Circus Parade

by Jim Tully

  “Well, Bookah, we done made ’um all laugh.”

  And Booker T. Washington licked the fatuous mouth of his master.

  The audience was still chuckling over the king’s exit. The manager hurried to find out who the new kinker was. The discovery that the king was none other than John Quincy Adams, the roustabout stake-driver, was a surprise. The manager told him to go ahead with the act, and gave him a raise of five dollars a week. This brought his salary up to fifteen dollars. He hugged the scurvy cat and said, “Heah, Bookah, take youh tongue outta my eye.”

  Jimmy Arkley of course was called in as the boss clown. He explained in detail to John Quincy Adams all the tricks which the dark gentleman with the scurvy cat knew by intuition.

  As a stake-driver the name of John Quincy Adams meant nothing. As a clown it meant even less. There are no names like John Quincy Adams in the circus Almanac de Gotha. But as I’ve said before, somewhere his ancestors must have made forgotten kings to laugh. Whether it was during the period of the American Revolution I know not. As laughter is an hysteria that defies analysis, being synonymous with religious fervor or patriotic outbursts, people laughed at John Quincy Adams without knowing why. Jimmy Arkley always sent him on when the audience was cold. It made no difference to John Quincy Adams. He always got the same laughter.

  Even though Jimmy Arkley kept him in his place, life opened like a melon sliced for John Quincy Adams. He had found expression.

  He was made to assist in the smaller clown numbers. He took the brunt of physical jokes perpetrated in the arena. He was always the clown upon whom the bucket of water was thrown. It was John Quincy Adams who was dragged by the trick runaway horse. It was his great yellow body that stopped the majority of the slapsticks.

  He never complained.

  Jimmy Arkley did not like him. But the sad-eyed clown liked all the world and could not see dislike in others. The huge bulk of John Quincy Adams was supersensitive to pain. Who would expect a Negro stake-driver to have acute sensibilities? Every time he winced under the blows of his brother buffoons the audience laughed the more. It was indeed remarkable the expression of pain he could focus on his white-painted face.

  His individuality survived it all. It was so marked that Jimmy Arkley was forced by the manager to allow him the center of the stage. He was even consulted about new numbers. At such times the great intuitive clown reverted to the stake-driver and became humble in the presence of whiter and lesser men.

  But he never entered the pad-room, never dressed in the long tent with the other clowns. He still ate in the roustabout’s section of the cook-house. His increase in salary was of benefit only to me and the scurvy cat. The latter was now heavy and dreamed for the most part nearly all of its nine lives away on John Quincy Adams’ bunk. We three lived together in a small tent. It was away from the other tents. Whenever we moved to a new town John Quincy Adams would raise the tent alone.

  He could neither read nor write. Once when I told him of a tragic paper-backed novel I was reading, he said:

  “What all good dat do you, boy? You’s alive ain’t you? You doan have to read ’bout nothin’.”

  He spent his time playing solitaire, or manipulating new tricks with dice.

  He could sing well. His voice was full of the tragedy of three races. He was fond of the Southern folk songs, though he never quite got the words of them correctly. A sense of drama, or an inarticulate feeling for beauty made him accentuate some lines and sing them over and over. When doing so he would put out his immense hand as he had when he first danced. I learned that it was a habit with him when deeply moved. He would chant with a rolling vibration, the wonderful quality of it choking me with emotion and even making the cat stop licking its scurvied scars and look up as the words poured out, the chanter’s body slouching low.

  H–i–s fingers were l–o–n–g l–i–k–e c–ane in—the br–ake—

  And he—had—no—eyes—foh—to see———

  And then, as softly as dawn in the desert:

  A few—more days—for—to tote de weary l–oa–d,

  No mat–teh … t’w–ill nevah—be light———

  A few moah—yeah—s till I—totteh daown de— road.…

  D–en my old Kaintucky—home—goodnight———

  His face at the end of such a verse was a mask of concentrated agony. The heavy lips would quiver.

  I have often thought of him since, and of the scurvy cat we both loved. Three rovers of desolation, we had been joined together by the misery of inarticulate understanding. The cat was quite a personality. There were many places on his body upon which the fur would not grow. He spent hours shining these spots, like a battered old soldier eternally dressing his wounds.

  Even when the clown took the cat in his arms and sang:

  My masteh had a yaller gal,

  And she was from the Souf;

  Her hair it kinked so berry tight,

  She coulden’ shut her mouf—

  the cat looked bored.

  Success did not affect John Quincy Adams. Somewhere in his roving life there had been planted in his soul the futility of human vanity. So humble and self-effacing was he among the kinkers, that most of them forgot the master of pantomime in the person of the ex-stake-driver.

  As the weather grew colder we trekked toward that strip of Florida which projects into the Gulf of Mexico.

  It was a happy wandering along the Gulf. There was a lazy indifference to life that we of the gypsy clan loved. The brilliant sunshine was reflected everywhere. Even the shadows were diffused with light. The air was balmy.

  We played three days in some of the towns. That allowed us to wander about a great deal. For the longer a circus plays in a town the easier it becomes for kinkers and flunkies. The work becomes a mere matter of detail, like in a penitentiary or any other institution.

  So I often took long walks with John Quincy Adams and the cat. Once in a while the clown was touched with the wand of reminiscence. Booker T. Washington, however, was always the same sad fellow. Bright sunshine and green lapping waves could not get his mind away from the patches that made his hide look moth-eaten. Often, as John Quincy and I looked out at the far green water upon which white ships sailed, Booker T. Washington would turn away as if scornful of our illusion of beauty. He was an epic of boredom.

  Only one thing marred the happiness of our world. It was the year of a presidential election, and owing to the uncertainty of how the pendulum of politics would swing, the powers that be retrenched financially. Times became hard.

  As a consequence there was more friction between the colored and white races in the section through which we journeyed.

  Many fights occurred.

  But John Quincy Adams was not at all concerned by the animosities of differently colored men. It was not in his yellow hulk to inflict pain. He cringed, however, at each tale of physical violence he heard. Always there came into his face the look of concentrated agony. And once, when a Negro had been laid out with a rock, he said to me,

  “What foh men ’buse each other?”

  “I don’t know, Quince,” I replied. “There were probably some Irish in the gang.”

  He laughed, his grave-yard of teeth showing.

  “Yeah, Red Boy, theah was some niggahs too, I’ll bet.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Quince,” I said banteringly. “The Niggers and the Irish like each other. You know they both had to make a long fight for freedom.”

  John Quincy Adams was slouching low in the tent. He looked across at Booker T. Washington, who had just finished licking the patch above his paw.

  “Did you heah that, Bookeh T.? Did you all heah what the Red Boy says? He done read dat in one o’ dem books, Bookeh T. He doan know what we know.” His voice trailed off.… “Niggah an’ de Irish like each other.” Then he turned toward Booker T. Washington and me. “You done heah that song, ain’t you, Red Boy, the niggah sing?

  I’m a goin’ to put on my shoes and put on my coa
t,

  An’ am goin’ to walk all oveh God’s Heaben———

  “Well, that ain’t nevah so—now or no otheh time.” He laughed loudly.

  “Heah’s what happened. A big black niggah goes prancin’ into heaven an’ all the streets was lined wit’ gold and silber lampposts an’ big green an’ black pahrots a carryin’ ’Merican flags in dere claws kep’ shoutin’ out, ‘Heah’s de way, brotheh black man,’ an’ dey leads ’em right up to de peahly gates, an’ right at de cohneh was a big chaih made outta oysteh shells, an’ de oystehs was a sittin’ up in deah shells a singin’:

  It’s de land ob de free

  An’ de home ob de slave,

  Sis-teh, sis-teh.

  The Lawd heals all youh wombs.

  Glor–ry, Glory, Glor–eee, glor–ee,

  The Lawd heals all youh wombs.

  “De big niggah he goes a prancin’ by, a washed all black in de blood ob de lamb, an’ goes a slidin’ up de corrydoor towahds de Great God Almighty who’s a standin’ theah waitin’. Then you should all hab seen dat niggah tuhn all reddah’n youh haih. A oysteh runs outta its shell and pinches his leg an’ says, ‘Heah you, niggah, you all is in de Irish section ob heaben. You kneels befoah youh God, you black bastahd.’

  “God, he looks aroun’ an’ sees de oysteh an’ says, ‘Get youh back to youh shell. Oystehs should be seen and not heard.’ Then God he tuhns to the niggah who’s a kneelin’ theah reddah’n a spanked baby, an’ he says:

  “ ‘What’s youh all mean by this overdue familiahity? Doan you all know dis ain’t youh heaven? Who tol’ you come in heah, anyhow? I says to my pahrots not to leabe no niggahs in heah. Dis is Irish heaven, an’ doan you know dey ain’t no freedom wheah you sees birds carryin’ the ’Merican flag? Dey carries dat for purtection w’en de win’s git rough. Now you jist chase on outta heah, Black Boy, to niggah heaben. It’s obeh deah back ob de slaughteh house.’

  “The big niggah he walk away fasteh’n lightnin’, an’ God he done call out, ‘Heah, you lazy oystehs, scrub up dis place wheah de niggah’s feet habe been. An’ tell dem pahrots to let no moah niggahs in heah. Fuhst thing I know dese silber walks’ll be all black.’

  “Den de niggah he goes a singin’ obeh towards de slaughteh house past wheah de dead oystehs is buried:

  Jesus my awl to heaben has gone.

  Wheah is de stump I laid it on.

  “An’ dat’s how de niggah walked all obeh God’s heaben. Dem niggah’s is all de time kiddin’ demselves.”

  The wind from the Gulf had turned colder. It moaned dismally about the tent as John Quincy Adams concluded his tale of the Negro in Irish Heaven. He had finished a hard day’s playing to half-empty seats and was soon stretched out on the bunk with Booker T. Washington. Soon I could hear the cat purring and the uncouth pantomimist breathing heavily.

  The night finally pushed its way into a drizzly morning. I went early to do my chores with the animals. They huddled forlornly together in the corner of their cages.

  We loitered about until afternoon. A small crowd again turned out for the midday performance. A cold wind blew from the Gulf and all nerves were testy. Every person seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. The natives were hostile to the circus people.

  “Somethin’s goin’ to happen in dis burg. I feels it in muh bones,” was John Quincy Adams’ comment at the supper table.

  “Nope, you’re all cold, Quince,” I said. “Everything’ll slip along all right and we’ll breeze outta here tomorrow an’ in two days we’ll hit Miami. Then things’ll break better.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so, but I done got a funny feelin’,” was John Quincy’s rejoinder.

  That evening a colored man was said to have insulted a white woman. He had, intentionally, or otherwise, stepped ahead of her in the purchase of a ticket.

  A white gentleman saw the act. He slammed the Negro in the jaw. The Negro, not knowing his place, slammed the white gentleman back. Another race riot started.

  The Negroes connected with the circus disappeared as if by magic. Gangs of white men were looking for them everywhere.

  When found, the Negro was sent running down the road followed by rock salt and bacon rind from the guns of the whites. It was great fun until a colored man sent a real bullet through the arm of a white man and ducked under the circus tent.

  The rules of the game had been broken. The white men now demanded blood. They surrounded the main tent like bush-beaters, closing in on a predatory animal. Carrying knives, guns and clubs, the avenging Southerners tramped through the tent.

  I covered John Quincy Adams with a heavy blanket as the men came closer to our tent. With pounding heart I heard them talking as they searched.

  “He ducked in here somewheres. We’ll git him,” one of them said.

  After a seeming eternity of waiting a man pushed the flaps open and entered our tent. He was followed by five other men.

  “You ain’t got a nigger in here, have yu?” asked the leader.

  “Nigger—hell no, what’ud a nigger be doin’ in here?” I asked hotly.

  Just then Booker T. Washington ran across the tent and burrowed under the blanket. With heartsick eyes I looked at him. The eyes of the five men followed.

  “You damn little liar,” shouted the leader as he pushed me backward and rushed forward with the other men to the blanket. A shout went up.

  “Here he is. We got him.” Many more men entered the tent. A voice shouted, “That’s him, that’s the nigger that shot me.”

  Another man laughed. “Lookit him, tryin’ to make up like a white man—paint smeared all oveh his mug.”

  The face of John Quincy Adams was full of pain. The gentlemen kicked and pushed him. He had the look of the doomed in his eyes as he looked about frantically. I thought of his abnormal dread of pain.

  ‘He didn’t do nothin’, men. He’s a white nigger,” I pleaded.

  “Get the hell outta here,” snapped the leader. “We’ll make him wish he was white. What was he hidin’ for if he ain’t the one?”

  Several men held John Quincy Adams while two more swung vicious blows at his head. One man used a black-jack. John’s head fell on his chest as though his neck had broken.

  “I ain’t nevah huht nothin’,” he gasped weakly. A fist smashed against his mouth. Booker T. Washington rubbed against my leg. I picked him up and held him in the tensity of emotion.

  Booted along, half walking and half dragged, his eyes covered with blood that flowed from the cuts in his head, John Quincy Adams was finally taken to a place where a fire was burning.

  On the fire was a large square tin can into which chunks of tar were being thrown. Some of the tar fell into the flames and caused dense black smoke to curl around the heads of victim and persecutors.

  “Les stake him to the fire an’ burn him,” yelled the man with the injured arm. “He’d a killed me dead if he could.”

  “Nope, les jist give him a nice overcoat o’ hot tar,” suggested another, “that’ll hold him in his place for a while.”

  They tore his shirt from his body and threw it into the fire. Then his undershirt was torn into strips and stuck into the melting tar. I clung to Booker T. Washington.

  There were moans as the tar was applied to the heaving body. The nauseating reek of burnt flesh and the odor of tar was everywhere.

  The frenzy of the tormentors at last died down. They left the scene after kicking the prostrate form on the ground. The fire smouldered away in greenish smoke as I approached the body of John Quincy Adams with Booker T. Washington in my arms. The white paint on his face was streaked with tar and blood.

  His face was haggard, like that of a man crucified.

  I knelt beside him while Booker T. Washington licked his face.

  The wind blew in cold gusts from the Gulf.

  But John Quincy Adams was forever unconscious of wind and weather.

  XIII: An Elephant Gets Even

  XIII: An Elephant Gets Even

  THE term “g
oosey” is supposed to have originated with Southern Negroes. It covers a much larger meaning than the word “ticklish.”

  The victim is supersensitive to human touch. Once his malady is discovered by low class minds he finds little peace among them. He is continually being touched unexpectedly. His frantic actions at such times are the delight of his tormentors.

  The elephant trainer’s real name was William Jay Dickson. I learned it only by accident. His name with the circus members was always “Goosey.”

  Whenever Goosey was touched unexpectedly from behind, he would react with violence. If he happened to have a club in his hand he would strike the first object that stood in his way. If he had no club he would yell out loud the very thing of which he was thinking at the time. Once he was touched suddenly as the Moss-Haired Girl walked near him. He screamed.

  “Lord, I’d like to love you.” She turned about, saw his predicament and walked on smiling.

  Goosey would beg his tormentors not to tease him. No one paid him the slightest attention. It became a mania. If he heard a sound within ten feet of his rear, he would jump suddenly and either strike out or yell that which was in his mind.

  Goosey had a surprising knowledge of animals gained from long practical experience. Elephants were his favorites. He had been around the world seven times, always in charge of elephants. He had spent a year in Africa with a man celebrated for his love of killing dumb brutes. Becoming disgusted with the wanton slaughter in the name of sport—it was really a tusk-hunting expedition—he deserted his employer in the Upper Congo. The experience haunted Goosey.

  “When a elephant is shot it jist falls like the world comin’ down. I jist couldn’t stand it no more, for elephants don’t harm nobody that don’t harm them.”

  After Goosey deserted he made his way for miles through the jungle. The illiterate naturalist would watch a herd of elephants by the hour.

  “I ain’t never seen one of ’em lyin’ down in my life. They don’t never sleep. They kin smell you a mile off in the jungle an’ the only way to fool ’em is to git aroun’ so’s the wind don’t blow you in their direction.