Spin

by Peter Zheutlin

  We returned to the hotel late that afternoon, and Mark asked the clerk at the front desk if there were any messages for room 302, the room where I was making my home for two weeks. The clerk handed him a folded piece of paper, and I watched as he opened and read it. I could tell from the grin on his face that it was a note from Miss Anthony and that she had replied favorably to his query.

  “Miss Anthony has invited us to join her in her suite after dinner this evening,” he said, his smile growing bigger every second. “Seven thirty. She apologizes in advance that her schedule is so full she can only afford us a brief audience, but says she is looking forward to making the acquaintance of such an adventurous young woman.”

  I could scarcely believe it and I was truly nervous. I had been at times alone at night on forsaken roads in distant places, risked highwaymen and injury and even death (well, perhaps I exaggerate a little), but never had my stomach been aflutter as it was now.

  “Oh my,” I said to Mark, “whatever will I say to her?” The brave, intrepid Annie Londonderry who could talk rings around nearly everyone was suddenly at a loss.

  “I have a feeling that won’t be a problem,” said Mark with a smile. “Be yourself.”

  But that was precisely the problem. Who was I? I had said nothing to Mark, despite the intimacy we shared, about Annie Kopchovsky. As far as he knew, the woman he had met on the quay at Yokohama, the famous globe-girdler Annie Londonderry, was the real me. But behind that façade was a Boston housewife and mother, and she occasionally pushed herself to the surface, as she did now. I had to push her back down.

  “I suppose,” I said. “But imagine… Susan B. Anthony.”

  “It will be fine,” Mark reassured me. “Her note is filled with warmth. I am surprised you seem intimidated. It’s quite unlike you.”

  That was true. Even as Annie Kopchovksy I had acquitted myself quite well with the likes of Colonel Pope, as imperious a figure as one could imagine. And he was a man! A friendly courtesy call with Miss Anthony was, I told myself, nothing to fret over. Still, I remained unconvinced.

  I declined Mark’s suggestion that we take dinner in the hotel restaurant before the meeting. The butterflies in my stomach made eating out of the question. Instead, I suggested, despite our long day of riding, that we walk down by the wharf. Fresh air, I said, would calm my nerves.

  At seven thirty sharp Mark knocked lightly on the door to Miss Anthony’s suite. One of her young aides answered and bid us to come in.

  “Miss Londonderry,” said the young assistant, “I have been following your journey since you left Boston last June. I spent my early years in Dorchester. You have been a real inspiration to me and many other women. Miss Anthony is excited to meet you. My name is Liza.”

  This put me more at ease. I realized that my anxiety about meeting Miss Anthony was rooted in my fear of being exposed as some kind of fraud. After all, some of the newspapers were beginning to suggest as much. But, as I’ve said, the details were of far less importance than the big picture. Whatever liberties I was taking with my own story, whatever shortcuts, could not dim the larger fact that I was a woman alone making her way around the world, relying on her own resources and wheeling thousands of miles in the process. Nine months ago I was a cloistered housewife and mother. Now I was world famous. That was no small feat in itself.

  “Please,” said Liza. “Miss Anthony is in the sitting room. We have set out tea. You will enjoy meeting her as much as she will, I am sure, enjoy meeting you.” Liza succeeded in easing my anxiety.

  And then, almost like an apparition, she was before me, rising out of a rich leather armchair with a broad smile and her arms spread wide.

  To my astonishment she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a brief hug before taking my hands and a small step back to take in the sight of me.

  “Miss Londonderry,” she said, “this is an honor for me. I have been hearing bits and pieces about you for several months. Liza is one of your biggest fans. That we should find ourselves in this city at the same time is good fortune. Please sit.” And she gestured to a chair that had been set a few feet in front of hers.

  “And you must be Mr. Johnson,” Miss Anthony said. “A pleasure, sir. Please…” And she gestured to another chair that had been brought aside mine. Mark smiled broadly, and I knew he was smiling for me. All of my worry was for naught.

  As Liza poured tea, I was vaguely aware of perhaps another half dozen women scurrying about the suite, all aides to Miss Anthony.

  “So, my dear,” she said, “do tell me, will you make it back in time to claim victory in your wager?” She had, from Mark’s article and perhaps others, acquainted herself with some of the details of my journey.

  “Of that I have no doubt, Miss Anthony,” I replied. “There are not quite six months remaining on the wager clock, giving me plenty of time to make Chicago.”

  “Tell me, Miss Londonderry, what plans do you have once you return home to Boston? You are, I believe, from that city.”

  “Well, I can’t say that I know for sure.” It crossed my mind that perhaps she had read one or two of the rare newspaper stories that reported I was a married mother of three, but if she had she didn’t betray it. “I suppose I might write a book of my adventures, or perhaps take up newspapering. I think being a reporter would suit me. I have long admired Nellie Bly.”

  “As have I,” said Miss Anthony. “Well, whatever life has in store for you, I hope you will continue, as you have, to be an inspiration to women everywhere.”

  Three years later I would read a letter Miss Anthony had written to the editor of Sidepaths, a cycling magazine, and recognized it as very similar to something Miss Anthony said to me that evening.

  “The bicycle has done a great deal to emancipate women,” she said, “and you, Miss Londonderry, are proof of that. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel, though I am too old to give it a go now. It gives a feeling of freedom, self-reliance, and independence. The moment she takes her seat she knows she can’t get into harm while she is on her bicycle, and away she goes, the picture of free, untrammeled womanhood. It helps to make women equal with men in work and pleasure and preaches the necessity of woman suffrage. Don’t you agree, Miss Londonderry?”

  “Indeed, I do, Miss Anthony.” I knew too well it was quite possible to get into harm on a bicycle, but I kept that thought to myself. Before I knew it, the half hour allotted for our meeting was coming to a close.

  “Miss Londonderry, Mr. Johnson, thank you for this visit. It has been most inspiring to meet someone who truly embodies the spirit of the New Woman. I have another meeting in a few moments, but I bid you to stay just a bit longer for I would like to introduce you to the gentleman who will be calling here shortly. He has been quite outspoken on the subject of equality for women and I think you will enjoy meeting him. I am quite sure you will recognize him for he is famous the world around.”

  I wondered if it might be the famous orator and abolitionist Frederick Douglass; he often spoke at large national women’s conferences on the subjects of racial equality and equality between the sexes. (I had not yet heard that he had passed away just a few weeks before.) A grin crossed Miss Anthony’s mouth and her eyes twinkled.

  Then, promptly at the stroke of eight o’clock, there was the jingle of a bell announcing a caller at the door. Mark and I glanced at each other wondering who in the world we were about to meet. Mark shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I have no idea.” Miss Anthony knew presidents and congressmen and all manner of famous and powerful people.

  A moment later, Liza, the assistant who had escorted us into the parlor to see Miss Anthony, returned with another guest. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

  The man standing before us was of middle age and solidly built. I put his height at about six feet. He had obviously spent a good deal of his life out of doors, for his skin was brown and weathered. He had a striking mane of graying hair that, in back, he wore well beneath hi
s shoulders. His handlebar moustache, turned up at the corners, complimented a prominent, well-trimmed goatee. He wore a dark Stetson hat at a jaunty angle, the brim rakishly upturned on the right side. Though usually seen in a tan buckskin coat that dropped to mid-thigh and adorned with tassels that hung from both sleeves, this day he was attired in a more conservative dark gray overcoat and a matching vest. His neckwear was a string tie adorned with a small clip made of the turquoise favored by the Navajo. He was instantly recognizable.

  “Miss Anthony,” he said in a powerful voice as he strode confidently across the room. “It is a fine thing to see you again.”

  Miss Anthony stood up to greet him, and he kissed her, European style, first on her right cheek and then on her left. It was obvious there was genuine affection and mutual respect between them.

  “Bill, please allow me,” she said, gesturing with an outstretched hand. “This is Miss Annie Londonderry of Boston. Perhaps you have read of her. Making her way around the world by wheel.”

  The man grinned approvingly, and his eyes widened.

  “Yes, indeed, I have been reading the local newspapers since I arrived.”

  The man extended his hand to me. He needn’t have introduced himself. He was one of the most famous men on the planet.

  “Bill Cody, Miss Londonderry. This is indeed a pleasure,” he said.

  I don’t know how long it took me to respond. I was dumbstruck, but I suspect a man of Bill Cody’s fame was used to that. And without even trying, the second person I had hoped to meet in San Francisco had, in a manner of speaking, simply fallen into my lap.

  “The pleasure is all mine, sir,” I managed, trying not to sound as nervous as I feared I looked. “Mr. Cody, this is my friend Mark Johnson,” I continued, holding out an open hand in Mark’s direction. “He is just back from the war front in Asia as a correspondent for the Call.” They shook hands, two strapping men who had both seen plenty of violence in their day.

  “Miss Londonderry has just been sharing some of her adventures with me, Bill,” said Miss Anthony. “She has quite a story to tell and is quite a determined young woman. Please, everyone, sit, sit.”

  “Bill and I met two years ago,” Miss Anthony explained, for the look on my face must have conveyed a mixture of confusion and curiosity about how the two knew each other. “I was attending the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Bill’s Wild West Show had quite a run there, as you probably know. I was giving a talk to a group of clergymen when I suggested that to accommodate workingmen and -women, many of whom worked six days a week, that the fair should remain open on Sundays. Of course I knew this would be scandalous to such a group, and when one of those present rose to question me and asked, ‘Would you approve of your own son’s attending Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show on the Sabbath?’ I shot back, ‘Of course I would. In fact, I think he would learn more there than from the sermons preached in some churches!’ ”

  “Well, needless to say,” Miss Anthony continued, “all the newspapers in the city reported on this the next day. Bill read the accounts and invited me to attend the show the next afternoon, which I did with a dozen suffragist friends. Bill is a true friend to women, you know. He pays the women in his show the same as men for equal work. Anyway, he made his usual grand entrance into the arena on horseback, rode up to the VIP section where he had arranged for us to be seated, stopped his horse, stood in his stirrups, and gave us a gallant wave of his Stetson and bowed deeply. I stood, bowed in return, and waved my handkerchief. That elicited quite a cheer from the thousands in attendance.”

  Cody, evidently enjoying Miss Anthony’s reminiscences, smiled broadly and nodded as if replaying the scene in his head. As the conversation proceeded I was trying to screw up my courage and find a polite way to inquire about making a cameo appearance at Cody’s show, but he beat me to the punch just as we were about to take our leave.

  “How much longer do you expect to be in town, Miss Londonderry?” asked Cody. “I do hope you and Mr. Johnson will be my guests at the show. We open in three days’ time.”

  “We would love to, Mr. Cody, that is very kind of you. I expect to be here for another two weeks or thereabouts.”

  “Even better, then,” said Cody. “Perhaps you would be willing to make an appearance in the show? We would be honored if you would do so! I am sure we can devise a way. Your notoriety is already well established. I imagine people would thrill to the opportunity to see you make an appearance on your wheel. Indeed, of late, Miss Oakley—I am sure you know of her—has been doing some sharpshooting while pedaling a wheel. Maybe there is way for you appear with her. Would that be of interest?”

  I was, truly, almost speechless now. It was exactly what I had hoped. More, in fact. I could scarcely believe my good fortune.

  “It would be an honor and a thrill, Mr. Cody. To be honest, I was planning to try and arrange a meeting with you to propose such an idea. Lady Luck appears to be looking down on me today.”

  “Where do you stay in the city?” he asked.

  “Right here at the Palace,” I replied. “One floor up.”

  “I will speak with Miss Oakley tomorrow and send one of my men to call on you the day after. Would 10 A.M. be convenient?” He was a kind and courteous gentleman. Very dignified.

  “I will make it a point to be in the lobby at that hour,” I answered. “Thank you. I couldn’t be more excited, and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance here thanks to Miss Anthony.” I looked toward her, and she was beaming, as if she had made a match found only in heaven.

  “Thank you, Miss Anthony,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. “Meeting you has been the honor of a lifetime.” She took my hand, stood up, and embraced me again.

  “The honor has been mine, Miss Londonderry. You may not realize it now, but you are striking a solid blow for women with this tour of yours. If I do not see you again before I leave the city, Godspeed. I will be looking at the papers for news of your progress and, I expect, your eventual success, which, I believe, is assured.”

  Mark made his goodbyes, and we exited Miss Anthony’s suite. We stood in the hallway looking at each other, half stunned, half elated, and fully in disbelief at what had just transpired. We had to walk more than an hour in the chilly night air—it felt more like walking on air—before I felt like I had returned to earth. Mark made sure that my meeting with Miss Anthony and her favorable words about me appeared in the next day’s Call, thus cementing my bona fides as a champion of the rights of women, and I would make sure that a copy of the article reached the desk of Colonel Pope by mailing it immediately to Alonzo Peck in Boston. I was sure he would see the reason for my doing so. I was paving the way to lay claim to the prize money. With the article I enclosed a brief note saying that I expected in a few weeks’ time to be at the Hollenbeck Hotel in Los Angeles if he wished to reach me.

  * * *

  True to his word, Colonel Cody dispatched a messenger. I was waiting in the hotel lobby when he arrived promptly at 10 A.M. and gave me a handwritten note inviting me to come to the fairgrounds at four that afternoon with my Sterling. “Miss Oakley,” read the note, “is as delighted as I am to welcome you as a special guest in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.” It was signed “Col. Bill Cody.” I felt as if I were dreaming.

  Mark and I decided to ride out to the fairgrounds together, a short trip of only a few miles. It was another lovely spring day. When we arrived it seemed everyone already knew who I was and were expecting me. We were directed to Colonel Cody’s “office,” a small white tent set up adjacent to several of the larger circus tents used for parts of the show. Miss Oakley was already there, recognizable from the many photographs that had appeared in newspapers and magazines over the years.

  “Ah, Miss Londonderry, Mr. Johnson. Good to see you again!” said Colonel Cody, as he came out from behind his mahogany desk to greet us. He could not have been warmer or more gracious. “Let me introduce you to someone who needs no introduction. Miss Londonderry,
Mr. Johnson, allow me. Miss Annie Oakley.”

  Annie Oakley had for years been one of the brightest stars of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. A true legend. One of her nicknames was Little Miss Sure Shot, but for some reason it had never dawned on me that the word “little” was being used literally and not figuratively, for women were often, regardless of their stature, referred to back then as “little,” a way of belittling their significance. So I was quite surprised to see that Miss Oakley was in fact a tiny woman, barely five feet tall and small boned. She stepped forward, shook Mark’s hand briefly, then took both of mine in her own and held them for a good minute or more. Her hands and her gaze were as steady as I had ever seen. No wonder she was a marksman, or should I say, markswoman, without peer.

  “I have been following your journey for many months now,” said Miss Oakley. “I have the utmost admiration for your grit and perseverance. What good fortune that we have a chance to meet.”

  In the past two days I had met three of the most famous Americans alive. It was quite a heady experience.

  “Please, the honor is truly mine,” I replied. “It is like seeing someone step off the pages of a dime-store novel. When I received my Sterling in Chicago and agreed to appear in some adverts for them, I was shown the publicity card of you aiming your rifle while astride a Sterling. I could hardly fathom that I was in such famous company. And, now, meeting you face-to-face… well, I hardly know what to say.”

  “Please, everyone, sit,” said Colonel Cody. “We have business to discuss!”

  And so it was decided that for the week the show was in town, I would appear briefly during Miss Oakley’s sharpshooting demonstration and be paid the generous sum of two hundred and fifty dollars for doing so. Miss Oakley had many routines, each seemingly more impressive than the next. She was capable of shooting half a dozen objects tossed simultaneously in the air in a matter of two or three seconds, of hitting a target with precision at a distance of two hundred feet even while standing with her back to the target by holding a mirror to get it in her sights and shooting over her shoulder. She could split a playing card held edge-on from a distance of thirty feet, hit dimes tossed into the air, shoot cigarettes from a man’s lips, extinguish a candle flame with a speeding bullet, and knock the corks off bottles without damaging the glass. How I could contribute to her act was beyond me, but she had an idea.