The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

by Claire Prentice

  McIntyre had recently made contact with several people who had firsthand experience of Truman’s business arrangements and they had been only too happy to talk. According to them, the showman had split his original group of fifty Igorrotes into three, four, maybe even five groups, and leased them out to other showmen, traveling carnival companies, would-be-entrepreneurs, and drinking buddies. The bureau hadn’t been able to confirm yet whether this was true, but if it was, they faced an even bigger challenge than they had at first thought. Discovering the whereabouts of one group had been difficult enough. McIntyre didn’t relish the prospect of repeating the exercise several times over and then sending agents out to gather them all up before transporting them home.

  Rumors that Truman had begun importing additional groups of the tribespeople direct from the Philippines without first securing official permission had reached the War Department. There was a suggestion that the showman was mixing these new arrivals up with his original group so as to evade any attempts to track them down. McIntyre needed to know whether there was any truth to the rumors. He had to find out where the elusive Dr. Hunt was going next.

  18

  A Rival Enters the Fray

  CHUTES PARK, LOS ANGELES, FEBRUARY 1906

  Richard Schneidewind

  WHILE IT HAD taken McIntyre months to locate Truman’s Igorrote group, it couldn’t have been easier to find the rival troupe being exhibited by Richard Schneidewind and Edmund Felder. Schneidewind himself had written to the Bureau of Insular Affairs inviting the government to send a man along to inspect the Igorrotes and their village at Chutes Park, Los Angeles. McIntyre decided that he would do just that. He would be glad to hear that at least some of the Igorrotes in America were faring well, not least because he would have a rare piece of good news about the tribe for the bureau chief. There was a large pool of retired army officers who had served in the Philippines that he could draw on for this job. The man McIntyre selected to carry out the inspection was Lieutenant Colonel William Hamner, who had served in the Spanish-American War.

  The moment Hamner stepped inside the Chutes Park Igorrote Village, he felt as if he were in the Philippine Islands. The village occupied an attractive piece of ground, around an acre in size, and was filled with pretty straw-thatched huts, shaded from the Californian sun by palm, pepper, and eucalyptus trees.1 A handsome, well-groomed man with a mustache approached and introduced himself as Richard Schneidewind. He looked to be around thirty years of age and was dressed in a linen suit. He invited Hamner to wander freely through the village, and to talk to anyone he wished. Antero, the interpreter, would be on hand to translate.

  Antero was a helpful and likable guide. He spoke excellent English and was clearly popular with the tribe. The interpreter, who had once worked as Truman and Else Hunt’s houseboy in the Philippines, showed Hamner around. He informed him that there were thirty-five Igorrotes living in the village—eighteen males and seventeen females. The tribe’s living accommodations consisted of a large “rich man’s house” for Domingo, the head chief, who was reported to have seventeen heads to his name, a pa-ba-fu´-nan, which was a dormitory for the unmarried men, an o´-lâg, the dormitory for the girls and unmarried women, and separate huts for the group’s two young married couples. Next they visited the granary and the municipal building at the center of Igorrote community life. The village was clean and pleasant. Particularly appealing, thought the inspector, were the miniature rice fields showing the Igorrotes’ advanced methods of cultivation. He watched with interest as a group of tribespeople sowed rice.

  From its authentic village layout to the informative lectures that Schneidewind arranged, it was clear to Hamner that the Los Angeles Igorrote exhibit had a strong educational ethos. Flyers advertising the village contained passages taken from Albert Jenks’s ethnological study of the tribe, The Bontoc Igorot.2 The contrast with Truman’s village could not have been starker.

  Hamner approached the chief and, with Antero translating, he asked him how he was enjoying working for Schneidewind. The chief replied that he was comfortable, well fed, and well cared for. He was happy to stay on and travel to Chicago, where they were due to be exhibited next. The inspector spoke to most of the tribe and they all gave the impression of being contented. They appeared to speak freely and did not give the impression of talking from a prerehearsed script. Schneidewind paid them their salaries on the same day each month and, so far, they had never needed to remind him. The Igorrotes were allowed to retain all the money they earned from the sale of rings, spears, and other souvenirs they made. Some of them kept their earnings in their luggage in the village, while others had already remitted much or all of it to the Philippines. Owing to their popularity with the public, their pay had recently been increased from $7.50 per month to $12.50 each for the chiefs and “head women,” and from $5 to $10 for all other tribespeople. Hamner scribbled the figures in his notebook.

  Several of the boys, including Antero, were attending the 16th Street School, just beside the park. Antero asked Hamner if he knew anything about the other Igorrote group that was exhibiting in America. They had not seen their friends and family in Truman’s group in a year and were eager for news of them. Hamner shook his head—no, he knew nothing about a second group.

  The following day Hamner wrote up his report, in which he concluded that Schneidewind was operating a model Filipino village and that the tribespeople were “in excellent physical condition.”3 He enclosed a photograph of the Chutes Park tribe, which seemed to confirm his favorable impression.

  McIntyre received a newsy eight-page report from Schneidewind several days later, which was also sent to Dean Worcester, secretary of the interior in Manila. In it, Schneidewind wrote about the good health and happiness of the tribe, adding, “It is the purpose of the management, in all ca[s]es, to take the people only to thoroughly reputable places, and the overtures of travelling [sic] carnival companies and others of that ilk have not been entertained, as a correct representation of their life, manners and customs cannot be properly portrayed under such circumstances. It is hoped that this attitude of the management will be pleasing to the Government of the Philippine Islands, for it is not believed that the Government would sanction their exhibition on a plane with dime museum freaks, or where the really interesting features of the home life of these remarkable people cannot be faithfully shown.”4 McIntyre raised his eyebrows. He assumed this was a dig at Truman Hunt.

  Schneidewind concluded: “The management is endeavoring to show the best side of the Igorrote. The dog feasts, which were of daily occurrence in St. Louis at the World’s Fair, have occurred very rarely, because it is believed that they have but a small part in the life of the Igorrote and that they give a degraded impression of these fine people to the American public.”5 Schneidewind enclosed photographs of the Igorrotes and an advertising flyer.

  McIntyre frowned. What was the true purpose of this letter? Like Truman, Schneidewind and Felder were on good terms with a number of senior officials in Washington and Manila. Had they learned that the bureau was investigating Truman Hunt, and written the letter in an attempt to distance themselves from Truman and his style of doing business? Were they simply protecting their own interests? Or were they laying the groundwork before stirring up trouble for their rival? And, given his eye for good publicity, why was Truman not taking similar steps to appease the authorities?

  McIntyre wasn’t the only person taking a keen interest in Felder and Schneidewind’s Igorrote Village. Truman had recently sent an associate of his to Chutes Park to take a look around and see if he could learn anything about where his rival’s group was going next. He had an old score to settle.

  19

  Memphis Blues

  MEMPHIS, APRIL 1906

  Newspaper headline from a file the US government kept on Truman and the Igorrotes

  THE SMALL FRAME house at number 446 North Front Street had seen better days. Outside the paint was cracked and peeling, exposing beams of rot
ten wood. The two front windows were filthy. The scrappy front yard was overgrown with weeds and the gate leading to it was hanging off its hinges.

  Truman drew up outside in a horse-drawn carriage just as the last light was fading from the sky. The showman climbed out and looked up at the house. He would never think of staying in such a place, but then, he didn’t have to. He handed the driver some money and turned around as a convoy of wagons approached. One by one the Igorrotes emerged from inside and stepped down onto the sidewalk, dragging their trunks behind them. A young black woman dressed in a threadbare coat and a broad-brimmed hat came out of the house next door. She stopped in her tracks and stood, staring. The tribespeople were dressed in their traveling clothes, but these did nothing to disguise the fact the Filipinos didn’t belong in these parts.

  A group of men in overalls passed on the other side of the street and shouted something at the new arrivals. Julio had become adept at shutting out the racist taunts. The others didn’t understand the words the men used, but they knew they had heard them before, in other towns they had visited. One of the men spat on the ground, eyeing them as he did so. Julio looked past them and across the street at an ugly four-story building enclosed by a thick brick wall topped with iron spikes. It was the Shelby County jail. The light from the watchtower lit up the streets for miles around.

  North Front Street was in an industrial area, three miles northeast of the Memphis city limits.1 The district boasted lots of jobs and plenty of local color, though it wouldn’t win any beauty contests. It was home to the navy yards, timber mills, breweries, coal yards, the gasworks, and warehouses storing everything from oil to lime and cement. The Illinois Central and the Louisville and Nashville railroad lines ran just yards from where the Igorrotes stood, providing a rattling, whistling soundtrack to the long days and nights. Across the tracks, cargo ships sailed up and down the Wolf River. Drifters, river rats, and passing drunks wandered through the streets looking for a place to get a drink and rest their weary heads.

  A straggling group of local children playing in the street watched as Truman herded the Igorrotes inside their new home, away from prying eyes. The showman counted heads as the tribespeople entered. There wasn’t room for them all to stand in the narrow hall, so the tribespeople spilled into a neighboring room. Satisfied that everyone was there, Truman swung the door shut and turned the key in the lock. Julio inhaled. The air was musty. There were four small rooms—two overlooked North Front Street and the others looked out onto a vacant lot.2 You had to pass through a room off the hallway and another room behind it to reach the back door. The walls were covered in a powdery black substance that looked like soot. Truman noticed that the powder had gotten on the sleeve of his suit. He brushed it off. It must be from the coal yard or the railroad out back.

  The only toilet was outside. Truman informed the tribespeople they would need permission from him or Callahan to use it. Daipan asked if she could go now. Callahan opened the back door and told her to be quick. He stood at the open door waiting for her to return. There was no back porch, just a few steps leading down to the yard. Not that it could really be called a yard: it wasn’t fenced in—it couldn’t be, because the L&N Railroad ran through it, within a few feet of the house. While Daipan was in the outhouse, a train thundered past. The house shook and the windows rattled so hard the tribespeople thought the glass might fall in on them.

  The place was a hovel, thought Truman, standing in a front room, but the tribespeople slept in much worse at home. It would do fine. He didn’t care for the nosy neighbors, but they could deal with them. The windows and doors would remain locked at all times. Except for Julio, no one would be allowed out other than to use the toilet. Truman noticed a group of children peering in through the window. He rapped his knuckles on the glass and shooed them away. They would have to cover the windows.

  The tribespeople were tired and hungry after their journey. Julio took out his watch—it was eight o’clock. Truman told the interpreter that they were all to sleep together in one of the rooms at the front. There was a danger they might be seen, thought the showman, but it was preferable to them trying to escape out the back door. Callahan would sleep in the same room with them. Reluctantly, the security man agreed. Then Truman scooped up a pile of the tribe’s blankets, a dirty sheet left by the previous tenants, and whatever else he could lay his hands on, and began using them to cover the windows. A couple of the windows had shutters, so Truman pulled them closed.

  Julio asked what he was doing. Truman told the interpreter he didn’t want people coming round and peering into the house day and night, bothering them. This was true, but he had another reason for keeping the tribe hidden. He didn’t want people knowing they were in Memphis in case word got back to McIntyre and the War Department.

  Before Truman left to go to his hotel, he told Callahan that he was counting on him to keep them all in line. He didn’t want anyone getting out again and causing trouble. If Callahan wanted to keep his job, he must keep the house locked at all times and the windows covered. His security man nodded and Truman handed him the keys. Callahan locked the door behind him and rejoined the tribe in the front room. He lowered himself into a chair and put his feet up on a broken side table. The Igorrotes’ guard was not looking forward to the night ahead; he was expected to stay awake all night, and he had no beer to drink and no one to play cards with.

  The escape attempt in New Orleans and the letter from the War Department had rattled Truman. He was worried the government would send someone out to check up on him. That was why he had cut short their stay in New Orleans. He also feared the Igorrotes might try to break out again. Truman had purposely kept their bookings short ever since, spending a few days here and there in mostly out-of-the-way places. He had brought them to Memphis on a whim—he had friends in the city and enjoyed it there. He didn’t know how long they would be staying.

  The Igorrotes’ mood was somber on their first night in their new home. Early American visitors to Bontoc had frequently commented on the squalid, primitive, and cramped conditions of the Igorrotes’ homes. The tribespeople didn’t care for luxuries. But in the Philippines, despite frequently sleeping eight to ten crammed into one small, squat, windowless hut, they had never experienced the claustrophobia they felt now. They were silent as they removed the American clothes, which had become their detested uniform whenever they traveled. There was so much to say but so little point in saying anything. They wondered how long they would be staying in this house, but they hadn’t bothered to ask. They no longer trusted a word Truman said.

  Maria and Daipan busied themselves at the stove, cooking up the little bit of rice they had left. They had run out of beans. They missed the juicy maize and the sweet camotes they could pick or dig up from the soil whenever they wanted them at home. Julio bought them rice and potatoes every week. He did his best to provide them with fresh fruit and other vegetables, sometimes even a little chicken, but he couldn’t always get them. The tribespeople were growing lethargic on their bland, starchy diet, but that was the least of their worries.

  When the rice was cooked through, Daipan carried the steaming pot over to where everyone was sitting. Callahan grunted at her to serve him first—he didn’t want to eat from the pot after the Filipinos’ grubby hands had been in it. Maria rummaged around in a cupboard and found a small bowl. It was chipped and dirty. Using a spoon she scooped some rice into the bowl without bothering to clean it and handed it to the guard. Callahan indicated that he wanted more. Maria and Daipan looked at each other. There would hardly be anything left for the others. Maria gave him more and he ate it greedily. Then the two women told the others to help themselves. Though they hadn’t eaten all day, the Igorrotes had lost their appetites.

  That night they went to bed early. They were exhausted, but sleep eluded them. Trains rattled through the backyard, just feet from where they lay, but it was not the noise that kept them awake. Feloa lay thinking of his wife and his three young children, wish
ing he had never left them. The little one was just a baby. He must have grown so big by now. Feloa had made sure his wife had enough to live off for the year that he would be away. But that year was up and he wondered how she was surviving. Their friends and family would help take care of them, but they could only help for so long. No one was rich where they came from. Feloa wasn’t the only one with a family at home to support. Dengay thought of his wife and four young children, while Daipan was anxious about her widowed mother. Her mother was a worrier by nature and Daipan knew that she would not rest until she was home.

  Julio rose early the next morning. He dressed, putting on a clean white shirt and his favorite beige linen summer suit. There was little point in dressing up, but the interpreter didn’t own any informal clothes. Picking up his boater hat, he went through to the next room and asked Callahan if he could go out to use the toilet and to visit the store. The tribe needed food. Callahan nodded. Unlocking the back door, he told him to be quick. There was a store on the corner, two buildings down. Julio went out into the backyard and pulled open the door leading to the outhouse. The wood was rotten. The stench was foul. Holding his breath, he entered. From what he’d overheard Truman and Callahan saying, it didn’t sound as though they would be staying long. Though you never knew with Truman. Recently he’d taken to rearranging their schedule at the last minute.