The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

by Claire Prentice

  Feloa walked up to him and, pointing to his money, which now bulged in Truman’s pockets, said clearly, “It is mine.”11 Truman waved the telegram in the air again and repeated that he was merely carrying out government instructions. He looked around at the faces of the twenty-six men and boys in the room, then slowly and calmly told them to hand over their money, all of it. Julio was the first to speak: “No,”12 he stated firmly in a voice that sounded calmer than he felt. Feloa, Dengay, and Fomoaley looked at Julio with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

  What? demanded Truman, incredulous that his assistant was defying him.

  The money is ours, Julio said. We earned it.

  Truman lowered his voice and placed a hand on his assistant’s shoulder. In a conspiratorial tone, he said in English that he understood why they were upset and stressed again that he was merely following orders from the government. The money would be returned to them in due course. Julio asked Truman to show him the letter. That was out of the question, said the showman. It was confidential.

  Julio spoke again, this time louder than before: he didn’t believe Washington had told Truman to take their money; he was stealing it for himself. Truman was furious. He didn’t expect such insolence from Julio. How dare he answer back. The showman looked at Julio and said he was asking them one last time to hand over their money. If they handed it over without making a fuss, they could forget the whole matter. If they refused he would have no choice but to use force. No, said Julio, you are lying. We aren’t giving you our money.

  Overcome with rage, Truman savagely wrenched at Julio’s clothes, ripping his beautiful cream shirt down the front. The mother-of-pearl buttons, which had Maria lovingly sewn, flew across the floor. The room was silent. Truman yanked Julio’s jacket off his back and began clawing at the lining. The showman’s face was triumphant as he pulled out a wad of notes, more than four hundred dollars, and stuffed them into his own pocket. He had just stolen their only chance of escape.

  That’s my money, Julio shouted, but Truman kept manically tearing at the jacket. Julio’s beloved gold watch he had bought in St. Louis the previous year fell out of an inside pocket and onto the floor. Truman picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket. When he was sure there was nothing of value left inside, Truman contemptuously tossed the ruined jacket onto the floor. But their tussle wasn’t over. Truman looked at Julio then lunged for him again.

  Callahan grabbed Julio by the wrist. Feloa pushed forward to help his countryman, but Callahan shoved him back. Standing squarely in front of Julio, Truman thrust his hands into his assistant’s pants pockets. Julio tried to wrestle free, but it was useless. Truman had the strength of a madman. His nails dug into the interpreter’s flesh as he grabbed for every last cent in his pockets.

  At last it was finished. Julio looked at Truman, then down at the clothes he had once worn with such pride. His pants pockets were ripped. His shirt was shredded. In that instant Julio saw himself through Truman’s eyes; for the first time, it was clear that Truman saw him not as special or different but as just another Igorrote savage. The interpreter stared back at his boss with hatred in his eyes.

  Truman barked at the other men in the room to hand over their money. Nobody moved. Friday hid behind Feloa’s legs. Holding out his hand, Truman turned to Dengay. When the Filipino shook his head, Truman swung his knife at Dengay’s head and with one deft stroke, he slit the tribesman’s basket hat open. Coins, tobacco, and a smoking pipe fell to the floor. Truman scooped them up. Then he started tugging at the waistbands of the men’s G-strings and rifling through their blankets and traveling clothes. He found money which two of the other men, Filian and Gatonan, had hidden in the belts of their breechcloths. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, Truman turned and left the room without saying another word.

  Later that evening, the showman scribbled receipts for Julio, Feloa, Dengay, Filian, and Gatonan and asked Callahan to take the pieces of paper to the men.13 Truman had taken up residence in a back room of the house on North Front Street and planned to spend the night there. He didn’t enjoy slumming it, but he needed to keep an eye on his charges. They would leave town the next day, Sunday, and he didn’t want anyone pulling any stunts before then. They had hidden long enough. With their money in his pocket, Truman started to feel his old confidence ebbing back. He would split them up into different groups again and maximize his profits.

  The moon rose over the eaves of the house. The only man who slept that night was Truman. His explosion of rage had left him purged and he sank into a deep slumber. Callahan was under orders to stay awake all night in the same room as the Filipinos, and with Truman in the house he didn’t dare disobey. He eyed the tribespeople warily as they spoke all night in their native tongue. For the first time Julio joined in their low, fierce talk. Jacketless, his shirt torn, he sat on his haunches alongside the others. He was one of them now.

  20

  Raising the Alarm

  CHICAGO, MAY 1906

  Schneidewind’s Igorrote Village at Riverview Park, Chicago

  RICHARD SCHNEIDEWIND STOOD at the head of the table and raised his glass in a toast to the mighty city of Chicago. The table was groaning under the weight of an incredible feast of succulent, golden roasted poultry, piles of crisp potatoes glistening in fat, and mounds of brightly colored vegetables.

  Putting down the carving knife, Schneidewind gestured to his guests to dig in. There was more than enough for everyone. The mood was lighthearted and the convivial sounds of conversation and clinking cutlery filled the air. After struggling with their knives and forks, some of the diners began unabashedly using their hands to pick up the food on their plates and greedily shovel it into their mouths. No one seemed to notice, even less care. Along with English and a smattering of German, there was the sound of another, more exotic tongue.

  Schneidewind looked around the table at his Filipino charges. Since their arrival in America the previous year, he had taken to hosting dinners for the Igorrotes in his own home. He had grown fond of them and enjoyed their company. There wasn’t room for all thirty-five of them at his table, so he had them over in small groups. Tonight he, his young son, Dick, and a few friends were celebrating the Filipinos’ safe arrival in Chicago with Antero, the interpreter, along with some of Schneidewind’s other favorite members of the tribe. Their new village was due to open the next day.

  Schneidewind was especially fond of Antero. The interpreter was around sixteen years of age and had the easy charm of youth, along with a near perfect command of English. He had acted as one of the recruiters and interpreters when the Igorrotes appeared at the St. Louis Fair. He was bright, good-humored, and always had something to say for himself. In the Philippines Antero was popular with the Americans who settled there and he had worked for Jenks, and as Truman and Else Hunt’s houseboy for two years. Else Hunt had treated Antero like a son. She had had white duck suits made for him, given him English lessons at her kitchen table, and had sent him to a local school run by an American woman. She had also taught him American songs, which Antero now used to entertain the crowds who came to the Igorrote Village.

  Schneidewind’s love for the Philippines stemmed from the time he served in the islands. While there he had fallen for a Filipina named Gabina. They were married in 1900, but Gabina died the following year while giving birth to their son, Dick. Dick moved to America with his father in 1904 and spent most of the year living with his aunts and grandmother in the Schneidewind family home in Detroit. But his father arranged for Dick to visit him regularly while he was touring with the tribe.

  When the chicken carcasses had finally been picked clean and there was nothing left in any of the side dishes, Schneidewind and his guests reclined in their seats. Their stomachs groaned from all that they had eaten. The Igorrotes had been popular in Chutes Park, but Schneidewind felt confident they would do even better in the Second City. Chicagoans had a special appetite for amusement parks and the more outlandish the attractions, the better.<
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  Schneidewind looked at his watch and declared it was time they were all getting to bed. They had a busy day ahead of them. He walked the tribespeople back to their village, promising to take them on a tour of Chicago just as soon as they settled into their new home.

  Chicago was growing at an astonishing rate in the early years of the twentieth century. In the three and a half decades since the Great Fire, the city’s population had boomed from three hundred thousand to two million. Every day new arrivals from Ireland, Germany, Poland, and Sweden swelled the city still further, word having reached them that Chicago was crying out for immigrant labor. In 1900, three-quarters of the city’s residents were either foreign-born or born of foreign parents.

  If the Great Fire provided the impetus for the building boom that transformed Chicago, the 1893 World’s Fair confirmed the city’s position as a major center for architecture and design. The fair drew 27.5 million visitors from all over the country, and when it closed Chicagoans craved something more permanent to take its place.

  Six years later, they got their wish, with the opening of Sans Souci amusement park. Named after the summer palace of the Prussian King Frederick the Great and meaning “without worry or care,” Sans Souci opened in the summer of 1899. The park sprawled over seventy-four fun-filled acres on Chicago’s north side and was billed by its owners with hyperbolic extravagance as “the world’s largest amusement park.”

  Compared to the brash and unrestrained Sans Souci, Riverview Park, which opened five years later, was picturesque and polished. Riverview sat on the banks of Chicago’s famous river and was landscaped with shaded groves, rolling lawns, and large picnic areas, making it a popular spot for leisurely days out.1

  In 1905, as the population continued to grow, Chicago got another park. White City sat on the south side of the city, just a mile from Sans Souci and was inspired by the temporary pavilions at the heart of the Chicago World’s Fair. The new park was the brainchild of brothers Morris and Joseph Beifeld, who billed White City as Chicago’s answer to Coney Island. Determined not to be outdone by this upstart on their own doorstep, the owners of Sans Souci fought back, spending two million dollars on a host of new rides and attractions.

  The competition between the three parks was heating up and the Igorrotes were about to be thrust into the heart of the battle.

  Schneidewind had been delighted when the owners of Riverview booked his Igorrote group for the entire summer season. The park was a bucolic idyll that he felt certain the tribespeople would enjoy. The Igorrote’s enclosure was a pleasant spot, filled with trees, plants, and freshly mown grass. The tribe had labored hard, building eight native houses, a granary, a civic building, and a system of miniature rice fields. Another hut served as a storeroom, which Schneidewind had stocked with rice, onions, potatoes, bananas, macaroni, cans of corn, tomatoes, beans, dried peas, and coffee. He also provided firewood, bedding, clothing, soap, and cigars.2

  The weather was cold and miserable when Riverview threw its gates open for the new season on May 26, 1906.3 Strong northeasterly winds forced many of the thirty-two thousand visitors who turned out for opening day to pull up the collars of their coats against the blasts, which seemed to have come straight from the Arctic. Word had gotten out about the exotic new attraction and Chicagoans hurried to the Igorrote Village to see for themselves whether everything they’d heard was true. Did they really eat dogs and cut off human heads? The line to enter the village grew long. Chicagoans were not famous for their patience, but nobody complained about having to wait to get in, not even when the wind picked up.

  Schneidewind had planned an elaborate opening ceremony, but as the gale blew, shaking the walls of the tribe’s huts, he was forced to cut it short. From eleven o’clock in the morning until eleven o’clock at night, the crowds roared for more and threw their hard-earned money at the Igorrotes’ feet as they sang, danced, and engaged in mock battles.4 Chilled to the bone by the icy winds, the tribespeople danced with increased vigor. At one point when Antero looked up, it appeared to him as if the whole of Chicago had descended on their village.

  Schneidewind rose late the following morning. He was tired but happy after the successful grand opening, and decided to reward himself with a leisurely Sunday breakfast. As he ate, he leafed through the newspapers. He noticed, to his pleasure, that several of the reporters who had visited the village the previous day had given the Igorrote exhibit glowing reviews. He couldn’t wait to show the articles to Felder. But as he picked up another paper, he read something that wiped the smile clean off his face.

  The article mentioned an Igorrote Village at Sans Souci. That must be a mistake. Surely they meant his village at Riverview. Schneidewind read on and his eyes alighted on the name Truman Hunt. He felt his stomach lurch. How could this be? What was Hunt doing in Chicago? And how had Schneidewind not learned this before now?

  The owners of Riverview had been advertising Schneidewind’s Igorrote Village for weeks before the start of the new season. Surely Truman knew that they were there. Two Igorrote Villages in the same city would mean lower profits for both of them and that wasn’t in anybody’s interests.

  Truman and Schneidewind’s paths had crossed before, in the Philippines, and then again at St. Louis, where Schneidewind had operated a cigar concession. The two men hadn’t warmed to each other then and Truman’s behavior now was not intended to make friends. By coming to Chicago, was he trying to get back at Felder, his former business partner? From what Schneidewind had heard, the two men had a bitter falling-out. But Truman didn’t seem the sort to sacrifice profits, not even in the interest of getting even.

  One thing Schneidewind could be sure of was that Truman would stop at nothing to get the upper hand. Schneidewind had gone out of his way to persuade Felder of the merits of putting the Igorrotes in a setting that was realistic and respectful of their culture. But would people come and see their authentic village if, for the same price, Truman was promising them dog feasts, canine thefts, gory tales of head-hunting battles, grand weddings, and whatever other crowd-pleasing feats he could dream up? Already fearing the worst, Schneidewind resolved to go and see Hunt’s rival village for himself.

  A roller coaster thundered overhead, the rattling of the cars’ wheels drowning out the riders’ screams. The colossal wooden track seemed to groan under the weight of its cargo as the cars loaded with passengers began the slow upward climb before the next clattering descent.

  Beneath the loop of the Sans Souci roller coaster sat Truman’s Igorrote Village, crammed into a muddy scrap of land, surrounded by the ride’s twenty-five-foot-high trestlework. The enclosure wasn’t so much a “village” as a pen, thought Schneidewind, aghast. There were no trees or plants. Instead the trestlework had been lined with a thin strip of tin that had been crudely painted to resemble mountain scenery. The living accommodations consisted of one half-finished tribal hut and three small A-frame tents. Against this miserable backdrop, the tribespeople were putting on a halfhearted show for the public. The Igorrotes were filthy, their bronze skin caked in dirt.5

  Schneidewind shuddered. No one should be living like this in twentieth-century America. Their race was immaterial. He didn’t want to see any more. He left the village before word got back to Truman that he was there. Schneidewind wondered where the showman was. When he’d asked at the gate who was in charge, he’d been told it was a man named Hill.

  Back at Riverview, Schneidewind telegraphed Felder to tell him about the dreadful condition of their rival’s village. Felder told his business partner to leave it with him. He knew exactly what they must do.

  Col. Edwards, McIntyre’s boss at the Bureau of Insular Affairs, was alarmed to receive Felder’s letter describing the appalling conditions of Truman’s Igorrote Village. Edwards found McIntyre in his office and read a section of the letter out to him: “Mr. Schneidewind has just returned from a trip to [Truman Hunt’s] Village, and from his report, to me, I am afraid that sooner or later the conditions und
er which the Natives are living will get into public print, and bring this Village into disrepute. It is hard enough on us to have the Igorrote Village pirated as is the case at Sans Souci, but . . . it would do me personally an irreparable harm if my village was confounded in the public mind with the edition now on view at San [sic] Souci Park.”6

  Felder clearly had a vested interest in pointing out any shortcomings in his rival’s enterprise. But if what he said was true, and Truman’s village could become a public disgrace, a delay could cost the War Department dearly. McIntyre informed Edwards that he had just received a similar complaint from a member of the public who had also visited Truman’s village. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that the complainant had been put up to it by Felder. Or maybe they were doing the bidding of the American Anti-Imperialist League. Either way, McIntyre and Edwards agreed, the bureau must act. They must send someone to carry out an inspection of Truman’s village straight away.

  The inspector would need a translator in order to question the Igorrotes. They couldn’t use Truman’s interpreter—he might be loyal to his boss and have a vested financial interest in protecting him. But finding an alternative wouldn’t be easy. There were Filipinos studying in America under a government program, but it was far from certain that any of them spoke the Igorrotes’ language. Of the 7.6 million people living in the Philippines, only 2.8 percent of them were Igorrote, and a smaller proportion still were Bontoc Igorrote like those in Truman’s group.7 The government could waste weeks trying to find an interpreter among the students. There was one other option, which wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. They would use Schneidewind’s translator.