Circus Parade (13 page)

“De big niggah he goes a prancin' by, a washed all black in de blood ob de lamb, an' goes a slidin' up de corrydoor towahds de Great God Almighty who's a standin' theah waitin'. Then you should all hab seen dat niggah tuhn all reddah'n youh haih. A oysteh runs outta its shell and pinches his leg an' says, ‘Heah you, niggah, you all is in de Irish section ob heaben. You kneels befoah youh God, you black bastahd.'

“God, he looks aroun' an' sees de oysteh an' says, ‘Get youh back to youh shell. Oystehs should be seen and not heard.' Then God he tuhns to the niggah who's a kneelin' theah reddah'n a spanked baby, an' he says:

“ ‘What's youh all mean by this overdue familiahity? Doan you all know dis ain't youh heaven? Who tol' you come in heah, anyhow? I says to my pahrots not to leabe no niggahs in heah. Dis is Irish heaven, an' doan you know dey ain't no freedom wheah you sees birds carryin' the 'Merican flag? Dey carries dat for purtection w'en de win's git rough. Now you jist chase on outta heah, Black Boy, to niggah heaben. It's obeh deah back ob de slaughteh house.'

“The big niggah he walk away fasteh'n lightnin', an' God he done call out, ‘Heah, you lazy oystehs, scrub up dis place wheah de niggah's feet habe been. An' tell dem pahrots to let no moah niggahs in heah. Fuhst thing I know dese silber walks'll be all black.'

“Den de niggah he goes a singin' obeh towards de slaughteh house past wheah de dead oystehs is buried:

“An' dat's how de niggah walked all obeh God's heaben. Dem niggah's is all de time kiddin' demselves.”

The wind from the Gulf had turned colder. It moaned dismally about the tent as John Quincy Adams concluded his tale of the Negro in Irish Heaven. He had finished a hard day's playing to half-empty seats and was soon stretched out on the bunk with Booker T. Washington. Soon I could hear the cat purring and the uncouth pantomimist breathing heavily.

The night finally pushed its way into a drizzly morning. I went early to do my chores with the animals. They huddled forlornly together in the corner of their cages.

We loitered about until afternoon. A small crowd again turned out for the midday performance. A cold wind blew from the Gulf and all nerves were testy. Every person seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. The natives were hostile to the circus people.

“Somethin's goin' to happen in dis burg. I feels it in muh bones,” was John Quincy Adams' comment at the supper table.

“Nope, you're all cold, Quince,” I said. “Everything'll slip along all right and we'll breeze outta here tomorrow an' in two days we'll hit Miami. Then things'll break better.”

“Maybe so, maybe so, but I done got a funny feelin',” was John Quincy's rejoinder.

That evening a colored man was said to have insulted a white woman. He had, intentionally, or otherwise, stepped ahead of her in the purchase of a ticket.

A white gentleman saw the act. He slammed the Negro in the jaw. The Negro, not knowing his place, slammed the white gentleman back. Another race riot started.

The Negroes connected with the circus disappeared as if by magic. Gangs of white men were looking for them everywhere.

When found, the Negro was sent running down the road followed by rock salt and bacon rind from the guns of the whites. It was great fun until a colored man sent a real bullet through the arm of a white man and ducked under the circus tent.

The rules of the game had been broken. The white men now demanded blood. They surrounded the main tent like bush-beaters, closing in on a predatory animal. Carrying knives, guns and clubs, the avenging Southerners tramped through the tent.

I covered John Quincy Adams with a heavy blanket as the men came closer to our tent. With pounding heart I heard them talking as they searched.

“He ducked in here somewheres. We'll git him,” one of them said.

After a seeming eternity of waiting a man pushed the flaps open and entered our tent. He was followed by five other men.

“You ain't got a nigger in here, have yu?” asked the leader.

“Nigger—hell no, what'ud a nigger be doin' in here?” I asked hotly.

Just then Booker T. Washington ran across the tent and burrowed under the blanket. With heartsick eyes I looked at him. The eyes of the five men followed.

“You damn little liar,” shouted the leader as he pushed me backward and rushed forward with the other men to the blanket. A shout went up.

“Here he is. We got him.” Many more men entered the tent. A voice shouted, “That's him, that's the nigger that shot me.”

Another man laughed. “Lookit him, tryin' to make up like a white man—paint smeared all oveh his mug.”

The face of John Quincy Adams was full of pain. The gentlemen kicked and pushed him. He had the look of the doomed in his eyes as he looked about frantically. I thought of his abnormal dread of pain.

‘He didn't do nothin', men. He's a white nigger,” I pleaded.

“Get the hell outta here,” snapped the leader. “We'll make him wish he was white. What was he hidin' for if he ain't the one?”

Several men held John Quincy Adams while two more swung vicious blows at his head. One man used a black-jack. John's head fell on his chest as though his neck had broken.

“I ain't nevah huht nothin',” he gasped weakly. A fist smashed against his mouth. Booker T. Washington rubbed against my leg. I picked him up and held him in the tensity of emotion.

Booted along, half walking and half dragged, his eyes covered with blood that flowed from the cuts in his head, John Quincy Adams was finally taken to a place where a fire was burning.

On the fire was a large square tin can into which chunks of tar were being thrown. Some of the tar fell into the flames and caused dense black smoke to curl around the heads of victim and persecutors.

“Les stake him to the fire an' burn him,” yelled the man with the injured arm. “He'd a killed me dead if he could.”

“Nope, les jist give him a nice overcoat o' hot tar,” suggested another, “that'll hold him in his place for a while.”

They tore his shirt from his body and threw it into the fire. Then his undershirt was torn into strips and stuck into the melting tar. I clung to Booker T. Washington.

There were moans as the tar was applied to the heaving body. The nauseating reek of burnt flesh and the odor of tar was everywhere.

The frenzy of the tormentors at last died down. They left the scene after kicking the prostrate form on the ground. The fire smouldered away in greenish smoke as I approached the body of John Quincy Adams with Booker T. Washington in my arms. The white paint on his face was streaked with tar and blood.

His face was haggard, like that of a man crucified.

I knelt beside him while Booker T. Washington licked his face.

The wind blew in cold gusts from the Gulf.

But John Quincy Adams was forever unconscious of wind and weather.

 

T
HE term “goosey” is supposed to have originated with Southern Negroes. It covers a much larger meaning than the word “ticklish.”

The victim is supersensitive to human touch. Once his malady is discovered by low class minds he finds little peace among them. He is continually being touched unexpectedly. His frantic actions at such times are the delight of his tormentors.

The elephant trainer's real name was William Jay Dickson. I learned it only by accident. His name with the circus members was always “Goosey.”

Whenever Goosey was touched unexpectedly from behind, he would react with violence. If he happened to have a club in his hand he would strike the first object that stood in his way. If he had no club he would yell out loud the very thing of which he was thinking at the time. Once he was touched suddenly as the Moss-Haired Girl walked near him. He screamed.

“Lord, I'd like to love you.” She turned about, saw his predicament and walked on smiling.

Goosey would beg his tormentors not to tease him. No one paid him the slightest attention. It became a mania. If he heard a sound within ten feet of his rear, he would jump suddenly and either strike out or yell that which was in his mind.

Goosey had a surprising knowledge of animals gained from long practical experience. Elephants were his favorites. He had been around the world seven times, always in charge of elephants. He had spent a year in Africa with a man celebrated for his love of killing dumb brutes. Becoming disgusted with the wanton slaughter in the name of sport—it was really a tusk-hunting expedition—he deserted his employer in the Upper Congo. The experience haunted Goosey.

“When a elephant is shot it jist falls like the world comin' down. I jist couldn't stand it no more, for elephants don't harm nobody that don't harm them.”

After Goosey deserted he made his way for miles through the jungle. The illiterate naturalist would watch a herd of elephants by the hour.

“I ain't never seen one of 'em lyin' down in my life. They don't never sleep. They kin smell you a mile off in the jungle an' the only way to fool 'em is to git aroun' so's the wind don't blow you in their direction.

“I've seen 'em dig big spuds up wit' their tusks. They nip 'em outta the ground like a farmer would wit' a hoe. An' they're right an' left handed wit' their tusks, jist like people. An' you can't fool 'em either. They allus know jist where they are, an' they know people better than people. They know how to take short cuts through the jungles in the dark an' they kin find them when travelin' as fast as a runnin' horse. You kin allus find 'em at the same place in the jungles every year. They're jist like a whale that way, they kin allus go back to where they was born in the ocean.”

Goosey's chinless face smiled.

“I'll never forgit the time I'd waited all winter to git a chance to take Big Jumbo from New York to Californie. I was broke flatter'n a nigger policeman's feet.

“I'd been with Jumbo the season afore an' got laid off at the end of it 'cause there wasn't enough coin to keep anybody but the main trainer. But he couldn't make the trip 'cause he was one o' them goofy married guys an' he has a skirt for a boss. He was no good animal trainer 'cause he let a woman run him, an' I says to myself, says I, ‘There'll be somethin' wrong wit' Jumbo if this guy takes care o' him long witout me.' ”

Goosey hated all elephant trainers, but Jumbo's trainer at this time had his particular scorn. “He was a long tall drink o' water,” went on Goosey, “an he believed in the honor o' women an' everything. He got sore once when I says to him, ‘Who do you s'pose your wife steps aroun' wit' while you're chambermaidin' these elephants hither an' yon?'

“He looked at me tough an' says, ‘You kin alluz tell when a guy was raised in the gutter by the questions he asks about the fair sex.'

“ ‘Maybe so,' I says, ‘but you learn a heluva lotta things in the gutter that ain't in the books about women. When I was a kid I lived in a railroad division town. That's where you learn about women.”

“ ‘What the hell's that got to do wit' it?' he says.

“Nothin',' I resounders, ‘only when a railroader comes in off his run, he rings the front door bell an' beats it like hell aroun' to the kitchen jist in time to ketch the guy buttonin' his coat.'

“ ‘Again I asks you—what the hell's that got to do wit' it? You oughta be 'shamed o' yourself slanderin' the name o' womanhood that way.'

“ ‘I ain't a slanderin' 'em,' I says, ‘I'm jista speakin' facks. A railroader's only away from his home a day or two, an' what in hell would happen if he was a elephant trainer an' gone all season?'

“ ‘For shame—for very shame,' he says, ‘I'm from the South where women's held in rev'rence an' I thank God my mother was a good woman.'

“ ‘Well I hain't a sayin' nothin' against your mother, Boss, but they ain't none o' them any good. They're trickier'n a louse on a fiddler's head.'

“I don't think the Boss liked me after that. He knew that I knew he was a married goof an' we don't like nobody when they know we're goofs. So I think he was glad when he got a chance to ship me to Californie wit' Jumbo for the good o' his health.

“Well old Jumbo'd alluz been a fiend for milk. When he was a little baby not more'n four feet high an' not weighin' over a thousand pounds he'd chase a cow right down the aisle of a church and pump her dry. One time he chased a bull in New York State. Well he sure was disgusted.

“Well it come time for me to take Jumbo west. They had him all fixed up in a car at Yonkers; the crew was all ready, an', God, I was glad to be gittin' away from the snowballs to the warm sunshine.

“Well, sir, we hadn't any more'n started when Jumbo takes one breath and blows the side o' the car out, and lays right down an' dies.”

Goosey stopped at this memory of tragedy.

“I jist went nuts,” he gasped. “Who the hell wanted a dead elephant in Californie?

“We cut him open an' there was eighty-eight cans o' condensed milk in him. He'd never even opened 'em—jist swallowed 'em whole.

“Well, sir, that cured me of havin' any guys that's nutty on women workin' on my elephant squad. I wouldn't care if Pope Pius the XV come to me for a job; he'd have to prove to me he wasn't married.”

Laughter followed Goosey's words. He became more earnest, and rubbed the place where his chin should have been.

“An' you can't abuse an elephant either an' get away wit' it. They'll git you every time. I know when I first joined out I was jist a kid an' I worked under a guy up north. He'd brought a baby elephant up an' kep' whippin' it all the time. Indigo was the baby's name. An' Indigo was only afraid of one thing in the world an' that was his trainer, whose name was Bill Neely. He was a mean guy an' he wanted to make the elephant mean so's no one else could handle him. Then he could allus hold his job that way.

“By an' by Indigo got the rep of bein' a rogue elephant, a mean one. Neely used to like to show off wit' him. Every time Neely'd turn his back I'd see Indigo lookin' at him wit' his mean little eyes stuck out like billiard balls. Then when Neely'd turn aroun' an' look at him, Indigo'd begin to swing his trunk friendly like. An old boozefighter elephant man who used to work wit's us says to me one day, he says, ‘Indigo'll kill him one o' these days jist as sure's Barnum was a crook. Now you watch.'

“We got so we begun to watch Neely jist like you would a guy they were goin' to hang. Then we got so we'd be nice to him 'cause we jist knew he wasn't goin' to live very long. But he was havin' a hell of a time. He'd carry the old bull hook an' prod Indigo every chance he got. The elephant'd wince an' stick its eyes out—then be nice agin.

“One time he was out showin' him off on the lot an' forgot hisself an' walked between Indigo an' the big cage where the hipplepotamus was. Then he prods him the last time while all of us was watchin'.

“Indigo gave a quick snort an' a shove an' Neely went smack against the wheel like a lotta mush. Indigo'd shoved him right through the spokes an' Neely never had time to say ‘Boo.'

“There was more hell right then than you could shake a stick at. But Indigo didn't wait. He jist started runnin' hell bent for anything that was in his road. There was sure as hell some scramblin'. I damn near flew a gettin' outta his way 'cause the whole damn lot was his'n far's I was concerned. Who was me to interfere wit' his little fun?

“Indigo jist headed for the kitchen. He went right on through takin' the tent wit' him. 'Bout twenty gallons o' soup was on the stove. He never stopped for neither of them. He jist pushes the stove outta his way an' the soup flies all over him an' he smashes the big can, then he heads for the main tent an' goes right on through it like vinegar through a tin horn. He kep' raisin' the devil for an hour an' finally I went and got him with a ten cent plug o' tobacco. He followed me right over to where his stake and chain was an' stood there. Then I chained him up, an' I ain't never had no trouble wit' an elephant since.”

Roxie was always known as a bull elephant, as are all females. She had a baby elephant about three and a half feet high. It was born in captivity and given to Roxie to raise. Baby elephants are known as punks. Roxie was indifferent to the punk, so it became Goosey's duty to look after it. Four times each day he went to the cook house to get a concoction of boiled rice and condensed milk that was a substitute for elephant milk. Though Roxie and the punk were advertised as mother and baby, it was really Goosey who mothered the young elephant.

Many of us with the circus felt that Roxie knew of Goosey's affliction. She would touch him in the rear with her trunk at the most unexpected times.

Bill Gleason had been Roxie's trainer for a short period. Roxie always hated him. Whenever he came near her she would raise her trunk and hit the ground until it sounded as though someone had dropped a bass drum. Gleason was always teasing Goosey.

One day as Goosey leaned over to fasten Roxie's leg chain, Gleason touched him in the rear unexpectedly. Goosey carried a bull hook at the time (an ash stick about three feet long with a hook on the end which is used to make the elephant mind by prodding his sensitive skin). He leaped high in the air and brought the bull hook down on Roxie's trunk with great violence. Roxie had seen Gleason running away and laughing. She wheeled quickly and ran after him with a terrible trumpet roar. Gleason saw Roxie running after him and hurried toward the menagerie. That place was in an unroar. Roxie in her speed hit a quarter pole and it crashed on top of the lions' cage. They roared loudly and the noise was taken up by other animals. Gleason ducked out through the sidewall of the tent and Roxie followed him with half the tent draped about her. Goosey hurried after the elephant, and hit her on the trunk with the bull hook. She looked at her friend in pained surprise. As Goosey stood and debated with her, Cameron and Finnerty came up. Cameron ordered Goosey to bring the other two bulls up to Roxie. She was yoked to them and led to place and staked down on all four corners. Then the circus owner ordered Goosey to beat Roxie. He had the spunk to refuse. Cameron started rapping Roxie on her toes, and then gave her a more terrible beating. Her trumpeting could be heard for a far distance. When the beating was over and Cameron had gone, Goosey made up to Roxie by rubbing her behind the ears and feeding her tobacco. As he did so, Gleason foolishly drew near again.

At any rate, Gleason stood within a few feet of Goosey after he had just released Roxie. Roxie watched Gleason with her little pig-like eyes while Goosey picked up a bull hook.

It may have been accidental, but the old circus men said the next move had been deliberately and quickly thought out by Roxie. Goosey's back was turned to Roxie so as to be able to protect himself from Gleason again. But he did not reckon on Roxie. She reached out her trunk and touched Goosey on a sensitive spot. Goosey jumped in the air and yelled and yelled and at the same time brought his bull hook down on Gleason's head as if he were driving a stake.

Gleason fell to the ground with a deep dent in his skull.

Roxie waved her trunk indifferently. The doctor sewed seven stitches in Gleason's head. The show left town without him.

Goosey was not molested again that season.