Chapter V: Shakespeare’s Tavern

The sign on this tavern was not spelled exactly as we have given it at the head of this chapter. Shakespeare was printed on it in two words, so that if it recalled the celebrated English tragic poet to the rare literary men who crossed its threshold, it meant only the “Tavern of the Skilful Spearman” to the sailors, wharfingers, lumpers, and others who were the ordinary frequenters.

Situated on the wharf, on South Street, opposite Brooklyn, this tavern was admirably placed as regards patrons. Besides, the police kept a pretty sharp eye upon it, and affrays, pistol-shots, and violent scenes were less frequent there than elsewhere.

This was because it was managed by two jolly fellows, who needed no help to maintain order in the establishment. They were Honorables Thomas Bright and Davidson, two of the most celebrated boxers in the United States, formerly bloodthirsty adversaries, but now excellent friends and associates, so true is it that the closest friendship is that which exists between men who have fought each other after having mutually knocked out each other’s teeth and administered the most terrible black eyes. Thomas Bright and Davidson said to each other that they had done enough for the public and their reputation, but too little for their future, and, uniting their savings, they founded Shakespeare’s tavern, which soon became the most attractive and paying den of the kind.

The establishment occupied the ground floor of a large room adorned with heavy tables and benches firmly fastened to the walls and floor, that they might not be transformed into murderous missiles in the hands of drunkards, and had a huge bar with a tin top, and an army of pint measures of the same metal.

Around this bar crowded stray patrons, passers-by, and curious idlers; in short, those who were not initiated in the delights of the oyster-room, which one reached only by stumbling down a long flight of stairs, doubly dangerous because the steps were damp, and an almost complete darkness reigned, even in broad daylight. At the first step to the vault of this crypt one coughed, seized in the throat, as it were, by a dense, hot atmosphere, laden with a thousand varied emanations, and it was some moments before the eyes could see through the thick mist formed at the foot of the stairs by the air, which, by reason of physical laws, sought to renew itself in the atmosphere without.

This second room was less scantily furnished than that on the ground floor. There were tables and movable chairs, and a very large buffet, laden with fresh and salted meats. Above an immense oven there was a gridiron made to receive a whole ox.

The ground was macadamized, and the walls, once white, were now black, excepting in spots, where, owing to the contact of shoulders, they seemed gray, and were illustrated with primitive designs and mottoes which we need not translate. A dozen gas jets, clouded in the smoke, looking like nebulæ in the mist, lighted as well as they could, if not as well as they ought, this underground region, which was invaded by familiar patrons until they had made a day of it.

At the moment when we ask our readers to follow us into the oyster-room of Shakespeare’s tavern--that is, forty-eight hours after the sad expedition of Willie Saunders to Staten Island--the house was already full, although the night was far advanced. The damp, cold atmosphere had driven from the wharf all the laborers whose presence could be spared, and only stragglers remained on it. Certain wharfingers themselves had deserted their posts. Besides these, here and there one saw, around tables covered with glasses of hot gin, sailors of every country waiting for the time to go aboard. One of these groups had so victoriously struggled against the depressing influence of the inclement weather without that a rollicking, noisy gaiety prevailed among them.

They were the sailors of the Firefly, who had jovially poured from their pockets into the cash-drawer of Thomas Bright and Davidson poor Saunders’ dollars--their hush money.

“Come, one more swig all round,” said one of the sailors; and, rapping noisily on the table, he shouted: “Here, waiter, fetch us some whiskey, and mind it is the right stuff, too.”

“No,” observed his neighbor, “we have had enough for to-day; we ought to have been back two hours ago. Devil take it, to-morrow will be daylight. You are drunk, Jim.”

“Drunk,” replied the latter, “well, Charley, what of it? The fat man did not give us a hundred dollars apiece for a pension.”

“It was for no more or less than to make us hold our tongues,” said Charley, warmly. “No good American sailor will fail to keep his word.”

The other two sailors nodded approvingly, pointing to the adjoining tables where the other patrons of Shakespeare’s tavern might hear.

“There, that’s enough,” grumbled Jim; “we will be as mute as a whale; but I am thirsty,” and, seizing one of the waiters as he passed, he ordered four glasses of whiskey.

It was best for the drunken man’s friends to give in to him. They, therefore, beckoned to the servant to serve them quietly. Charley then whispered:

“While we are lounging here, suppose any one should be robbing us on board ship, as they robbed Toby the other night on his wharf while he was drinking, instead of watching over his goods.”

“What!” sang out a tall fellow enveloped in oil-cloth from head to foot; “what of Toby robbed? Why, it was his robber who cheated himself.”

“How’s that?” cried the sailors.

“Yes, to be sure; instead of taking a barrel of brandy, as, no doubt, was his intention, he carried off a barrel of tar. If it didn’t stick to his paws he must have hurled it into the water. Here’s to the health of the imbecile; although I lost my place through him, I don’t care, for I have come to Shakespeare’s tavern, and it is much livelier here than at the head of the river;” and, after noisily touching glasses with the men of the Firefly, the wharfinger, for it was he, tossed off his glass of gin at one swallow.

“I can’t help it, but I feel no security,” said Charley; “for some time there has been a regular sweep on board ship and along the river. Come, let’s be on our way, boys.”

While saying this the seaman had placed Jim’s arm within his, and was towing him along toward the stairs.

Toby followed them.

They arrived at the wharf in this manner, one shoving the other along.

Day was beginning to break, but the river was still enveloped in fog. The masts of ships at anchor were faintly outlined above their invisible hulls. They looked as if suspended in the air. The boat of the Firefly was moored to one of the piles on the wharf of which Toby had been watchman only two days.

“Let us go aboard, boys,” said Charley, hauling in the yawl.

“Stop; what’s that over there?” asked Toby, suddenly, who had gone to the edge of the wharf, and was pointing to a floating object which the motion of the boat had sent ashore; “a foot!”

“Why, yes, a foot,” said the sailor, raising the member with the end of his boat-hook; “a foot and a leg.”

“And all the rest,” continued the watchman; “it is a drowned person. How heavy it is. There must be a stone around the neck to be head-downward like this. Come, help me, the rest of you.”

The sailors leaned over the river, and uniting their efforts brought to the surface a body, whose unusual weight was soon explained to them; a barrel of tar was fastened to the left leg. It was by this half-submerged barrel that this body had been kept under water.

“It is a woman,” cried Charley.

“And a superb one.”

“What an idea to throw her into the river with a barrel of tar.”

“It is a droll one, to be sure.”

“A barrel of tar. Perhaps it is the one stolen from me.”

While exchanging these exclamations, the seamen, aided by Toby, had raised the body and extended it on the planks of the wharf, without unfastening from its leg the barrel which a stout rope held secure.

It was, indeed, the corpse of a young woman. It showed no signs of wounds and was not decomposed. The face alone was slightly swollen, but by no means disfigured.

Hardened as they were to every emotion, the sailors gazed at this body in horror. The sight of it sobered the drunken men. The men knew that here before their eyes was the victim of some horrible tragedy. The discovery of a drowned person, workman or seaman, would not have moved them; but this woman, young and beautiful, shocked them.

“We cannot leave her here,” said Charley finally. “Go and notify Shakespeare’s tavern.”

The comrade to whom he spoke hurried away from the other side of the wharf. Toby, with that sentiment of decency, more common than is believed among the lowest classes, stripped himself of his oil-cloth suit and covered the nude corpse.

Ten minutes later, Thomas Bright, Davidson and the patrons who had lingered in their establishment hastened to the wharf.

Charley acquainted them with what had passed.

“Well, my boys, there is only one thing to do,” said Davidson; “summon the coroner at Saint Vincent and wait for him, and don’t disturb the body.”

One of the spectators immediately set out for the police office of the district, which happened to be in a neighboring street, and several policemen, whom the crowd had attracted, guarded the body, after driving away curious idlers on the wharf and retaining about them only the men of the Firefly and Toby.

Day had dawned, and the fog had cleared away somewhat. The wharf presented a strange scene, with the silent, motionless men gathered around this lifeless body.

“It is odd,” said Toby, “that I should find my barrel of tar in this way. It is really mine, for I recognize the mark upon it.”

“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said Charley, in a low voice; “there will certainly be a reward for those who put the police on the track of the assassins; it will be time then to speak.”

The watchman understood, thanked him with a smile, and became silent again. In less than a quarter of an hour the coroner arrived with his secretary. Furious, no doubt, at having been disturbed so early, he interrupted Charley, who had begun the story of his sad discovery, and said:

“That will do; I understand all about it. Now let two willing men carry this body to the morgue. The rest of you, who drew it out of the water, must follow me, to make your depositions.”

Two men raised the body; a third carried the barrel which the coroner bade them not unfasten. Then, preceded by the policemen, accompanied by the sailors of the Firefly and Toby, and escorted by curious idlers, the gloomy procession started off. After walking ten minutes they reached their destination. The door of the morgue opened to admit the bearers of the body and witnesses, and closed upon the crowd. In a few moments the coroner received the depositions of the sailors and the wharfingers; then, after having taken their names and addresses, he dismissed them.

The men on the yacht hastened to their boat to return on board ship, while Toby, who was careful to show no recognition of the tar barrel, but who had again donned his oil-cloth suit, went back to the wharf, where the crowd, which had considerably enlarged, immediately gathered around him.

He had to tell his story twenty times over, and news of the event spread so rapidly that Shakespeare’s tavern, to the great delight of its honorable proprietors, was soon thronged as on a holiday.

Meanwhile, the coroner at Saint Vincent had made his report, despatched the body to the central morgue at Bellevue Hospital, and had presented himself to Mr. Kelly at the general police office. The fat officer listened to his subaltern without a shadow of emotion, approved what he had done and immediately sent an order to the director of the morgue to photograph the dead woman.

The corpse was afterwards delivered to Dr. O’Neel in order that the autopsy might be made without delay. When this was performed it would be exposed according to the regulations.

Having given these instructions and dismissed the coroner, the honorable Kelly quietly proceeded to his dining-room, where, as usual, he lingered long over his breakfast. Not until three o’clock did he remember the drowned woman, when he took a cab for Bellevue Hospital.