Old Boston Mary: A Remembrance

ON the southern outskirts of the city of Boston, hidden away in a field, and reached by streets that gradually degenerated into straggling lanes, stood until quite recently an old shanty, noted for nothing but loneliness and spooks. No one in the neighborhood knew to whom it belonged or what was its history. It was too forlorn to be interesting, and few ever went near it. The children in the district claimed that queer noises were heard in the shanty at night, and their mothers threatened them with its sheltered ghosts when they were especially naughty. But this was the extent of the shanty’s reputation in its own parish.

Its history, or at any rate so much of it as is known, is anything but romantic. When first built, it belonged to a “ Paddy” on the railway; and after various generations of this proprietary family had passed on to the better quarters that Boston provides for its ambitious Irish citizens, it became so dilapidated and forlorn that it was turned over to some cows pastured near by, as shelter for stormy days. It was still used for this purpose, I am told, when Old Mary rented it. How she discovered it, and why it attracted her, are questions which even her best friends found difficult to solve. But there was something about it which appealed to her, and for several months she lived her queer life in this uninteresting old building. Her neighbors knew almost nothing about her, except that she was an eccentric old woman, and that she harbored a strange class of friends who might with greater propriety have lodged in the city almshouse. But otherwise she was a foreigner in her own province, and no one could tell what she did or how she lived. Strange, too ; for in some respects this old creature was a most notorious character, and had perhaps as many acquaintances and friends as any citizen of Boston. Almost every evening, after dark, had there been curious eyes on watch, stragglers of many sizes and conditions might have been seen wending their way, stealthily and catlike, to her shanty, and ears alert might have heard a queer password tapped on the wooden door which, as of its own free will, swung back on noiseless leather hinges, and, closing, hid the strangers from view. This went on night after night, and no resident of the neighborhood knew or cared much about it. Whatever was done in the shanty passed off so quietly and unobtrusively that public curiosity was not awakened.

My first knowledge of the place was on this wise : One afternoon, in New York, in the early part of 1885, while studying tramp life in that city, I happened to drop in for a moment at a popular resort of vagabonds in the Bowery. I had already had several months’ experience in their company, and was casting about for some new feature or phase of the life ; naturally enough, I turned to the saloon to hear of something which would put me on a fresh track. As luck would have it, I chanced to overhear two Eastern beggars discussing the customs and institutions of Boston. Their conversation interested me considerably, and I drew nearer. During their talk, reference was made to Old Mary’s Place, which I had never heard of elsewhere, and I determined to see it. It was not long before I had found a companion, and persuaded him to accompany me to Boston. He also had heard of the place, and was fairly well acquainted with its mistress, who, he claimed, had been a well-known "hobo ”

(beggar) out West some years before. Her history, as he knew it, and which I know now to be quite true, was something like this : About forty years ago, a gypsy girl in England, who had wandered about with her tribe through France as well as Britain, came to America, hoping to find her Rom friends here strong enough to afford her society and protection. But for some reason she failed to meet with the welcome she had expected, and as there was nothing else in the New World more akin to her old life than the tramp’s peripatetic existence, she joined the brotherhood, and for over thirty years was recognized as a full-fledged member. Her specialty, the “ hobo ’ said, was "ridin’ the trucks ; ” and in this dangerous business she became an expert, and was probably the only woman in the world who ever made a practice of it. It may surprise some that a woman reared in gypsy society, and accustomed to the rigorous social divisions which obtain there, should ever have entered trampdom, composed almost entirely of men. It must be remembered, however, that there are women in all classes of society who are men’s women, not women’s women, and at the same time none the worse for their peculiarity. There is a certain comradeship in their relations with men which even a stunted sense of honor will not abuse, and which adds piquancy to their friendship. The gypsy girl was one of these, and had her friends as well as her lovers. The lovers failed as she grew older, but this strong-souled companionship stood her in good stead, and held the friends she made. She who had been so poorly, so little cared for all her life long had developed somehow a genius for taking care of others, and so, after thirty years of hard riding and hard faring of all sorts, her head not quite clear about a good many things that human justice calls crime, she set up a poor, miserable home for the brotherhood of tramps. It was a crazy idea, perhaps, but the woman herself was pretty well “ crippled under the hat,” my friend declared, and was known from Maine to California, in true tramp dialect, as “ Bughouse Mary,” or, as politer folk would say, “ Crazy Mary.”

She settled herself at first in a tumbledown old tenement house in the very heart of Boston, and her place soon became known — too well known, in fact — to certain officious and official personages who had on more than one occasion found dangerous characters sheltered there. After some weeks she thought it necessary to move on, and pitched her tent on the spot already described. It was here that my companion and I first tested her sisterly welcome. A town tramp put us on the right road, and gave us explicit directions. He advised us not to go by daylight, and asked, “ Does you blokes know the rules out at Mary’s? I guess she’d take ye in anyhow, but mos’ the blokes, when they goes out there, takes along a handful o’ terbakker an’ a chunk o’ beef or somethin’ else ter chew. She allus ’xpects her half, too. It’s a sort o’ law out there, ’n’ p’r’aps you lads ’u’d better do as I tells ye.”

We followed his advice, and I looked for some beefsteak, while my companion found the tobacco and bread. About nine o’clock we started, and spent fully an hour in finding the place. At the door, as we knew of no especial knock, I whispered through one of the cracks the word “ Hobo,” knowing that this was the usual tramp call. We soon heard a queer voice asking our names.

“ Cigarette,” I replied.

“ What Cigarette ? ” asked the voice.

I returned that it was the Chicago species.

This was sufficient, and the door opened far enough to allow us to squeeze through, and we were in the famous Boston “ hangout.”

The first attraction, of course, was Mary herself, and she was well worth a longer pilgrimage. I shall never forget the picture she made, as she stood in the middle of the floor surrounded by her “ pals,” and welcomed us to her shanty. Her figure, although naturally strong and straight, looked cramped and bent, and had certainly suffered from long exposure and the perils of truck riding. Her dress, although picturesque in some particulars, looked just as tattered and worn out as did her poor old body. The original cloth and color of the skirt, if indeed it had ever had any, were disguised by fully a dozen different patches sewed on with coarse, straggling, gypsy-like stitches. In place of a waist she wore an old coat and vest, given to her, as I afterward learned, by a clergyman. The coat was soldier’s blue, and the vest as red as a robin’s breast. A strange costume, it is true ; but as I looked at her, it seemed after all a fitting one for such a unique being. The head that topped the costume was most interesting of all a certain pose in moments of enthusiasm, and a certain toss at the climax of some story relating her early triumphs, gave it an air of wild nobility such as one sees in high-bred animals; and when, in the consciousness of her weakened powers, it dropped sadly on her breast, with the ragged gray locks streaming out in all directions, one could not escape the sense of fallen greatness in the gaunt bowed figure and the tortured face.

Naturally she looked crazy, but I wished at the time that if crazy people must really exist, they might look like her. Her eyes were her most intelligent feature, and even they at times would become glazed and almost uncanny. They were the most motherly, and also the wickedest, I have ever seen on the road. This sounds paradoxical, I know, but as I have heard other men describe them in the same way, I think I must be right. And when she looked at me I felt that she was piercing my character and history in every possible corner. I have no doubt that she intended to impress me in this way. It is a gypsy trick, and she evidently had not forgotten it.

But queer and crazy as Old Mary appeared, she was nevertheless quite in harmony with her environment; for of all the odd ” hang-outs ” I have visited, hers was certainly the oddest. The shanty itself was in many respects just as the cows had left it, and the only furniture it contained was a few old benches, a greasy lamp, a fair supply of blankets, and a cupboard containing one or two frying-pans and some polished and renovated tomato cans. These were all that the old gypsy had been able to gather together, and it had cost her a good many days of fortune-telling to collect even these. But, fortunately, it was not for such things that the beggars visited her. What they wanted was simply a place where they could be away from the police, and in the company of Old Mary, whom they looked upon as a sort of guardian angel. On the night in question she had as guests men who represented nearly every kind of vagabondage. The “ Blanket Stiff,” the “ Gay Cat,” the “ Shiny,” the “ Frenchy,” and the “ ExPrushun ” were all there. Some were lying on the floor wrapped in their blankets ; some were mending their coats and darning their socks; while others were sitting around the cold stove playing a quiet game of poker, using as an “ ante ” pieces of bread which they had begged. In a corner there were still others who were taking off their “ jiggers,” reminding one of that famous cour des miracles which Victor Hugo has described in Notre Dame; for the “jiggers” were nothing but bandages wound around the legs and arms to excite the sympathy of credulous and charitable people.

Mary was exceedingly kind in her welcome to both my comrade and myself; but on learning that I was really the Chicago Cigarette she was a little partial to me, I think, and made me sit down on a bench, where we talked of various things and people, but especially of a St. Louis beggar called Bud, who had spoken to her of a Cigarette with whom he once traveled. Learning that I was the very same, and that we had at one time made a long journey in the West, she wanted to know just when I had seen him last, how he looked, and what he was doing. I could easily see, from the passionate way she spoke of him and her eagerness for late news concerning his whereabouts, that he had once been a pal of hers, and I had to tell her as gently as I could that the poor fellow had been starved to death in a box car in Texas. Some one had locked him in, and when the car was shunted on to an unused side track, far away from any house or station, his fate was settled. Try as one will to get out of such a predicament, there is no hope unless one has a large knife and strength enough to cut through the walls. Poor Bud was without both, and he died alone and forsaken. I had heard of the accident from a man who was in the neighborhood where it happened; and thinking that the best thing I could tell Old Mary would be the truth, I stammered it out in a most awkward fashion.

I knew well enough that she would cry, but I hardly expected to see the sorrow that my story occasioned. It was almost indescribable. She wept and moaned, and swayed her old body back and forth in an agony of grief, but not once did she speak. I tried my best to comfort her, but it was of no use. She had to suffer, and no one could help her. I felt so bad that I almost started to leave, but one of the men told me that she would be all right pretty soon, and I waited. True, she did become calmer, and in about an hour was enough herself to talk about other matters; but there was a grief still in her eyes that was most pitiful to see. And I shall always remember her strange and inarticulate agony. It showed, not a comrade’s bereavement, nor yet the heart wound of a motherly nature merely, but a phase of emotion belonging to younger hearts as well. I think also that there was a gypsy strain in her suffering which I could not comprehend at all.

When fairly aroused from her sadness, she asked for our bundles of food, and made the men playing cards on the stove move away, that she might light a fire and cook our meal. While she attended to these things, I passed around among the tramps. The place hardly coincided with my expectations. I had looked forward to a rough "hang-out,”where there would be more fighting and cursing than anything else, but I found nothing of the kind. The men conducted themselves very respectably, at least while Mary was looking on. There were a few harsh words heard, of course, but there was none of that vulgarity that one would naturally expect, for the hostess forbade it. Not that she was a woman who had never heard bad words or seen vulgar sights, but there was something about her which certainly quieted and softened the reckless people she gathered together. What this was I cannot say, but I think it was her kindness. For if there is anything which a tramp respects, although he may forget it when it is out of his sight, it is gentleness, and it was this trait in Old Mary’s character which won for her the distinction and privileges usually accorded the mistress of the house. She did everything she could to make her shanty comfortable and her guests happy. For example, one man had a sore foot, and while the meat was frying she bandaged it most tenderly, making her patient lie down on a blanket which she took from a cupboard. Others wanted string or tobacco, and she invariably supplied them. She gave each one the impression that she was really interested in him ; and to know this is exactly as pleasant to a tramp as it is to any other human being.

When our supper was ready, Mary handed me a little pail, and said, “ Cig, you ’d better run out ’n’ hustle some beer. Ye kin find it ’bout half a mile up the road, ef ye give the bloke a good story. But don’t let the bulls ¹ catch ye. I don’t wan’ cher ter git sloughed up.”

I took the pail and went in search of the beer, which I found at the place she spoke of. On my return she had the meat and bread placed on a shingle, and my companion and I, together with the hostess, sat down on a bench and had a most satisfying meal. During the repast Mary talked a good deal on numerous subjects, and commented on tramp life in various communities. She gave but little evidence of being crazy, but her mind would wander once in a while, and she would say in a dreamy sort of way, “ Oh, Cig, this sort o’ bummin’ hain’t like the old times. Them was the days for beggars.”

Those old days, I suppose, were when she first came to this country ; and I have been told that a beggar’s life in that period was, if not more profitable, at any rate more comfortable. I also heard her mumbling and calling herself “bughouse,” and with the word her old head would fall humbly on her breast. But her kindness was so sound and steadfast that this occasional lapse into her inane mumbling did not much impress me. She kept asking if I were having enough to eat, and offered to cook more meat if I were not. When we had finished, she handed me a new clay pipe, gave me some tobacco which was of a better brand than that which my companion had begged, and then told me to smoke “ my vittals stiddy.” We sat there for nearly an hour, not saying much, and yet knowing fairly well what each one was thinking. There is something in tramp nature which makes these silent conversations easy and natural.

At twelve o’clock we prepared for sleep. Mary was now at her best, and the way she assigned each man his place was worthy of a general. As we had to turn out about half past four in the morning, so that all would be quiet before people were astir, I was glad enough to have a rest. The most of the men took off their coats and shoes, making of the former a blanket, and of the latter a pillow, said “ Pound yer ear well ” to their nearest neighbors, and then the candle was put out. Mary had a corner entirely to herself.

I had been asleep for about three hours, I think, when I was awakened by a light shining in my face, and a hand passing over a tattoo mark on my right arm. I started up, and saw Mary kneeling beside me and inspecting the “ piece ” very closely. Noticing that I was awake, she whispered, “ Come out o’ the shanty with me fer a minnit. I wants ter ask ye somethin’.”

I rose and followed her quietly out of the building to a small hollow not far away.

“ Now, Cig,” she said, “ tell me the truth. Did Bud croak down in Texas, dead sartain ? ”

I assured her that I had told her the truth.

“ Well,” she replied. “ then the whole game is up. Ye see, Bud was a Rom, too, ’n’ we use’ ter be great pals. For nigh onter a tenner we bummed this kentry together ’n’ never had a fight. But one day Bud got jagged, ’n’ swore I had n’ b’en square to ’im. So we had a reg’lar out ’n’ outer, ’n’ I hain’t seen ’im senee. I ’se sorry that ’e’s croaked, fer ’e was a good bloke; yes, ’e was — yes, ’e was ”— Here the poor creature seemed to forget herself, and I could hear her saying, “Bughouse — bughouse.” I recalled her to consciousness, and said that I must leave, as it was nearly time for her to close up shop. She wanted me to promise to meet her on the Common in the afternoon, where she did most of her begging, and handed me a quarter to “keep me a-goin’ ” till then. I returned it, and told her that I had to leave Boston that morning, but would gladly visit her again some day. And I certainly intended to do so. But the natural course of events took me out of vagabondage soon, and it was not until quite recently that I heard any more of Bughouse Mary.

About two years ago. while seeking some special and late information regarding tramp life in the large cities, I chanced upon an old friend of Mary’s, whom I plied with questions concerning her whereabouts and fate. It was a long time before he would give me anything I Could call a straight story, but at last, finding I bad been, years before, one of the brotherhood, with hesitation and real sorrow he told me what follows : —

“ I wuz drillin’ one day, ’bout two months ’go, on the Boston ’n’ Albany road, n’ hed jes’ got into a little jerk town, where I battered ² fer some dinner. It begun to rain arter I’d chewed, so I mooched down to the track ’n’ found a box car where I stopped fer a while. I wuz waitin’ fer the ’xpress, too, so the wettin’ wa’n’t much uv a bother. Waal, I ’d b’en in the car a few minnits, when I got all-fired sleepy, ’n’ ter save me gizzard I c’u d n’t keep me eyes open. So I jes’ lay down ’n’ pounded me ear. I’d b’en a-poundin’ it, I guess, fer ’boat two hours — fer’t wuz ’bout five ’clock when I begun, ’n’ ’t wuz dead dark when I got me peepers open — when I heered somebody pushin’ away at the car door to beat the devil, ’n’ o’ course looked out; an’ there on the groun’ wuz one o’ the funniest bums y’ ever see, — long, flyin’ hair, big gray eyes, coat ’n’ vest, ’n’ ez sure ’s I ’m a moocher, a skirt too, but no hat. Course I was int’rested, ’n’ I jumps down ’n’ gives the critter a big stare plump in the face, fer I had the feelin’ I ’d seen it afore somewheres. See ? An’ it sort o’ answered, fer it seed I wuz koorios. ‘ I say, blokey, kin yer tell me when the flyin’ mail passes through these yere parts ? I wants ter make it, ef it do.’ Then I knew who ’t wuz, fer ye kin tell Old Mary ev’ry time when she begins to chew the rag. I tole her that the mail come through ’bout twelve o’clock, ’n’ then asked her where her hat wuz.

“ ‘ Waal, blokey,’ she said, ’I hain’t a-wearin’ them air t’ings any more. I say, air yer right k’rect that the flyin’ mail comes through these yere parts?’ I guv it to her dead straight, ’n’ tole ’er I wuz sartain. Then I asked, ‘ Mary, ain’ cher recognizin’ common peoples any more ? Don’t chu know old Tom ? ’ Ye sh’u’d ’a’ seen her look ! She put ’er old bony han’s on me shoulders, ’n’ stuck ’er old fiz clost ter mine, ’n’ said, ‘ Who be ye, anyhow? I ’se gettin’ sort o’ old-like ’n’ bughouse, ’n’ I can’t call yer name. Who be ye ? ’n’ kin ye tell me ef I kin make the flyin’ mail? ’ I tole ’er who I wuz, ’n’ ye sh’u’d ’a’ seen ’er ! Ye see I ’se summat younger than ’er, ’n’ she jes’ treated me like me old woman. It made me feel sort o’ queer-like, I tell ye, for I use’ ter like the old gal in great style. Waal, we had a good talk, as ye kin well ’xpect, but she kept askin’ ’bout that blasted flyin’ mail. I did n’ wan’ ter ride it that night, ’cause she wuz purty bughouse, ’n’ I felt she ’d get ditched ef we tried it. So I jes’ argeyed with her, ’n did me best ter make ’er stay where we wuz; but I might jes’ ’s well ’a’ tried to batter a dollar in the place. She was simply stuck on pullin’out that night. I asked ’er why she did n’t go back to Boston, ’n’ she said, ‘ Boston ! W’y, I ’se got the mooch out o’ Boston. Ye see, Tom, I got ter tellin’ fortunes, ’n’ the bulls snared me, ’n’ his Honor tole me to crawl. I did n’ go at first, but arter a bit it got too hot fer me out at the shanty, an’ I had ter mooch. So here I be, ’n’ I guess I’m a’ right; but I ’se bughouse — yes — bughouse ; ’ ’n’ she kept a-squealin’ that word till I wuz sick. But she was bughouse, dead sure. An’ I guess that’s why she wuz on the road, fer when I use’ ter know ’er she wuz entirely too cute ter let any bull get roun’ her ; anyhow, no Boston bull c’u’d ’a’ done it. P’r’aps a Chicago one might, but he’s all eyes anyhow.

“Waal, ez I wuz sayin’, I tried ter keep ’er from ridin’ the mail, but’t wa’n’t no use. So I made up me mind that I’d go with ’er, ’n’ help ’er along. An’ when the train whistled roun’ the curve, I got ’er over to the tank, an’ made ’er lay low till the train wuz ready. Waal, the train had come, ’n’ I looked over it to find a blind baggage, but I c’u’d n’t. So I says to Mary, ‘ We ’ve got to truck it.’ She got horstile ’s the devil when I tole ’er that. ‘ Truck it! ’ she said. ‘ Course we ’ll truck it. What else d’ye ’xpect us to do? I use’ ter ride out West as well as any o’ ye, but I se gittin’ old ’n’ sort o’ bughouse,— yes, I is.' The train wuz mos’ ready to pull out, ’n’ the con wuz swingin’ his lantern, so I took ’er hand ’n’ got ’er into the baggage car trucks. ‘ Get in carefully,’ I said, ‘ n’ be sartain ter hang on to the right rod.’ She dumb in ’tween the wheels, ’n’ fixed herself with ’er back to the engine. It would ’a’ made ye cry to hear ’er I beggin’ me to look out fer ’er. ‘ Don’t leave the old gal, will yer, blokey ? ’ I tole ’er I w’u’d n’t, ’n’ got in alongside her jes’ ez the whistle blew ; an’ away we went, ridin’, fer all either on us c’u’d tell, to the devil. ’T wa’n’t no time to think ’bout that, though, fer I had to remember the old gal. I did n’t dast ter hold ’er, fer I ‘d ’a’ fallen meself, so I jes’ had to holler at ’er, ’n’ be sure that she hollered back. I kept a-bellerin’, ‘ Hang on, Mary, hang on ! ’ ’n’ she kept sayin’, ‘ I will, blokey, I will ! ’ She meant, o’ course, that she’d do her best, but arter a few minutes I see clear ’nough she’d never pull through. The way the wind ’n’ the gravel ’n’ the dirt flew round our faces, ’n’ the cramps that took us, settin’ so crooked-like, wuz ’nough to make bigger blokes ’n she give up, ’n' don’ cher forget it. An’ to make things worse, her hair blew all over my face, ’n’ matted down me eyes so I c’u’d hardly see. I dasn’t brush it away, fer I ’d tumbled sure. The gravel cut me face, too, ’n’ oncet a good-sized stone hit me lips such a rap that I c’u’d feel the blood tricklin’ on me chin. But worse than all, Old Mary got to screamin’, ’n’ I c’u’d n’t see her fer her hair. She screamed ’n’ screamed, ‘ The flyin’ mail — oh, I say — the flyin’ ’ — an’ her shriekin’ ’n’ the rattlin’ o’ the wheels made me nigh bughouse, too. I called out every few minutes to keep ’er down to bizness, ’n’ I got one more answer sayin’ she was doin’ ’er best. An’ then some o’ her hair flew in me mouth, ’n’ try me best I cu d n’t get it out, ’n’ I didn’t dast to take me hands off the rod. So I c’u’d n’t see ’er or speak to ’er any more. See ? I heard ’er screamin’ agen, ‘ Oh, I say — the flyin’ mail — flyin’ — bughouse ’ — an’ then nothin’ more. I c’u’d n’t say nothin’, so I jes’ made a big noise in me throat to let ’er know I wuz there. By ’n’ by I heered it agen — ‘ Bughouse — flyin’ mail — blokey ’ — an’ agen I lost ’er. I wuz nearly bughouse meself. Ef that train hed only hauled up ! Ef I had only kept ’er from ever gettin’ on to it! I c’u’d n’ hold ’er — I c’u’d n’ speak to ’er — I c’u’d n’ see ’er, an’ all the divils wuz dead agen’ us. An’ she wuz gettin’ wilder ev’ry minnit. I shook me head up an’ down, back’urd ’n’ for’ard, — ’t wuz all I c’u’d do. Once agen she begun her screamin’ — ‘ Oh, I say, the flyin’ mail — flyin’ — flyin’ ’ — an’ then I said the biggest thankee I ever said in me life fer bein’ blinded in me eyes ; fer when her old hair had swished away, ’n’ me eyes wuz free agen, I wuz bangin’ on alone, ’n’ the wheels had carried me far away from where the old gal wuz lyin’. I c’u’d n’t help it, Cig,—no, I c’u’d n’t; ’n’ you mus’ tell the other blokes that I done my best, but’t wa’n’t no use — I done my best.”

The tremor of the tone, the terror lest I should think he had not been faithful to his awful trust, told better than words that his tale was true, and that he had done his best to save the poor wrecked life so confidingly placed in his care. But the end was not unfitting. “ The flyin’ mail,” the cramped and painful ride, the pelting storm of dust and gravel, the homeless goal, — what could be more symbolic of Old Mary’s career? And on the wings of steam and wind her gypsy spirit went flying — flying.

Josiah Flynt.