by Jim Tully
“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.
XIV: A Negro Girl
XIV: A Negro Girl
HE joined us in a Florida town. He was not a typical circus roughneck in appearance. His hair was a wavy black turned prematurely grey. His eyes were deep brown, his jaw was firm, his lips tight, and his body large, well shaped, and muscular.
“Any work here?” he asked Silver Moon Dugan.
“Nope. All filled up. But the property boss needs a man,” was the terse reply.
The property boss gave him a sixteen-pound sledge and told him to drive tent stakes. It was before breakfast. By the time the meal was announced he had driven, with the help of two other men, over a hundred stakes to hold the property tent.
He unloaded property effects belonging to performers. He also wore a bright red and green uniform and led a group of Shetland ponies inside the big top when the special act was on.
As Sunday was wash day with the circus, he would always take time to wash his rough clothing.
He worked hard. He smoked a twisted pipe when sitting alone, and acted disdainful of everybody, including Cameron. We called him “Blackie” among ourselves.
It was not long before we looked upon him as a superior being. His good looks, his strong and clean body, his proud manner fascinated us. We respected his disdain.
He seldom talked to us. When he did, his speech was direct and brutal.
Having created an air of mystery about himself, we were always anxious to learn something about him.
Silver Moon Dugan soon heard of his ability to swing a heavy sledge. He induced him to leave the property boss and join his unit at ten dollars a month increase, or forty dollars a month, top wages on the canvas crew.
He made the change with no more concern than he took in filling his pipe. The stakes were always laid out for him when the tent was to go up. Once the stake was started in the ground by his two helpers he would slam it downward in nine strokes. The sledge would swing upward, the steel glistening in the sun. After making a circle at least eight feet it would hit the stake squarely. No other man with the circus could drive a stake in the ground with less than twelve strokes.
Even Silver Moon Dugan respected him.
“Where you from, Buddy? Been troupin’ long?” he asked him.
“Sure thing. I was raised with a circus. My father was Barnum’s mother.”
Silver Moon Dugan muttered contemptuously to Buddy Conroy, “Funny guy,” and let him alone afterward.
“What do you think of Blackie?” I asked Jock.
“You git it, say it yourself, kid. He’s no regular circus stiff. Look at that nose and that jaw and those eyes that cut like steel. He’s got razors in ’em. He was born to be hanged.” Jock would say no more.
We left Pensacola, Florida, and played a small town about eighty miles distant. It had drizzled all day and the lot was slippery. Blackie had a habit of walking around it, head bent low, left hand holding the pipe in his mouth.
It was about seven in the evening and the drizzly day lingered faintly. Blackie saw a form in the semi-darkness. “Here—what are you doing there?” he asked quickly.
A scared Negro girl, not over fourteen, had been trying to crawl under the tent. She stood before him.
“I doan do nothin’, jist a peerin’ in,” she answered, with a half petulant smile.
She was more yellow than black. Her face was beautiful and round, her mouth small, her teeth even and white, her lips full and she was dark-eyed. She wore a plaid dress which curved above her hips and accentuated her lithe and lovely form.
Blackie held her shoulders in his immense hands.
“God damn, but you’re nice,” he said, “slender and clean like a new whip. GOD DAMN!” He crushed her to him.
Pushing her away at arm’s-length, he still held her shoulders and looked in her eyes.
“Why in the hell you should have to sneak in a circus is what I’d like to know.”
The girl looked up at him with wide eyes of wonder. He put his arm about her. She clung to him at once and pulled his head down and kissed him.
Blackie’s eyes blazed. He led the slender young girl, now all animal herself, to the rear of the snake-charmer’s wagon. She was heard to cry, “Oh Misteh Man, Misteh Man,” a few times as if in pain. Then all became very still.
Later, he put her on a mattress in an empty canvas-covered wagon and stood guard over it while fifteen white circus roughnecks entered one at a time. Before entering, each man gave Blackie a half dollar.
When the last man had gone Blackie smuggled the girl into the big top.
Late that night, as the circus train was ready to pull out, the little Negro girl saw Blackie standing in the open door of a car.
Running with arms extended she yelled, “Misteh Man, Misteh Man!” and tried to board the car as the train started.
We watched Blackie’s unchanging expression. The girl held desperately to the car and tried to swing her lithe body inside. “Let her come on in,” yelled Silver Moon Dugan.
“What? A nigger wench?” snapped Blackie as he put his foot against the girl’s forehead and kicked her from the car.
The girl could be heard wailing pitifully above the accumulating noise of the rolling cars, “Misteh Man, Misteh—Man—do come on back, Misteh Man!”
The engine whistle shrieked as we rattled by red and green lights.
* * *
No man spoke for a long time. I watched their changing expressions. Silver Moon Dugan’s eyes looked a trifle sad. I heard Blackie trying to puff his pipe. It had gone out. He remained silent for some minutes. He then lit a match and smoked.
XV: Red-Lighted
XV: Red-Lighted
SILVER MOON DUGAN was known as the greatest “red-lighter” in the country. Red-lighting was an ancient
and dishonorable custom indulged in by many a circus twenty years ago.
The act consisted of opening the side door of a moving car, and kicking the undesirable traveler out.
How the term originated is in confusion. Some ruffian authorities claimed that men were only kicked off trains near the red lights of a railroad yard. But I have seen many kicked off circus trains where no red lights gleamed at all.
But there can be no doubt that the practice originated in order to cheat circus laborers and other roustabouts out of their wages. If the victim persisted in walking many miles and following the circus he was chased off the lot. There was no redress in any of the states for those cheated. The poor man’s justice then, as now, was not only blind, but lame and halt.
Silver Moon Dugan had been with Cameron’s World’s Greatest Combined Shows three years. He was either of French or Spanish extraction. How he came by any of his names no one ever knew. He was tall, wiry and dark. He had thin straggly hair. His black eyes burned out of a rat face. He had a club foot and walked with a limp. He could talk French, Italian, German, and excellent English when necessary.
His greeting each morning to his roughneck canvasmen was, “Good morning, sons. You know what kinda sons I mean.”
Dugan was nearly aways drunk, but never showed it. He was a hard, domineering, brutal, snarling driver of men. He carried a blackjack and a revolver at all times. He could load or unload a circus faster, and with fewer men, than any other canvas boss in the nation.
To mark a lot for a tent it is necessary to make accurate measurements. A steel tape is used to locate places for centre poles, dressing tents and stakes.
Silver Moon Dugan could walk on a lot, give it a quick glance as he limped about on his club foot, and know with unerring precision in five minutes just how the tent was to be placed. “You gotta know your canvas,” he would say as he would allow two feet for shrinkage if the tent was wet. If the canvas was extremely dry, he would allow for its stretching a foot.
