NIGHT SCENES AND EMBARKATION
Active preparations for the departure from town begin with the setting
of the sun. When the naphtha torches spread their fluttering glow and
when the men in the ticket wagon lift up its end and are ready for the
evening sale, then canvasman, driver and porter swarm from the comfort
of hay couch or from idling group, and are ready for the night’s work.
Team horses feel again the weight of harness, and the march to the
railroad yards is on. Horse, cook, wardrobe, blacksmith, barber and
the other tents spread over the lot drop to earth, are quickly rolled
up and packed away. The sound of loading stakes, chains, ropes and
poles resounds through the premises. Heavy wagons are soon rumbling
through the streets and left convenient to the man at the cars. Then
the teamster, returning leisurely to the lot, finds his second vehicle
awaiting final transfer.
Ten minutes after the performance has begun, there is a scattering of
the executive force at the main tent entrance and the canvasmen take
possession. The ropes and stakes holding in position the marquee and
menagerie tent are loosened, and the doorkeeper moves to the open fly
in the big tent, called the back door. The evening exhibition programme
is arranged with the view to finishing with the trained animals as
soon as possible that they may be placed safely away for the night. So
it is that the elephants, camels, zebra, ponies and other led animals
are off with measured tread for the cars before the show is well under
way. Then cages are closed, horses hitched, side walls lowered and
the caravan passes out into the night. The order “lower away!” rings
sharply, and the menagerie tent drops with a heavy puff and sigh. The
denuded centre poles follow it to the ground and, where a few hours
before was a white encampment is now a dark, bare area, rutted with
wheels, trodden by many feet and littered with peanut shells and
sawdust. Only the noisy “big top,” glowing like a mammoth mushroom,
and the side-show canvas, where the band thumps and the “barkers” roar
with tireless energy, remain to mark the spot. The work of stripping
the larger tent continues throughout the performance. As fast as a
performer finishes his act his appliance is deftly conveyed to a
waiting wagon. The entire arena has been divested of its maze and mass
of apparatus before the audience have reached the open. They stare in
amazement at the changed scene, as revealed in the lights and shadows
of the torches. So expeditious and so smooth has been the work of the
circus men that no knowledge of the magnitude of the accomplishment
was conveyed to the crowd inside. The side-show orators receive the
outgoing throng with renewed clamorings. To take this last advantage
and let no chance for profit escape, the tent has been kept open. The
inmates yawn with the weariness and monotony of it all and eagerly
await their last call to the front. Then begins a dash for the freedom
and privacy which has been denied them since morning.
In the “big top” the concert band is fiddling valiantly and a woman in
skirts tries to raise her voice above the noise of falling wood and
stentorian command. Workmen are lugging the seats away, and tugging
at ropes and stakes. The side-walls peel off as the last spectator
emerges and performers hurry from their dressing-room. Then the thin
white cloth roof comes tumbling from above like a monster bird; the
encampment is no more. Through dark, deserted, silent streets the last
man and wagon make their way. Nothing is left behind in the hurried
leave taking. Everything large and small must be individually accounted
for by its custodian.
At the railroad yards the blazing torches show a picturesque, animated
spectacle. Here again orderly precision prevails. The wagons are drawn
on to the cars by horses and a block and tackle, while a man guides the
course of the vehicle by its pole as it is passed to the far end of
the car. There is a “skid” or inclined plane at the end of the first
car, and an iron plate bridges the space between the other cars, making
a continuous platform. Each wagon has its number and allotted place
again, and is placed to the best advantage for convenience of unloading
and for utilizing space. A wrongly-packed vehicle would cause endless
confusion and delay. It is seldom later than one o’clock when the three
sections are on the move. Rain and mud annoy and retard, sometimes,
but extra efforts nullify, in a great measure, the effect of their
presence. Working-man and beast are slumbering deeply when the engines
couple for the journey, and only the watch-men, patrolling the long
stretches of cars, give sign of life and wakefulness. At one end of the
line of Pullman sleepers, where are placed the performers and members
of the business staff, is the most ornate piece of rolling stock, the
Thelma, named for the general manager’s daughter, a tot who is eagerly
awaiting her father’s winter cessation from toil. Here is a queer
little lunch room where gather each evening, for a bite, after the
show, the men and boys of the circus. An hour or two passes with much
laughter and jollity and with many innocent jokes, intermingled with
serious discussion. Ice-cream is the popular dish, and plateful after
plateful vanishes down dusty throats. The frozen mixture is a nightly
requisite of the body-weary circus colony. It is to them what the
night cap of liquor represents to the toper. No headache or clouded
brain or dulled body is its concomitant, only health-giving properties.
Strong drink is tabooed in the Thelma, as is its fate elsewhere with
the circus, and no demand for its presence has ever been manifested.
The scene is one the most approved moralist would endorse.
[Illustration: PERFORMERS AT THEIR MIDDAY MEAL.]
Hassan Ali, the giant of the side-show, is the most unwelcome
visitor. Room is at a premium, and he occupies about double space.
Somebody is always stepping on his protruding feet, to his intense
disgust, but to the ill-concealed amusement of the others. There is
a general feeling of impending disaster when Hassan is seen stooping
into the room. If his huge bulk doesn’t shatter a chair, his awkward
movements seldom fail to break a dish, crush a by-stander or scatter
food indiscriminately. Colonel Seely, the privilege man, grumbles
vigorously, and none of us are at ease until the giant has retired to
bed and the nightly ordeal is over. Through it all Hassan never loses
his temper or composure. His good nature knows no bounds.
A veteran of the ring tells of railroad accidents and other circus
disasters and reverts to the days of P. T. Barnum. “That man certainly
had his troubles,” he observes. “His pecuniary catastrophes and fiery
ordeals would have utterly discouraged a man less stout-hearted than
he. Three times his museums were burned to the ground. The number
thirteen he always considered ominous, for the first of his buildings
was consumed on that day of the month, while the thirteenth day of
November saw the opening of the second establishment, which was
likewise subsequently destroyed by fire. On July 13, 1865, while he
was speaking in the Connecticut legislature at Hartford, the American
Museum was consumed. Nothing remained but the smouldering debris when
he arrived in New York. It had been probably the most attractive place
of resort and entertainment in the United States. Here were burned up
the accumulated results of many years of incessant toil in gathering
from every quarter of the globe myriads of curious productions of art
and nature. The indefatigable showman immediately began the erection of
new buildings at Nos. 535, 537 and 539 Broadway, New York, and started
a new chapter in his career. The place was levelled by flames in March,
1868, completely frustrating his plans for the future. The loss did not
disturb his tranquillity and he established a “museum, menagerie and
hippodrome” in Fourteenth street. Four weeks after the opening, it,
too, was ablaze and no effort could prevent its total loss.
“Fire did not, either, confine its devouring presence to his
professional enterprises. On December 18, 1857, his home, ‘Iranistan,’
at Bridgeport, became the prey of flames. His assignees sold the
grounds to Elias Howe, Jr., inventor of the sewing machine, for fifty
thousand dollars, which went toward satisfying the Barnum creditors,
for the showman was at that time in one of his periodical financial
difficulties, from which, however, he finally extricated himself. His
faculty for making money always successfully asserted itself.
“I was in his employ for many years and wonder that I escaped alive.
I was in a dozen crashes on the railroad, and was in Bridgeport both
times the winter quarters were swept by flames. Fire first came in 1887
and destroyed the main building. The white elephant and two others,
Alice and Sampson, were burned, and nearly all the other animals except
a rhinoceros, one lion and a white polar bear, perished. The blaze was
of incendiary origin, for the watchman told me he saw a man coming down
the outside stairs of the paint shop and a few moments later was struck
on the head from behind and knocked down. Immediately after, the fire
burst out and illuminated the horizon for miles around. The flames
spread so rapidly that the firemen could do nothing more than save the
adjoining buildings, cars and wagons. The rhinoceros made his escape
through a window but was so badly burned that he died. An elephant came
as far as the door of the building, then turned back into the flames.
Alice and Sampson also made an attempt to escape. One large lion ran
out into the yard and the spectators fled in all directions. It took
refuge behind a car and a policeman fired several shots into his body.
This partially disabled him and a keeper succeeded in caging him. Many
of the museum and menagerie curiosities were in the burned building and
were destroyed. One of the engines on the way to the fire was stopped
by a large elephant on the streets. There was a panic among the people
and they tumbled over each other trying to get out of the way. An
escaped tiger also caused a great commotion. The elephant trainer was
out of town and the other keepers were unable to quiet the frightened
animals. Thirty of the elephants and one large lion started across the
country in the direction of Fairfield and Easton, scattering the people
right and left. It was several days before they were all recaptured.
“The other fire was in 1898 when Barnum was dead and the show was in
Europe. The loss was one hundred thousand dollars. We got most of the
animals stored there out safely. Fifty green horses, I remember, broke
from their stalls and ran mad through the streets. The townspeople were
pretty frightened, for they thought some of the wild beasts were loose.”
The husband of “the mother of the circus” drops in for a sandwich. His
wife has retired, longing for the happiness of all and full of plans
to promote it. He has been twitting the unicycle performer because
the latter’s wonderful feat has been made almost insignificant by
comparison with the “loop-the-loop” accomplishment. The equilibrist
retorts that for next season he has arranged an act that will discount
anything ever seen under tent. He proposes to hoist the “cycle whirl”
apparatus thirty feet from the ground and ride on its track with
nothing between him and earth. There is a general protest that he
hasn’t the nerve or skill; but he smiles knowingly.
The discussion turns to feats of agility; it is agreed that the tight
rope walker is the best tumbler with the show. The clown laments
because he hasn’t received the usual daily letter from the little woman
he married in New York in the spring. The equestrian director tells
of the circus as it used to be, and all enjoy his stories. One of the
trick bicyclist’s arms is in a sling; he had a bad fall during the
evening performance. The family of Italian acrobats jabber tirelessly
in the corner; they know nothing of our language, but their superior
skill commands a big salary. A somersault rider dashes in after a
sandwich for his wife, with whom he does a carrying act. The Japanese
juggler and his son retire together; they are never apart. There is
a laugh at the expense of the two horizontal bar performers who lost
their way in the sombre village streets and were an hour in finding
the car. A partial exodus begins when the word goes forth that the
first section is ready to move. Those whose berths are on one of the
other divisions bid good-night. So the scene and its actors shift. At
midnight or soon after, the Thelma lunch-room is deserted, save for the
busy porter. Dusty clothes and shoes that show inconsiderate treatment
occupy his time until the yawning cook appears. Then the delicious odor
of coffee pervades the quarters, and breakfast food awaits the hearty
order of hungry men. They are far removed from the scene of a few hours
before and gaze curiously at the surroundings. To-morrow morning the
setting will be new and strange again.