Browning in Buckskin

by Peter Corris

  Cartwright hissed, 'Let's do it!' and he took off across the lawn, running like a rabbit despite the flapping robe. I felt the shotgun dig me in the spine and I followed, hot and sweating under the cloth and feeling the hood slip down over my eyes. I stumbled and almost fell. Then the shotgun slammed into my back again, and I stopped. I heard the mallet hitting the top of the cross. I struggled to pull the slit holes into a place where I could look through them. Then I heard the match strike and the whoosh of the gasoline igniting.

  'Stand where you are!' The voice was Groom's and very close. I was the first to raise my hands.

  The shotgun boomed close to my ear, and I finally managed to see. The cross was burning fiercely; Abel Buzzacott was crouched, working the action of the shotgun. Three sharp shots sounded and I felt the heat of them as they whipped past my ear.

  'Don't shoot! Don't shoot!' It's me!' I yelled. I clawed off the hood, lifted the skirts of the robe and sprinted for the house. Heat from the burning cross seared me as I rushed past it. I heard more shooting behind me and some screaming. I saw people coming from the front of the house, and I swerved to the side and dashed along a paved walkway under a vine-covered pergola. It was dark here, but not as dark as it should have been. I seemed to be carrying light with me. I looked down and saw that the right sleeve of the robe was on fire. I yelled and beat at it with the hood. I stopped running and tore the robe to shreds trying to get out of it. Finally I got it off and stamped out the last sparks. I leaned against the oiled wood of the pergola, panting with terror and wondering what to do next. There was shouting behind me, and I instinctively moved away from the noise and found myself halfway along the side of the house where a balcony jutted out from a brightly-lit room.

  I climbed over the rail and went into the room. There was a long table laid with party food and party drinks. I grabbed a bottle of champagne and upended it. I poured most of the chilled bottle down my throat and felt it hit me like a hailstorm. I was reaching for another bottle when I heard sounds nearby in the house, getting louder. I grabbed the bottle and ducked out of the room into a passage where paintings hung along the wall. I staggered past the Old Masters towards an oak-panelled door that had GAMES ROOM written on it in gold leaf. I pushed open the door and went into a softly-lit room that contained a gun rack, a bar and a pool table.

  A man was standing at the bar pouring himself a drink. A tall man with broad shoulders inside a beautifully cut white linen suit. He turned around as he heard the door open. He smiled and raised the glass towards his impossibly white teeth.

  'Well, what do you know,' he said. 'I'm very pleased to meet up with you at last, sport.'

  I leaned back against the door and stared into the mocking grey eyes of Errol Flynn.

  26

  Why didn't I spin around, open the door and run? That would've been my normal reaction to a situation like this, but the situation was far from normal. The world had become an unfriendly place, full of Ku Klux Klansmen and federal agents and vengeful fish filleters. Although Errol Flynn was at least as tall as me, a few pounds heavier and fifteen years younger, I felt safer where I was. With luck, I'd be able to talk my way out of this. I extended the bottle of champagne I still held in my hand.

  'Peace offering, sport,' I said. 'One Aussie to another.'

  Flynn smiled and sipped his drink. 'Piss on your peace offering. An appropriate expression in this case, I think.'

  'Don't follow you,' I said. 'Look, about this business of me running you down, calling you a poof and so on – it's all malarky.'

  'I know it's malarky.' Flynn moved and I found myself edging away from him towards the pool table, where a couple of cues were sitting within reach. Trouble was, it gave Flynn space to get between me and the door, so that escape was cut off if I should decide that it was more dangerous in here after all.

  'It was my agent's idea,' I babbled. 'Robert Silkstein. If you knew Robert you'd understand. He dreamed it up as a way of getting publicity for me.'

  'I know Robert. He's a sneaking, lying son of a bitch, and so are you, Browning.'

  'Fair go. We Aussies should stick together.'

  Flynn drained his drink. There was a slight flush in his cheeks, and I realised that it hadn't been his first. Perhaps if I could keep him talking he'd have a few more and pass out. But he put his glass down on a chair and appeared to lose interest in drinking.

  'I didn't mind too much when I heard the stories about how you'd were going to sort me out,' he said. 'I understand about publicity. I came here as an Olympic boxing medal winner, which I'm not.'

  'Heard about it,' I said. 'Good stunt that, who dreamed it up? I . . . '

  'Mind you, I'm not saying I couldn't have won a medal for boxing. I like a good fight.'

  'Mm.' I was over by the table now, and I put the bottle on the edge. My hand rested near a pool cue. 'I hear you work out with Mushy Callahan.'

  'Among others. I fought in Sharman's37 tents at home a few times.'

  'Is that a fact? Hey, what're you doing?'

  He was moving a heavy chair across and wedging it against the door. He peeled off his jacket and draped it over the chair. Then he took off his tie, unfastened his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. 'I don't want any interruptions.'

  I circled away. 'I thought we were going to talk this out. You said you understood about the publicity angle.'

  'Oh, I do, old son. But that's not why I'm going to beat the shit out of you.'

  I abandoned the idea of grabbing a pool cue. He could probably use one as a sword to put my eye out or as a quarter staff to crack my skull. 'Why, then?'

  'Because you pissed all over the front seat of my Cadillac, you dirty bastard.'

  Don't think it was my outraged sense of honour that made me roll up my sleeves and get ready to fight Errol Flynn. Given the way Flynn and Belinda approached life, it was only a matter of time before they ended up in bed together. Nor was it the threat from outside; I was dimly aware of commotion beyond the walls of the games room, but only dimly. Fact is, I still don't know why I did it. For the first time in my life I wanted to fight. I must have been in a very precarious emotional state. The bottle of champagne inside me probably helped.

  I shaped up to Flynn and surprised him by getting him on the nose with a long left that snapped his head back.

  His counter was a short right to the ribs that took my breath away. I backed off and he came at me too confidently, wide open. I swung from a crouch and got him above the heart. He grunted and missed me with a hook. At that point, I'd say I was winning, but from then on it was hard to say. Flynn could box all right and hit hard, and do both of those things better than me, but I had one advantage over him – I didn't have to protect my good looks. For all his footwork and combinations, all his fast jabs and tasty hooks, he was partly on the defensive, worried about the shape of his nose. I waded in, taking punishment, trying to land on or near the elegant nose and gleaming teeth. He could see what I was doing, and he didn't like it. He hit me hard and often but, and I have to say this, fairly. Neither of us went below the belt, don't ask me why. We knocked over the champagne bottle and broke a few glasses but fought only with fists. The alcohol and desperation must have dulled the pain. I knocked him down a couple of times and felt the skin tear on my knuckles. He knocked me flat about as often, then stood back and waited for me to get up. I expected a kick from his highly polished wingtip shoes, but they stayed firmly planted on the floor. As a fighter, Errol Flynn was a gentleman.

  We must have been at it for half an hour or more, getting weary and doing some pushing and shoving as well as punching. My hands were sore and my arms ached. I could hardly lift them to block punches, let alone throw them. Flynn was in about the same condition. His silk shirt was torn to shreds, and my work shirt was a sopping wet rag. We stood toe-to-toe in the middle of the room and slugged. I got him on the mouth and split his lip. He pounded me again in the ribs where it felt like a hole was opening up.

  Then there was shouting
and banging, and the door was shoved open. The chair skidded across the room, cannoned into us and knocked us both down. A dozen men and women burst into the room, which was a shambles of upturned furniture, broken glass, torn curtains and sprayed blood. I saw Mayer's outraged look as he surveyed his games room, and I recognised a couple of other big-wigs – Selznick, I think, and Sam Goldwyn. Peter Groom was there too, immaculate as always but no gun or badge in sight.

  'What the hell is going on here?' Mayer said.

  Flynn and I used the back of the same chair to haul ourselves up simultaneously. 'Little fight between friends,' Flynn said. 'Pay for the damage.'

  Goldwyn elbowed his way forward. 'Fighting?' he said. 'I like a good fight. Fight some more.'

  I looked at Flynn. His face was swollen and his mouth was split and puffed. I was looking through half-closed eyes and holding my ribs together by sheer willpower. We both shook our heads.

  'Who's winning?' Goldwyn said.

  Flynn and I spoke simultaneously. 'A draw,' we said.

  Someone came and took Flynn away, and apologised to Mayer and said I'd pay for my share of the damage. Peter Groom stepped forward and showed Mayer his badge.

  'This man has performed a very brave act, Mr Mayer. But for him, we would never have caught the men who perpetrated that atrocity on your lawn.'

  'That's good enough for me,' Mayer said. 'Forget the damage, I never use the goddamn room anyway.'

  Groom helped me to a bathroom. I asked him what had happened, and he told me that Cartwright had been shot dead and that Judd and Abel Buzzacott were in custody.

  'What about me? Those crazies'll try to land me in the shit with them.'

  Groom shook his sleek head. 'You've wiped the slate, Mr Browning.'

  'Good,' I said, and then I passed out cold before I could get cleaned up.

  27

  I woke up in a hospital bed, which is something I never like to do. The room was dim, and my first panicky thought was that I'd been seriously injured somehow without knowing it at the time. Slowly I checked myself over: I found that I could see and hear and move everything. I knew there had been no blows below the belt, so I had no fears on that score. I had an almighty pain in my left side though, and my hands were bandaged. When I say I could see, I mean only just – my eyes were still banged up and the bones and flesh around them were tender. Still, I felt pretty good. I'd gotten clear of the Klan, was in good with the FBI, and I'd fought a fifteen-round draw with Errol Flynn.

  The hospital routine got going – noisy trolleys in the corridor, breezy nurses rousing grumpy patients, and lukewarm coffee arriving with soggy toast. I had difficulty in drinking and eating, but I managed bravely. I asked a nurse who'd brought me in.

  'Gary Cooper,' she said.

  'Who?'

  She was a pretty little thing with big brown eyes that were only for me at that moment. 'Don't you remember? You were at a party, and you got into a fight. Who did you fight, Gary Cooper?'

  'No, 'I said, 'Errol Flynn.'

  She didn't believe me, and the magic was shattered. I dozed for a while and when I woke up another nurse was taking my pulse.

  'What's wrong with me?'

  She let go of my wrist and wrote something on the bed chart. 'Doctor will see you soon,' she said.

  The doctor was an old, wheezy guy who looked like a country vet. He peered into my slitted eyes and consulted the chart. 'How're ya feelin'?'

  'Sore.'

  'Not surprised. You've got two cracked ribs. How's the other guy?'

  'He lost some blood.'

  Wish I coulda seen it. Well, we've got you all taped up and given you some shots. You can go home tomorrow. Someone to see you. You up to it?'

  I nodded, and they ushered Belinda in. She was wearing red and white and looked fresh and pure. If I knew her, she'd leave the hospital in a nurse's uniform. But I was feeling at peace with the world, so I let her kiss me and make a fuss. I didn't say anything about her two-timing me with Errol Flynn. She left, after fifteen minutes, declaring her love, leaving fruit and flowers and talking about a weekend at Malibu. I think the plan included me.

  Then the bedside telephone rang. I reached for it and squealed as the movement hurt my side. But I got the receiver off the hook and said hello.

  'That you, sport? Flynn here. How're you feeling?'

  I drew in a deep breath. 'If you're sitting by a swimming pool with a drink in one hand and some woman's tit in the other, I'm feeling lousy.'

  He laughed. 'No fear. I'm in hospital, same as you. It was a draw, wasn't it? What's the damage?'

  'Cracked ribs. You?'

  'Hairline jaw fracture, you bastard, plus two loose teeth and a split lip. My hands are a mess.'

  'Mine too.'

  'Great, wasn't it? We must do it again some time, maybe for charity.'

  'Yes, sure,' I said, meaning no way in the bloody world. 'Belinda been in to see you?'

  He sounded genuinely puzzled. 'Belinda?'

  Well, that was Flynn. We talked for ten minutes or so, about home and the movies and what was coming up for him and how it might be fun to work together. He did most of the talking while I said 'Yes' and 'Sure' and tried to work out whether he was kidding or not.

  'My jaw's hurting, old son, better give it a rest. We'll have a few snorts together soon, what do you say?'

  'Sure,' I said, 'your shout.'

  He laughed and rang off. I lay for a while thinking about what he'd said. It sounded like a big break to me; I only hoped I didn't have to fight him again to stay in his good books. A bit later a trolley came around with newspapers and magazines. I bought the Examiner and read about the 'incident at the home of movie mogul Louis B. Mayer'. An FBI spokesman said an undercover agent had led a dangerous gang of fanatics to expose themselves. One of the fanatics was dead, and two others were charged with wounding (a Federal agent had been shot), trespass and breach of the peace.

  Then the door opened and N. Robert Silkstein came in. I realised that it was the first time I had ever seen him outside his own office. In the hospital room he looked smaller and much less sure of himself. He pulled a chair up to the bed. I kept my eyes nearly closed which wasn't difficult.

  'Kid,' he said softly. 'Kid, can you hear me?'

  I let him wait for a few minutes before I opened one battered peeper. 'Hullo, Robert.'

  He reached into his breast pocket. 'Kid, I got your earnings here on the Warners' picture.'

  'Thanks, Robert. Just leave it on the bed. Sorry I can't talk much, I'm very tired.'

  He leaned closer. I smelled the aftermath of Havana cigars and French aftershave. 'Kid,' he whispered, 'you did great. Just great. And it's gonna pay off.'

  'I'm glad you're happy. Pay off how?'

  'Keep it under your hat, but I think I can get you into the biggest thing that's gonna come out of this town. I mean ever.'

  'What's that?'

  'Gone with the Wind, what else?'

  I closed my eyes. 'I don't want to be in Gone with the bloody Wind. It's a sure-fire turkey. I want to be in Santa Fe Trail with Flynn and Ronnie Reagan.'

  APPENDIX

  THE RELIABILITY OF FILM STAR MEMOIRS

  It is not necessary to go all the way with Browning's view that 'all movie star biographies are crap' (p. 122) to be aware that as historical records these sorts of books have to be approached with caution. Two incidents touched on by Browning in this account of his third sojourn in Hollywood illustrate the point.

  David Niven's two books of reminiscence, The Moon's a Balloon (1971) and Bring on the Empty Horses (1975) became best-sellers and are widely regarded as frank and factual accounts. Yet in the two books Niven gives quite different accounts of the same incident (an incident that was of significance to Browning).

  Speaking of working with Errol Flynn on The Charge of the Light Brigade, Niven comments that Flynn was disliked by the extras for his arrogance. He continues:

  They were a rough lot too, the toughest of the riders from t
he Westerns, plus the stunt men who specialised in galloping falls. Flynn, they decided, had a swollen head, having made too big a success too soon . . .

  One day they were lined up on the parade ground of our fort, somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. Flynn and I were slightly in front of our men when one of them leaned forward with his lance, rubber-tipped to cut down accidents, and wriggled it in Flynn's charger's dock.

  The animal reared up and Flynn completed the perfect parabola and landed on his back.

  Six hundred very muscular gentlemen roared with laughter.

  Flynn picked himself up. 'Which one of you sons of bitches did that?'

  'I did, sonny,' said a huge gorilla of a man, 'want to make anything of it?'

  'Yes, I do,' said Flynn. 'Get off your horse.'

  Nobody could stop it and the fight lasted a long time. At the end of it the 'gorilla' lay flat on his back. After that everyone liked Errol a lot more.

  (The Moon's a Balloon, Coronet Ed., p. 180)

  In Niven's later account, instead of simply sitting on his horse, Flynn 'let his reins go slack and busied himself with mirror and comb before a "close-up".' Now, the 'gorilla' is 'a large broken-nosed character' and instead of the fight lasting a long time, Flynn's opponent 'was taken to the Infirmary ten minutes later.' (Bring on the Empty Horses, Coronet ed. pp. 105–6.)

  Flynn's own brief account of the filming of this picture in his autobiography (My Wicked, Wicked Ways, London, 1960, Pan ed. pp. 184-5) makes no mention of the incident and is mainly devoted to the bad conditions under which the actors worked, and the cruel treatment of the horses.