SHAKESPEARE’S TAVERN.
The sign on this tavern was not spelled exactly as we have given it at
the head of this chapter. Shakespeare was printed on it in two words,
so that if it recalled the celebrated English tragic poet to the rare
literary men who crossed its threshold, it meant only the “Tavern of
the Skilful Spearman” to the sailors, wharfingers, lumpers, and others
who were the ordinary frequenters.
Situated on the wharf, on South Street, opposite Brooklyn, this tavern
was admirably placed as regards patrons. Besides, the police kept a
pretty sharp eye upon it, and affrays, pistol-shots, and violent scenes
were less frequent there than elsewhere.
This was because it was managed by two jolly fellows, who needed no
help to maintain order in the establishment. They were Honorables
Thomas Bright and Davidson, two of the most celebrated boxers in the
United States, formerly bloodthirsty adversaries, but now excellent
friends and associates, so true is it that the closest friendship is
that which exists between men who have fought each other after having
mutually knocked out each other’s teeth and administered the most
terrible black eyes. Thomas Bright and Davidson said to each other
that they had done enough for the public and their reputation, but
too little for their future, and, uniting their savings, they founded
Shakespeare’s tavern, which soon became the most attractive and paying
den of the kind.
The establishment occupied the ground floor of a large room adorned
with heavy tables and benches firmly fastened to the walls and floor,
that they might not be transformed into murderous missiles in the hands
of drunkards, and had a huge bar with a tin top, and an army of pint
measures of the same metal.
Around this bar crowded stray patrons, passers-by, and curious
idlers; in short, those who were not initiated in the delights of the
oyster-room, which one reached only by stumbling down a long flight of
stairs, doubly dangerous because the steps were damp, and an almost
complete darkness reigned, even in broad daylight. At the first step to
the vault of this crypt one coughed, seized in the throat, as it were,
by a dense, hot atmosphere, laden with a thousand varied emanations,
and it was some moments before the eyes could see through the thick
mist formed at the foot of the stairs by the air, which, by reason of
physical laws, sought to renew itself in the atmosphere without.
This second room was less scantily furnished than that on the ground
floor. There were tables and movable chairs, and a very large buffet,
laden with fresh and salted meats. Above an immense oven there was a
gridiron made to receive a whole ox.
The ground was macadamized, and the walls, once white, were now black,
excepting in spots, where, owing to the contact of shoulders, they
seemed gray, and were illustrated with primitive designs and mottoes
which we need not translate. A dozen gas jets, clouded in the smoke,
looking like nebulæ in the mist, lighted as well as they could, if not
as well as they ought, this underground region, which was invaded by
familiar patrons until they had made a day of it.
At the moment when we ask our readers to follow us into the oyster-room
of Shakespeare’s tavern--that is, forty-eight hours after the sad
expedition of Willie Saunders to Staten Island--the house was already
full, although the night was far advanced. The damp, cold atmosphere
had driven from the wharf all the laborers whose presence could be
spared, and only stragglers remained on it. Certain wharfingers
themselves had deserted their posts. Besides these, here and there
one saw, around tables covered with glasses of hot gin, sailors of
every country waiting for the time to go aboard. One of these groups
had so victoriously struggled against the depressing influence of the
inclement weather without that a rollicking, noisy gaiety prevailed
among them.
They were the sailors of the Firefly, who had jovially poured from
their pockets into the cash-drawer of Thomas Bright and Davidson poor
Saunders’ dollars--their hush money.
“Come, one more swig all round,” said one of the sailors; and, rapping
noisily on the table, he shouted: “Here, waiter, fetch us some whiskey,
and mind it is the right stuff, too.”
“No,” observed his neighbor, “we have had enough for to-day; we ought
to have been back two hours ago. Devil take it, to-morrow will be
daylight. You are drunk, Jim.”
“Drunk,” replied the latter, “well, Charley, what of it? The fat man
did not give us a hundred dollars apiece for a pension.”
“It was for no more or less than to make us hold our tongues,” said
Charley, warmly. “No good American sailor will fail to keep his word.”
The other two sailors nodded approvingly, pointing to the adjoining
tables where the other patrons of Shakespeare’s tavern might hear.
“There, that’s enough,” grumbled Jim; “we will be as mute as a whale;
but I am thirsty,” and, seizing one of the waiters as he passed, he
ordered four glasses of whiskey.
It was best for the drunken man’s friends to give in to him. They,
therefore, beckoned to the servant to serve them quietly. Charley then
whispered:
“While we are lounging here, suppose any one should be robbing us on
board ship, as they robbed Toby the other night on his wharf while he
was drinking, instead of watching over his goods.”
“What!” sang out a tall fellow enveloped in oil-cloth from head to
foot; “what of Toby robbed? Why, it was his robber who cheated himself.”
“How’s that?” cried the sailors.
“Yes, to be sure; instead of taking a barrel of brandy, as, no doubt,
was his intention, he carried off a barrel of tar. If it didn’t stick
to his paws he must have hurled it into the water. Here’s to the health
of the imbecile; although I lost my place through him, I don’t care,
for I have come to Shakespeare’s tavern, and it is much livelier here
than at the head of the river;” and, after noisily touching glasses
with the men of the Firefly, the wharfinger, for it was he, tossed off
his glass of gin at one swallow.
“I can’t help it, but I feel no security,” said Charley; “for some time
there has been a regular sweep on board ship and along the river. Come,
let’s be on our way, boys.”
While saying this the seaman had placed Jim’s arm within his, and was
towing him along toward the stairs.
Toby followed them.
They arrived at the wharf in this manner, one shoving the other along.
Day was beginning to break, but the river was still enveloped in
fog. The masts of ships at anchor were faintly outlined above their
invisible hulls. They looked as if suspended in the air. The boat of
the Firefly was moored to one of the piles on the wharf of which Toby
had been watchman only two days.
“Let us go aboard, boys,” said Charley, hauling in the yawl.
“Stop; what’s that over there?” asked Toby, suddenly, who had gone to
the edge of the wharf, and was pointing to a floating object which the
motion of the boat had sent ashore; “a foot!”
“Why, yes, a foot,” said the sailor, raising the member with the end of
his boat-hook; “a foot and a leg.”
“And all the rest,” continued the watchman; “it is a drowned person.
How heavy it is. There must be a stone around the neck to be
head-downward like this. Come, help me, the rest of you.”
The sailors leaned over the river, and uniting their efforts brought
to the surface a body, whose unusual weight was soon explained to
them; a barrel of tar was fastened to the left leg. It was by this
half-submerged barrel that this body had been kept under water.
“It is a woman,” cried Charley.
“And a superb one.”
“What an idea to throw her into the river with a barrel of tar.”
“It is a droll one, to be sure.”
“A barrel of tar. Perhaps it is the one stolen from me.”
While exchanging these exclamations, the seamen, aided by Toby, had
raised the body and extended it on the planks of the wharf, without
unfastening from its leg the barrel which a stout rope held secure.
It was, indeed, the corpse of a young woman. It showed no signs of
wounds and was not decomposed. The face alone was slightly swollen, but
by no means disfigured.
Hardened as they were to every emotion, the sailors gazed at this body
in horror. The sight of it sobered the drunken men. The men knew that
here before their eyes was the victim of some horrible tragedy. The
discovery of a drowned person, workman or seaman, would not have moved
them; but this woman, young and beautiful, shocked them.
“We cannot leave her here,” said Charley finally. “Go and notify
Shakespeare’s tavern.”
The comrade to whom he spoke hurried away from the other side of the
wharf. Toby, with that sentiment of decency, more common than is
believed among the lowest classes, stripped himself of his oil-cloth
suit and covered the nude corpse.
Ten minutes later, Thomas Bright, Davidson and the patrons who had
lingered in their establishment hastened to the wharf.
Charley acquainted them with what had passed.
“Well, my boys, there is only one thing to do,” said Davidson; “summon
the coroner at Saint Vincent and wait for him, and don’t disturb the
body.”
One of the spectators immediately set out for the police office of the
district, which happened to be in a neighboring street, and several
policemen, whom the crowd had attracted, guarded the body, after
driving away curious idlers on the wharf and retaining about them only
the men of the Firefly and Toby.
Day had dawned, and the fog had cleared away somewhat. The wharf
presented a strange scene, with the silent, motionless men gathered
around this lifeless body.
“It is odd,” said Toby, “that I should find my barrel of tar in this
way. It is really mine, for I recognize the mark upon it.”
“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said Charley, in a low voice; “there will
certainly be a reward for those who put the police on the track of the
assassins; it will be time then to speak.”
The watchman understood, thanked him with a smile, and became silent
again. In less than a quarter of an hour the coroner arrived with his
secretary. Furious, no doubt, at having been disturbed so early, he
interrupted Charley, who had begun the story of his sad discovery, and
said:
“That will do; I understand all about it. Now let two willing men carry
this body to the morgue. The rest of you, who drew it out of the water,
must follow me, to make your depositions.”
Two men raised the body; a third carried the barrel which the coroner
bade them not unfasten. Then, preceded by the policemen, accompanied by
the sailors of the Firefly and Toby, and escorted by curious idlers,
the gloomy procession started off. After walking ten minutes they
reached their destination. The door of the morgue opened to admit the
bearers of the body and witnesses, and closed upon the crowd. In a few
moments the coroner received the depositions of the sailors and the
wharfingers; then, after having taken their names and addresses, he
dismissed them.
The men on the yacht hastened to their boat to return on board ship,
while Toby, who was careful to show no recognition of the tar barrel,
but who had again donned his oil-cloth suit, went back to the wharf,
where the crowd, which had considerably enlarged, immediately gathered
around him.
He had to tell his story twenty times over, and news of the event
spread so rapidly that Shakespeare’s tavern, to the great delight of
its honorable proprietors, was soon thronged as on a holiday.
Meanwhile, the coroner at Saint Vincent had made his report, despatched
the body to the central morgue at Bellevue Hospital, and had presented
himself to Mr. Kelly at the general police office. The fat officer
listened to his subaltern without a shadow of emotion, approved what he
had done and immediately sent an order to the director of the morgue to
photograph the dead woman.
The corpse was afterwards delivered to Dr. O’Neel in order that the
autopsy might be made without delay. When this was performed it would
be exposed according to the regulations.
Having given these instructions and dismissed the coroner, the
honorable Kelly quietly proceeded to his dining-room, where, as usual,
he lingered long over his breakfast. Not until three o’clock did he
remember the drowned woman, when he took a cab for Bellevue Hospital.