CINCINNATI--NECESSITY'S BRUTAL CHAINS
"_There is no contending with necessity, and we should be very tender
how we censure those who submit to it. It is one thing to be at
liberty to do what we will and another thing to be tied up to do what
we must._"
I entered the depot and sank wearily into a seat. I felt pretty well
and had a clear conscience. Had I not honorably paid my way from
Cleveland to Cincinnati instead of trespassing on the property of a
mighty railroad company? I found a place to sit down, dropped my head
forward and was soon fast asleep. But the sleep was of short duration
for in a few minutes I was rudely awakened by the depot policeman.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"Nowhere," I answered. "I have no money."
"Well, what are you doing here?"
"Can't you see? I am trying to sleep?"
"Have you a railroad ticket?"
"No."
"Well, you can't stay here."
"Have they a Free Municipal Emergency Home in this city?"
"No."
"Where would you have me go?"
"Some other place."
Knowing too well the result to the homeless, destitute wage-earner of
disobedience to the scion of the law, I quickly left. To be absolutely
alone on the streets of a great, strange city at midnight, penniless,
without a friend or acquaintance, was nothing to me, a strong, well
man. But to the homeless woman or girl, or the frail sick man or boy,
my homelessness held a great meaning. Going a short way up the street,
I saw a man standing on a corner, and from his dejected mien, I knew
that he, like myself, was a down-and-out.
"Hello," I said.
"Hello," he answered.
"Where can a fellow that's broke find a 'flop?'"
"Explore me!"
"They have just driven me out of the Big Four."
"They have just kicked me out of the L. & N. I am going to Fountain
Square. It is now one o'clock. There is a train that leaves at
two-thirty from the L. & N. People are already going to the station.
You can probably stay there unnoticed until the train leaves. I can't
go back for they would know me, but keep your eyes open for bulls." And
with this advice he pointed out the way.
I went, and unnoticed I slept an hour sitting on a station seat. When
the train left, I was the only remaining individual in the waiting-room
and, of course, very conspicuous. The hint of the law for decency and
order at that station, came to me with the question, "Why didn't you
take that train?"
"I did not want it."
"What are you doing here?"
"I have no other shelter."
With the deep, low-bred voice of an unfeeling brute, he emphatically
said, "Beat it."
I, too, must now find Fountain Square. A switchman kindly pointed out
the direction. As I walked up the street, I raised my eyes to see if
the day was breaking, but I might have known better. Automobiles and
hacks containing only men came down the street and stopped before the
large, red-curtained houses, and from the sound of revelry, of jest,
laughter and music, I realized that I was in the redlight district. A
black slave standing in a dimly lighted entrance to a passage between
two houses, said, "Hello, Honey, buy me a drink."
"Why, girl, I could not buy a postage stamp that was canceled."
"Why, what's the matter?"
"I'm broke. I haven't even a place to sleep tonight."
"Come here."
I stepped up a little nearer to her.
"Is yo' sho' nuff broke?"
"I most assuredly am."
"Whah yo' from?"
"From Cleveland."
"What's de matter wid Cleveland? Cleveland all gone to--?"
"It was for me, at least during part of the time I was there."
"And has yo' honest nowhah er to sleep?"
She put her hand in her purse and offered me a quarter. "Take that. It
will buy yo' a bed."
Glancing up, I saw or fancied I saw the light of dawn. "No, girl.
See, the day is breaking," and as I went on to the Square, I knew
that I had seen in that poor, black slave girl an expression of human
kindness that could not be found in the vocabulary of the Christian,
intelligent, cultured city of Cincinnati. She had offered me, the
homeless, penniless, out-of-work man, a shelter.
Girl, for you and your kind, and your race, in the great South, the day
_is_ dawning.
Fountain Square is a strip of concrete about fifty feet wide, extending
for a block. In the center is a large, magnificent fountain. This
Square was acquired by the city as a gift, with a perpetual proviso
that it should always be a market-place. Otherwise the city would
forfeit the grant. Consequently, on one side, as a retainer, is built
a six by ten foot iron, pagoda-roofed structure, under which are
several tiers of shelves on which, for a short time each year, flowers
are placed and sold. On either side benches were placed, but when I
reached the Square every available place seemed filled. The shelves in
the flower stand were crowded with homeless, drooping, broken human
beings. The roof was a shelter from the frost. There were one hundred
men in this Cincinnati "Free Municipal Emergency Home" that night.
Nor was this even free, for frequently the police of this humane city
raid the Square and drive all, to the last man, to prison. Exhaustion
was beating me down, and there seemed no other alternative, so with
palpitating heart lest I be singled out as a hopeless inebriate, thrown
into jail and then onto the stone pile, I lay down on the frost-covered
stone at the feet of my homeless companions and fell into a sleep. It
was only for a short time, however, for the rousing up of the men on
the bench awakened me and one said to me in a hoarse whisper, "For
God's sake, Jack, get up! Here comes a bull." I quickly sprang to my
feet.
As the men were leaving the Square I saw a number of them enter a dark
alley, and asked where they were going. I was told the _Enquirer_
posted the "want-ad" sheets of the paper at its back door an hour
before daylight. A group of fifteen men and two young women were
already there, striking matches and struggling to read the columns of
"Help Wanted." I finally succeeded in getting close enough to read
them. There were a number of things I could do. I took the list and
started out only to realize the absolute necessity of a breakfast. I
tried several places to work for this essential reinforcement to health
and strength, but failed. I thought over my effects again. No, I had
nothing except my eyeglasses. After all they were only for fine print
while reading. I thought of the watchmaker in New York who was resting
from going blind and of the boy I had met, who, without his glasses,
was almost blind but who had pawned them for food; of another, a boy
without vice and industrious, selling the gold filling from his teeth
to help him over a rough place; of men I had seen, through want, pawn
their underclothing. It was a simple thing for me to part with my
glasses. I got twenty-five cents on them.
After breakfast I began a strenuous search for work and at last, after
explaining that I could handle horses, and was sober and industrious,
I was hired at twelve dollars a week to drive a milk wagon at F----,
a big milk depot. But they did not want me for three days and there
was the rub. The manager of a large restaurant told me that if I would
come at two o'clock the next morning and work from two until four he
would give me my breakfast and a quarter of a dollar. I was exceedingly
happy, for I, at least, was rich in prospects.
I went to the public bath and was absolutely refused a bath because I
had not a nickel. The Salvation Army refused me assistance in any way,
shape or manner. The Associated Charities had nothing to give away.
They did not even have a bed in exchange for work. However they had
meals in exchange for labor. By sawing wood for one or more hours they
would give me a meal. I knew what that meal would be, a decoction of
stuff made mostly of water, and I said, "You must give a pretty good
meal for one and a half hours' labor at the hard work of sawing wood."
This seemed to touch the head of this Charity institution, for in an
offended way he said:
"This is a Charity institution--not a Commercial one."
The Y. M. C. A. refused me even a bath. I was beginning to get saucy
and politely told the presiding officer of this commercial institution
he had better take the word "Christian" out of their title. I was met
with such violent anathemas that I felt I was in the wrong and speedily
retired.
By this time circumstances were forcing my mental contract to assume an
india-rubber character, like laws of justice and good books. There was
a large religious convention in session in the city and if my contract
would allow me to ask aid of those institutions which stand avowed to
help a destitute workingman, and these gentlemen of the cloth posed as
representatives of such heavenly safeguards against despair, I felt
that I was justified (although it was against a city ordinance and, if
caught, I would be imprisoned), at least in asking of these the price
of a meal or a bed. So bringing into play a determined will and taking
a stand at a convenient place where I was sure I would not be detected,
I hesitatingly approached one saying, "Sir, would you kindly give an
honest workingman the price of a meal?" He replied, without stopping
except to slap me cordially on the back.
"My dear boy, I have no money."
I then asked another, whose answer as he stopped for a brief instant
was:
"My dear friend, I have no change."
To this I replied, "I did not ask for change particularly. I am not
hard to suit, at least just now. A dollar will go farther than a dime."
He only smiled and hurried on. I was their dear boy and dear friend,
but not precious enough to find a place in their hospitality. I could
have rested again that night on the stones of Fountain Square, or
suffered the insult and abuse of a Cincinnati prison, or have been
forced into the hospital, or have ended the struggle in the Ohio river,
for all that Cincinnati or at least these two satellites of this mighty
convention cared.
The nights were extremely cold but the days were bright and warm in
the sunshine. Too weary to undergo further the trial without rest, I
crept away to the river bank, far enough away to be unmolested, away
from suspicion and question. Here on the sun-warmed gravel, with my
little bundle for a pillow, I fell into a sweet sleep and pleasant
dreams, not of pearly gates and golden streets, but of snowy beds and
sumptuous tables. I slept for a long while and when I awoke the sun
was setting in some dense black clouds and the air had the chill of an
approaching storm. Remembering that I had a job at two o'clock on the
coming morning and the thought bringing a certain degree of comfort and
cheer, I strolled into a large saloon, where there was a bright fire.
Here I sat and talked to many workingmen who came that way. I read the
many papers scattered about until the place closed, at midnight, when I
was forced back to a bench in Fountain Square. Just as I arrived there
a gust of wind and rain swirled through the streets and into the Square
with a mad force. It was a harbinger of what was to follow. A few
moments later there broke forth the most piercing equinoctial storm of
wind, snow and rain that I had ever known. It lasted for three days.
I crept into the office of an all-night lodging house. When it was
discovered that I did not want a bed and had no money I was requested
to vacate. I thought of going at once to the restaurant where I was to
work in the morning but I remembered the manager had told me not to
come before two o'clock. Already wet from exposure I sought the shelter
of the flower stand. Eight men ahead of me had taken refuge there,
but they kindly allowed me to crowd in. While we were protected from
the beating torrent of rain, we were thoroughly chilled and suffering
intensely.
After all, I was the favored one, for in a short time I would be in a
big warm restaurant kitchen at work. It seemed an endless time before
I found myself there with another man paring potatoes, and while
we worked, he told me of the steamboat running from Cincinnati to
Louisville, and of the opportunity many times for a man to work his
way to the latter city,--a suggestion which I resolved, if possible,
to profit by. Four o'clock soon came, and my breakfast was earned. It
was not as I thought it would be,--a portion of all the good things
that the restaurant afforded, and that I could eat against a week's
time of need. It was simply a twenty cent check for a breakfast at the
lunch counter upstairs. I could have eaten four such meals without fear
of any unpleasant results, but as he gave me the check he gave me my
quarter also, saying, "We do not usually give more than a meal for the
work, but I will make an exception this time, and as I told you, give
you a quarter." Why he did so, I have never been able to discover. That
quarter meant a great deal to me, for I could spend it where I sought
shelter, and feel a degree of independence and welcome. Don't think
for a moment the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation Army, or the Associated
Charities got it! I was pretty sure, however, to save ten cents of it
for a bed at the Union Mission on the levee. On going there I asked for
the gift of a bed, and was decidedly refused. I was told it was not a
Christian institution which gave gifts to the needy, but absolutely a
business proposition with them. Whether that be true or not, I admired
them for their honesty. This Mission was near the steamboat landing.
On the following morning I applied for the privilege of working my
way to Louisville. I could do so, but the only work offered was that
of roustabout, loading and unloading heavy freight before leaving and
while en route. I would receive no pay for my work, unless I signed
to return, or make a round trip. The deck passage was a dollar and a
half. The next morning, with two white and twenty black men, associate
workers, I was off for Louisville.
Life, in recent years, had not inured me to such arduous work. I think
I could have stood the work more successfully than my trial in New York
if I had not been weakened by starvation, but at the test of carrying
a heavy barrel, box, or bundle, I could not stand firm and wavered
as I walked, which frightened me. I realized that I must desist. I
made an appeal to the boat officer to carry me to Louisville on the
promise that I would pay as soon as I had earned the money. I was a
weather-beaten hobo, and of course, not to be trusted, but my request
was granted, providing I would leave my little bundle as a pledge that
I would fulfil my promise.
As I was leaving the boat at Louisville, I stood with my little blue
jeans bundle in my hand. The purser was there to see that I turned it
over to the negro porter. The porter had an austere cruel expression,
but instantly, as we stepped back to deposit it in the porter's locker,
his face turned to a glow of kindness and he handed me back the
bundle, saying, "Hit the plank. Put it under your coat. You will not be
noticed." In that little package were all my earthly possessions. It
meant a great deal to me. So taking the bundle I slipped away. I was
again homeless on the streets of another great city, looking for work.