The Canadian Kings of Repertoire. Michael V. Taylor

there had not been a single drop of rain, was a vast expanse of mud – mud so tenacious that the wheels of the wagons driving through it were almost as large as mill-wheels, and when we dared to cross it, we came out the other side with much difficulty, and feet of elephantine proportions.

      “The city of Winnipeg, which eight years ago was nothing more than a cluster of houses about the Hudson’s Bay Company’s fort now contains 7,000 inhabitants.”⁴

      Having reached their destination, R.W. immediately set about finding a suitable location in which the company could “demonstrate their wares.” One was found, but not in the town hall or opera house as might be expected, but in one of the numerous smaller halls that were common place in Western communities. These buildings were usually extensions of local bars and saloons. One of these establishments was the Pride of the West Saloon, which was “proud of its piano, and supported a high class vaudeville.”⁵ Red River Hall was Winnipeg’s first theatre, built in 1871. The stage , consisting of a platform raised about a foot off the floor, was lighted by oil lamps and heated by several stoves. The only entrance and exit was a narrow plank staircase running transversely across one end of the building on the outside. Other makeshift theatres soon followed: Theatre Royal, Dufferin Hall and the Winnipeg Opera House. When Cool Burgess arrived in 1877, Winnipeg became a regular attraction for professional touring companies.

      R.W. never mentioned where the company actually played its first Winnipeg performance. Perhaps it was in the Pride of the West Saloon, but we do know they played for three nights and those burly patrons without ready cash to pay their admission did so with gold dust.

      Up until the time of his death in 1936, R.W. maintained their show was the first organized entertainment of its type ever to perform in Winnipeg. The Winnipeg Free Press, as it was then, helped substantiate this claim by declaring, “Hurrah, we’re not in the backwoods anymore, a show has come to town.”⁶ On reading this excerpt, Winnipeg residents would have, no doubt, recalled other professional touring companies that had performed in the community prior to the arrival of R.W. and Kennedy, performers such as E.A. McDowell and Cool Burgess. When Burgess played the town in 1877, the Free Press, conscious of this significant event, had commented: “The visit of the first professional troupe to this province will long be remembered as an interesting era in the social history of Winnipeg.”⁷

      Regardless of which troupe was first, the “wandering minstrels” from Lanark County, it is said, performed admirably, even though seating arrangements left much to be desired. In order to watch the production in relative comfort, many patrons were forced to sit on beer and nail kegs and rough planking. R.W. never said whether or not the engagement was a financial success, but the following quotation lends one to believe that it was not that lucrative a venture:

      “We weren’t looking for money, we wanted experience and we got it.”⁸

      Winnipeg had not only provided R.W. with the experience he had been seeking, but it was also an ideal point from which to embark into the more populated and affluent towns of the American midwest. The only efficient mode of transportation into the Dakota Territories from Manitoba in those days was the “flyer” or flat-boat down the Red River. With their newly-found confidence, R.W. and Kennedy, accompanied by three or four hardy individuals who had signed on to assist the budding troupe, wasted no time in taking to the boats.

      Their first, although unscheduled, stop in this new territory was at Grand Forks, North Dakota. No sooner had the “flyer” slipped into the wharf, when the town sheriff, fingering a holstered revolver, made his appearance. After dispensing with the customary greetings and salutations, the peace officer, upon learning of their profession refused to allow the thespians to continue their journey and ordered them ashore. R.W. was at a loss to explain the reason for the lawman’s seemingly hostile attitude, but as it turned out no malice was intended. All that was required of the company in order to continue its trek was to give a performance.

      “The townspeople won’t let you go,” stated the lawman.

      “But you have no hall,” protested R.W. as he surveyed the settlement from the jetty.

      “If you give the order, we’ll fix up an opera house in half an hour,” came the sheriff’s ready reply.⁹

      Realizing the futility of declining this obvious attempt at extortion, R.W. reluctantly consented to give one performance and one performance only. Within minutes of R.W. having declared his intentions, half the able-bodied men in town were scurrying about collecting beer kegs, planks and tables, which were then set-up in a yet unfinished store, and instantly transformed it into an “opry house.” What had initially began as an impromptu entertainment stretched into a three-performance engagement. Yet this was not the first organized entertainment Grand Forks had ever seen, as one might expect considering the circumstances. Several years earlier, residents had attended a production of “Only a Farmer’s Daughter,” and had been incensed at the format because it poked fun at a rural community. The local newspaper announced grimly that no more such offerings would be tolerated.¹⁰

      Whenever a touring troupe struck town in the American West during the 1880s, cast members risked acquiring a perforated hide, thanks to the antics of pistol-packing cowboys who delighted in shooting out the footlight chimneys. The unofficial mandate of most towns during this period decreed all itinerant companies should be the natural target of the drunken, well-armed cow-puncher. These overt acts of hostility, performed under the guise of “good fun” invariably reduced the house to darkness and chaos within minutes, and proved very disconcerting to the more respectable patrons in the audience. But more importantly, this form of horseplay was eating into R.W.’s profits. Touring troupes were responsible for all property damage incurred during a performance, and this fact alone deemed it necessary to devise a quick and affordable solution to the dilemma.

      R.W. was obviously one those rare individuals endowed with the uncanny ability to assess a situation and act accordingly, giving little regard to the consequences. His ultimate solution in solving this problem had a touch of genius about it – simply hire the local ruffians to police each performance, thereby ensuring their continued pacification for the duration of the company’s engagement. Implementing this idea was as simple as the solution itself. R.W. would leave the troupe on the outskirts of town while he made his way to the local saloon. Here he would enquire of those individuals known to delight in the sport of “chimney potting” or any other disruptive activity. Then, with names in hand he would seek them out and, once found, the combination of his ready Irish wit, bawdy conversation and more than a liberal amount of drink, would result in an understanding they were to enter his employ as peacekeepers for the duration of the show.

      In theory, this somewhat novel approach should have worked, and to some degree it did. But there were other unforeseen ramifications that would soon make themselves apparent. With solemn conscientiousness these defenders of law and order carried out their appointed task. Ugly and burly, they would patrol the aisles during the performance, swaggering from left to right under the influence of R.W.’s whiskey. Woe betide the man or woman who laughed at the wrong cue or laughed too loud. Within seconds of the outburst, one of the ruffians would appear, tap the miscreant on the shoulder and mumble something about “filling them full of lead.” R.W., the consummate businessman and manager that he was, had succeeded in applying a “band-aid solution” to the problem, but some years later he would reflect upon the wisdom of his actions by saying:

      “The gunmen kind’a, spoiled the quiet scenes.”¹¹

      R.W.’s imposing stature, for he stood just over six feet and was impressively broad-shouldered, demanded a modicum of respect, and this was generally accorded him in most villages and towns throughout the Dominion and the northern United States. But such was not always the case in the American midwest, where the motto, “God created man, but Samuel Colt made them equal,” was the catchword of the day. Caldwell, Kansas, in the early 1880s could aptly be described as one such typical western town of the period. This was a town where whiskey and bullets went hand in hand and a six-gun did the talking for most men.

      A story is told that no sane individual would dare wear a plug topper while strolling about town for fear of