“Hit the nigger in the head,” shouted the Chief. “Test your skills! Yous get three balls for a dime, lads. Hit the nigger baby in the head for charity and get a fine ten cent cigar!”
Try as they may, mercifully most people missed. But when one of the balls did land, it was a brutal scene. Some boys from the Travelers baseball team thought it might be great good fun to test their fastballs on the unfortunate Negro, resulting in a cracked eye socket and copious blood. One by one they took their shot, each and every one of the six smashing at least one ball successfully into the Negro’s face until he fell unconscious, ending the merrymaking. Regan put out a call to headquarters for a replacement, ordering his underlings to offer the position to whatever desperate-for-a-deal Negro they could locate, beginning in the basement jail cells. “Get him down here fast as you can!” Regan barked.
In the New York Meriden Daily Journal back in 1904 it had been reported in a news article titled “Hit African” that a dodger was walloped in the nose by a ball catapulted by professional baseball player Cannon Ball Gillen of the Clifton Athletic Club. The price of the game was ten cents for three balls. The paper reported that a Negro named Albert Johnson had managed to avoid “fifty or sixty cents,” worth, or 15 to 18 balls, thrown by the relentless professional. According to the Journal’s account, Johnson “exposed his head and face a little farther than usual” and was smashed full on by a curve ball, rendering him unconscious. The account was light-heartedly written as a play-by-play sports commentary on the game that ended with “it will probably be necessary to amputate the nose in order to save Johnson’s life”.
There were many other lawn fête attractions that proved captivating, like the exhibit of telegraphy, successfully utilized by Buffalo’s police and fire departments, proving its enormous value with the saving of many lives. The people still marveled at this medium capable of instant communication over great distances, so much more practical and reliable, and less expensive, than the more modern telephone invention.
The Seeing Buffalo automobiles saw not one idle moment, as three cars continually made five-minute trips around the block for a dime per passenger. New York State representative William H. Ryan was another member of the parish, and when he boarded the car, he tendered a bill for payment for his fare, at which time the ten-cent price took a sudden temporary jump to the exact amount of his bill.
There were athletic events, the highlight being the tug of war at 9 o’clock between the grain scoopers team and the freight handlers team. There was a Regan or two included on one team and a few Sullivans on the other, and the contest ran all over the lot, even knocking down a few spectators, so determined were both sides to win. The alderman, his brother Jim and the Chief screamed themselves hoarse cheering for their respective teams, recalling their own annual contests waged against the Toronto Police Department almost a quarter century previous. The Sullivan team captain bragged after the match that if Alderman Sullivan, who judged the event, hadn’t called time, they would have dragged the Regan team all over into Quakertown.
As soon as dusk dimmed the sky, the moving picture show thrilled the crowd without any interruption except for the changing of film reels. The most popular film was an Edison of the Buffalo Police On Parade, filmed on Main Street. A giant cheer went up when Chief Regan’s face came into view four feet tall on the movie panel. Jim Jr., sitting on the lawn, watched with his date Mary Ellen, and beamed as the vision of his own father flickered across the big screen as well.
The Edison reel of the Funeral Of President McKinley in downtown Buffalo impressed everyone for its majesty and the genuine grief it showed the people of Buffalo felt for his great loss in their city. Also exhibited was the Edison film of a reenactment of the electrocution of President McKinley’s assassin, which many of the women present felt was highly tasteless for this particular venue.
The mood was greatly lightened with the showing of Laughing Gas, starring Bertha Regustus. It was about a Negro woman who goes to the dentist to have a tooth extracted and is given laughing gas. On her way home on the subway she can’t stop laughing and all of the other passengers “catch” the laughter from her. The mesmerized picnic crowd caught it too, and they all laughed uproariously as well.
There were multiple games of Wheels Of Fortune, for which Captain Regan had imported Nate Fenton to teach the handlers how to spin the wheel so that the house didn’t stand a chance to lose. The money was going for a crucial cause, they were all cautioned to keep in mind, especially when their own friends or family members stepped up to bet.
Concerts were given on the stage by the 74th Regiment Band throughout the afternoon and evening, where to the great relief of his children, the alderman somehow restrained himself from performing again. Instead, Chauncey Olcott appeared, singing his latest song entitled The Sweet Maid Of Cork. In between concerts the crowd of 5,000 was entertained by vaudeville, and there was dancing in the parish hall.
The next day, the newspapers called the event a “success on a grand scale.” The event had added a much-needed $4,000 to the Church’s coffers. The Buffalo Express did not include any photos, to the disappointment of the alderman, but their report was detailed and prominently featured. It began:
GREATEST OF ALL PICNICS
Parish of Our Lady Of Perpetual Help turns
out to show what it can do.
NO RACE SUICIDE THERE
Children numbered by the hundreds—Ten of
Alderman Sullivan’s Progeny swelled the Crowd
It would have gladdened the heart of President Roosevelt had he dropped into the grounds surrounding Our Lady of Perpetual Help any time between noon and midnight yesterday. He would have been convinced that there was no race suicide in the First Ward. All the children were out in force. So were the moneyed members of the parish—their parents.
Alderman John P. Sullivan, Mrs. Sullivan, and the ten little Sullivans were on the scene early. The alderman acted as co-superintendent of affairs with Big Chief Regan. The alderman didn’t get around much to spend money but the ten little Sullivans acted as splendid distributing agents. At 10 o’ clock young Thomas touched Pop for a fiver with the announcement that it was only a starter.
Late last night alderman Sullivan said that it was the biggest crowd ever attended one of the picnics. He thought that fully 5,000 people had visited the grounds during the day. At 9 o’clock the crowd was so dense that it was next to impossible to move about.
The alderman and the big chief took good care to see that things did not lag during the day.
On Monday morning, the Alderman stopped by the Express offices to express his disappointment at there being no photo of him in Sunday’s edition. There were space constraints, it was explained, and to smooth things over, the editor offered another feature. He quizzed the alderman about what might be coming up that would make for a good, non-political story.
“Annie and I are thinking about taking the children up to Olcott Beach this week for the day. How would you like to come with us on the rails, take some photographs. Your readers would love that!”
The editor had his doubts about that, feeling he might be a bit more in the know than the Alderman as to the interests of his readers. But he felt an obligation to Sullivan for his role as the newspaper’s greatest ally in getting the Express’ pet project, the upcoming Old Home Week celebration, off the ground.
“I don’t think we can send a man with you all the way up to Olcott Beach, Alderman. But how about if we send someone to Hamburg St. that morning to observe how such a big family gets itself organized for such an excursion?”
“That would be just grand!” JP responded. And the two men set up a time for the reporter to visit the house at No. 12.
The following week, the alderman beamed at the lovely feature he read in the Buffalo Express. Daughter Mazie rolled her eyes as she perused it, wondering how she would gather the courage to face her friends at school less than three weeks hence:
Thursday August 15,
1907:
BIG ASSOCIATION TO HAVE OUTING
Sullivan non-political Organization will feast and frolic
Today at Olcott Beach.
COMMITTEES IN CHARGE
Such machine-like Preparation can hardly go wrong,
so it will be a great Day.
This will be a great day for the Sullivans. It is the occasion of their annual outing. The Honorable John P. Sullivan, alderman of the first ward and champion booster of Old Home Week, is president of the association. He chose Olcott Beach as the place for this year’s outing. Promptly at 9 o’clock this morning the Sullivan Association, headed by John P. and Mrs. John P., who generally runs things at the outing despite John’s claim to the chairmanship, will leave the Sullivan headquarters at 12 Hamburg Street.
Before the tracks were laid in Hamburg Street the Sullivan Association had a little parade up Hamburg street to Elk street, where the cars were boarded. During the last few years however, the association (which has also grown in numbers during that time) has been able to take cars directly in front of the association’s headquarters.
The alderman says that it isn’t necessary to have a band on the outings of the association, because the Sullivan juniors have such husky lungs that they could drown out any band that could be engaged.
For the benefit of those who are not familiar with the doings of the Sullivan Association, it should be mentioned that the Sullivan Association is by no means a political organization. Even though John P. Sullivan is at its head, its non-voting members far outnumber its voting members. To become a member it is necessary to either be a son or daughter of the Honorable and Mrs. John P.
Besides John P. and Mrs. John P., there will be at today’s outing nine junior Sullivans. Thomas has already been decorated with a medal of honor by the association. Last summer, when his father’s icehouse caught fire, rather than put the city to the expense of sending apparatus away out to the Tifft Farm, young Thomas organized a bucket brigade and put out the blaze. Just to show Thomas that his thoughtfulness was appreciated, John P. gave him a receipt in full for his board from the time he came on this earth until he was eighteen. Thomas has been hoping ever since that there’ll be another fire, so that he can get a receipt for another eighteen years’ board.
The following committee will have charge of today’s outing:
Committee on arrangements—The Honorable John P. Sullivan, chairman; James Sullivan and Mildred Sullivan.
Committee on refreshments—Mrs. John P. Sullivan, chairman; Dan Sullivan and Anna Sullivan.
Committee on athletics—The Honorable Not-yet-but-soon John P. Sullivan Jr., chairman; James Sullivan and Mary Sullivan.
Committee on fireworks—Paul Sullivan and Genevieve Sullivan.
President Sullivan refused to say last night at what time the Sullivan Association would return from its outing. He wishes to avoid any public demonstration in honor of the return.
The Detective’s youngest, David, had been mesmerized by the one attraction at the lawn fête he’d best not have been.
Some weeks later, helping his father clean the attic of four decades’ accumulation, he happened upon a treasure trove of old magazines. These he took down to his room. They formed a foot-high pile by his bed. David ultimately spent months looking through them, reading the articles about far-off adventures, captivated by advertisements for products and odd devices referred to in what he interpreted as some kind of cagey code for ‘dirty.’ However one advert really caught his eye. He found it in an old 1893 Bloomingdales catalog. It was an African Dodger tabletop game priced at sixty-nine cents. It pictured a cartoonish black face poking through a canvas reading Hit the Dodger! Knock Him Out! Every Time You Hit Sambo The Bell Rings.
“Please Ma, please please?”
“Absolutely not,” stated Hannah.
The sickening injury suffered by the Negro man at the O.L.P.H. lawn fête was still fresh in her mind.
Snagging Mrs. Armour
◆◆◆
On June 1st, 1907, The Buffalo Express had published an editorial suggesting that the city of Buffalo consider throwing a large reunion carnival in the style that had been first initiated a decade earlier in New Hampshire: Old Home Week. Exactly three months later after an astonishing tour de force effort combining flawless planning, enviable ingenuity, eye-popping design and lickety-split fundraising—all having been accomplished at breathtaking speed—Buffalo’s Old Home Week extravaganza welcomed over one hundred thousand visitors to the city. Before anyone could even blink, The Queen City of the Great Lakes had been made ready.
Buffalo Police Chief Michael Regan issued an order in the days leading up to Old Home Week to clean up the public areas where many of the events and coordinating efforts would take place, most notably in the heart of downtown: Shelton Square, Niagara Square, and Lafayette Square.
Caught up in this sweep was a lovely old man named Michael Jackson.
On every day except Sunday for the previous 23 years, the Negro whitewasher had placed himself on the Shelton Square side of Saint Paul’s Church amid his brushes and buckets, seeking patrons, and during all that time he was never once bothered by the police. But on the afternoon of August 29th, Sergeant Jordan informed him that his absence would add to the beauty of the spot during Old Home Week, and suggested that he move on. Since Jackson dared to venture a protest, he was summarily packed up and sent to the station house—buckets, rags, and brushes, with his wheelbarrow in tow—in the patrol wagon.
Mr. Jackson declared it an outrage. He told Desk Sergeant Sean Maloney that his father before him had stood in exactly the same place for 46 years, and he had never been bothered.
“When he died I took his stand,” he said. “That’s where I make my bread and butter, I’ve got to live, and support my family too.”
“How old are you, Mr. Jackson?” asked Sergeant Maloney.
“Fifty-three, sir,” was the reply. “For 23 years of that time I’ve used that corner.”
“Well then,” joked Maloney, “don’t you think it’s about time for you to skiddoo?”
The prisoner took the policeman’s joke with a smile.
“What’s the charge against this man?” asked Maloney of the wagon policeman.
“I think that Sergeant Jordan said it was violating chapter nine, section six of the penal code,” was the answer.
Maloney looked the section up and found that it prohibited the carrying of fire through the city’s streets.
“Why, that must be wrong” said Maloney. “You weren’t carrying any fire through the street, were you, Mr. Jackson?”
“I was, sir—that is, my vest pocket was filled with matches,” said Jackson grinning broadly. Maloney laughed.
When Sergeant Jordan returned to the station house he insisted his prisoner be charged with corner lounging, and so it was done.
Jackson was put in a cell.
◆◆◆
Fly cop Jim Sullivan was garbed in natty civilian dress as he strolled Main Street on the lookout for trouble in the offing. City crews were out in force, decorating the streets for was what shaping up to be a massive Old Home Week celebration for Buffalo’s former and far-flung citizens, the event now dearest to his brother JP’s heart. The alderman had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the planning and execution of this massive affair, more so even than for the grandest of the Mutual Rowing Club’s social events.
Giant white colonnades were raised up along both sides of Main Street, stationed in the street at the curb, much to the chagrin of people who wished to park their carriages or automobiles there. The workers busied themselves connecting the electric lights that would thrill the crowd and set about the business of testing them.
Bunting hung festively from the upper-story facades of the many important businesses along Main Street, as well as on those that ringed Lafayette Square and the striking Soldiers and Sailors Monument at its center. Hammers slammed wood as the construction of the dignitaries’ massive reviewing stand f
inished up. Detective Jim Sullivan imagined his brother the alderman would be seated up there in the spotlight he so loved. More bunting and flags festooned handsome edifices along Court Street, which ran west from there. Three blocks down, Court Street intersected the traffic circle at Niagara Square. At the center of this traffic circle, occluded by canvas, was the as-yet unveiled 96-foot tall obelisk memorial to the assassinated President William McKinley, gunned down in Buffalo almost exactly six years previous.
As the alderman’s brother, Jim Sullivan was all too familiar with the lethargic political machinations of the city fathers. Still he wondered how it could take six long years for Buffalo to finally erect a monument to the fallen American President who had been murdered there.
Jim walked toward it, flashed his detective badge at the workmen, nodded to the bored patrolmen guarding the premises from thievery, shooed away brazen souvenir hunters waiting for an opportunity, and lifted a section of canvas. There carved on the monument was a verse written by poet Carl Sandburg entitled Slants at Buffalo, New York which began:
A forefinger of stone, dreamed by a sculptor, points to the sky.
It says: This way! This way!”
Sleeping lions and attentive turtles guarded the towering obelisk at its base. Water would soon fill its fountain pool. The nation’s largest American flag, created for the 1901 Pan American Exposition, would replace the canvas covering for the official unveiling ceremony. The city was electric with preparations, especially downtown, as shoppers wishing to avoid the invading hordes expected during Old Home Week scurried about making their necessary last-minute purchases before the onslaught.
Detective Sullivan backtracked up Court Street toward Main once again, eyeing the crowds, peering into shops and hotels. When he reached Main Street he turned left, and decided to check out the dry goods stores. He entered Flint & Kent at No. 544, across Main Street from the fantastical Buffalo Savings Bank Building with its mammoth gold dome.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 31