+By the Rev. H. Cole+.]
An entertaining article, by a missionary who has spent over
twenty years in the interior, dealing with the extraordinary
customs governing "the love of a man for a maid" in the Dark
Continent.
In Africa, marriage being largely of a commercial and temporary
character, Cupid does not rule the destiny of men and women to the same
extent as in this country; and even when under his spell, the natives
conduct their love affairs in a much less demonstrative manner than
Europeans. It will, however, be seen that some of the methods adopted
by dusky swains to secure the nymphs of their choice are extraordinary,
if not romantic.
[Illustration: A DUSKY BELLE ADMIRING HERSELF IN HER MOST PRECIOUS
POSSESSION, A HAND-MIRROR.
_From a Photo, by Rev. H. Cole._]
Amongst some tribes, when a man professes his love for a woman and asks
her in marriage, she invariably refuses him at first, lest it should
appear that she had been thinking of him and was eager to become his
wife! By so doing she maintains the modesty of her sex, as well as
tests the love and abases the pride of her lover. This policy is also
intended to be of use to the woman in her married life--as, should
there be quarrelling, and the husband threaten to send her away, she
can remind him of how he made repeated professions of his love and
urgently pressed his suit before she consented to become his wife.
The charge which is sometimes brought against white men of "marrying
for money" cannot be used against their sex in Africa, for there it is
the other way about, husbands having to purchase their wives. When a
man has a wife bestowed upon him as an act of charity, he feels that
she is not properly his own, and she, if she will, can treat him with
contempt. This custom of wife-purchase, although it is to be decried
as tending to lower marriage to the level of a commercial contract,
is an incentive to young men to work. Lazy youths cannot compete with
energetic ones in the matrimonial market, as they are despised by the
young women and rejected by their parents as being unworthy of their
daughters. The number of polygamists would also be greater were it not
that each man has to buy his wife. In order to procure the wherewithal
he must necessarily exert himself, and as "the cost spoils the taste,"
many prefer to remain monogamists.
[Illustration: THE LUCKLESS CHIEF WHO NARROWLY ESCAPED POISONING AT THE
HANDS OF A JEALOUS WIFE.
_From a Photo. by Rev. T. B. R. Westgate._]
Polygamy is the source of much social evil. When a husband pays more
attention to one of his wives than the others they become jealous,
and probably set about poisoning her or their lord and master as the
simplest way out of the difficulty. Thus the polygamist has no easy
time in striving to please all his wives and guarding himself against
the deadly potion; while if by chance all of them combine against him,
his lot is a hapless one indeed. When he has reason to believe that
his women-folk are secretly plotting against him, he makes them taste,
in his presence, the viands prepared for him (males and females do not
eat together, whether married or otherwise) before he partakes of them;
or he may make it a rule to have all his food cooked for him by his
favourite wife, eschewing all others. The photograph above reproduced
shows a chief, living near one of the mission stations in Usagara, who
had a hair-breadth escape from being poisoned by one of his five wives,
whom he put away on becoming a Christian. The evils of polygamy are
further seen in the strife and jealousy existing between the children
of the different wives.
[Illustration: THE EXTRAORDINARY COSTUME OF MILLET-STALKS WORN BY THE
YOUTHS WHILE PREPARING FOR MATRIMONY.
_From a Photo. by Rev. T. B. R. Westgate._]
Near the great snow-capped Kilimanjaro live a tribe named the Wamoshi,
noted for their strange and amusing customs relating to courtship and
marriage. When a young man of this tribe sets his affections upon a
young woman, he enters the garden where she is working and casts sly
glances at her. If she looks at him occasionally, he takes it as a sign
that she would not be unwilling to become his wife. This preliminary
move being over, he sends a friend to tell her that he wishes to marry
her, and if she consents the lover goes to her father. When the latter
is told by the young man the object of his visit, he says: "I cannot
pay any attention to your request until you bring cattle or goats."
These having been brought, the father tells the suitor that he must
bring more on account of the mother; and when he brings these, he is
further told that he must bring more on account of the sweetheart
herself! These last having been brought, the palaver begins, when the
amount of dowry is discussed. Before the great cattle plague in 1884,
thirty head of cattle was the usual dowry paid by the bridegroom. Then
the young man sends a number of his friends to seize his sweetheart
when coming out of her house in the early morning. She screams and
resists, whilst her friends follow, feigning grief. The captors take
her in triumph to the house of her lover's mother, where she remains
within doors as a guest for a month, the food being supplied by her
lover. If she is in good condition at the end of the month, he is
considered a worthy suitor; but if thin and haggard, he is deemed
unworthy of her. The marriage ceremony (which consists of certain
ablutions, etc.) being over, the bride goes out with bells attached to
her legs, indicating that she has become a wife.
A missionary who witnessed the carrying off of a prospective bride
without understanding the meaning of the business thought the girl's
captors were very cruel, and raised his voice indignantly against such
conduct. When told that it was the usual marriage custom of the tribe,
however, he was greatly amused.
The Masai tribe, who are fierce in war, act gingerly enough in
love-making. When a swain falls in love with a young woman, he deputes
his brother-in-law to go to the mother of the damsel with two cakes of
tobacco. The mother usually accepts the love-token, and the daughter,
as a rule, makes no demur. When the girl comes of age (they are all
engaged long before this) the man brings a heifer, and later on two
cows, a bullock, four sheep, and two skin bottles of honey. One of the
bottles is made into mead for the purpose of offering up in sacrifice
on account of the bride. The honey of the other bottle is squirted out
of the mouths of father, uncle, and mother on to the body of the bride,
and after this ceremony is finished she is given to the bridegroom.
[Illustration: A MATCH-MAKING PALAVER IN PROGRESS.
_From a Photograph._]
Between betrothal and marriage there is no communication between
lovers, and should the man come unintentionally upon his intended
whilst eating, he runs home and brings two goats as a trespass-offering!
Another custom of this tribe is equally curious. When a man has
gained the affections of a woman whom he wants to marry, he sets off
to the forest to look for wild honey. Having procured a calabash of
the precious commodity, he takes it to the parents of his sweetheart,
going a second and third time to the forest on the same business, as
he must present three calabashes of honey before he gets a hearing.
Three cakes of tobacco added to the above make him qualified to press
his suit further. Afterwards he brings another calabash of honey, a
heifer calf, a bullock, and a sheep. The honey is made into mead, and
the suitor, with his friends, goes to the house of the young woman,
where the ox and sheep are killed. Feasting now graces the proceedings,
and the bride and bridegroom go through a ceremonial washing, which
is the formal way of "tying the knot." The ceremony being over, the
father-in-law and his new son-in-law address one another with the
familiar and endearing epithet of "Wageri."
We have seen these Masai as lovers; let us now take a peep at them
as husband and wife. The man we find intolerably lazy, and the poor
woman submits to the yoke of bondage as a matter of course, without a
moan or groan. Though submissive, she may one day get ruffled by harsh
treatment, and thus a quarrel ensues. If her husband strike her, she
must not retaliate; but should she be so daring as to strike her lord
and master in self-defence, all the males of the kraal assemble and
belabour her with thongs. It will therefore be seen that the Masai are
no believers in the doctrine that women should take their own part.
Should the lady meekly submit to her husband's brutalities, however,
those present call upon him to desist.
[Illustration: A NATIVE WEDDING AT A MISSION CHURCH.
_From a Photo. by Rev. T. B. R. Westgate._]
Amongst the Wasagara tribe, when a man wants to marry the woman of his
choice he gives her a "chipingo" (engagement-ring). Should another
suitor come along afterwards and want to pay his addresses to the
engaged girl, she reminds him that she has the "chipingo" of another
man--an example that might be commended to some ladies in civilized
countries. When the man has procured the wherewithal for the completion
of the match, he proceeds to the house of his sweetheart's parents and,
the relations and friends of both parties having assembled, the palaver
begins. The bridegroom, if a poor man, pays the dowry in fowls--two
hens and a cock being deemed sufficient. One hen is on account of the
father and the other on account of the mother of the bride. The cock
is killed and eaten with a pot of porridge. When the feast is over the
ablutions are performed, and the bride and bridegroom are enjoined by
the conductors of the ceremony to be true and faithful to each other.
The children of the union, if any, are reckoned amongst the mother's
clan, and not the father's. Sometimes, amongst this same tribe, a man
will actually bespeak a wife before she is born, by arrangement with
a certain family; and, in order to forestall other suitors, he also
offers his services to her parents as a kind of slave. He works away,
patiently awaiting the birth and growth of his future wife. Should it
be a male child, of course his disappointment is great. As soon as the
child can tell her right hand from her left, her mother whispers into
her ears her future relationship with the great big man who milks the
cows and hoes in the garden. She also instils into her mind her duty
towards him as his future wife. The little maiden must run out to meet
him when returning from a journey and take from him his spear, etc.,
and carry them for him into the house. When the girl is approaching
maturity the man pays the dowry, which usually consists of five goats,
the fifth being killed and eaten at the wedding-feast.
The Wasukuma, a tribe living to the south of the Victoria Nyanza,
conduct their love-making as follows: When a man has spied out a
woman whom he fancies, he sends a friend to her parents' house to
reconnoitre. On arriving he stands at the door, and the people of the
house invite him inside and offer him a stool. They then enter into
conversation with him and ask his business. Without hesitation he tells
them that he has been commissioned by a certain person who wants a wife
to come and be his spokesman. If the father of the girl is pleased
with the proposed alliance he gives the spokesman a goat, which he
thankfully accepts, returning with joy to the anxious swain to announce
the success of his mission.
The day of the great marriage palaver having arrived, the relations
and friends of both parties assemble and dispose themselves into two
groups--one group being the relations and friends of the bride, and the
other of the bridegroom. The hills and vales resound with the eloquence
of the orators who speak on either side. But, strange to say, they
speak of the stones lying around as representing cattle, and do not
address their audience directly. A speaker on behalf of the bridegroom
rises and names a certain number of stones (_i.e._, cattle); and when
he has finished, a member of the opposite group rises and says the
number of "stones" named is not enough. So they go on from morning till
night, debating the number of cattle to be paid as dowry. When they
have come to an agreement, the bride's friends take away the cattle;
and afterwards beer is made and an ox killed for the wedding-feast. The
friends then assemble at the house of the bride, where they eat, drink,
and dance for two days, and then disperse, save four or five special
friends of the bridegroom, who remain at the house until the ceremonial
washing is over. Then they too depart--all save one, who remains two
days more to see how the young couple get on, and to carry the tidings
to the bridegroom's friends.
[Illustration: AN ENGAGED COUPLE--THE MISSION COOK AND HIS FIANCÉE.
_From a Photo. by Rev. H. Cole._]
Last, but not least, I will relate the strange but interesting methods
of the Wagogo--a tribe found two hundred and fifty miles west from
the coast opposite Zanzibar. A woman of this tribe always refuses a
man when he first proposes to her. Knowing the usual tactics of the
opposite sex, the man does not take "No" for an answer, but keeps on
bombarding the citadel until he has captured it. Sometimes, however, it
happens that the woman really means what she says, and the man cannot
by hook or by crook cajole her into marrying him!
[Illustration: BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.
_From a Photo. by Rev. T. B. R. Westgate._]
When, however, all has gone well, the suitor presents the woman of
his choice with three or four iron necklaces, the acceptance of which
betokens her willingness to be engaged. The man then hastens to
inform his relations of what has occurred, and, if they approve of
the transaction, they advise him to make a public offer of marriage.
His female friends undertake this pleasant business for him, and the
time chosen is the break of day. Taking a new hoe, or a few yards of
calico, to present as a formal token of the engagement, they go to see
the young lady. If she accepts the offering, the engagement is sealed;
but if she refuses, the matter comes to an abrupt end. The betrothal
is accompanied with shouting, singing, and great rejoicing, and the
tremendous noise arouses the whole neighbourhood. Hence everybody in
the place, both young and old, at once gets to know of the engagement,
and the news is hailed as a welcome topic of gossip.
[Illustration: COLLECTING THE CUSTOMARY TOLL FROM THE BRIDEGROOM AND
HIS FRIEND.
_From a Photo. by Rev. H. Cole._]
When the man has secured a sufficient number of goats, etc., he
apprises the woman's relations of his desire to "guma" (_i.e._, to pay
the dowry). A day is appointed, and the match-making palaver takes
place. Very often the negotiations are broken off because the amount
of dowry is considered too small; and it may be interesting to set
down here in detail the fees usually paid for a wife--the matrimonial
price-list, so to speak. The dowry is divided into several parts,
distinguished by separate names representing certain amounts, as
under:--
"Wupogoze" (private proposal)--three chain necklaces (engagement ring).
"Wubanye" (public proposal)--new hoe or four yards of calico.
"Madango" (first part of dowry proper)--nine goats: five on account of
the bride's father and four on account of the mother.
"Matula lusona"--nine goats.
"Lung' hundi"--seven goats.
"Ibululu"--thirteen goats.
"Musenga"--a goat with young to mother of bride.
"Wufuwa"--a goat to uncle of bride.
"Muvumba"--two yards of calico to the bride.
"Malenga"--a second-hand hoe to father of the bride.
It will be observed from this final offering that, as in civilized
countries, the hapless father-in-law, having once given his consent, is
treated as of little importance.
The preliminaries being over, the marriage ceremony takes place. The
bride and bridegroom, feigning bashfulness, run away and hide. When
found they are brought (the latter carried on women's backs) to the
altar. Here they are made to sit on stools, and are washed in turn, the
bridegroom leading the way. He is washed by his brother-in-law, or, in
his absence, by some other relative of the bride. This function being
over, they are anointed with oil, and the mothers of the happy pair
then enjoin them to love one another and to do their work as they ought.
[Illustration: CARRYING HOME THE BRIDE.
_From a Photo. by Rev. H. Cole._]
Next comes the start for the bridegroom's house. The bridegroom leaves
some time before the bride, and when close to her future home the bride
is stopped every few yards by beggars, who get all they can from the
bridegroom's friends. When they think they have given enough, however,
one of the bridegroom's friends takes the bride on his shoulders and
runs away with her in triumph to her new home.
The concluding portion of the dowry is known as "Vimililo," and is
divided into several parts, as under:--
(_a_) Things given to allow wedding procession to proceed; (_b_) A hoe
or goat is demanded at the door of the bridegroom; and (_c_) A goat has
to be given to the bride to induce her to sit down. Another goat and
kid must be presented to her in order to make her eat, and a hoe before
she puts her hand to the dish, so that the "wedding breakfast" must
come rather expensive to the young Benedict. Speaking of dowries, the
price of a cow is about two pounds; of an ox, twenty-five shillings;
and goats vary from one and fourpence to four shillings each, according
to size and condition.
On the fourth day after marriage the bride and bridegroom go on a visit
to the parents of the former, accompanied by a young man and young
woman as attendants.
Extraordinary methods are adopted by the Wagogo in securing wives in
addition to the ways described above. For instance, when a man is poor,
and has not sufficient means to procure a wife, he may resort to what
is called "kupanga." He betakes himself to the house of his lady-love
and stands or sits in the porch without eating until the girl's father
gives him a reply, which may not be for days. If the old gentleman
likes the young man, he forthwith sends messengers to his home to
negotiate with his relations; but if he dislikes the idea of having him
for a son-in-law, he hunts him away without ceremony. When the former
is the case, the messengers, on arriving at the man's home, ask whether
anyone is missing from the family circle; and on being told that a male
member has been absent for some days, they inform the people that he
is at the house of a certain man looking for a wife. The former affect
great astonishment, exclaiming: "Just fancy! It is there that our bull
has gone!" All the parties being agreeable to the match, the day of the
palaver is fixed; and when the amount of dowry (usually, in this case,
twenty goats and two head of cattle) has been settled, the wedding day
is named.
When a man secures a girl's consent to marry him, and has the
wherewithal to pay a dowry, but cannot get the consent of the girl's
parents, he adopts another plan.
He whispers into his lady-love's ear that he will "pula" (run away with
her), or, rather, send some of his friends to catch her on her way
to draw water and carry her to his house. Should she consent to his
proposal, he employs a few of his friends to go and capture her. Should
she resist (to show her modesty), they carry her on their shoulders to
her lover's house, where she remains with him until the following day,
when her relations come and claim six goats as a trespass-offering for
having carried the girl away. In addition to these, the usual dowry is
twenty goats and five head of cattle. One goat is on account of the
betrothal; one as a fine for the covetous eye which spied the girl out;
two (one for each parent) for the stool on which the lover sat when
he came to court her; two as payment for the relatives' trouble in
looking for her when kidnapped; two on account of the palaver; and two
for entering the house to make love to her. A marriage nearly always
ensues in the case of "pula"; so that an ardent lover who has tried
every other way in vain may, as a last resource, adopt this method with
success.
Wives are also obtained by inheritance. It is the custom for a man
to inherit the wife of a deceased brother or father, and the man so
marrying is expected to give three goats (one of which is eaten at the
inevitable palaver) to the wife's relations. Should he be so miserly
as not to pay this customary fee, they upbraid him, and say that the
wife is only his slave, and that his meanness has forfeited their
friendship for evermore! A widow, however, may refuse to marry the man
who inherits her, as there may be someone else whom she likes better
who wishes to marry her. When this happens, the latter has to pay the
dowry to the former as if the woman were his daughter!
It is an understood thing amongst the different tribes that a woman is
only taken on trial, and may, after a few months of married life, be
sent back to her parents. As with the advertising tradesman, it is a
case of "All goods not approved may be exchanged."
[Illustration]
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| The Capture of Antonio Barracola. |
| |
| A STORY OF THE "BLACK HAND." |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
+By Stephen Norman+.
In our issue for May last we published an authoritative article
setting forth the methods and crimes of the "Black Hand," a
secret society organized for the purpose of blackmail and
murder, which has caused a veritable reign of terror amongst
Italian residents in America. The engrossing story here given
forms a remarkable sequel to our article, for it deals with
the patient running-down and final arrest red-handed of a
prosperous Italian banker, who is believed by the police to be
the actual head of the whole dread organization. He is said
to have been responsible for no fewer than fifty-one murders,
while his "system" netted for the "Black Hand" a sum estimated
at two million dollars! The narrative gives one a vivid idea
of how the real-life detective--as opposed to his prototype
of fiction--goes to work to build up a case and secure his
evidence.
Every country in the world which possesses a detective department
has men in its service who specialize in the capture of criminals
who themselves are specialists in different lines. For instance, one
officer may be peculiarly efficient in running down "stone-getters," or
jewel thieves, another is clever at ferreting out "wanted" burglars,
while yet another division give their attention to Anarchists and alien
criminals. In America, owing to the great number of foreigners who make
that country their place of residence, temporary or otherwise, the
detective staff is largely composed of men who have made themselves
familiar with the particular branch of work colloquially known us "Dago
piping" (watching Italians). This service has lately been considerably
augmented, owing to the great strength and powerful connections of
the "Black Hand" Society. Murder after murder has been committed
by members of this sinister fraternity, and hundreds of well-to-do
Italians have been threatened, most of them paying tribute, as they
feared the consequences in the event of failure to obey the mandates
of the dreaded "Mano Nera." The detective and police departments could
make absolutely no headway against this far-reaching organization,
even the large rewards offered by public bodies, the Government, and
private persons having no effect. It was impossible to obtain the
services of an informer, and the machinery of the law was practically
at a standstill. True, now and again some suspect was arrested, but
sufficient evidence could never be obtained to secure a conviction. Two
detectives named Sechetti and Maltino were dismissed the force, not
because they were suspected of being members of the "Black Hand," but
because it was believed they possessed certain knowledge which fear
prevented them from making known at police head-quarters. Sure enough,
after their dismissal, both men returned to their native Italy, where,
it was learned, they appeared to be possessed of considerable money,
presumedly given them by somebody or other for "keeping quiet."
On the staff of the Boston, U.S.A., detective department was a young
Englishman named Walter Collins. Fair, sturdy of build, and brave
as the proverbial lion, Collins, a man some thirty-two years of
age, had gone to America with his parents when quite a boy. After a
public-school education he obtained a position as stenographer in
the Seventh Division Police Court, and later entered the force as a
patrolman. His intelligence and the clever capture of "Kid Skelly,"
a famous burglar, gained him promotion, and in 1903 Collins became a
full-fledged detective officer. Again his ability was made manifest,
for in 1905 he captured Roth and Murray, the men who robbed Mrs. Van
Rensselaer, a prominent American lady, of twenty thousand dollars'
worth of jewels, the gems being recovered in London. Collins was now
made a sergeant, which is, in the American police, a very superior
position.
When the doings of the "Black Hand" first began to attract public
attention, Collins interested himself in the matter in a quiet way,
apart from his duties. He read everything available about other
Italian secret societies, such as the Mafia and the Camorra, visited
the Italian quarter of the city, and familiarized himself with the
ways of the "Dagoes," as members of the Latin races are called in
America. Meanwhile murder after murder was committed, blackmail was
levied on all sides, and a virtual reign of terror was established
among respectable Italians, no one knowing where the terrible scourge
would strike next. Then, one morning after roll-call, Sergeant Collins
presented himself before Inspector Ross, his chief, and said,
"Inspector, I should like to be placed on detail duty in the Italian
quarter."
Inspector Ross, however, informed him that this was impracticable.
Collins was fair, and not a bit like an Italian; moreover, he could
neither speak nor understand the language. The officer saluted and went
about his usual business of guarding the banks.
That evening the door-bell rang at the private house of the
detective-inspector and a beetle-browed, ill-clad Italian presented
himself and asked to see Mr. Ross on important business. Mr. Ross
saw the man, who, after some conversation in broken English, said,
"I'm Sergeant Collins, sir!" He had dyed his hair and moustache, and
convinced the inspector that he had for months been studying Italian
and was quite proficient in the language. Ross, a very keen man, had
quite failed to recognise his subordinate, and the next day Collins
was given the job he had asked for, where he soon rendered useful
service. Dozens of "wanted" Italian malefactors--coiners, pickpockets,
and thieves--were run to earth, Collins himself never appearing in
the matter, the arrests being made by other detectives. Nothing could
be gleaned, however, about the subject that most interested him--the
dreaded "Black Hand." The Italians mentioned the name of this terrible
society in whispers, when they mentioned it at all, for one's very
neighbour might be a member, and under such circumstances it was
best to say nothing. From every city in the Union there came news of
terrible murders--all after attempts had first been made to blackmail
the victims. Reward after reward was offered, but not the faintest clue
reached the police, and meanwhile public excitement grew intense.
One day Sergeant Collins--who, still in pursuit of information, had
taken a situation with a firm of fruit shippers where many Italians
were employed--was sent to New York to arrange there for a consignment
of bananas. He was given a draft on an Italian private bank, to be
drawn on only in case the deal went through. Arriving in New York,
he mingled as usual with Italians, and wrote his letters to his firm
from the offices of the bank on which his draft was drawn. A day or
two afterwards he was seated at a small writing-desk in the bank,
reading an Italian newspaper, when there entered a man whom Collins
thought he knew. Glancing up guardedly, he recognised the visitor as
an Italian who kept a small public-house in Boston, a rendezvous for
shady characters. He saw that the man was immediately ushered into the
private office of the banker, and this struck him as peculiar. Here was
a man who could not possibly have a large banking account, yet he was
treated with the greatest deference.
The saloon-keeper was in private consultation with the banker for
over an hour, and on his departure Collins followed him. The man made
straight for the railway station, where he was met by another Italian.
There was an exchange of envelopes; then the first man booked a ticket
for Boston.
Collins promptly wrote out a telegram and sent it to police
head-quarters, and when the train left he followed the second man, who
had been earnestly talking meanwhile to the first suspect. Collins
was now taken up-town to One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, to what is
known as "Little Italy," a locality entirely given over to Italians.
Just near the famous "Gas House" the followed man stopped and looked
carefully about him. He saw Collins, but took him to be only another
Italian like himself. Reassured, he crossed the street and entered a
saloon known as the "Slaughter-House," because of the many "knifings"
which had taken place there. Collins walked right into the place and
called for a drink. His man was nowhere to be seen, but the detective
noticed that several men who had been seated at different tables slowly
walked to the rear of the place and ascended a stairway leading above.
After a minute or two he turned to the bar-tender. "Have you seen
So-and-so"--mentioning some imaginary person--"about to-day?" he
inquired. The man replied that he did not know the man referred to.
"That's strange," continued Collins. "He told me down at the bank to
meet him here."
"What bank?" queried the bar-tender.
"Barracola's," replied the detective.
In an instant the young Italian had grasped Collins by the arm, and,
pulling him toward him, whispered fiercely, "You confounded fool! Don't
you know that name is forbidden? You must be an outsider."
Collins professed ignorance of what was meant, and the youth, evidently
fearing he had said too much, then tried to turn the matter off. One of
the loungers in the place now walked forward and engaged the detective
in conversation, trying to discover whether he was a member of any one
of the various legitimate societies formed by Italian workmen. Collins,
however, returned nothing but stupid answers, and the man turned away
disgustedly, saying, half to himself, "He's only some fool!"
[Illustration: "IN AN INSTANT THE YOUNG ITALIAN HAD GRASPED COLLINS BY
THE ARM."]
Having finished his drink, the officer left the place. No thought of
the "Black Hand" had entered his mind in all this, but he seemed to
scent something wrong, and the detective instinct in him was aroused.
He was curious to know what the Boston saloon-keeper's business with so
prominent and respected a man as Antonio Barracola, the Italian banker,
could be; and so, his business in New York finished, Collins returned
to Boston. His chief there, on receipt of the New York telegram, had
placed a watch on the saloon-keeper's movements from the moment he had
arrived back in town. The man, whose name was Guido Conto, had, after
leaving the railway station, gone direct to his place of business,
and his movements ever since had been quite in keeping with his usual
demeanour. Nothing whatever of a suspicious nature had been noted.
Three days later Collins was sent to New York again, this time by
the chief of detectives, to identify a man arrested by the police
of that city, and who was wanted in Boston for forgery. On being
searched the forger was found to have in his possession a pass-book
showing a deposit at Barracola's bank. The Boston detective, still
hoping to unravel the mystery which he was convinced lay behind the
banker's acquaintance with low-class saloon-keepers and other doubtful
characters, called at this institution in the guise of a friend of the
arrested man and asked to see the banker himself. After explaining his
business he was shown into the private office. Here, at a flat-topped
desk so placed that the light from the window must fall on the face of
a visitor, while leaving his own in shadow, sat a short, stout man with
a heavy black moustache, a thick bull-neck, deep black eyes, and a head
of close-cropped black hair, combed straight back from the forehead.
"What do you want?" asked the banker, sharply. Collins replied that
his friend Casati was under arrest, that the latter had entrusted him
with the keeping of his bank-book, and that he (Collins) did not know
exactly how to act. He did not want the police to get possession of the
book, he added.
"Give me the pass-book," said Barracola, curtly.
"I have not brought it with me," replied Collins.
"Oh," said Barracola, "well, in that case, you don't require my advice.
I should have looked after my customer's interest, but you had better
take the book to Casati himself or give it to this gentleman."
Barracola now wrote something on a piece of paper, which he folded and
gave to Collins, who was then shown out. In the street the officer
looked at the paper, and, to his intense astonishment, read the
following: "Detective-Sergeant Collins, either at police head-quarters
here or in Boston."
The detective could hardly believe his eyes at seeing his own name
written in a large, clear hand. Did Barracola know him? he wondered,
and had he taken this roundabout way of letting him see that his
purpose was understood?
Collins hesitated for a moment, thinking hard; then he went direct to
head-quarters, where he had a hurried talk with Inspector O'Brien. The
latter promptly called Mr. Barracola up on the telephone, and told him
that a pass-book had just been delivered up to him by an Italian who
said he had been directed there by Mr. Barracola.
"Yes; that's quite right," replied Barracola. "I did send someone."
The inspector asked a question: "But why direct the man to Sergeant
Collins?" he queried.
"I read in the morning papers of Casati's arrest," answered Barracola,
"and that Officer Collins was coming here to extradite him."
The explanation was reasonable enough, and there was nothing for
Collins to do but accept it. Thinking quietly over the matter, however,
the detective came to the conclusion that Mr. Antonio Barracola, the
eminently respectable Italian banker, was a remarkably shrewd man,
and he became more than ever determined to discover what lay behind
his ordinary business. That there was something behind it he felt
confident, but for some time his investigations were without result.
On January 4th of this year a man called at the Boston detective office
and asked to see the chief inspector. On being shown into Mr. Ross's
room the caller took from his pocket a half-sheet of common note-paper,
on which were written the following words:--
"_You have plenty; you have been prosperous. Five thousand dollars is
nothing to you. That sum, enclosed in an envelope, in bills, directed
to Mr. Gargani, will reach those who can shield you from much trouble.
The money will be called for at the General Post Office by an innocent
messenger. Don't be foolish._--+Mano Nera+."
"I am Luigi Pelloti, manufacturer of paper bags," said the caller to
Inspector Ross, "and that reached me by post this morning."
The inspector learned that Mr. Pelloti was in affluent circumstances,
a much-respected merchant, and a very charitable man. Pelloti said he
knew perfectly well that the "Black Hand" would carry out any threat
they made, but he was determined not to be blackmailed, and would fight
to a finish. A "dummy" parcel was accordingly made up and sent to the
post-office addressed to "Mr. Gargani." Four of the inspector's best
officers were stationed there to see the matter through. The packet
was not called for until another day had passed; then, just at the
busy hour, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, a youth of sixteen or
seventeen asked a mail clerk for "a letter addressed to Mr. Gargani."
It was given him, and the boy was then followed. He entered a tram-car
and rode to the railway station, where he waited until half-past one,
boarding at that hour the New York train. The four detectives did
likewise. American railway coaches differ from those on British lines,
being in one large compartment, with all the seats facing the engine,
a passage-way running down the centre of each coach. The Italian youth
seated himself well forward in the smoking-car, the officers keeping
well away from one another. No one approached the bearer of the letter,
who sat quietly smoking a cigarette, and the train was within a mile of
Harlem Station and was just beginning to slacken speed, when the youth
looked up, opened the window in a flash, and threw the "dummy" letter,
enclosed in a leather wallet, far from him. Three of the detectives
immediately ran out to the car platform and jumped from the train,
which was now slowing up. The third, Officer Whalen, grabbed the boy
and handcuffed him.
The three who had jumped from the moving train looked hurriedly about,
but there was no sign of the package thrown from the train and no one
was to be seen but the crossing-keeper, who had a shanty just by the
side of the up-rails. Two of the officers searched for the wallet,
while the third--Sergeant Collins himself--interviewed the railway
man. The latter had seen nothing and nobody, however, and could in no
way assist the detectives. The officers communicated with the nearest
police-station, and in a very short time a dozen men were searching
the vicinity, but--as usual where the "Black Hand" is concerned--they
discovered nothing.
Meanwhile Officer Whalen took his prisoner to the chief inspector, or
captain (as this officer is called in America), and here the youth was
severely questioned. He said he had been hired by two men to carry out
certain instructions, for which he had been paid twenty-five dollars.
The men he had met at the "Gas House," in One Hundred and Sixtieth
Street. They had called him by name, and he supposed they must know him.
[Illustration: "LUIGI PELLOTI WAS STRUCK TO THE HEART WITH A STILETTO."]
This explanation did not satisfy the police, and the young Italian was
therefore put through the "Third Degree," a rather strenuous method
used for forcing confessions from reluctant prisoners. His testimony
could not be shaken, however, and he was therefore arraigned before
a magistrate at Jefferson Market Police Court, charged as a suspect.
A remand was asked for and granted to enable the police to make a
thorough investigation.
That same night, despite the fact that he was supposed to be under the
protection of the police, the unfortunate Luigi Pelloti was struck to
the heart with a stiletto on the doorstep of his own house! The "Black
Hand" had punished him in its usual way for his temerity in going to
the authorities! The same thorough search was made as in other cases,
but once again the methods of the murderers baffled the authorities.
The young Italian was arraigned a second time and a further remand
asked for, which was again granted, but this time the lad's father,
one Amato, applied for bail. This being refused, the man left the
station, followed by a detective officer. He went direct to the office
of Antonio Barracola, where he remained for a few minutes only; then he
rode up-town on the Elevated Railway to the "Slaughter House" saloon.
The detective who was watching him telephoned to head-quarters, and
Captain O'Brien communicated with Sergeant Collins. The latter was
still busy investigating things at Harlem, but he now came hurrying in,
and, meeting the officer who was at One Hundred and Sixtieth Street,
the two waited until Amato came out of the saloon; they then arrested
him on suspicion, and took him to the station. Here he was searched,
and a stiletto, a loaded revolver, and a letter--unsigned and bearing
an address--instructing him to carry out the details for which his son
was now under arrest, were found on him.
At last the police had something to work upon. The old man was locked
up, but took matters very coolly, disdainfully refusing to say a word.
The police then walked him past the cell in which his son was locked
up, watching him closely meanwhile. The boy saw his father, but neither
one uttered a syllable. In the office upstairs the officers now held a
consultation. Sergeant Collins produced the piece of paper on which the
banker, Barracola, had written his (Collins's) name, the threatening
letter demanding money from Pelloti, and the letter of instructions
found on Amato, senior. They were not in the same handwriting, but they
were all on the same kind of paper--a very cheap note-paper, such as
might be sold by any and every stationer. Why should Barracola, whose
letter-heads and stationery were of the best quality, as befitted
a highly-successful bank, have such paper in his possession? the
detective asked himself, and he made up his mind to find out. He was
convinced that Barracola was very smart, and that there was something
"fishy" about him, but that alone did not point to his being in league
with the infamous "Black Hand."
In the career of all successful detectives the element of luck is a
great factor, and Sergeant Collins now virtually "fell" across a most
useful piece of intelligence, for the "inevitable woman" cropped up.
Young Amato was locked up in the Tombs Prison, and was allowed to
receive visitors, who, in turn, were watched. Among the boy's callers
was a girl, an employé at Allen's cigarette factory in West Street.
This girl was about fifteen years of age, very well developed, and
unusually pretty, even for an Italian. She had been to see Amato, had
taken him some fruit and cigarettes, and had given him a ten-dollar
bill. This bill Amato changed in paying for food, purchasing his
meals from the prison caterer. Sergeant Collins was just entering the
prison one day when the caterer stopped at the inside gate or grille
and, after collecting a number of plates and other dishes, remarked
to the keeper in charge there: "That young Dago certainly has good
friends; he's given me another ten spot (ten-dollar bill)." Collins
at once spoke to the man and obtained the bill from him in exchange
for another. Now it is quite impossible to trace American money in the
same way as an English bank-note, but the detective had other ideas
just then. Next day the Italian girl called again, and on her departure
she was spoken to by an elderly Italian, who asked if his daughter was
still inside visiting Amato.
"What has your daughter to do with Amato?" asked the girl, quickly.
"That is what I am trying to find out," replied the Italian. "She has
visited him regularly, and yesterday she came home with a ten-dollar
bill in her possession which he gave her."
The girl turned scarlet. "It's a lie!" she cried, passionately. The
Italian expressed surprise at her anger, but showed her the bill,
saying further that he had reason to suspect Amato of an attempt to run
away with his daughter.
On hearing this the deluded girl worked herself into a perfect frenzy
of rage, asking her questioner who and what he was. The latter,
however, acted in a mysterious manner, giving the girl to understand
that he was "one of them," but would countenance no nonsense where his
daughter was concerned. The girl, saying that she would find out the
truth of the matter on the morrow, left him, her face working with
jealous rage. The next day she again called at the prison, but was
told at the gates that Amato did not wish to see her. Moreover, he had
already had as many visitors as the prison regulations allowed for
one day. Fuming with anger, the girl departed, being again met by the
strange Italian at the gates.
"He won't see me," she burst out, eager to confide her troubles to a
compatriot. "Me, who have done so much for him--me, who gave all the
money I could to keep old Barracola from putting his father away in the
last trouble! Just wait till he gets out! I'll find someone to avenge
me, or I'll avenge myself!"
The listener now tried to pacify her, knowing that this was just what
would make her talk the more, and when he left her on her doorstep in
First Avenue, he felt he had now "something to go on with." The old
Italian, needless to say, was Sergeant Collins.
Antonio Barracola lived in an old-fashioned three-storeyed brick house
in Greenwich Street. The house next door on the right was occupied
by his brother Giacomo, who was proprietor of an express and luggage
transportation business. The house on the left, curiously enough,
was tenanted by a policeman, who was himself a naturalized Italian.
This man was guardedly questioned, and informed the detectives that
Barracola had no visitors whatever at his house, and that he never
came home on Monday nights, when he was supposed to stay with an elder
sister in Jersey City.
The next Monday Mr. Barracola, on leaving his bank at four o'clock in
the afternoon, was shadowed by two officers, one dressed as a working
man and the other as an Italian longshoreman. These two saw that
directly Barracola left his office a stalwart fellow of exceptionally
powerful build followed close behind him, keeping one hand in a
side coat-pocket. The stranger was evidently intended as a sort of
rear-guard, for he kept his eyes roving in all directions, making the
work of the detectives most difficult. One of the latter accordingly
hurried by a short cut to the Jersey City Ferry, catching a boat across
before Barracola, and thus attracting less attention.
Meanwhile the banker and his two followers arrived in Jersey City.
Barracola stopped at a saloon near the station, but soon emerged,
smoking a cigar. He walked westward for some five minutes; then,
turning sharply at a corner, was lost to view by the time his followers
reached the place. The big Italian was the first to reach the
intersecting street, where he swung round and scanned both sides of
the road narrowly, but the officers, prepared for some such manœuvre,
had taken due precautions. One entered the doorway of a shop; the
other walked straight on. Just at the corner where the banker had
turned there stood a one-storey wooden building, occupied by an Italian
barber. Barracola's rear-guard, evidently satisfied with the results
of his scrutiny, presently entered this shop, and Sergeant Collins now
coming up saw that although the man had gone in there was no sign of
him inside; there were two chairs there, but no customers.
The officer walked away, returning on the other side of the street,
keeping close to the buildings. Soon he saw another visitor enter the
shop, then a second; and within an hour nine well-dressed men had
disappeared through the doorway. Sergeant Collins now sent one of his
own men in to have his hair cut. This officer discovered that there
were no doors leading out of the place other than that leading into the
street, and the barber seemed in a hurry to get rid of him, cutting his
hair "in less than no time."
The building next door to the barber's shop was a stone-fronted bay
window residence, neatly curtained, and looking like the home of some
tradesman. The officers made a _détour_ to the rear to examine the
premises, but saw nothing suspicious--simply a couple of ordinary
backyards. By this time it was about 6.30, and quite dark. The
detectives remained at their post all night, and not until eight
o'clock next morning did the first of the men who had entered the
barber's shop emerge. Then, at intervals of perhaps ten minutes, the
others came out, the last to do so being Barracola, his burly guard
having preceded him. This time the banker did not walk, but rode in a
tram-car to the ferry, which he crossed. Thence he went to Smith and
McNeill's restaurant and had breakfast, going from there to the bank.
Sergeant Collins and his men reported to head-quarters and then went
home for a well-earned sleep.
Up to this time, although his movements were strange and his friends
peculiar, absolutely nothing had been discovered against Barracola, and
it was possible that he might be a harmless member of some perfectly
innocent secret society. The meeting at the barber's, although
suspicious, was by no means (so far as the police knew) a criminal
one. But Sergeant Collins had a very strong card up his sleeve, and he
prepared to play it at once.
At three o'clock that afternoon, having shaved off his moustache, he
called at Barracola's bank, and, stating that his business was of great
importance, was shown into the private room. Barracola looked at him
keenly. "Well?" he said, interrogatively.
Collins acted as though very nervous and embarrassed; then, apparently
plucking up courage, he informed the banker that he had called in the
latter's interests to inform him that a girl on whom he (Collins) was
"rather sweet" had been talking a great deal about young Amato and
Barracola. The girl, Collins continued, had, unbeknown to him, been
fond of Amato. The latter, however, had cast her off, and in a fit of
jealousy she had appealed to him to avenge her.
The banker leaned back in his chair, looking Collins straight in the
eyes.
"See here," he said, angrily, "what's your game? You have not fooled
me for a moment, and unless you explain your object in treating me
as though you were in search of something, I shall appeal to your
superiors, when, believe me, my influence will break you!"
Evidently, reflected the surprised detective, this man Barracola knew
more than his prayers. He kept cool, however, and answered, "Well, sir,
we thought that you, knowing most of the Italian colony, would be able
to help us, although you might not care to do so directly."
"Then why not come to me in a proper manner?" demanded the banker. "I
don't know what you're after and I don't care! Good morning."
"I am sorry to have troubled you," said Collins, politely, and took his
leave.
Once outside, the officer went direct to the Tombs Prison, where he saw
the younger Amato. "I'm going to turn you loose to-morrow," he told the
lad, "providing you tell me why Mr. Barracola is so anxious to have you
sent to the State Prison. Isn't there some woman in it?"
After some talk in this vein the young fellow finally agreed to tell
what he knew, and although this was very little it was of great
importance. The man who had engaged him to call for the letter, he
said, was the proprietor of the saloon at One Hundred and Sixtieth
Street. This man was the "up-town" agent for Antonio Barracola, whose
name, however, it was forbidden to mention in the place. Once before he
had gone to fetch a letter under similar circumstances, and, missing a
train, returned a day late. Believing he had been trying to decamp with
the money, he was taken into the cellar of the saloon by the proprietor
and some of his associates, and would have been knifed there and then
had not one of the men remarked that the father of the boy was valuable
to the Capitano--the "Capitano" being Antonio Barracola, the banker.
Even then it was decided to make away with him, fearing so young a
lad might talk; but Amato, learning the fate in store for him, sent
his sweetheart to the "Capitano" to intercede for him. That was the
substance of the lad's story, and, after hearing it, Sergeant Collins
laid all the facts before his chief in Boston, who in turn communicated
with the New York authorities.
While they suspected that Barracola was mixed up with some crooked
work, the New York police doubted whether there was enough evidence
to warrant any action against him, either a search or arrest, for
Barracola was a very influential man, and influence means much in
America. Collins, determined not to let the matter rest, now tried for
the second time the tack he was working on when he called on Barracola,
when he purposely acted like a novice so as to lead the banker to
believe him a fool. He secured the release (in custody) of young Amato,
whom he walked past the cell in which the boy's father was. Here he
repeated his fairy-tale about Barracola's attempt to "railroad" the
younger man to prison. The boy, fully believing Collins's story, told
his father likewise, and the old man, convinced in turn, promptly
turned informer. His deposition was taken, and on this information the
police decided to act.
On the following Monday, when it had been ascertained that Barracola
was safely within the Jersey City barber's shop, Sergeant Collins
walked into the place, and before the astonished proprietor could utter
a sound a revolver was placed close to his temple. Another detective
now entered, handcuffed the man, and led him outside as though he was
walking out with a friend. The barber was taken to the police-station,
and there forced to describe the location of the secret door through
which his "customers" so readily disappeared. It was deemed wise to do
this at the station, in case the man should touch some secret button
giving warning to the conspirators.
Meanwhile the place had been surrounded, and Sergeant Collins,
accompanied by Officers O'Brien, O'Malley, Whalen, Curtis, Snow, and
Hendricks, entered the barber's shop. Going to the place designated,
they found the secret door leading into the house adjoining, and
quietly passed through, closing the door after them. Silently the men
walked down the hall, but not quite silently enough, for, sitting by
the balustrade of the stairway leading into the basement, was the big
Italian before mentioned. He called out sharply before one of the
officers could stifle him. There was a scurrying sound below, and
the detectives rushed down to find the place empty, the rear door
open, and a pitched battle taking place in the yard between their
brother officers and a dozen Italians. The night being dark, it was a
difficult matter to distinguish friend from foe, but the police closed
in resolutely, leaving no loophole for escape, and soon seized their
men. Windows were opened on all sides, and the neighbourhood was soon
in a state of great excitement. Lights were brought, and the captured
men taken back into the house which they had left so hurriedly. Here
a doctor was hastily summoned, for several of the police had been
badly knifed, and one or two of the prisoners had also received some
punishment, the officers' clubs having been very busy among them.
Antonio Barracola and ten others now faced the detectives, who, at
the point of revolvers, searched them as well as the house. The
correspondence, papers, and systematically-arranged reports from
various parts of the country which were discovered afforded conclusive
proof that the captured men were none other than the officers or moving
spirits of the dread "Black Hand." Every possible attempt was made to
keep the thing quiet until further arrests could be made, but this
proved futile, the affair creating an absolute _furore_.
Sergeant Collins and Officer Whalen took charge of Antonio Barracola,
who protested that he simply acted as banker for the others, whom he
knew only in a business way.
The prisoners were taken to head-quarters and Barracola's private house
was searched. Nothing was found there of an incriminating nature, but a
secret door was discovered leading into his brother's house, and here
complete sets of books dealing with the entire affairs of the "Black
Hand" were found, all the handwriting being the same as that of the
first note given to Detective Collins by Barracola. The books were
marked "Italian Practical Aid Society."
Arraigned before Magistrate Kernochan, the men were all held for
trial, in company with twenty-seven others arrested in all parts of
the country. Barracola was found to be a man of great wealth, owning
whole blocks of houses in the lower tenement district. The newspapers
devoted pages to the capture of the ringleaders, and thousands of angry
people attempted to get into the court-room every time the men were
brought up for a hearing.
[Illustration: "A PITCHED BATTLE WAS TAKING PLACE IN THE YARD."]
Not until now, however, has the story been told of how Sergeant
Collins, little by little, worked his case up from nothing at all.
Sergeant Collins himself gave the writer the details of this chronicle
in London, while on his way to Italy, there to make certain inquiries
about Barracola, it being believed that the former Italian banker was
also a moving spirit in the malevolent organization known as the Mafia.
Imprisonment for life is the least punishment the majority of the
"Black Hand" captains may expect. "If a dozen of them don't go to the
electric chair I shall be much mistaken," said Sergeant Collins. The
detective will receive some fifty thousand dollars in rewards for his
work in ferreting out the heads of an organization which existed solely
for the purposes of blackmail and murder, and which threatened to
become a perpetual and ever-growing menace to society.
THE WIDE WORLD: In Other Magazines.