The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

by Claire Prentice

  As long as Truman was making money from them, he would keep them in America. They had to find a way to escape. But what would they do once they got outside the park? They had no idea where they were. They didn’t have enough money to get home and, even if they did, how would they find the way? At that moment, Julio walked past the entrance to the hut. Dengay and Feloa fell silent. They looked at each other. Could Julio possibly have heard what they were saying? They had been talking quietly but they had carelessly left the door ajar. If he had heard them, would he say anything?

  Julio had always been accepted by the tribe but since they’d come to America, some of the men felt that his position as Truman’s assistant meant they couldn’t entirely trust him. The interpreter was different from the rest of them. In addition to the freedom he had to leave their enclosure, he looked, thought, and acted more like an American than an Igorrote. Many of the young boys looked up to him. He seemed worldly and wise, but some of the tribespeople had grown resentful and suspicious of his motives. Julio sensed this. It bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what he could do to change it.

  Sundays were always busy in the Igorrote Village and January 28, 1906, was no exception. Crowds of men, women, and children stood watching as the tribespeople went about the carefully orchestrated amusement park version of their daily lives. The women wove cloth and made rattan rings. On the other side of their enclosure, the tribesmen were hollering and running at each other with spears in the first sham battle of the day.

  Feloa looked up and noticed Pucuan charging toward him, his spear held aloft. Feloa stepped to the side and threw up his shield to protect himself. Instead of turning and swiping at his opponent again, Pucuan staggered forward as if he’d lost his balance. Feloa instinctively reached out to grab him. With an odd, faraway expression on his face, Pucuan toppled forward and crashed into the bamboo fence. Feloa and Dengay tossed their spears and shields to the ground and, taking hold of Pucuan under the arms, they led him over to a hut. Inside, Feloa tried to ask what was wrong but Pucuan was gasping for breath. Clutching his chest, he made a rasping sound. Pucuan’s sister and several tribesmen came in to see what was the matter. They looked on in shock as Pucuan slumped forward, apparently unconscious.

  Julio ran to fetch Truman. The showman entered the hut and knelt down beside Pucuan. He felt for a pulse and, finding none, checked him over. Coronary, he said under his breath. They clearly couldn’t move the dead tribesman with crowds milling around outside. They would have to close off the hut where the body lay and put a couple of the tribespeople outside to stop any of the visitors wandering in. Truman told Julio to make the necessary arrangements. The showman felt sorry for the Igorrotes, especially the man’s sister. The death of one tribesman had been bad enough; two seemed especially cruel.

  The Filipinos drifted into the hut to see the scene for themselves. Truman knew it was their custom to visit with the dead, but there was a large crowd outside and they needed to be entertained. The showman raised his voice just enough to get their attention. He needed them to go outside and continue the show. They could all take turns to sit with the dead man later, after the park closed. In the meantime, Truman gave Pucuan’s sister and Feloa permission to stay with the body. He wasn’t completely heartless.

  The Igorrotes were a fatalistic tribe. Their belief in animism extended to illness, which they viewed as the work of evil anitos, or spirits. The only cure, as far as they were concerned, was for a good anito to drive out the evil one. If this didn’t happen, then they believed the sick person was not meant to survive. They carried out funeral rites but did not typically enter into a long period of mourning, as was customary in their host country.4 Despite the degree of comfort their fatalism gave them, it was a fact that Igorrotes liked to die in their own homes. Pucuan’s death on foreign soil added immeasurably to the tribe’s grief. He was popular and had been stronger and fitter than Falino, the old Igorrote who had died in Seattle. His death had come as a shock.

  The tribe’s anguish was made worse still by the fact that they couldn’t bury Pucuan in the customary Igorrote way. Here, living inside an American baseball park, they could hardly put the corpse on display for a week while they sat with the body singing, chanting, and burning fires under it, though from what they’d seen of this country, the people would probably pay extra to witness such a scene. As they did with Falino in Seattle, they would have to make do with an improvised funeral ceremony. They insisted on carrying it out in private, away from the hordes of visitors who had become onlookers at some of their most intimate moments.

  Truman gave his permission for their plan, though he told Julio they would need to keep it short. He would arrange for an undertaker to come first thing in the morning to take the body away. Truman wished he could persuade them to hold their ceremony when the park was open, but he knew they would resist. He didn’t want to push them. No, he could still turn the Igorrote death into a publicity coup.

  It was after midnight when the tribe began their funeral rites. All night they stayed up chanting, singing baleful-sounding dirges, and beating their gongs and tom-tom drums. Truman stood watching for a while from a distance, then retreated into his office. Before he went to bed that night, he took out a pen and composed a brief description of the scene he had witnessed. He would send it to all the newspapers. For good measure, Truman posthumously promoted Pucuan to tribal chief, a title that, he explained, made the funeral all the more important.

  The news of Pucuan’s passing made headlines across the country, from Texas to Indiana. “Puc Aa-Un [sic], one of the biggest chiefs of the Igorrote tribes on the Island of Luzon, died here of heart disease yesterday at the winter quarters of the band of Igorrotes which were brought here by Dr. TK Hunt a year ago,” reported the Fort Wayne News, adding, “The native burial ceremonies of the tribes were all carried out before the savages would allow the undertaker to take the body to embalm. The blood of freshly killed chickens was sprinkled over the body and the noise of the tom-toms is being kept up all night to drive away the evil spirits.”5

  When Mr. Lynch, the undertaker, came from his premises on Tulane Avenue, to collect the body, Truman instructed him to have it embalmed and to await further instructions. Under the terms of his agreement with the US government, Truman was obliged to inform the Bureau of Insular Affairs if a member of his group died. He still hadn’t gotten around to telling them about Falino’s death the previous May. He would make contact soon, but not yet.

  The death of Pucuan came at the end of a particularly trying period that left Truman feeling tense and distracted. The baby was due in two months, and Sallie kept writing to ask him when they would be reunited. He and the tribe had been traveling for three months before they reached New Orleans. In that time Truman had lost count of the number of towns and cities they’d visited. Life on the road suited him. It reminded him of his old bachelor days and he enjoyed the freedom. But it had brought its own stresses: every other week he had to secure new bookings and find money for train tickets along with somewhere for the tribe to live when accommodations were not provided on-site. The unplanned trip to Tampa had been another expense he could have done without. Money was tight again. The Igorrotes were still making him a handsome profit, but Truman was blowing the money as fast as he earned it, on drink, fine clothes, lavish gifts, clubs, and expensive restaurants and hotels.

  Julio had been pestering him again, wanting to know when they were going home and asking about their earnings. They should count themselves lucky, thought Truman. Plenty of their countrymen and women would give their right arms to trade places.

  Truman called Callahan into his office the following night. The security guard had never seen Truman so agitated before. The showman had been drinking and was pacing up and down raging that the Igorrotes were cheating him. He felt certain they had been hiding money from him and he wanted Callahan to go to their village with him now to take it from them. Callahan had noticed Feloa had started carrying a little rattan bag on
his shoulders. Maybe he kept his money in there.

  The park was closed when Callahan and Truman entered the village and walked over to where the tribespeople sat together talking. Callahan approached Feloa and demanded he hand over his bag and all his money. No, Feloa said calmly, it is mine. Truman, furious at the tribal chief’s insolence, suddenly lunged at Feloa. Julio looked up just in time to see Truman raise his fist before bringing it down in a flash, striking Feloa violently on the back. Truman then ripped the bag from the chief’s back and tipped it upside down.6

  Coins poured onto the ground at the tribe’s feet. Julio gasped. Several of the women standing nearby cried out. Truman shouted at them to be quiet, and bent down to pick up the coins. The tribespeople looked on as Truman and Callahan scrabbled around on their hands and knees, counting up Feloa’s money. There was fifty dollars in total. Truman piled the money into his pockets. How dare Feloa keep fifty dollars hidden from him when he had been instructed to hand over his earnings. Truman was keeping their money safe for them. The showman looked around at the tribe. From now on, they must give their money to him, did they understand? Otherwise they, and he, would be in big trouble with the government. He would return later with a receipt.7

  Truman told Callahan to stay and watch over them. Then he retired to his quarters for a drink. As long as he deprived the Igorrotes of funds, Truman reasoned, they would remain entirely dependent on him. If they had money, they could plan their escape. Without it, they were going nowhere.

  Feloa had other ideas, though. He might be penniless again, but he was determined they were not going to remain here as Truman’s slaves any longer. They would escape. He, Dengay, and a few of the other men would climb over the fence and make a run for it. If they were caught, they would scatter so as to maximize the chances of one of them finding the police. They didn’t know where they’d find them, but they would ask someone in the street. It wasn’t a flawless plan, Feloa knew that, but the alternative—living locked up indefinitely under Truman—was much worse.

  The following night, January 30, 1906, one of the young boys came running to tell Feloa that their guard had finally succumbed to sleep. The men sprang into action. The bamboo stockade surrounding their village was high but they had no trouble scaling it. In the Philippines they were accustomed to climbing thirty-foot-tall trees to look for their enemies. Now, as the last man dropped down on the other side of their enclosure, the Igorrotes stood for a moment, glancing all around to make sure they weren’t being watched. Then, at Feloa’s signal, they began to run through the darkness across the park.

  At the perimeter fence, they scrambled one by one up and over the top. Once they were safely on the other side, they began to run as fast as their legs would carry them. They didn’t know where they were headed, but they assumed that if they ran toward the lights of the city then sooner or later they would find someone who would tell them where to find the police. It was after two o’clock in the morning and the streets were deserted.

  They ran on and on, turning now and again to make sure no one was giving chase. They ran for more than three miles, until they reached a busy road. Unbeknownst to them, they were right across the street from the Elks Lodge, which Truman had been frequenting since their arrival in New Orleans. On Tulane Avenue, they saw a man on the other side of the road, walking with his head down. Feloa rushed up to him. Police, said the tribal chief. The man looked up and stared at the tattooed tribal leader. His mouth fell open and he blinked his eyes in disbelief. Police, said Feloa again, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. The man wordlessly pointed down the street to a building in the distance with a tall spire, one of the few that was still illuminated despite the late hour. Without stopping a moment longer, the man hurried off. The Igorrotes ran toward the lights.

  Bursting through the doors of the Central Police Station, the breathless, nearly naked tribespeople were a sight to behold. The officer on the desk thought he must be dreaming. He stood silently for a moment and looked them up and down. Without Julio, whom they’d chosen not to involve in their plan, there was no one among them who spoke English fluently. Feloa had picked up a few words and phrases and launched into a muddled account of what had brought them here. The others joined in, shouting and gesticulating wildly. The officer picked up something about Athletic Park and guessed they were on show there. Before he had time to hear more, Truman came rushing through the doors with two policemen.8

  Truman wasn’t fit or especially healthy, thanks to his diet of rich food and liquor, and all the excitement had stirred him up. He could feel his heart pounding. Thankfully, he’d learned long ago how to appear composed in high-pressure situations. Striding up to the desk, Truman dabbed the sweat from his forehead with his silk handkerchief and introduced himself to the officer in charge, who had been joined by several gaping colleagues.

  Truman explained that he was employed by the US government, which had contracted him to exhibit the tribe here in the city. If the officers hadn’t already visited Athletic Park to see them, they would be very welcome to do so as his guests. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, Truman told the officer in charge that the group had been shaken by the recent death of one of their tribe. They were simple mountain people and that night, he explained, they had become convinced that they were being visited by the ghost of their dead countryman. Terrified, they had fled Athletic Park and run through the streets of New Orleans, shouting and screaming until finally they reached the police station.

  The officer had no reason to doubt the smart, well-spoken government employee. The Igorrotes, not understanding what their boss was saying, looked at the police officer, wordlessly imploring him to help them. But the officer was laughing now at something Truman said, and the Igorrotes sensed that their escape was doomed. Turning his attention to them, the showman started to speak, his voice not betraying a hint of the anger he felt. In Bontoc dialect, he smiled as he calmly told the group that they would be locked up in the cells if they didn’t come with him immediately. Feloa and Dengay looked at the policeman. Feloa opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get his words out, Truman put an arm around him and guided him toward the door.

  Back in Athletic Park, the showman handed Feloa his bag without uttering a word. The tribal chief opened it. Inside were his tobacco and his pipe. All his money had been taken. He looked up to protest, but Truman was gone.

  Truman asked the park bosses for a couple of extra security guards to watch over the Igorrotes that night. With the tribe safely locked up in their enclosure, he and the press agent got down to work. They would have to sacrifice sleep. Truman composed one of his best notices for the press yet, complete with his own imaginative spin.

  The Dallas Morning News was among the newspapers that reported the showman’s story, under the headline IGORROTES TERRIFIED—IN TURN THEY TERRIFY EVERY ONE WHO SAW THEM STAMPEDE, SPOOKS AFTER THEM.9 The article read, “New Orleans, La., Jan. 30—The colony of Igorrotes from the Philippine Islands, who are wintering at Athletic Park, created a great uproar in that section of the city today and it was necessary to turn in a riot call for the police before the Filipinos could be subdued. Puc Aa Un [sic], the chief of the colony, died Sunday, and the Igorrotes imagine that they are being haunted by his ghost. They became so panic-stricken with fear this morning that they broke out and started uptown yelling and screaming at every step, and beating tin pans and other noise-producing instruments to scare off the spooks. Dr. Hunter [sic], who has charge of the band, and who is under bond to return the crowd to the Philippines, was unable to control the mob and turned in a riot call for the police. A platoon of bluecoats were dispatched to the scene and compelled the frightened Filipinos to return to the park.”

  Truman congratulated himself on yet another publicity coup and a crisis averted. He had never imagined life would bring him here. But here he was, master of his domain. As he’d shown time and time again, he was untouchable.

  17

  Dear Dr. Hunt

 
WASHINGTON, DC, FEBRUARY 1906

  The State, War, and Navy Building in Washington, DC, c. 1915

  Captain Frank McIntyre

  IN A CITY dominated by somber classical revival architecture, the flamboyant State, War, and Navy Building stood out for miles around. Occupying an area equivalent to eleven and a half football fields, right next door to the White House, it was a curiously extravagant building given its solemn function. The building boasted nearly two miles of black slate- and white marble-floored corridors, decorative mansards, and ironwork sculptures, peaks, porticoes, and pillars, nine hundred of them on the exterior alone.

  Inside, sober-suited government officials were hard at work formulating and conducting American foreign policy, which was transforming the country into a global power.

  On a cold winter’s day in early 1906, Captain Frank McIntyre sat at his desk in one of the vast network of rooms occupied by the Bureau of Insular Affairs. A division of the War Department, the bureau had been established after the Spanish-American War to administer America’s newly acquired territories, including the Philippines, Cuba, and Puerto Rico. McIntyre was assistant to the bureau chief, Colonel Clarence Edwards.

  Both men had served in the Philippines and knew the politics of the islands inside out. When the Igorrotes visited the president during the St. Louis World’s Fair, they also called on Edwards and presented him with a set of hand-carved wooden miniatures of Igorrote weapons.1 The tiny spear, head-hunting ax, and bolo now had pride of place in a display case in Edwards’s office, just along the corridor from where McIntyre sat.