Truman had been in San Antonio, relaxing in his hotel bar, when the telegram from another of his business associates had arrived, informing him that Moody had started taking bookings for the Igorrotes and had gone with a group of them to Tampa without Truman’s permission. Furious, the showman had taken the next train to Tampa. He, and only he, arranged the bookings. Moody knew that.
Truman felt confident that he would be awarded custody of the Filipinos. In his pocket, he had a copy of the document he had signed in Worcester’s office in Manila, stating that he had permission to take the tribespeople to America. Since arriving in Tampa the previous day, Truman had hired two local attorneys, Peter Knight and C. C. Whitaker, to help him regain control of the tribespeople.
The showman had briefed his legal representatives well, informing them of his business partner’s weak points, yet neglecting to tell them that without Moody’s money he would never have been able to exhibit the tribe in the first place.
Standing before the Court Commissioner, Truman explained that the Filipinos had come to the United States under a contract with him, which would expire the following year. He produced a copy of the contract, along with the document he had signed in Worcester’s office. After giving Larimore a moment to study them, Truman said that he, and he alone, had the personal permission of the governor-general of the Philippines to exhibit the tribe, adding that he was under a ten-thousand-dollar bond to care for them and to return them to their homeland at the end of their contract. Moody had taken the tribe without his permission. Before Moody kidnapped them, some of the tribespeople had told Truman that they were homesick and wished to return to the Philippines without delay. Truman planned to honor their request and take them home, but, by keeping them against their will, Moody was preventing him from doing this.
Truman explained that the Igorrotes were simple, innocent people who spoke little or no English. They were of low intelligence and, as if to illustrate this point, he added that there was no written form of their language. The tribespeople had to be cared for as if they were children and watched over morning, noon, and night to keep them out of harm’s reach.
Moody’s representative, F. M. Simonton, interjected. His client was Truman’s main financial backer. He had given Truman three thousand dollars to get the tribe to America and in return he had been made Truman’s business manager. As such, he had the right to take bookings for them. Truman’s attorneys objected: none of this was true. Court Commissioner Larimore asked Simonton if his client had brought with him a copy of their agreement, to which Moody replied that it had been a gentleman’s agreement. He had trusted Truman and had not asked him for a receipt for the money he had given him. Larimore was unmoved by his story.
A small smile passed over Truman’s lips. This case was as good as won. Catching Larimore’s eye and anxious not to appear too confident, he adopted a serious expression and asked if he might be allowed to speak again. Larimore nodded. Truman had lived among the tribe for years and knew them well. He had come to court to protect them. Here in a foreign land, they were vulnerable and he would do everything in his power to make sure they were not exploited. Moody didn’t even speak their language, so how could he possibly know what they wanted?
Moody’s lawyer objected; his client spoke a little of their dialect, as well as some Spanish, which a number of them had learned when the Philippine Islands were under Spanish rule.
While Truman, Moody, and their attorneys argued it out, Julio, whom Truman had brought with him, and eighteen Igorrotes sat in an office along the corridor, waiting to be called. Under the watchful gaze of a court official, they sat smoking their pipes and puffing their cigars. The Tampa Morning Tribune would later report that they were “apparently unconscious of what was going on.”1
If the newspapers portrayed them as savages who were unconcerned about their future at the mercy of their master, the reality was very different. The Igorrotes knew their fate was being decided and they couldn’t understand why no one wanted to hear what they had to say. As the hours passed and still no one called for them, the tribespeople grew restless. The Igorrotes didn’t like Moody much and they trusted him even less. But they were hardly spoiled for choice when it came to their American bosses. Fox had a mean streak. They had seen less and less of Truman since they left Coney Island. Though they had always liked the showman, their feelings had become increasingly ambivalent toward him.
Moody had briefed Simonton that Truman was prone to exaggerations, fabrications, and outright lies. Eager to catch Truman out, Simonton grilled him about Bontoc Province, which he claimed to have governed, when in reality he had served only as lieutenant governor. “How many square miles are there in the province of which you were the Governor?” asked Simonton. “I cannot tell you,” answered Truman with a smirk, adding, “but I can say it was not square.”2 Unimpressed by the showman’s attempt at humor, Simonton accused Truman of exploiting the tribespeople. Contrary to Truman’s claims, Simonton argued, it was Moody who was trying to protect them from Truman Hunt. The man was a rogue who “was in arrears in paying the Filipinos.”3 Truman’s contracts with the Igorrotes expired that month and they all wanted to go home immediately, but he was refusing to take them.
Larimore glanced over at Truman. He seemed a decent sort. He was educated, a medical doctor. He had worked for the United States government and clearly knew the tribe well. While Moody had failed to provide any evidence to substantiate his claims, Truman had produced a document that indicated clearly that the tribespeople had been entrusted to him by the authorities in Manila. Before he made up his mind, the Court Commissioner wanted to hear what the Igorrotes had to say. He instructed the clerk to fetch them.
There was a palpable air of anticipation in the courtroom. Several local newspapermen had come to report on the case, along with a reporter for the Associated Press. The Igorrotes were a big national story and the agency man knew his report of the courtroom drama would be picked up by newspapers the length and breadth of the country. After all, it wasn’t every day that a dozen and a half dusky-skinned savages from northern Luzon set foot in an American court of law.
The clerk opened the door of the office where the Igorrotes and Julio waited and told them they were wanted in court. Delighted that at last they were being given the chance to speak, the tribespeople cheered. They got up from the floor, “threw aside Nature’s costume,”4 and picked up clothes from a pile the clerk had managed to find from somewhere for them. The men put on overalls and overcoats of an ancient vintage while the women threw blankets around their bare shoulders.
Larimore couldn’t help but smile at the tribe’s odd appearance. He welcomed them and the deputy sheriff began to read out the names of each of the tribespeople with an “eloquence” that has “seldom been heard in any civilized country. As though he had been a resident of the Philippines for years, he rattled the names off with a regularity and pertinacity that caused the attorneys and others present to marvel.”5 The group consisted of ten men and eight women.
The Court Commissioner instructed Julio to ask each of them who their boss was and what they wanted to do: continue exhibiting in the United States or return to the Philippines. Julio avoided Truman’s eye. He knew that his boss would want him to distort the tribe’s answers, but he would not do it. He turned to the Filipinos and posed the questions. Everyone listened intently, eager to hear what the Igorrotes sounded like. The first to speak was a man named Pucuan. He pointed to Truman, indicating that he was his boss, and then said he wanted to go home. Julio worked his way down the line of Igorrotes and got the same answers each time. Truman was their boss and they wanted to go home.
Larimore nodded. The Filipinos, taking this gesture as a sign they were going home, erupted into demonstrations of joy. Larimore told Truman that he was delivering the tribespeople in to his custody, adding that he expected him to take good care of them and to return them to the Philippines as soon as was practical. Truman thanked him and promised he would
take them from the city on the next train.6
The showman ushered his charges out of the municipal building and into the winter sun. He had no intention of keeping his promise. The Igorrotes would be going back to the Philippines, but not yet. They were far too valuable to him. The next day was the last day of the Florida State Fair. They would leave immediately for New Orleans. He had been offered a lot of money to exhibit them there for the rest of the winter.
Truman was convinced he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Some of the Igorrotes had recently begun insisting that they had signed a contract with him for ten months, which in the Igorrote calendar was a full year, as dictated by their crop cycles. This period would come to an end by the close of the year. But this was nonsense—they had agreed to work for him for twelve months from the day they arrived in America, which meant their contracts wouldn’t be up for several months. As far as the showman was concerned, it was the Igorrotes’ ignorance that was the cause of their discontent. These primitive people had clearly not understood what they had signed.
He had asked Julio to clear up the confusion, but even he hadn’t been able to persuade them. Truman was sick of hearing about the matter. His venture was a success, the Igorrotes were famous and would soon be rich, and he had no intention of giving up his business just yet. In fact, he saw no reason why he couldn’t keep exhibiting them indefinitely. What were they going back to, anyway? A life of hunting each other in the wilds?
Later that afternoon, Larimore found his thoughts returning to the Filipinos. When he handed down his verdict, he had felt sure it was the right course of action. Truman had come across well during his courtroom appearance, but there was something about the behavior of the showman, the way he herded the tribe out of the courtroom, that was troubling Larimore. He was probably imagining it, thought the Court Commissioner, trying to put the matter from his mind.
Across town, a business associate of Moody’s named H. E. Deputy stood in the telegraph office. He was dictating a note to the War Department in Washington, DC. It read: “Has Dr. Hunt made arrangements to return Igorrotes to their home.” Deputy’s eyes narrowed. That should set the War Department on Truman’s trail.7
16
A Break for Freedom
EN ROUTE TO NEW ORLEANS, DECEMBER 1905
New Orleans, c. 1909. The tall building on far left is the Central Police Station, with the infamous red-light district of Storyville behind and right of it.
THE TRAIN TRUNDLED through northern Florida and the tribe gave in to the lazy languor of long-distance travel. They knew from their first cross-country trip, seven months earlier, that it would take many days to get back to the port where their American adventure had begun. But the prospect of returning to Bontoc and being reunited with their loved ones kept their spirits up. If they had doubted Truman’s word before, now they felt secure in the knowledge that the showman was acting under the orders of the court in Florida. At last, they were going home.
The Igorrotes paid little attention to their surroundings as they passed through one station after another. The restlessness some of them had felt earlier had gone. So had the grumblings of discontent. Their only concern was making sure they got all the money they were due. According to Julio’s calculations, Truman owed the whole group around seven thousand dollars in wages, plus several thousand dollars more in souvenir money. That would make around two hundred dollars each when divided between fifty of them.1
Despite Truman’s insistence that he was under orders to deposit their wages and souvenir money in the bank for them, the tribespeople were no longer certain they could believe what he said. They had started keeping some of what they earned selling their souvenirs. They hid the money in their basket hats, inside the linings of their traveling clothes, under the waistbands of their loincloths, and in their traveling trunks.
As they sat on the train, only Julio knew that they were not going directly home. The secret weighed heavily on him. He had overheard Truman and Callahan talking about it and had spent the whole day waiting for an opportunity to tell Maria. Sitting cooped up in the train car with Truman, however, he hadn’t had chance. That night he waited until everyone was asleep, then he placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and whispered her name in her ear. Maria stirred from her slumber and looked up at him. Though she was still half-asleep, she immediately saw from her husband’s face that something was wrong. Julio looked around the car. Just as he was about to speak, he saw Truman, sitting in the shadows at the end of the carriage, looking directly at him. Julio looked back at his wife and told her not to worry, it was nothing. Julio had grown wary of his boss since the incident in the Dallas bar. Truman had apologized to him afterward, but there was something about the expression on the showman’s face that day that he found hard to forget.
The Igorrotes had expected to be on the train for many days, but the following afternoon Truman clapped his hands together and told them they were getting off. Most of them had been asleep and so felt disoriented as they stepped down onto the platform. Only Julio could read the sign telling them they were in New Orleans. Truman led them out of the station and onto a streetcar. The tribespeople sat in silence, looking through the windows as they journeyed farther and farther out of town. Were they going to another station? Or to the port?
On and on they rode. After several miles they found themselves in the middle of what felt like nowhere, surrounded by dairies and fields. Was this the way home? It wasn’t until they reached Athletic Park, a baseball stadium on the outskirts of the city that was transformed into a temporary amusement park in the winter months, that Truman delivered the bombshell that they were not going directly home. He had good news for them. They would do one last booking in America and go out with a bang. They would stay for two or three months in New Orleans, though Truman didn’t intend to share this information with the tribe.
The Filipinos looked around at each other as Truman continued talking: the booking was a top-notch one, far too good to turn down. They were going to make a fortune in tips and souvenir sales. Truman knew they were homesick, but they’d be home soon enough. Besides, he added, just think of how far the extra money will go back in the Philippines. The tribespeople sat in stunned silence. They felt angry, betrayed yet again by their so-called American friend. After a few moments, they found their voices.
What about what the judge said in Florida? asked Feloa. He had given his permission for one last booking, replied Truman, adding that they must have missed this because they didn’t speak English. Julio looked at him. That wasn’t true. Julio wanted to challenge his boss, but he couldn’t—not there, like that, in front of everyone. He didn’t want to provoke him. How long are we staying? asked Dengay. A short time, lied Truman. But we want to go home, said Maria quietly, looking down at her hands. Pretending he hadn’t heard her, the showman excused himself and left. On his way out he instructed Callahan to keep a close eye on them.
Despite their unhappiness, the Filipinos knew they had little choice but to start building their village.
Late one night, Truman returned to the Igorrote Village after an absence of several days. To the delight of the tribe, Tainan was with him. The boy ran toward his countrymen and women, shouting at the top of his voice, a huge grin plastered over his face. Maria threw her arms around him. Friday ran over and poked his friend in the ribs. It was the first time they had seen him in months. When the rest of Truman’s original group poured through the gates after him, the village erupted. They might be stranded thousands of miles from home, but this was a homecoming of sorts. For the first time in months, they had something to celebrate.
The tribe sat up late talking. Daipan wondered aloud whether the fact they were all together again was a sign the showman was taking them home soon. Feloa tutted. Do you really believe anything Truman says anymore? Dengay joined in: Truman promised we were going home and now here we are in another new place with yet another show ahead of us. The new arrivals listened as Feloa described the many promise
s Truman had broken recently, not least his promise to the court that he would take them home immediately.
The chief told them to be on their guard. They couldn’t trust anything Truman said. He still hadn’t paid them any of their wages. He had taken their souvenir money. How long they might stay in New Orleans was anybody’s guess. Daipan’s earlier optimism vanished and she began to cry. Maria didn’t say anything to the others, not even Julio, but she had noticed that their new village was more picturesque and less bare than some of their previous homes. Their huts were surrounded by plants and trees. Why, she wondered, would Truman and the park people have gone to all this trouble if they were only going to be staying a short time?
Twelve hundred miles away in New York, the Coney Island postmaster took delivery of a most unusual letter. Sent by a man named McIntyre in the War Department’s Bureau of Insular Affairs, it inquired as to the whereabouts of Dr. Truman Hunt.2 McIntyre understood that Truman had been at Coney with his Igorrote troupe and wondered if the postmaster knew where they’d gone at the close of the season. Some of the showmen and performers left forwarding addresses, but many more chose not to. They all had their own reasons. The assistant postmaster wrote back, stating that Dr. Hunt had left no contact information.3
Dengay and Feloa sat up talking in their hut one night after the others had gone to bed. In the Philippines they were fearsome warriors who had no qualms about hacking off the heads of their enemies while they were still breathing. In America, at the mercy of one man, Dengay and Feloa experienced an unfamiliar sense of powerlessness. They had been forced to live by a different set of rules, rules they didn’t understand. Though he would never have admitted it to the rest of the tribe, Dengay felt afraid. He spoke very little English and in this foreign universe he feared what might become of them. Feloa confessed to his friend that he fantasized about picking up his head-hunting ax and turning it on Truman, but he knew that wasn’t the answer. Igorrote custom dictated that they hunted the heads of enemy villagers, not random rogues. Besides, they weren’t at home now. If he took his ax to an American, he would be sent to prison and never see home again. What would his family do then?
The Lost Tribe of Coney Island Page 19
