strength Who Is Captain X?

[tortolis]

I intended to add to the bullet-proof story before going on to something new, but this came together pretty quickly and was a lot of fun to execute. Hope readers find it enjoyable.

 

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WHO IS CAPTAIN X?

 

About six of the larger London newspapers continued to follow the controversy surrounding "the mighty Captain X" at least to some degree. But it was the little Sentinel-Observer that had broken the story, and that continued to beat the dying horse. Circulation had spiked when it first ran; it climbed for a week, then began to ebb. Letters to the editor continued to run in favor of the Captain, mostly from military men. The managing editor had a reporter looking for the Colonel and staking out the Mayfair digs of the Smith-Martyns, where it all began. Interest seemed to be slumping, but perhaps it could be renewed. Anything to keep the circulation up.

 

"What are the newsies saying?" the editor, a usually grubby man who was looking exceptionally tidy today, asked his reporter.

 

"It's only on a few of the boards," said the reporter, a man known as T.J. —T.J. Jones on his byline. Covering the mighty Captain X, he had shifted from society gossip to something more like a news beat. "I saw 'Captain X Scandal Drags On.' Right outside on Fleet Street."

 

It had probably been years since the managing editor, Francis X. Nelson, had scrubbed the ink off his hands, but he had done so this morning for the most improbable of reasons: Mrs. Smith-Martyn, who started all the trouble for the mighty Captain X, had telephoned Mr. Nelson yesterday to request a meeting today. Tea at the Ritz, no less.

 

"I appreciate the opportunity to discuss this with you, madam," Francis had told her, trying his best to keep the East End out of his mouth. "But do you really think that meeting in so public a venue is a good idea? I'm thinking only of your — "

 

She had cut him off like a rugby player. "Mr. Nelson," she said, "you know perfectly well that wherever I go at the moment, I am being followed by journalists who hope I will betray the interests of either my husband or Captain X. Or both. But quite truthfully, I have nothing to hide. We could just as well meet on the stage of Covent Garden." And so the Ritz at 3:45 the following day was agreed upon.

 

The whole affair, if that was the word, had started with a fund-raising evening that Mrs. Smith-Martyn had arranged to host at her home for the benefit of the boys who were off fighting the Hun in what was already being called a "world war." Most thought they would return after only a few months; some thought it would be a lark or a character-building adventure. They were confronted with unspeakable horrors that had already stretched on for over a year with no end in sight. The idea that a simple musicale with the presentation of some tableaux vivantes could cause controversy — indeed, that it could eclipse the suffering of the gallant boys in uniform — it was just too ridiculous.

 

Still, that was what had happened. The Sentinel-Observer reported it as a society event on page eight along with two photographs of tableaux, one a Delacroix battle scene, and one captioned "The Farnese Hercules portrayed by a mighty captain in His Majesty's armed forces." Captain X appeared in both photographs, but in the Farnese Hercules he was the sole figure, shown in muscular glory but looking oddly despondent, bent over his club. He was draped in a sheet rather than a lion skin. "It was a last-minute choice that the Captain undertook as a particular favor to me," Mrs. Smith-Martyn told Mr. Nelson over their cream tea, which was handsomely arrayed, though neither was eating any pastry. "We had planned to do Delacroix's 'Liberty Leading the People,' but there was some — difficulty — and in the end…"

 

"The figure of Liberty has her breasts exposed in that painting, does she not?" asked Mr. Nelson.

 

"That was one of the difficulties," said Mrs. Smith-Martyn."We thought we would just drape…but in the end…I must tell you, Mr. Nelson, that the evening ended in a spirit that was entirely honorable, and with a sense of accomplishment that everyone present felt was well-earned. The Captain was draped just as the figure in the actual sculpture is draped, though we did not have an animal skin at our disposal. If anything, the Captain is more impressive a figure than the original statue. Needless to say, I had never before seen the Captain's torso exposed before. Modest as that exposure was, as you saw. Just the shoulder and arms and one side of the chest. We cut the sheet above his knees to simulate…well, as I say, I had never seen him in that way before, but it certainly did not surprise me, nor would it have surprised anyone who had seen him in uniform. Nor was I surprised when this particular tableau made something of a sensation. Would it surprise you to learn that we earned more than ten thousand pounds on the strength of that tableau alone? Funds that will buy boots and medicine for young men who are in desperate need of both. And who have neither."

 

The original story was on the table next to Mr. Nelson's teacup, and he was peering at the news photo of the Farnese Hercules tableau. "Most impressive," he said. "But surely you don't mean that these are the sinews of his actual body, and not some kind of padding?"

 

"Mr. Nelson, we are not a theatrical troupe. We do not have elaborate resources of that kind. Special lighting, elaborate make-up, fancy costumes — no, no, a tableau vivant is about imagination and ingenuity, and the willingness to put one's self on display for a cause."

 

That said, the body of Captain X was not like any that Mr. Nelson had ever seen; he had simply assumed it was augmented in some clever, artful way. Sandow's and Macfadden's only began to suggest such contours — the way the shoulder was capped with a sharply defined, round mass from which the arm emerged…and the arm itself was a series of round masses that seemed taut to the point of bursting. The heroes depicted in Greek and Roman statuary were nothing compared with this man. And yet, while his arms appeared larger and more powerful than those of the Farnese Hercules, his torso tapered in a way that also projected power; 'fighting trim,' one could call it. Was it artificial, exaggerated, or wasn't it? At first it appeared grotesque, but then it seemed beautiful. How strange that he was posed to stare at the ground in so melancholy a way, with his shoulders slumped and his head bent over. Imagine him standing up straight, with his shoulders back and proud! "May I ask how Mr. Smith-Martyn felt about the Captain's participation in your event?" asked Mr. Nelson.

 

"How nice that we can be so frank with one another," Mrs. Smith-Martyn snarled. "My husband has always been an admirer and supporter of the Captain," she said, "and he remains so. That is his chief concern now, and it is mine. My husband has complete confidence in The Captain's honor. He has always behaved honorably and has sacrificed a great deal in service to the Crown. This — this scandal — is hardly the recompense he deserves." This, Mrs. Smith-Martyn claimed, was her motivation for the extreme measure of taking tea at the Ritz: the Captain's honor, rather than her own.

 

She might have gotten further with another editor; it was not the Sentinel-Observer that was printing items of gossip linking her with "her friend, the mighty Captain X." These had spurred a growing tide of letters from soldiers who had served under the still anonymous captain, claiming they recognized him unmistakably from the photograph and describing superhuman feats they imputed to him. All respected his anonymity, and always there were the debunkers. Reports of his carrying wounded and dead soldiers for miles, two and three bodies at a time, were met with letters from angry retired brigadiers saying that such exploits — were they possible — would have exposed him and his men to needless risk. Most of all there was the outrage over the Captain permitting himself to be displayed in an undignified manner in not one but two tableaux vivantes. Such conduct was irreducibly feminine and "an insult to the British soldier," according to a retired lieutenant-colonel. But then, according to a retired brigadier general's angry response, the real insult was that a comfortably retired career soldier would question the honor one who, after demonstrating valor on the battlefield, volunteered his services for the benefit of his men even while on leave, and cut "an undeniably heroic figure" in which the nation could take justifiable pride.

 

Two days later it was agreed that Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Martyn would bring Captain X to the offices of the Sentinel-Observer, but still keep his identity unrevealed. Mr. Nelson had an unrevealed plan of his own to revive the story: The hapless T.J. Jones would come along and make threatening gestures as if to accost Mrs. Smith-Martyn as she, her husband and the Captain were leaving the Observer's offices, whereupon the Mighty Captain might very well make to rescue her. If it were to develop into a police matter, that would probably force the Captain to identify himself. More often such ruses unfolded in ways that could not be anticipated, but that made for good copy nonetheless.

 

The arrival of Captain X with the Smith-Martyns certainly supported the account Mr. Nelson had sat through at the Ritz. He was magnificent-looking in uniform, tall and broad-shouldered, in a belted jacket gusseted in back at the shoulders — it was probably the only way he could be fitted. It seemed that his arms might burst their sleeves. He conducted himself with military reserve; Mr. Smith-Martyn did most of the talking. But the three visitors sensed a certain pointlessness in their discussions with Mr. Nelson, who offered them nothing more than his assurance that the Sentinel-Observer bore no animus against the Captain and would be open to favorable coverage of him so long as it met the standards of newsworthiness…and so long as they actually knew who it was they were covering.

 

The ruse was staged by the hapless T.J. Jones as the threesome left the building: Just as instructed, he confronted Mrs. Smith-Martyn and said "Madame, I believe that is mine," clamping his hand around her small handbag. Whereupon the Captain stepped in front of him and slapped him with the back of his right hand. Time slowed as they watched: the gesture seemed modest, but oddly, T.J. Jones's head snapped violently back and his body went skidding down the street as if a locomotive had rammed it.

 

Mrs. Smith-Martyn rushed up to the crumpled Mr. Jones and said "Heavens, his neck must be broken!" Happily, she was wrong. They all enjoyed the hospitality of the police in separate quarters — Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Martyn in one room, Mssrs. Jones and Nelson in another, and the Captain by himself with a uniformed officer. The Smith-Martyns were sent home after about thirty seconds. Down the hall, the Captain looked sullen and defeated again, as he did when posing as the Farnese Hercules.

 

"Are you the Mighty Captain X?" a uniformed officer asked him.

 

"Is that fellow all right?" the Captain answered.

 

"No thanks to you," said the officer.

 

"He accosted my friend. I was only defending her."

 

The officer unfolded what turned out to be page 8 from the Sentinel-Observer. "Is that you?" he asked. Perhaps there was no point in denying it. But he hadn't done anything wrong, so why should he answer? The problem with this police interrogation, aside from its being groundless, was that it was being met with the military answers of a prisoner of war, and getting nowhere. Finally the Captain was asked, "are you aware that this matter was what you might call a prank gone wrong?"

 

The Captain said nothing at first, then asked, "May I go now?" His interrogator seemed to find this question difficult to answer, and simply ignored it. "Whose prank?"

 

"It was the newspaper," the officer said. "We cooperate with them, and they cooperate with us. One hand washes the other. It's all about information. That's the way it works, innit?"

 

"May I go now?" the Captain asked.

 

"If you don't mind, I'll have to ask you to remove your jacket and your shirt," said the officer.

 

"Why should I do that?" asked the Captain.

 

The officer laid the article on the table in front of the Captain. "Because I'd like to see if that's you," he said. After a long silence he added, "I think it is."

 

"I don't see why that should be a police matter," said the Captain.

 

"A lot of people are very unhappy with what went on at the home of the Smith-Martyns," said the officer. "A lot of people want to know just who you are. It's all about the information, innit?"

 

"I'll be going now," said the Captain.

 

"I took the precaution of locking the door to this room," said the officer. The door was painted iron, spotty, with a barred window above eye-level.

 

"You have no reason to detain me," said the Captain. "You cannot detain me."

 

"Is that you? Are you Captain X?"

 

"This has gotten so far out of hand," said the Captain. "It's too absurd. What possible difference could it make if I am or am not Captain X?"

 

"Tell me! Are you Captain X!"

 

It was too much. The captain stood, faced his interrogator across the table, and slowly disrobed — unbuttoning his jacket, then his shirt, then the vest underneath. His shoulders, chest and arms seemed to expand before the officer's eyes as they were liberated from the clothes that had concealed them. The sinews were packed onto his massive body, the chest and arms far larger and more severe than anything the officer could have imagined, the muscles of his abdomen so much more pronounced than on an ancient shield. Those images seemed childish by comparison. But when the Captain picked grasped his clothes and turned his back on the officer, that was even more fearsome — his back, with its curving ridges. The officer had never seen anything even suggesting such contours as those.

 

"I'll be going now," said the Captain.

 

"Cor," said the officer, as the Captain walked up to the door. The lock had a latch handle that did not yield at first, but the Captain broke it off without much effort. "Oh, hard luck, the lock broke," he declared. He tentatively punched what remained of the lock, then decided the better of it and gripped the door's barred window. His back and shoulders swelled proudly and he smiled as he easily shook the door off its hinges, then tossed it in onto the floor. "It feels good to do that," he said. "I'm so glad to be of service. That door needed replacing, as you can see. The hinges were compromised and the lock is defective." He slipped his shirt back on and headed into the hallway as the officer looked on, gaping.

 

"You are Captain X," said the officer.

 

The Captain turned back to face his interrogator. With his shirt only partway buttoned, the sinews of his chest were still intimidatingly in view. "I'm Captain Morris," he said. He didn't know if His Majesty's forces would look for him. But in America, they would never find him.

[cutlerfan]

Captain X sounds interesting. Could Mrs. Smith-Martyn die please? What a bitch!