British Bart

By Don Lipman

Bartholomew Cunningham, son of a British viscount, flees from trouble in England and finds even more trouble in Americas Old West. British Bart, as he quickly would be called, joins a wagon train to California around 1880, seeking adventure. Exceptionally skillful with guns, he can shoot the ears off a mouse, and he faces hostile Indians, comancheros and assorted other bad guys, often in defense of the Railroad Chinee, the exploited Chinese workers who lay rails at this time in the American West. But trouble is not all he finds in his exciting new world. He also finds love.
British Bart by Don Lipman was published posthumously. The author, a lifelong student of Old West lore, died in 2003 at age 73. His first western novel, Easter Sunday, in which gunfighter Billy the Kid plays a role, was published in 1999. His second western, 2004s British Bart, features the legendary Wyatt Earp and a cast of other colorful characters.
Also, British Bart contains a long but charming back-of-the-book section called Down Home. This is Don Lipmans recollection of his boyhood in the small East Texas town of Jefferson, which also offers colorful characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 26, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469100517

Don Lipman

A Texas native and longtime student of Old West lore, Don Lipman indulged his fascination with gunfighters such as William Bonney, Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickok, to name but a few. After forty-plus years as a newspaper reporter and editor, he retired from the Los Angeles Times and wrote western novels in Scottsdale, Arizona. His first was Easter Sunday in which Billy the Kid plays a role. Lipman died in 2003 at age 73. His second western, British Bart, through which Wyatt Earp strolls, is published here posthumously. ----------- For Web Don Lipman, a newspaper reporter and editor for more than 40 years, was born in Jefferson, Texas, in 1930, grew up there and attended North Texas State College in Denton, graduating in 1952, just in time to get drafted for Korean War service. After separation from the Army in 1954, Lipman worked in various capacities on newspapers in Texas, Louisiana, Oregon, Kentucky and California. He retired from the Los Angeles Times in 1992 after more than 20 years as an Orange County city editor, copy editor and makeup editor. After retirement, he and his wife Jerelaine moved to Scottsdale, Arizona, where he settled down to write books. He was a student of Old West lore and was fascinated by gunfighters such as William Bonney, Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickok, to name but a few. In his first western, Easter Sunday, Billy the Kid plays a role. His second western, British Bart, features Wyatt Earp as a prominent character. Lipman died in 2003 at age 73. He is survived by his wife Jerelaine of Irvine, Calif., his daughter Linda of Newport Beach, Calif., his daughter Kay of Brussels, Belgium, and two grandchildren, Lily and Sascha, also of Brussels.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He was born in the mid-1800s, neither in nor out of British royalty, but somewhere in that gray area in between.

Are you a royal? he was sometimes asked.

Well, I am when it suits my purpose—in other words, not very often—but never when it becomes an impediment. Get what I mean? Such as, when you need to get in the door and being a commoner won’t do, you suddenly become Count Bartholomew. Over here in America, no one ever questions your lineage, so it’s not all that important, but it can be a door-opener elsewhere. Most Americans don’t know a count from a no-account.

Now this young man was different from the start. He was slender, graceful and quiet—pleasant-faced and blond—and he would grow up that way. But above all else, he was formidable in action, becoming more so as he grew older. Most unusual about him were his large, brownish-yellow eyes—like those of a cat. They were startling to behold, and unusual for an English child.

He was the youngest of five but got along well with the lot of them, and was roundly spoiled by siblings, parents and servants, even though he seemed unaffected by it.

That child, his nanny would say. Most of the time, I can’t tell what he’s about, but what a proper wonder he is.

Even though his mama called him totally irresistible, Bartholomew Archibald Cunningham, early-on, developed an aloof and stand-offish persona, but in a rather inoffensive way. He tended to hold family and friends alike at a gentle arm’s length.

The lone exception was his sister, Margaret Rose—whom he called Meg. She was two years older than Bart and a rare beauty from birth. She would put her arms about him and rest her blonde head on his shoulder. Ah, Meg, he would say gently as he embraced her. Family members called it Bart’s and Meg’s secret thing.

If I were not your sister, I would command you to marry me, she would say imperiously, causing them both to laugh.

Above all, Bart was from the start a born sportsman—hunter, fisherman and an ardent player of upper-class English games. When he lost in any contest, which wasn’t often, his papa, a viscount, would say jokingly:

What happened there, bucko. I bet a guinea on you.

To which Bart, as he was called although his mama preferred Bartholomew, would answer calmly and with a logic that seemed to rule his life:

It’s not winning or losing, Papa; it’s the game. I like the game.

Young Bart went the way of all male children born to highly placed parents. He attended the usual prep schools, including Eton, and did reasonably well, although it was clear from the start that he was no scholar. He was a natural for the Royal Military Academy at Woolrich (later Sandhurst), distinguishing himself in all martial subjects while struggling a bit with the academics.

The Cunningham lad stands out somewhat. He has a cool head and a steady hand. He is resolute, acts without hesitation, and might even be a bit dangerous, to friend and foe alike. We’ll hear more of him, a professor remarked smilingly to his colleagues. This rather casual appraisal of Bart, now in his late teens, was to be borne out in a tragic way, and would totally alter his life.

On a Sunday afternoon toward the end of his first year at the academy, the family traveled to Sandhurst to pay Bart a rare visit. While they lounged in one of the ornate parlors at the academy, Bart and Meg wandered off by themselves, as they often did. They strolled into the village, intending to visit a popular tearoom there. But before they reached their destination, they were confronted by three young men of the village bent on mischief—ruffians or toughs, as they were called at that time.

At first, the men blocked their path, moving back and forth when Bart and Meg tried to pass them. Then the leader, the largest, oldest and loudest of the three, reached out, grasped Meg by her long, blonde hair and pulled her toward him.

Bart reacted coolly (never attack in anger, one of his most trusted military advisers had told him). He easily pulled Meg away from her assailant and bloodied his nose with one well-aimed blow that knocked the large youth sprawling.

The ruffian leaped to his feet and pulled a jackknife from his pocket. As if acting on a plan, his two friends grabbed Bart by each arm and held him while the knife wielder moved toward him.

Meg screamed and hurled herself in front of her brother at the same time the young thug swung the knife at Bart. The blade sliced through her up-thrown hand, making a minor cut but releasing a lot of blood.

Infuriated, Bart jerked loose from his assailants, grabbed the knife from the youth, who now stood gaping at Meg’s wound, and plunged it into his chest.

The village youth dropped to the ground, face down, and lay motionless.

Bart, ignoring his victim, wrapped his scarf around Meg’s wound and, lifting her easily in his arms, carried her back to the academy’s clinic a short distance away. She pressed her head into his chest and wept softly.

Did you kill him? she asked.

I certainly hope so, Bart answered calmly.

Oh, Bart, I’ve caused you great trouble, but when I saw those men holding you and the other advancing on you, I feared you might be killed, and I could not bear that. Did I act foolishly?

Of course not, he answered and then lowered his voice.

Meg, you are the only thing in this whole world that I truly love. Defending you is a most natural and honorable act. I would gladly die for you.

Oh, Bart, I love you so, she whispered like a lover rather than a sister, and fainted dead away.

When her wound had been cleansed and bandaged, and when the family was together in the parlor of Bart’s lodgings, his father warned that there might be trouble, inasmuch as the townspeople held the cadets in low regard, partly, of course, out of jealously for their high station and inborn aloofness.

We must sort this out and act accordingly, Viscount Cunningham said soberly.

One of Bart’s deans volunteered to go into the village to determine if the young man had indeed been killed, as both Bart and Meg attested. He returned shortly and informed the family in the gravest manner imaginable that the assailant was not dead but was in a rather bad way and that the constabulary was preparing to take Bart into custody.

Take him into custody? Why, that’s outrageous, his mother said. That ruffian attacked them both and he got only what he deserved. She turned to her husband and began to weep. Reginal, what are we to do? Must we turn him over? He’s still a child.

He’s not a child by any stretch, her husband answered staunchly. He’s quite a young man and must answer to the authorities, but it’s obvious that he acted only in defense of his sister and himself. Any inquest will take that into account and the whole thing will amount to naught.

Shortly after the family meeting, two constables presented themselves at the door of Bart’s lodging and officiously handed him a summons to appear at 9 a.m. the following day, a Monday.

We are aware of your family and its standing, one of the officers told Bart’s father, and custody of the young man will not be required. But it is important that he present himself voluntarily tomorrow morning.

Of course, constable, Bart’s father responded. He will be at your offices without fail.

The two officers left and Bart followed them out, watching as they walked briskly toward the village.

The whole family will accompany you, of course, his father said, although it is possible that the hearing, investigation as it were, will be open to only the principals.

Don’t worry, Father, Bart said, putting his arm around the viscount’s broad shoulders. This will be over shortly and will turn out rather well, I expect. I do regret that my actions have caused the family some anguish, and I also am sorry that the young chap lies badly wounded, but it looked clearly like it was either him or me. If it had not been for Meg, perhaps I would be dead now. Well, at any rate, there it is, he wound up rather lightly and in his usual way.

Leaving Bart at his lodgings, the family traveled home by train after promising to return the following morning for the hearing. Bart watched them go, played several games of pool with his fellow students, had an early supper, read awhile, then turned in, and, characteristically, slept peacefully and without worry—not so much as moving a muscle, his roommates would say.

Chapter 2

Bart arose early, went downstairs and was surprised to find the entire family in the parlor having coffee.

Did you doubt it? his father said cheerfully when Bart professed surprise. Wouldn’t let our rising star down.

While Bart maintained his usual calm demeanor, he nevertheless was a bit relieved to see the family turned out in force and was soon seated and being served by a distressed Meg, who fussed over him more than was necessary.

Look at him, said Richard, one of his older brothers. Pampered and loving every minute of it, but only, you may be sure, if administered by Margaret Rose.

A discussion concerning closeness of family followed, centering on who appeared inordinately partial to whom. Meg and Bart became the immediate targets, both promptly denying any special feelings or arrangements, thank you very much.

How totally absurd, Bart said in his quiet, ominous voice, adopted mainly when he was vexed, as Meg leaned suggestively against him in a stunning imitation of a music hall vamp.

The family laughed and relaxed its patrician air somewhat, talking and gossiping idly while circumventing the matter at hand. They downed their coffee, arose, checked themselves in the mirror to make sure everything was in place, and walked briskly toward the village, Bart and the viscount in the lead.

Where would the magistrate be sitting this morning, my good man? the viscount asked a constable, who was leaning against the side of a building enjoying the morning sun, but who immediately came to attention.

Follow me, sir, he said smartly, treating himself to a good look at Meg, and led the family to a squat stone building in the middle of the village.

They trooped inside and, after identifying themselves, were directed to a small courtroom. The session was already in progress, with the hearing officer, a rather youngish man wearing large spectacles and a bored expression, lounging back in his chair and staring out the window while listening to the proceedings, which apparently concerned some missing livestock.

When he spotted the Cunningham family, who occupied the entire front row of the spectators gallery, he immediately called an end to the livestock hearing, adjourning it until that afternoon. He arose rather jerkily and, bowing slightly, said, My Lord, the court is honored by your presence. We have been informed of the matter at hand and I am sure that we can dispose of it rather quickly, allowing you and your family to go your way.

Bart’s father smiled, bowed slightly himself, and said gently, Thank you very much, your honor, but I am Viscount Cunningham, not a lord, you see, and, as you say, I’m sure that we can work this thing out satisfactorily.

Two witnesses who claimed to have seen the entire incident were summoned and sworn in, relating the events factually but totally in Bart’s favor. One even stood and showed with some spirit how Bart had leaped to protect his sister and she him.

One of the young toughs was brought in and asked to identify Bart and his sister, which he did after much hemming and hawing and squinting at the spectators.

"Yeah, that’s him all right, and the young lady with the bandaged hand may have saved his life. We did not mean no harm to anyone, and I’m sorry she was hurt, but sorrier still that Matthew was stabbed and is near death.

I think the young gentleman may have mistaken our intentions—we was just havin’ a bit of fun—when, unfortunately, the lady’s hand was cut.

Then he paused, and added:

Your worship, if Matthew was to die, would the young gent be charged with murder?

Your mate’s death does not seem to be an issue here, but if he were to die, the question of self-defense would be a strong factor in any trial, the young magistrate said sternly. You may take him away.

With that, the magistrate retired to chambers and the family sat impatiently, waiting for the next move.

When the magistrate reappeared, he instructed the bailiff to call Bart to testify, and, after hearing his appealingly calm and straightforward account, identical to that of the two witnesses, the magistrate ruled that the incident was purely self-defense, that Bart was blameless and had acted heroically to protect his sister from further harm, and that the three toughs would be prosecuted after the wounded youth had recovered sufficiently.

The family arose and shook hands all around, obviously relieved but retaining a practiced air of being somehow above it all. The courtroom had filled with curious villagers, who had gotten air of a royal on trial, something rather unusual.

A tall, rather rumpled young man approached the viscount and said, Excuse me, your grace, mistaking him for higher rank as had the magistrate. My name is Arthur and I represent The Times. Could I have a word with the young man?

Certainly not, the viscount said coldly. If you had followed the proceedings, you would know that there is nothing left to say. It was an unfortunate happening, and my son was completely exonerated. Step aside, please, and with that, grandly, led the family from the courtroom, but not before muttering, Damned nuisance, this.

They returned to the school, where they had a hearty lunch and received some rather surprising information. Bart told them that he had considered, overnight, and even much earlier, leaving and never returning.

Not because of the, uh, trouble, you see. I had thought of pulling out before. It seems that there is a lot of life and adventure out there, and cooling one’s heels in a dull classroom is simply not for me, he explained.

Where on earth would you go? his mother asked, a worried look clouding her handsome face.

Hadn’t decided, he replied. Maybe America—cowboys, Indians, that certain breed of men who earn their livelihood with a gun. It rather appeals to me. I’m not a bad shot, you know.

Then he looked squarely at the family, flashed a wide grin, and said, Anyone fancy coming along?

Bart, surely you’re not serious, his father said quietly. You probably haven’t thought this thing out. Why, your future here, and in the Empire as well, is without limit. Any field that you might enter—Parliament, the military, commerce—would surely welcome you. Picturing you as prime minister is certainly not out of the question.

Yes, darling, his mother said. Your future is virtually assured, and before you decide to venture abroad, you must plant your feet firmly on the ground here and sample all that your station entitles you to—getting the proper seasoning, as it were.

You can’t possibly leave right now, Meg said earnestly. I fully intend to go with you, and I’m not at all ready.

She was so sincere, and exhibited such a worried and quizzical countenance, that the family broke into laughter, Bart included, but he placed a protective arm on the back of her chair.

No one I had rather have along, he said gently. But I’m afraid your presence would force me to spend most of my waking hours protecting you from every man in the known world.

Then he smiled, and said pensively, And no wonder. What a beauty you are!

The luncheon over, Bart returned to classes and the family traveled back home, accompanied by a sense of things getting back to normal.

Bart’s friends kidnapped him on the way to his first afternoon class and demanded a full accounting of the last two days.

Bart, with some patience and good humor, recounted all that had happened, and this to a group of young men, who, instead of their usual lofty and condescending manner, displayed rapt attention.

Could you have actually been charged, tried and jailed for the stabbing? asked Andrew, Bart’s roommate and closest friend. Could such a thing actually happen? Could you have gone to the gallows?

Maybe not that, Bart said, laughing, but I, like anyone else in the kingdom, would have to answer for my actions.

Well, you are the son of a viscount, and third in line for the title, are you not? Andrew asked solemnly.

Your point is not well-taken, old fellow, Bart replied. I seem to recall that being king of France failed to save Old Louis from the guillotine.

The discussion ended with Bart rising and striding from the room. Where to, comrade? a classmate asked.

To see the young man whom I stabbed, Bart replied. Just occurred to me that it would be a nice gesture, even though it might make him angry. If I were in his place, though, I would welcome a chance to face my assailant. We shall see.

And, suiting action to words, he and Andrew headed for the village and spent the next hour trying to determine where the wounded youth was recovering.

I wonder why it did not occur to us that he might be at home? Bart mused when told that the youth’s widowed mother was caring for him. They were given directions to a modest cottage on the far edge of town and quickly made their way there, knocking rather boldly.

The door was opened by a handsome matron who was dressed in the lower-class garb of the day—clothing that, in fact, didn’t seem to suit her. She listened warily to Bart while he explained who he was and asked if he might see the wounded youth. She was silent for a time, then told them to wait outside and closed the door.

Probably asking the chap if he fancies seeing the man who laid him low, Andrew said. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he said no, and went for his shotgun, if he has one and is able to move around.

Good Lord, Andrew, Bart said, glancing sideways at his friend, and was about to turn away when the door opened, the woman smiled wanly at Bart and invited them in. They entered the tiny cottage, Bart looking around impassively and Andrew acting apprehensive.

When their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, the woman gestured toward the bed and then sat on the edge of the mattress and clasped the hand of a very still, pale but conscious young man.

How do you do, Bart said rather warmly, and the young man nodded his head slightly in a sign of greeting.

My name is Bart Cunningham and this is Andrew Wyatt. I am the one who stabbed you, and while I did it to defend myself and my sister, I must tell you that I am very sorry that it came to that and that you are seriously wounded. My apologies and profound wishes for your speedy recovery, Bart said, extending his hand.

The young man sighed and looked away, but just as Bart and Andrew turned to leave, he called out feebly, Don’t go. Have somethin’ to tell you.

Then in a low, hoarse voice:

"My name is Matthew Hatch. This is my mother, Maryanne.

I’d like to tell you that I bear you no ill feelings, and if I had been attacked in the same way, I would have acted just as you did. I admire grit, and you and your sister defending each other was a proper sight to see, he concluded, speaking so low that Bart and Andrew had to approach the bed and lean down.

Your generous spirit in forgiving me, I can assure you, has lifted a great load from my mind. If our positions were switched, I can’t say that I would be that gallant, Bart said, adding:

You take care and get well soon. We’ll come again, if we can.

They turned and walked out of the cottage, followed by the youth’s mother.

She placed a hand on Bart’s arm and said:

Please don’t get him in more trouble than he’s already in. I know that he did a terrible wrong in attacking you, but he is my only child and I could not bear it if they took him away. He was close to death himself, you know, and still may be. Can you see your way clear to somehow forgive him and not press your case with the authorities?

Bart turned and looked at the woman kindly.

I’ll do the best I can, but you must know that this is a very serious matter and a difficult one to simply ignore. It could definitely have had a different outcome, he said, placing his hand on hers.

With that, she embraced him warmly and whispered her thanks.

Bart and Andrew walked away quickly, leaving her looking after them.

I say, old man, that was a rather un-motherly embrace, if you ask me, Andrew ventured.

I know, and I can tell you that it has got me bones up, as one of my father’s admiral friends used to say, Bart replied, laughing.

But his good humor was short-lived.

While the next two days were uneventful, the third brought a circumstance that changed Bart’s life forever.

In mid-afternoon, he set out for Matthew’s home to check on his condition and, not coincidentally, to see his mother again. Bart had an abiding interest in older women.

When he arrived at the cottage, it was completely shuttered and, to his growing disbelief, had a black crepe rosette on the front door.

His fears were confirmed when he knocked at the cottage next door and learned that Matthew had died, been buried and his mother had gone away to stay with relatives. He walked back to his university lodgings in a fog, locking the door and collapsing on the bed. He drifted off and was awakened by Andrew, who had the only other key.

Bart sat upright and said in a spiritless voice, Matthew is dead. What am I to do now?

You wounded Matthew, but only after yourself and Meg were threatened with God knows what, perhaps death, Andrew said quietly. What are you to do? I would suggest that you do nothing and move on. The whole thing was unfortunate and your actions were forced on you. The sooner you put it from your mind, the better off you’ll be.

Pondering this sound advice, Bart stared at the ceiling for a time, thought back over the last several days and arose, feeling a bit better.

Come along, old man; what you need is a good supper and a night’s rest. Tomorrow, you’ll be as fit as ever, Andrew said stoutly.

They spent a relatively pleasant evening, playing cards and pool, reading for tomorrow’s classes and went to bed around midnight.

When Andrew arose just before dawn, Bart’s bed had been neatly made and he had vanished without a trace.

Chapter 3

Bart slept fitfully that night and awakened just before daybreak. He arose, and, almost as if he were sleepwalking, dressed and filled a small backpack. Realizing he was hungry, he slipped down to the kitchen and drank a cup of milk, stuck some day-old bread in his pocket and walked out of his dormitory—away from a safe and comfortable life forever.

He struck out down the road to the village, muttering, Time to go, old man, and never looked back.

He kept walking briskly, past the village and into the next. He entered an inn and had a light breakfast, assessing his situation and his finances in a calm and unhurried way. He had almost 100 pounds, which, if used prudently, would last him quite a while.

He struck out again on foot, heading toward Portsmouth, one of England’s major seaports and the gateway to a beckoning world. He smiled and quickened his pace. He walked quite a way, then caught a ride on one of the coaches.

When he boarded a fast, sleek clipper and settled into a tiny space below decks, he began to think of his family as the ship slipped away from the dock, groaning as the lines sawed back and forth and the canvas, protesting and popping loudly, stretched and filled.

Before leaving the dormitory, he had composed a brief note and left it in a prominent place in the parlor. His family would be saddened and mourn him, no doubt. But he took comfort