The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

by Claire Prentice

  Truman frowned. He might not be able to persuade her to use the infant incubators, but he would insist that mother and child go to the hospital. Coney’s first Igorrote baby was too precious to take any chances with. Truman hurried over to the telephone exchange. There he placed a call to the Coney Emergency Hospital, asking for an ambulance to be sent over immediately. They didn’t have incubators, but they had nurses and doctors who he would pay handsomely to save the child.

  A small, wooden building, one block from the beach, the Coney hospital had twenty beds and was only open in the summer. Its staff was more accustomed to taking care of revelers who had imbibed too much alcohol in Coney’s beer halls or cut their feet while paddling in the sea than looking after the newborn babies of exotic tribespeople.

  Staff immediately whisked the mother and baby off in different directions to be cared for in separate parts of the hospital, as was customary at the time. The nurses looking after the baby placed him on the scales. He weighed just three and a half pounds, roughly the same as a newborn piglet. Castro spoke no English and had been hysterical when her baby was taken away, but Truman assured her that the child would receive the best care possible. He sat with her awhile and told her she would see her baby later. On his way out, Truman approached the nurses’ station. Addressing the youngest, most attractive one in the group, he told her to call for him at Dreamland if there was any change in mother or baby’s condition.

  When the nurse went to check on her new patient, she found the pretty, dark-skinned Filipina had fallen into a deep sleep. Her black hair cascaded over the starched, white hospital sheets. She looked tiny in her huge sterile bed. The nurse wrapped her fingers around Castro’s wrist and felt for her pulse. The new mother was breathing deeply. She seemed well, considering all she had been through. The nurse walked around to the foot of the bed and picked up her notes—her records said she was in her twenties but she didn’t look a day over sixteen. Castro stirred and nuzzled her face back into her pillow as the nurse turned to leave.

  She wondered how this young woman, who had turned up at the hospital wearing nothing but a blanket, had gotten to Brooklyn. How does someone from the Philippines end up on show at Coney Island? And where had she gotten such an unusual name? If only the two women had spoken the same language, Castro Mordez could have explained that she had plucked the name from the air when she came to America.

  The nurse left her patient to rest. Outside a reporter was hanging around. He begged the nurse to let him see the new mother, just for a minute. She shook her head. The young woman had been through a lot and she needed rest, she said, pointing him toward the exit. Reluctantly, the newspaperman put his notebook in his pocket. He had learned enough earlier from his contact on the ward to write a story about Mrs. Castro Mordez. Though, according to his source, there might be reason to doubt the “Mrs.” part. He would come back early the next day.

  Truman was sitting in his office the morning after the baby’s birth, plotting his next move. He was busier than ever. Not only were the Igorrotes attracting record crowds at Dreamland, but Truman had more bookings piling up. He was tired after all the excitement of the new arrival and had drunk more coffee than he probably should in a bid to stay awake. The Igorrote baby would be a major boost for business. The tribe was already bringing in a handsome profit, but it was always good to have something novel to sell. And now he did, something very special indeed. The first-ever Igorrote child born at Coney Island. Now that was something.

  He took out his pen and began composing a press announcement. Strictly speaking it was the Dreamland press agent’s job, but Truman preferred to take care of these things himself. He would send it out to newspapers all over America and beyond. The Manchester Guardian in England had written about Truman and his Igorrotes before. He must send news of the birth to the paper’s editor.

  But first he would take a quick look at the newspapers. It paid to stay abreast of what was happening in the world. Truman picked up the New York Times. The birth of baby Mordez on Wednesday, August 30, had coincided with a partial solar eclipse, which had been watched by astronomers and citizens in countries all over the world. Truman thought this auspicious for the next chapter of his Igorrote venture. He continued reading and began to laugh; according to the article, New Yorkers who had scrambled out of bed before five o’clock in the hope of witnessing something extraordinary hadn’t been able to see a thing, so heavy were the rain clouds that had obscured their view entirely.3

  Truman tossed the paper aside and picked up the Tribune. A headline on page three caught his eye: FILIPINOS NOT FIT TO RULE—CONGRESSMEN REPORTED OPPOSED TO GRANTING SPEEDY INDEPENDENCE.4 It was a special report from the Philippines on the ongoing visit of Secretary Taft. The article summed up the consensus of opinion among Taft and the congressmen present at a conference in Manila that “the Filipinos are altogether unfit for immediate independence. Apart from the problems presented in the civilization of the Igorrotes, the Moros, Macabebes and other tribes, it would be cruel, it is believed to the people of the islands at large to turn them over to the mercies of theorists and demagogues.”5

  There was a loud knock at the door. Truman walked over and opened it. Standing outside his bungalow were two men he didn’t recognize. The first announced himself as Thomas McGuire and said he was a state detective. He produced his shield, number 133. Behind him was an officer who said he had been sent by Captain Dooley of Coney Island’s West Eighth Street Police Station.6 They asked if he was Dr. Truman Knight Hunt. Truman glanced around outside the door and invited the two men to step into his office.

  Confirming his identity, Truman offered the men coffee. Or if they fancied something stronger, he had a fine bottle of whiskey. Both men declined. This was not a social call. They were here on official business, namely a charge of bigamy, which had been lodged by a Mrs. Else Hunt. McGuire searched Truman’s face for signs of guilt. The showman was impassive as he declared the accusation against him most odd. He had indeed been married before, to a girl named Myrtle. But his first wife had died tragically young, twelve years previously. McGuire asked Truman if he would be so good as to accompany them to the police station to answer a few questions. Truman picked up his hat and coat, and followed the men out the door.

  12

  Another Unwelcome Visitor

  NEW YORK CITY, AUGUST 31, 1905

  Headline from the New York Sun, September 1, 1905

  THE STEAK DINNER sat cold and untouched on the dining room table. Sallie tried not to worry. Business often took Truman away on short notice and he had made a point of impressing this on Sallie early on in their courtship. It had only made him seem more mysterious and appealing. Besides, truth be told, he could be a little forgetful when it came to his appointments. Sallie sat at the table, staring at all the food. What a waste. She didn’t enjoy cooking and wasn’t particularly good at it, but she had made a special effort that night. There seemed little point sulking, though. What good would it do? Truman would be in later, full of stories about his day. He always had interesting tales to tell of people he’d met and things that had happened. For these, and the excitement he brought with him, she could forgive him just about anything.

  Sallie smiled. What interesting lives they had compared to their relatives back home. She missed her daddy, her sisters, her brother, and her aunt back in Kentucky. She had lived with them her whole life until she moved to St. Louis and met Truman. But she wouldn’t trade the life she had now—the fine restaurants, the jewels, the thrills—for anything. Just that week, Truman had bought her another beautiful evening gown. It was made of silk and was the prettiest shade of peach. It wasn’t even her birthday. During the day she often opened the doors of her closet and gazed at it, sometimes taking it out and holding it against her body. The baby wasn’t showing yet, but she felt certain it would soon. Truman was sending her to White’s, the photographers on Broadway, to have a portrait photograph done. She’d joked that she’d better go soon before she got too
fat.

  Sallie pushed her chair back from the table and got up. She liked to be up to welcome Truman when he came home, but it was late and she could barely keep her eyes open. She scribbled him a note, apologizing for going to bed before he got in, and left it on the table. Before taking off her clothes and putting on her nightgown, she opened her closet and peeked at her new dress. She hoped she would get a chance to wear it that weekend. Maybe Truman would take her to the new French restaurant he’d been talking about.

  Truman’s mother always said her boy could talk himself out of anything. Her theory was being put to the test at the West Eighth Street Police Station, just a stone’s throw from Dreamland. Truman told McGuire and the police captain, Robert Dooley, that he had not and would not treat any lady badly, let alone engage in a bigamous marriage. He searched for possible explanations. Maybe his accuser was a madwoman. Or an opportunist who had read about the enormous success of the Igorrotes. Or maybe it was someone who’d known Myrtle, his first wife, and didn’t know she’d passed away. Captain Dooley had been stationed in Coney Island for two years and in that time he had heard every excuse going. He bid Truman a good night and turned the key in the cell door. Instead of enjoying the warm embrace of his wife, the showman would be spending the night with the Coney thieves and drunks.

  Though the thought didn’t occur to Truman, his cell was roughly equivalent in both size and comfort to the Igorrotes’ huts at Coney. He was lucky—though he didn’t feel lucky that night—that his arrest was not on a weekend. On Saturdays and Sundays, every thug, troublemaker, and opportunist operating along the eastern coast of America seemed to descend on the rougher parts of Coney Island, packing the cells to bursting point. He was also lucky that the recent hot weather had finally broken. When the mercury climbed, the cells became unbearable with the heat and the stench of urine and sweat.

  It didn’t take long for word to get out among New York’s newspapermen that Truman was in a bit of trouble. His success, not to mention his frequent visits with Sallie to New York’s most expensive restaurants and clubs, had made him a well-known figure in the city. Bigamy was unusual in early-twentieth-century America. It was regarded as a serious and shameful crime, punishable with up to five years in prison and a fine of five hundred dollars. If Truman was found guilty, disgrace beckoned.

  A pack of reporters sat waiting as Truman was led into the Harlem courtroom of Magistrate Voorhees the following morning. Truman eyed the empty prosecution table. Voorhees called for the complainant to make herself known, but there was no sign of Else Hunt, her attorney, or the arresting officer. Raising his eyebrows, the magistrate looked at Truman. Under the circumstances, he told him, he had no option but to discharge him. Truman stood up and put on his hat, inwardly sighing in relief as he made for the exit. Outside the courtroom he was pounced on by the group of waiting reporters. The showman greeted them with a friendly smile but refused to make any comment. He had no desire for his personal life to make headlines.

  Sallie was delighted when her husband showed up later that morning. What on earth had happened to him, she wanted to know, as she gazed at his disheveled appearance. Truman explained that some unexpected business had kept him away. He’d missed her and had impulsively decided to pay her a visit before returning to work. Sallie fussed over him and fixed him something to eat. Then she disappeared into the bedroom to find him clean clothes to wear.

  She was so loving and devoted to him that Truman found it difficult to tear himself away, but he couldn’t stay long. Yesterday’s unexpected events had put him behind schedule. He must visit the hospital and find out how the Igorrote mother and baby were doing. Truman stirred sugar into his coffee. He had received a request from the Kentucky State Fair to take the Igorrotes there. He couldn’t wait to tell Sallie, but he would hold off on sharing the news until the deal was signed. He planned to invite her whole family to visit the fair at his expense. Their families hadn’t been at their wedding because it had been arranged in too much of a hurry. Truman wanted to make up for that. The showman got on well with Sallie’s favorite sister, Catherine, whom he’d met when she visited St. Louis, but he sensed he had not gotten off to the best start with her father, who he knew meant the world to her.

  Truman thought of his own father, who had died fifteen years earlier. Myrtle had passed away three years later, and Truman had believed he would never be able to love another woman again. When he went to the Philippines, he didn’t want for attention from women. He had met Else there, the woman now accusing him of bigamy. How he wished he had never set eyes on her. Their first meeting felt like a lifetime ago.

  Sallie’s sweet singsong voice calling from the bedroom interrupted his reverie. This nasty business had stoked up a lot of memories that were best left in the past. He must get to work.

  The weather was pleasant, sunny but not too hot, the day after Truman’s arrest. The showman stepped onto the train to Coney and immediately felt his mood improve as he caught the eye of a pretty stranger sitting near the door. He tipped his hat in her direction and flashed her a broad smile. He couldn’t resist. It was Friday and he felt his equilibrium restoring. The takings always went through the roof on the weekends. He would take Sallie out to dinner on Saturday night. Somewhere fancy. They would go to a show afterward. Truman made a mental list of tasks for the day ahead. After checking on the village, he’d go to the hospital. He needed a new baby story to sell. Maybe they could run a competition to name the baby, get visitors to come up with suggestions and offer a prize for the winner. He was distracted momentarily as the pretty woman got up to leave the train. Truman smiled, his blue eyes following her as she walked over to the door. She smiled back and was gone. He wondered where she was headed.

  The showman had bought an armful of newspapers on his way to the train and now, free of distractions, he began leafing through them. The papers would have received his press statement about the baby the previous day and he wanted to see what they had written. He opened the New York Tribune and began scanning the headlines. His eyes alighted on a story under the headline MRS. T. K. HUNT, WIFE OF IGORROTE MANAGER, CHARGES HUSBAND WITH BIGAMY.1 The article described his arrest at Dreamland and said he’d spent a night in the cells. Truman hurriedly stuffed the paper under his arm. Then he opened the New York Times. His arrest had made page three.2 What was a quality paper like the Times doing reporting this nonstory? There was no charge to answer—the alleged complainant had not come to court. Truman had assumed that when he left court that would be the end of the matter, but how wrong he had been. His face was growing red. He couldn’t stop himself from opening the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. There it was, at the bottom of the left-hand column on page three, DR. TRUMAN HUNT ARRESTED ON BIGAMY CHARGE.3

  His arrest had made all the papers. Apparently he was as newsworthy as the Igorrotes themselves. And for once he wasn’t the one controlling the stories. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Truman didn’t want to read any more. But before he could stop himself, his eyes alighted on a headline on the front page of the New York Sun: DR. HUNT ARRESTED AT CONEY.4 The Sun was alone in having spoken to the complainant’s attorney, Fred C. McLaughlin, who said Truman had met the complainant four years previously in the Philippines, where she was working as a nurse. Shaking his head, Truman read on. McLaughlin accused Truman of abandoning his wife and a three-year-old child and leaving them destitute.

  Truman was so angry he almost missed his stop. He rushed from his seat and got off the train. He would go and see the editor of the Sun that day to demand an apology. The showman was well connected in the newspaper industry. He would contact the editors of all of these rags to complain. You didn’t rubbish the reputation of Dr. Truman Hunt and get away with it. He was thankful that he didn’t get any newspapers delivered at home.

  If anyone asked him about it, he’d tell them it was a vicious lie made up by a rival who was envious of his success. This was true—all the other showmen were jealous of his Igorrote group and the fortune
they were making him. Coney would soon close for the season. For four months, the Igorrotes had been the star attraction, vastly outearning everything else. This fact alone had earned him many enemies, who, he knew, would be delighted to see his enterprise founder.

  Truman walked up Surf Avenue and tried to put the matter from his mind. He always felt comforted by the sights and sounds of Coney Island. Walking through the gates of Dreamland, he felt in a strange way as if he was coming home. As a boy growing up in Iowa, he’d loved fairs and circuses and thought how marvelous it must be to be a Barnum or a Bailey. He had looked forward with great excitement to the annual state fair, and would never forget the legendary trick rider C. L. DeWolf, who rode twenty miles in one hour and five minutes at the 1878 fair, changing horses every half mile. He rode the last half mile with no saddle or bridle and lassoed a buffalo.

  Now here Truman was, living his own dream. He loved his work and the freedom it gave him to pull up stakes and move around at a moment’s notice. At first Sallie had not understood his lifestyle and had begged him to buy them a home. But when he had explained that his business required him to spend much of the year traveling, it hadn’t taken much to persuade her of the romanticism of such a nomadic existence. Until the previous year, she had never been outside of Kentucky. With Truman she would get to see the whole country, something most Americans could only dream of.

  No one could feel down at Coney for long. The bright lights, the smiling faces, and all the fun of the fair had a cheering effect. So too did counting the day’s profits. He and Sallie deserved a treat. She had been tired and was suffering badly with pregnancy sickness. They would go away for a short break. A change of scene would do them good. Julio and Callahan could look after the Igorrotes. He would tell them that he’d be gone for a few days.