ARRIVAL AND DEBARKATION
Through the gloom of night and the dusk of early morning the heavy
circus train labors on its journey to transient destination. The
distance diminishes slowly. Sometimes the line of cars is shunted to
one side and stands patient and inert while expresses clatter by;
again, its dragging weight defies the straining efforts of the engine,
and it is left in solitary helplessness while the iron horse scurries
off for aid; often the cars are rattled together with body-racking
violence. Farmers in the barnyards rub their eyes in mute astonishment
at the moving spectacle, and cattle scamper from fright. Other trains
are in hot pursuit. Their burden, too, is man and beast and varied
showy paraphernalia. Four or five sections are required to transport
the vast and wondrous effects of the circus.
A quiet, unpretending village has already begun to assume an air of
stir and animation. Festal circus day is at hand. Parents and children
line the railroad approach and eagerly seize upon all points of
vantage. Keen curiosity and joyful anticipation are depicted on every
face. The railroad yards are empty of rolling stock, and switchmen and
engines are ready to receive and admit the travelling pageant and pilot
it to a place convenient to its needs. No preparatory arrangement that
human foresight can conceive has been neglected.
The intuitive welcoming shouts of boys and girls, a blurred slender
outline in the distance, the screeching of railway whistles and the
hurried orders of officials. Then a pressure of brakes, a crunching of
wheels and a rattle of coupling pins. The circus has arrived!
One of the first to alight is the circus mail-carrier, who hurries off
to the post-office. Important mail may await his coming and there must
be no delay in its delivery. This is the first of three trips to the
government station he will make that day, and between these journeys,
which are frequently long and tedious, he will perform a variety of
other work allotted to him at the lot. He knows by name every employee
of the show, and his prompt and accurate service is rewarded at the
close of each season with a purse of contributed money which invariably
approaches a thousand dollars. At his heels is the general manager
whose multifarious duties require early rising. The circus detective
follows behind, scrutinizing faces and figures, conferring with
railroad officials and approaching by easy stages the local police
station. There are two sleeping-cars carrying performers and business
staff on the first section. A great brushing of clothes and final
completion of toilet, performed generally on the car platforms, precede
their departure from the railroad yards.
The first section is known as the “baggage train.” It bears the
paraphernalia necessary to the immediate wants of the encampment,
as follows: stake and chain wagons, canvas wagons, side-pole and
centre-pole wagons, side-show wagon, stable wagons, water-tank wagons,
cook-tent and blacksmith wagons, chandelier wagon, about two hundred
draft horses, all dressing-room necessities except the trunks, the two
performers’ and business staff’s sleeping-cars and the cars of most of
the workingmen and their horses.
In the second train are jack wagon, the tableaux wagons, the elephants
and camels and their keepers, performing, ring and baggage horses, seat
and stringer wagons, “property” wagons, and all the appliances for
performers and their baggage. The third and other sections carry more
sleeping-cars and all the cages.
Twenty-two horses are allotted to each stock car. There are animals
of all kinds and colors and sizes, from the saucy ponies and fleet,
slender chariot beasts to the big, white ring and the heavily harnessed
draft horses. The circus carries close to half a thousand of these
equines. They are so loaded that they must needs stand erect during
the journey, for injury and perhaps death, experience has taught,
is the inevitable result of one of the brutes disposing himself, by
accident or design, in any other position. The packing of them so close
together that the possibility of this disaster is precluded is a duty
delegated to the “wedge horse” of each car. After every other animal
has taken his accustomed place at night and when to the lay observer
they are as tightly compressed as safety demands, the trained “wedge
horse” scampers up the inclined plane and burrows his way between
the two animals in the centre of the car. He shoves and pushes until
he is accommodated, and not until then is the boss hostler satisfied
that there will be no accident. Although it would appear that they are
crowded to unnecessary extreme, the circus man understands that the
compression in reality renders the railroad trip more comfortable,
for the wrenches and jars incidental to the journey have far less
deleterious effect upon them than would be the case if they were
loosely loaded.
Each driver has his team of two, four, six, eight, or ten horses
and he makes two trips to the exhibition ground. Each wagon has its
number, and each day and night the same man and beasts have it in
charge. The drivers seem to have an intuitive knowledge of topography.
Often the lot is several miles distant from the place of arrival
and unloading, but these men of the reins are never confused as to
locality or direction. They make the most complicated journeys without
hesitation or mistake, seldom resorting to interrogating the native
residents. Roads curve and wind in a manner most bewildering, but they
keep steadily toward the scene of exhibition. These rides through
pretty suburban streets in the gray light of the morning are often
very delightful and invigorating. Generally, sidewalks are lined and
porches packed with people eager to get their first glance of the
circus, though its beauty and grandeur are hid. Frequently the trains
are shifted during the day, and night, with its blackness, finds the
circus cars awaiting their loads in an entirely different section of
the town. The drivers are informed of the change, but it is left to
their keen perceptions to make the trip by the shortest route. This is
no simple accomplishment, in the gloom of streets and with landmarks
entirely unfamiliar, but it is performed without blunder or inaccuracy.
The number of accidents to man and beast in these nocturnal wanderings
is remarkably insignificant, due, in a great measure, to the skill of
the reinsmen and their coolness in emergencies. Sometimes steep hills,
rough roads, or sharp corners bring disaster, but not frequently. The
wagons progress to their destination behind four-, six-, eight-, and
ten-horse teams as smoothly, safely, and swiftly as the local doctor
goes his rounds.
The money wagon is early off the train and on its way to the lot.
Inside is the assistant treasurer of the show, who has been shuffled
about continually during the time allotted to slumber, but whom long
service has inured to the racking. He is there to guard that part of
the coin and bills which has not been expressed to New York. There is
not an instance on record of a successful attempt to loot the money
wagon of a circus, although many showmen wonder that the apparently
inviting opportunity offered has not been seized. This immunity,
I suppose, rests on the basis of knowledge that there are no more
courageous, determined fighters than circus employees. For daring,
hardihood, and bodily prowess they have no superiors. The boldest
highwayman may, well hesitate before he takes liberties with the money
wagon. He would find a man inside ready and experienced in gun play,
and a party of circus workmen whose duty it is to be prepared for
invaders would appear like men from the ground. If the marauder escaped
with his life, much less the plunder he sought, the prediction often
made would be inexact.
Arrived at the lot, the money wagon is a scene of stir and activity.
The press agent is there to receive the money for newspaper
advertising. Then all the bookkeeping which the circus demands in great
variety must be accomplished, for the morning is the only period of the
day which gives opportunity for the work. Later the sale of tickets
and the balancing of accounts engrosses all time and attention. Pay
day comes each week to every employee of the circus. The performers
are paid on Saturday during the time between the afternoon and evening
performances. On Wednesdays, during the afternoon show, the long line
of workmen forms and several hours are consumed in the exchange of
money. The operation is laborious, for sometimes the coming and leaving
of the men is frequent. Each has a name and number for identification
assurance, and the two men who make the payments are thoroughly
exhausted when the operation is over.
The owner’s private car is attached to the last section, a position
which makes it certain that the owner be on the scene if there is
accident to the other sections. In case of breakdown or other railroad
misfortune, his section would speedily overtake and he would thus
be soon in personal command. The sections usually halt at the given
point within a half hour of one another, and soon the last employee
has stumbled over ties and rails toward the lot and all the wagons
have departed from the scene. Long lines of empty cars await the
repeated activity of night. These cars, incidentally, are as extended
as safety and convenience permit, for railroad companies charge for
transportation by the single car. The fewer cars drawn from town to
town, the smaller the amount of money the circus is called upon to pay.
It is easy to distinguish the performer from his fellow employee as
the men leave the cars. The acrobats and gymnasts limp down the car
steps as if every bone and muscle were lame and sore, and progress with
halting tread toward the lot, very different in aspect from the firm,
elastic-stepped men who entered the place the night before. It is an
unhappy condition in which every one of the athletes finds himself the
morning after the violent exercise of the ring or bar. None of them
takes any unusual precaution to guard against physical affliction, and
the wonder is that often they are not more seriously handicapped after
sleep. After a few preliminary exercises their sound, strong, vigorous
constitutions assert themselves and they are ready and eager for any
required feat.
The veteran circus man is superficially acquainted with the physical
features of most of the towns visited. Alighting from the car, he
surveys the landscape and heads straight for the lot. He has been there
before and he recalls it all. Here a sleeping car was burned two years
ago; in another town two elephants had a thrilling duel to the death;
there is the jail where a ticket taker was locked up without just
cause; “Mr. Lew” remembers the bank where he secured bonds when a man
with a claim for damages attached the ring horses with the mistaken
notion that he would be bought off for a large sum of money; through
that low bridge a heavy pole wagon once crashed. Every place in the
country is associated with some personal incident in the circus man’s
mind.
I walk often to the lot with a gray-haired man whose form is unbent
by age, whose eye is undimmed, and whose active manner still evinces
readiness to plan and will to execute. He is one of the ringmasters and
has other duties of the arena and the business office. He has dwelt his
long life in circus precincts, and for him the whole circus fraternity
cherishes a peculiar veneration. Honesty and godliness mark his career,
and his is the example pointed out to the circus young. Well may they
imitate his virtues and walk in his footsteps! His presence recalls the
faint memory of overland journey and one ring, and the stern hardships
of the days of long ago. Those were times when his name was familiar
wherever the show tent penetrated, and when his exploits made him the
marvel of the profession and the prominent feature of performances--for
none in all the world could equal his feats of horsemanship and
acrobatic skill. From the haunch of the white circus beast he executed
revolutions which even the modern show has not duplicated, and aloft
he tumbled and turned in dare-devil accomplishments which now only the
reassuring stretches of the net concede.
Simple modesty characterized his life of spectacular success, and now,
when time has forbidden active participation and a new generation
has entered upon the stage, he accepts with cheerful philosophy his
relegation, to a uniform which bespeaks only the cracking of a whip.
His wife, many years his junior, is one of the conspicuous performers,
for he has taught her all the finish and art of bareback riding, and
made her one of the cleverest wire-walkers with the show. He is always
at her side when she performs, advising, correcting, praising, and, as
she elicits admiring gaze, few in the audience recognize his figure as
the one in whom so much sentimental interest centres. The press agent,
extolling the youth and beauty and grace of the performer, points him
out casually to the reporters as her “father” and flatters himself that
he is subserving the interests of the show; but if the woman knew of
the tale she would promptly put a stop to its circulation. She is proud
of her kindly old husband and wants the world to know it. She boasts
no circus pedigree, as do most of her comrades, and was schooled in
the circus arena after she had reached her majority. She is a living
refutation of the tradition that one must be born to the ring.
We watch her rehearsals in the spring with curiosity, and the other
performers always profit by the directions and advice the veteran gives
her. Sometimes, to his practised mind, she is awkward and slow of
comprehension. Then I have seen him jump to his feet and leap to the
horse’s back. He forgets his forbidding age, in the emotions of the
past, and would fain give her the benefit of a demonstration. But his
feet have lost their inspiration, his hold is unsteady and his muscles
do not respond. He alights rather shamefacedly. The young athletes pat
him kindly on the back and cheer him with words of his former glory;
and his wife puts her arms around his neck and says he’s a dear old
fellow. Love and loyalty will be his enduring memorial.
The inherent energy of the circus is never more fully demonstrated than
when there is tardiness in arriving at the town of exhibition. The
fault is seldom the circus’s and generally the railroad’s. Connections
have been faulty, the engines inadequate to the requirements of the
heavy trains, facilities for loading bad, or there has been delay in
ferrying the sections. There are no faint hearts or falterers with
the show and no weakness in these crises. Out of confusion worse
confounded, order and convenience speedily reassert themselves, and
the tremendous amount of preparation for the exhibition is rushed to
wonderfully quick completion. Sometimes it has been nearly noon before
we were able to drag a single wagon from the cars, but the programme
for the day has been followed as implicitly as though there had been
no hindrances. The parade emerged with customary roar and glare, the
performance followed in regular sequence, and left behind was the same
satisfactory trail of desolated pockets that the usual early coming
would have accomplished.
Sunday is the circus man’s day of rest and relaxation. After the
pitching of the menagerie and the smaller tents, necessary to the
accommodation to the animals, the day is granted for freedom and
enjoyment. The start from the Saturday stand is always made the same
night, and the Sabbath respite is improved for long railroad runs. The
route is so planned in advance that on no one night except Saturday is
the journey so long that, everything favorable, there will be tardy
arrival. It is not deemed expedient to risk a longer “jump” than
eighty or ninety miles unless transportation facilities are unusually
advantageous. The trips of one hundred and fifty or two hundred miles
are reserved for the night which precedes the day of exemption. So
it is that the circus folk, ending their slumber, find the train
still on the move, with a possible prospect of several more hours in
their cramped quarters. The sagacious ones have examined the railroad
schedule the day before and laid in a supply of fruit and food for this
contingency. They preconceive how sorely taxed will be the resources
of the train restaurant, for circus appetites are voracious in the
morning. Chairs are soon placed on platforms and at windows, and the
workingmen gather in groups on car tops or under the ample spread of
the wagons.
[Illustration: DISEMBARKING FROM THE CIRCUS TRAIN.]
These Sunday morning railroad pilgrimages carry the circus through all
climates and localities and, unless too protracted, afford a sense of
keen enjoyment. There are inviting expanses of woodland and water,
moor and mountain. Summer verdure clothes the scenery, and the view is
often entrancingly beautiful to the crowd-surfeited vagrants. Smiling
villages and beautiful cities pass in procession. The gazing native is
bombarded with interrogations as to the proximity of the circus train’s
ephemeral goal. Sometimes there are brief stops at wayside stations,
while the engine takes water or gives place to another iron hauler.
Then occurs an exodus from the cars. Men, women and children improve
the opportunity to exercise their cramped bodies, for nothing is more
distasteful to their active persons than restricted movement, or to
invade with hurried dash the humble railroad restaurant. Never before
has its composure been so rudely disturbed. Coffee is gulped down eager
throats, and the return to the train is made with hands and pockets
overflowing with sandwiches. Two sharp warning shrieks from the engine
and the start is made anew.
Few of the performers or staff members go to the lot for Sunday meals,
although the tent awaits their presence. They register at the local
hotels and spend much time in writing and reading. Many take advantage
of the chance for a change and spend the night away from their
accustomed sleeping apartments. In the evening a large number of the
women attend church and the men pass a few hours in simple pleasures.
At the lot the scene is one of peace and quiet. The canvas of the
“big” and other “tops” which have not been elevated lie passive on the
ground ready for the men who will haul them aloft at sunrise. They are
not raised until immediate necessity demands, for the reason that the
danger of fire or “blow down” is thus minimized in the one and rendered
impossible in the other instance. Curious crowds flock about the
grounds and are permitted free scrutiny. It is particularly a Sunday
assembling-place for women. They desert household cares and domestic
duties for the fascinations which invest the circus in repose.