Chapter VIII Knights Errant
An episode, which occurred about this time, took me into latitudes and scenes never before dreamed of by me.
As near as I can figure it, the event happened in March, 1893. I admit that in view of the seriousness of the incident my indefiniteness seems strange, but it is typical of my class.
Since I have moved in different spheres I have often wondered at this and tried to explain it to myself. No other explanation seems to be at hand except that this disregard of dates, of time and place is a characteristic of the world Bohemian, whether on the Bowery or in the Tenderloin. Recently I had an illustration of this.
In preparing a story, treating of a certain phase of Bowery life for a newspaper, I bethought myself of a man, who had been closely connected with the very occurrence I intended to mention. I sent for him and he came to my house, willing to tell me all he could remember. He recalled it all and graphically described every detail.
At last I asked him to tell me the year and month in which it had happened. That caused an immediate halt in the narrative and many minutes were spent in serious reflection. It was of no avail. We fixed the date of it to be in “about” such and such a year, and such and such a month, but it was impossible to accurately settle the year and month.
And this in view of the fact that the occurrence had been a cold-blooded murder, that my informant had been an eye-witness of it and had spent several months in the House of Detention.
Why others are so careless of dates I do not know and it is not to the point here, but I do know that in the life of the East Side, every existence is so crammed full of reality that even the most important occurrences are only of temporary moment. There, events are dated by events.
Ask a fellow of the Bowery when he had lost his father or mother, and he will very likely answer:
“Oh, about five or six years ago.”
If you insist on a more precise answer, he will scratch his head, ponder for a while, and then: “Let’s see! Yes, the old man died about two months after I came from the penitentiary on my last bit, and that was somewhere in 1891.”
I was playing my now familiar rôle of bouncer at “Fatty Flynn’s,” an ex-convict, who was running a dance hall and dive at 34 Bond street. It was only a few doors from the Bowery and enjoyed a great vogue among the transient sightseers, traversing the Bowery in search of “good times.”
On the night in question, two Princeton students, arrayed in yellow and black mufflers and wearing the insignia of their fraternity, visited the dance hall in the course of their lark. It was rather early for that sort of thing, the place was half-empty, and I, to do the honors of the establishment and also to speed their “buying,” stepped over to the two young men for a “jollying” chat.
They were very young, had a considerable amount of money, and seemed flattered by my mark of distinction.
We spoke about “sporting” life in general and they asked me concerning several dives which were the most notorious of the day. As I had worked in every dive of notoriety, it was not a difficult matter for me to give all desired information. This seemed to invite their hunger for knowledge and they invited me to make the third in their party and to spend the night in going from dive to dive. This, by the way, this unofficial guide-business is another way in which the man, who has to live by his wits, turns many an “honest” dollar.
I could not accept the invitation as they held out no financial inducement and, that not forthcoming, I felt myself in duty bound to stick to my post and employer. However, it was a rainy night, business was slow and my chances for making any “extra” money very slim, and I entrusted one of my favorite waiters with the diplomatic mission of “boosting my game” with the two students. Moved by their curiosity and the skillful strategy of my emissary they made me an offer which was far more than I had expected, but which was nevertheless declined by me, until my persistent refusal to utilize my services in their behalf screwed their bid up to a figure, which I could not conscientiously decline.
I made my excuses to “Fatty” Flynn, and, that done, we started out on our expedition of studying social conditions and evil. Measured by dive time-standards, we had started out too early. It was only nine o’clock and the “fun” in the dives hardly ever began before midnight. Still, thanks to my knowing guidance, we found quite a number of dance halls where we could spend the intervening hours to the profit of the respective proprietors.
One thing, which soon disgusted me with my two charges, was that they were unable to stand much drink. I warned them against too much indulgence, as that would incapacitate them for the pleasures to come, but youth is proverbially obstinate and they went their whooping way rejoicing.
After having left the “Golden Horn,” a well-known dance hall in East Thirteenth street, we walked down Third avenue as far as Twelfth street, where they insisted on going into a gin-mill, which shed its garish radiance across our path. It was not a regulation dive and only known as the rendezvous of a gang of tough fellows, who made that part of the thoroughfare none too safe for passing strangers. From this it should not be supposed that they were unkempt in appearance. Quite the reverse, they were rather well-dressed.
We happened to drop into the place at a most inopportune moment. A crowd of these fellows were at the bar spending lavishly the proceeds of some successfully worked “trick.” They were very hilarious; so were my protégés, and I was kept constantly on the alert to prevent friction between the hilarious majority and minority. It was not my policy to become embroiled in any useless rows and I entreated the students to continue on our way downtown. But they were not in a condition to listen to reasoning and, attracted by several unclean stories told by members of the other faction, began to treat the “house” and intermingle with them.
There seemed to be no immediate prospect of any disturbance, and I permitted myself to leave the room for a few minutes. On my return the scene had completely changed. The crowd had closed around the students and were threatening them. I learned afterward that one of the students had taken umbrage at the rough familiarity of one of the gang and had attempted to hit him. The situation seemed critical, but not dangerous, and I was about to smooth matters, when my eye caught the reflection of some suspiciously glittering object. It was a knife in the hand of the tough offended and only partly concealed by the sleeve of the coat.
He was sneaking around the crowd to get beside his intended prey and had almost reached him when I decided to interfere. I had not measured my distance well, for just as I jumped between the two men, the knife was on its downward path and found the fulfillment of its mission in my neck.
A three-inch cut, a tenth part of an inch from the jugular vein, is not exactly the sort of souvenir one cares to take with him from an evening dedicated to “fun” and “good times.” And when it confines one to the hospital for several weeks, it becomes a decided bore. All this was recognized by my new found friend, the student, who had been the indirect cause of my disfigurement, and having in the meantime, been expelled from his college for some wild escapade, he decided to show his gratitude to me, for what he was pleased to call “having saved his life,” by taking me abroad.
“You are not educated. Travel is the greatest educator, therefore, I will show you the world.”
It did not require much coaxing to accept the proposition, and after arranging for a boarding-place for my good, old Bill, we started out to see the world.
The next six months were and are like a dream to me. I was perfectly willing to have the world shown to me, but am inclined to believe that I had a rather imperfect demonstrator. To be quite candid, I doubted if my fellow-traveler was any more familiar with the world at large than I was.
At any rate, after a hurried and zig-zagged jaunt through Europe, we landed in Algiers with a fearfully shrunken cost capital. The cafés of that African Paris certainly broadened my education.
An expected remittance from home failed to arrive and my partner fell into a trance of deep and pondering thought. The conclusion of it was that we, by decree of my “college chum,” were forthwith appointed adventurers, soldiers of fortunes, dare-devils and anything else that could make us believe our miserable, stranded condition was the stepping stone to great, chivalrous deeds to come. We enlisted in the Legion of Strangers.
But chivalry loses half of its charm when it comes in red trousers, blue jacket and on the back of a bony Rosinante, carrying you through stretches and stretches of glowing, burning sand. In short, the life of an African trooper, banished into the interior and subsisting on food as foreign to a Bowery stomach as the jargon spoken by his messmates, had absolutely no charm for me.
I am not very good at disguising my moods and emotions, and that I was homesick, that my heart, in spite of the excitement of the occasional skirmishes, yearned for my old Bowery, became apparent to my brother in misery. Then, a stranger coincidence, it also cropped out that my partner would much prefer to be on Broadway or Fifth avenue than in the dreary stockade of Degh-del-ker.
Alas, then, the railroad system of that part of Africa was hardly in existence, and even if it had been, it would not have been advisable for us to take berths of civilization, as the government foolishly wanted to retain our valuable service. History informs me that, shortly after our departure the garrison of Degh-del-ker had several disastrous encounters with some of the rebellious tribes, which would have probably resulted differently had we two lent our arms and strength to the cause of the tri-colored flag.
I mention this merely for the purpose of explaining the delicacy with which I have related this experience. Neither my friend nor myself have the slightest intention of becoming the unfortunate causes for international complications between our own country and France, for having bereft the latter of two such valiant warriors as ourselves.
We of the Bowery love colors and I had often had a potent wish that I could show myself in all the glory of my gaudy raiment to the gang of my old, beloved street. A Bowery boy in blue coat and red trousers, with clanking sabre by his side, I would have made the hit of my life if appearing thus attired in my favorite haunts. However, this pleasure was denied to me.
We managed to procure less stunning costumes and successfully besting the sentinels, started on our march for the coast.
It was a fearful trip. For six long weeks we plodded on through blinding sand and blistering heat, carefully avoiding all native villages and, yet, often saved from perishing just in the nick of time by tribesmen, who found us in helpless state in hiding places.
From the coast we shovelled our way across the Mediterranean in the boiler-room of the good ship St. Heléne. It was suffocating work, and time and again, we were hauled up from the regions of below, thrown on the deck, and revived by streams of cold water.
At last, we steamed into the harbor of Marseilles, where we expected to find a letter of credit. It was there and we both fell on our knees in the most sincere thanksgiving ever offered.
Nothing more can be told in relation to this episode, excepting that we both felt we had been sufficiently educated by seeing the world and that we were urgently needed at home.
We lost no time in getting there.