Big Liz and a baby elephant take tea at Bostock’s, at the Buffalo fair.
Frank Bostock established Coney Island as his base for the next few years, opening a show in a brand new amphitheater and staging performances for fifteen thousand people daily. He continued to exhibit elephants, including one named Blondin, who in 1908 walked a tightrope and smoked a pipe. Many of his trainers, including Jack Bonavita, remained with him. Bonavita lost an arm to a lion in 1904, and then, following an attack by a polar bear in 1917, his life.
Bostock continued to tour the United States through the 1910s, and also took his acts overseas to Cuba, Europe, Australia, and South Africa. He expanded his business to theaters, ballrooms, and skating rinks. Then, suddenly, in London, in October 1912, Frank Bostock died.The cause of his death at forty-six, it seems, was influenza, and his funeral, by all accounts, was grand. Floral tributes arrived from business partners around the world—wreaths with a lion’s head, a floral kangaroo, a life-sized lion. Carriages to the Abney Park Cemetery north of London brought friends and admirers. Later, his family erected a tombstone with a big marble lion, recumbent and sleeping, for his resting place.
In memoriam, the press talked about the practices of the “Great U.S.A. Bostock,” as he was known. He was, the New York Times said, a man with a talent for staging remarkable publicity stunts. Others stated that his courage with wild animals was legendary. Still more talked about his theories on animal training. Addressing rising public concern over animal welfare, they said that Bostock delivered correction as a last resort. And parroting decades of press releases, they claimed that his creed was “kindness, kindness, kindness.”2
Bostock’s longtime lion trainer, Captain Jack Bonavita, ca. 1903.
Through the twentieth century, elephants like Jumbo II and Big Liz continued to serve as public sensations. And, just like Bostock’s elephants, they were viewed with mixed emotions. Shortly after Jumbo II was killed, a circus elephant named Topsy was electrocuted at Coney Island, in front of thousands of adults and children. (An Edison motion-picture company filmed the event.) The press, weighing in on the event with the same blend of prurience and remorse it had shown at Buffalo, described Topsy as both an incorrigible man-killer and a docile pet. She came to her killing site as “gently and obediently as a child.”
Theodore Roosevelt provided the American media with more elephant stories (and more ambivalence) when he publicized his East African safari in 1908. While collecting animal specimens for American museums, he disparaged Native African hunters for their lack of sophistication, boasted about Western guns, and marveled at elephants. They were terrifying beasts, he claimed, and he filled his account with stories of maulings, gorings, and tramplings. When he killed one, he stood on top of the world. “I felt proud indeed as I stood by the immense bulk of the slain monster,” he wrote after a shoot, “and put my hand on the ivory.” After killing one pachyderm, he roasted pieces of its heart and “found it delicious.”
Roosevelt saw in the elephant something more than terrifying majesty, though. The elephant was intelligent, savvy to the ways of the hunter, and skilled at avoiding them—it was what made the animal such attractive prey. They were not only wise; they were sociable. It was fortunate that there were so many of them, said Roosevelt, and that there was no danger of extinction.
In the United States throughout the twentieth century, the reputation of elephants continued to soften. In parade after parade, circus after circus, they plodded their way into the public’s affection. They sat on balls, balanced on tubs, were laughed at and admired. Then in 2015, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus announced that it would retire its herd. The decline of elephant populations worldwide and the recognition that these giant animals might be gone forever played a part in the decision. But more effective than that were the protests of animal advocates, who publicized the way they were imprisoned, disciplined, poked, and pricked. They also emphasized that these mammals had a humanlike way of solving problems and expressed fondness, grief, and empathy.3
What took place in 1901 in Buffalo—where Jumbo II pushed against his confinement and suffered the consequences, and where the brand new SPCA fought to prevent a spectacle of animal killing—pointed toward this shift in thinking. Jumbo’s “moment” did not mark any watershed in public opinion, but it did reveal a dent in the belief that civilization meant the subjugation of wild animals, and it served as a sign of changes to come.
II
EVER AFTER
Released from Frank Bostock’s dominion, Tony and Alice Woeckener spent the winter of 1903 dreaming up new shows. Tony corresponded with “several little people” and considered putting together a traveling troupe, accompanied by the Woeckener family musicians. Best of all, a writer was working on a pantomime that would feature special scenery and star Chiquita. For once, the performer would headline a show that was not her personal drama.
Chiquita stayed in the Woeckener home for much of that winter, resting and eating. She gained weight. And she became pregnant. The event, not surprisingly, made national news. Nine months later, however, in mid-October 1903, Chiquita signed her last will and testament and was prepared for a caesarean section at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Erie. The surgery was described as “a last resort to save her life.” The operation did end up saving her life, but her son was stillborn.
Over the next decade, Chiquita, with Tony as her manager, continued to tour. She performed in the West, in Mexico, and throughout Europe. One visitor who saw her show in New York City in 1909 said that just as endearing as Chiquita was her proud and attentive husband. He carried her to the platform, and then watched her act. “His devotion to his, the smallest wife in the world, is seemingly unending.”
It was in the spring of 1928 that a Buffalo newspaper announced that Chiquita, who had returned to Mexico with Tony sometime earlier, had died in Guadalajara. She would have been around fifty years old. The paper knew that many of its readers would have no idea who Chiquita was, so it reminded them. She was the young woman, the paper explained, “whom gaping hordes milled and jostled to see when she appeared at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo in 1901.” The announcement said that Chiquita’s end “brought her merciful relief.” The choice of words suggests that she might have had a hard time toward the end of her life, but it is comforting to imagine it was just a turn of phrase. What is evident is that her last decades with Tony were good. The newspaper recounted the story of their romance in Buffalo and claimed that they lived happily ever after.4
Tony Woeckener and Alice Woeckener (Chiquita), ca. 1904.
World’s fair midways continued to be popular venues for displaying short-statured people like Chiquita. In the 1930s, it wasn’t just one Little Person who was featured; expositions hosted “midget villages” and “midget circuses.” By the late 1900s, though, individuals with extraordinary bodies were increasingly viewed as medical anomalies that needed to be fixed. The hospital room, in other words, picked up where the circus tent left off. At the same time, and partly as a result of being set apart for so long, Little People joined together to demand rights, respect, and, above all, a reconsideration of what a normal body really meant. Alice Woeckener, with Tony’s help, had staked a claim to freedom on her own. A century later, she would have had the support of a wide and loyal community.5
III
THE OLD ADVENTURER
When Rainbow City locked its gates for good on November 2, 1901, the head counters went to work and calculated that the Buffalo Exposition had seen more than eight million visitors. It wasn’t the twenty million the big talkers had predicted, or the ten million that would have set the accounts straight. It was, all things considered, a respectable number.
Almost immediately, frets about attendance were repeated farther south, when another show opened. On December 1, 1901, Charleston, South Carolina, welcomed visitors to the Interstate and West Indian Exposition for a six-month run. The fair’s designers eschewed color this time and went b
ack to tried-and-true white. The fair, located on the grounds of an old Ashley River plantation, became known as the “Ivory City.” It recorded 675,000 guests.
Charleston fair directors brought in some Buffalo shows. The Cuba exhibit was reassembled, as were The Streets of Cairo, Darkness and Dawn, and the Esquimaux Village. And, in the opening-day parade, who should bring up the rear but elephants, lions, and zebras from one of Frank Bostock’s menageries.6
Another familiar face appeared, too: the barrel-riding star of Niagara Falls. The days since her bandstand appearance at the Pan-American Exposition had not been easy for Annie Taylor. While Tussie Russell booked engagements for her in early November, she had fought exhaustion. She persuaded Russell to take her back to Bay City, but even there, Annie said, Russell rented a storefront and “dragged me there more dead than alive.” She also complained that he didn’t give her all the money she made.
There had been other problems, too. Her story had made its way around the country, and, in Michigan, a blacksmith named Montgomery Edson had scanned the news about her exploit with more than usual interest—and perplexity. He became so deeply curious about the matter, in fact, that he decided to make himself known to the press.
He was, he said, Annie’s brother. There was only one set of Edsons who lived near Auburn, New York, and the details of her life fit with what he knew of his long-lost sister.
There was only one thing that didn’t match up. If Annie Edson Taylor was his sister, then she wasn’t forty-three years old. In fact, the person who had just dazzled the world with her nerve and daring was almost an old lady. And all those witnesses who said that she looked her age, and wondered whether she were past her dancing prime? They were right.
While papers in Michigan buzzed about Taylor’s age, Tussie Russell, who was taking offers for shows, kept silent on the subject. Annie, too, fired back. When a Bay City reporter asked her whether she was Montgomery Edson’s long-lost sister, she had a sharp answer. “He’s a fool,” she said. “I’m nobody’s lost sister and I never was lost.” But she did not deny the relationship.7
In mid-November, when Taylor began snapping at reporters and shooing away spectators, Russell drove her to a sanatorium for a rest. Several days later, the two were back on the road, holding court in Flint, Saginaw, Detroit, Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Columbus. In most of these cities, Taylor sat in a department-store window, her cat (or, more likely, a cat) and her barrel by her side. Occasionally she gave a short talk.
They made almost no money. In Cincinnati, Annie explained, one of her fellow Niagara Falls stunters, Martha Wagenfuhrer, had arrived first, captured Annie’s audience, and “imposed on the public.” Annie tapped into an old Texas bank account in order to get to Charleston, and, after appearing at the fair for two weeks, she and Russell couldn’t even buy train tickets out of town. They turned to public-assistance offices for help.
Russell blamed their failures on Annie’s “peculiarities” and on her looks. “I’ve trottered [sic] her around the country,” the manager said, “but she got to be a frost. . . . People took more interest in the barrel and the cat than they did in the woman . . . they didn’t believe she was the woman.” He explained that audiences had imagined her as a youthful “damsel,” and that when they came face-to-face with the adventurer and found a woman “somewhat down toward the sunset side of life,” they took no further notice of her. They could have profited, he said, if she had been “a beautiful girl.”
With these ideas in mind, Russell made a break for it. Commandeering the barrel, he sold it to a Chicago theater company that wanted to produce a play based on Taylor’s ride. The manager of Over the Falls, as the show would be titled, suggested he might even have a part for Russell, either as hero or villain. He would not only feature the original barrel but also reimagine the heroine as lovely and young.
While Over the Falls went into rehearsal—according to theater circles, it seemed destined to be a hit—the barrel’s original rider struggled on. An appeal to the Ohio Relief Department in Cleveland gave Annie funds to go east and, in the winter of 1902, she returned to Niagara Falls. Desperate for money, she marketed postcards and produced a hastily written memoir. In late March, she wrote to a Niagara Falls theater manager for help. Tussie Russell, she said, had a “villinous [sic] temper,” and had proven himself rotten. He had taken her livelihood and made it his own. “Despair as bitter as death,” she said, “has settled down on me.”8
As money from souvenir sales accumulated, Taylor’s attitude shifted to determination. She hired a Chicago lawyer named Moody to find her barrel, and Moody, in turn, hired a detective. On August 14, he found it. The cask was brazenly being shown in a Chicago department-store window advertising Over the Falls.
Taylor made plans to go to Chicago immediately. Worried that the theater managers would do everything possible to thwart her, though, she decided to travel under an alias. Mrs. Isaac Davy, the name she chose, belonged to an acquaintance. She took with her a decorated alligator bag, so Moody would know her right away.
In Chicago, she and the lawyer, with the help of city police, moved fast. As a driver backed a truck up to the department store, an officer served papers on the manager. Moody’s assistants maneuvered the barrel into the truck and drove away. Twice that night, they switched the barrel’s location, and, by morning, they had the cask on an eastbound train, in the company of Annie Taylor. She was delighted.
Through early fall, Taylor toured northeastern state fairs with her prized possession. With her new manager, William Banks, she sold her memoir and photographs and spoke to audiences about her ride. At the end of September, she left for a new engagement in Trenton, New Jersey. As usual, her barrel traveled separately.
There was something about Annie Taylor that tempted men into usurping her story. Instead of reconnecting with Taylor, Banks took the barrel, dressed up a woman named Maggie Kaplin in clothes like Taylor’s, gave her Taylor’s books to sell, and launched a tour. Annie went to the Trenton justice of the peace to report her stolen barrel and met with other lawyers. Then, depleted of money and strength, she gave up. She could read about her barrel making the rounds of theaters in “startling,” “marvelous,” and “dramatic” renditions of her descent, but she never saw the real thing again.
The remaining years of her life saw the aging adventurer trying to market her feat with a replica barrel, and hawking souvenirs on the streets of Niagara Falls. She watched more theaters and filmmakers tell her tale and even toyed—briefly—with the idea of going over the falls again in 1906. Five years later, a forty-seven-year-old Englishman named Bobby Leach stole some of her thunder when he tumbled over Niagara Falls in a steel barrel. He was badly injured but survived. Taylor said she did not want to discuss the matter.
Annie Taylor sells souvenirs at a stand in Niagara Falls.
At the age of seventy-six, Taylor offered to portray herself in a movie about her pioneering plunge. She got into a barrel upstream of the falls and reentered it downstream. The production was never released. She dreamed up other schemes to make money, too, but now, nearly blind, she could not make them work. In the winter of 1921, she was admitted to an almshouse north of Buffalo. The registrar noted her “cause of dependence . . . sore eyes, no home, no money.” Other officials also noted her age. Ever the optimist, she had told them she was fifty-seven.
The poorhouse did not diminish Taylor’s willingness to give interviews about her adventures. Four trips across the Atlantic, she said, fourteen times across the Florida Straits, “several” times across the continent, and once deep into Mexico. And one other, of course. She also continued to reimagine her station in life. She told a newsman soon after she had been admitted that she was writing a historical novel she thought would be just right for Harper’s. Then she could leave the almshouse. “It is quite a change for me to come here when I have been used to being entertained in senators’ homes in Washington and travelling extensively,” she said.
She died there
that spring, on April 29. She was eighty-three years old.9
Annie Taylor never succeeded in entering the high society she admired, either in 1901 or beyond. She was too poor, too restless. She also failed to secure a livelihood from her descent of Niagara Falls. She was, everyone said, too old. There were other problems. When men “conquered” Niagara by barrel, they were regarded as brave, if somewhat foolhardy. When they harnessed the cataract through engineering, they were seen as performing a brilliant, powerful, and profitable accomplishment. Taylor’s feat seemed to provoke as much irritation as wonder. Not only had she used an old-fashioned barrel to achieve her goal, but her act seemed to make the falls mundane. The “grandeur of the cataract,” explained a Niagara Falls park superintendent in 1902, “has been largely augmented by the fact that its dangers have been forever invincible by human beings.” When Taylor came along, he said, people “were resentful that anyone has triumphed over the mighty Niagara. They do not care to hear the story of a matronly appearing woman who has tripped up Hercules.”10
The grand escapade that culminated in Annie Taylor’s appearance at the Pan-American signaled change ahead for women, however. Women could vote by the time Taylor died, and women could travel alone with less suspicion. Eventually, women could enter the public sphere as politicians, professionals, and, thanks to the likes of Amelia Earhart, as adventurers. But, particularly if they were women of color, they would still contend disproportionately with poverty. And, for generations to come, older women would still be relegated to society’s backseat. Like Annie Taylor, many would try to defy their age, or lie about it, in order to capture the value accorded to youth.
The Electrifying Fall of Rainbow City Page 22