Free Redlegs by Chris Dolan Page A

of the Salmagundi alliance. For that fortnight in the summer of 1831 Elspeth dallied with her beau, planned her stage debut, dreaming of great achievements from Georgetown to Washington., while she learned about the evils of slavery, and tasted the delights of the beau monde.
    Excitement was building for the imminent debut of the new young talent from the British stage. Playbills had been pasted up and the local newspapers carried half-page advertisements. The financiers of the Lyric were animated by her long-term plans. She brought to their attention new works which had been highly praised in Great Britain, by Sir Walter Scott and her own namesake Joanna Baillie. She caused great argument with the suggestion, casually mentioned during an interview with the Gazette , that the Lyric produce its own version of Mrs. Shelley’s terrifying tale Doctor Frankenstein. She went so far, on the whim of the moment – the memory of her meeting with Henry still fresh in her mind – as to suggest that a Negro be cast in the role of the Creature. George and even Mr. Philbrick congratulated her on achieving more publicity in one fell swoop than the Lyric had received in its entire existence . The radicals were divided on the issue. Of her own circle, Virginie and Nonie argued passionately about it, while the traditionalists – including Mr. Bartleby and, to her alarm, her landlords Mr. and Mrs. Overton – were outraged at the very idea of a darkieperforming on a civilised stage. Whatever the politics of her sally, Elspeth succeeded in making a name for herself throughout the island.
    George convoyed her daily from the theatre to her lodging house, trying to shock her with jokes and remarks and off-colour observations. Elspeth laughed and remained staunchly unshocked. Together they made their way, she with her parasol and Mr. Lisle in his hat, across the Careenage, past the bright clean stone of Lord Nelson’s statue, along Bay Street, the sea to their right stretching all the way to South America, where lay jungles and mountains and savage Indians who tore the beating heart from maidens to offer as sacrifices to the gods. And on towards Garrison where the comely couple would pass companies of soldiers on drill and the officers commanded the men to salute the lady.
    “They can’t realise I’m just an actress.”
    “It’s your beauty they’re saluting. They don’t give tuppence for your status. Sensible chaps.”
    A short six months ago it was all so unimaginable. Elspeth Baillie, elegantly dressed and parasoled, hair gleaming like the setting sun, complexion bright, traversing a capital city on the arm of an affable, young heir to a fortune. She had sworn to herself that she would never write home. She would never again make contact with those dreary people of the drenched and muddy world she had been made to inhabit utterly against her nature. The only shame of it was that now she couldn’t describe all the wonderful things that were happening to her dismissive father, her timorous mother, or her faithless friends, not one of whom had seen her off on her life’s journey, nor even congratulated her on her stroke of extraordinary luck.
     
    Her debut recital at the Lyric Theatre was scheduled for the eleventh of August. The announcement was made on a Wednesday, at the end of the run of the present season of plays. One last gala performance at the season’s official close – traditionally a short play accompanied by sketches and comical interludes – was advertised to take place that weekend. Calderon de la Barca’s La Aurora en Copacabana , severely edited and freshly translated by ayoung colonial scholar, John Colliemore, distilled the saga of the Conquistadors down to several moving scenes between Pizarro and an Inca Princess. That role was to be played by Mrs. Bartleby, though the father, in the shape of Christy Bloom, was twenty years her junior. Virginie and Derrick were to perform the finale, the death scene of Dona Sol