wishful thinking, I suppose,” says Niles, looking as penitent as possible.
“Hop in.”
Bramley is a game one, always up for high times, and probably made those threats purely for the sake of form. One’s sister is one’s sister, after all, and not to be trifled with. Niles sits next to him and he switches the pony into motion.
“If you’re headed to one of the coon houses,” says Bramley, “you’ll have to direct me.”
“Touché.” For a time the lads had taken to calling him Nigger Niles because of his predilection, but as it was the kind of thing which would eventually reach the Judge’s ears he had curtailed the habit. “Actually, I was just taking a stroll.”
“Searching for poor girls to dishonor.”
Bramley is still smiling, watching ahead as they turn onto Dock.
“And how is your sister faring?” Niles asks, deepening his voice with concern.
“Extremely married.”
“To Horton Lassiter.”
“Yes.”
“That I am truly sorry for,” Niles says as Bramley stops the gig in front of Mitchell Bannion’s resort. “Is he as — as moist as ever?”
“A veritable swamp of a man. It is no wonder that Mae has been taken with the vapors lately.”
“I am a degenerate and bounder. But she is far better off without me.”
“No doubt.”
“You’re stepping in for your medicine?”
“Poker tournament. Quite a few familiar faces.”
“No thank you.” Niles had, in fact, been heading for the House of All Nations to see if the medium-dark one with the spectacular aftworks was still there. It was all Alma’s fault, really, or the Judge’s, for having her bathe him till he was old enough for schooling. The way the sweat would run down between her breasts, the sweet fullness of her lips, her voice—
“I’ve never known Niles Manigault to turn his back on a game of chance,” says Bramley.
Niles shrugs as he steps down to the street. “I’m tapped out, old boy. Tried to put the nip on my brother Harry, but he wouldn’t hear it.”