Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in August/September, 2006, Volume 3, Issue 3, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
My Dear Madame
A Summertime Tale of
The Gentleman’s Game
The Policeman’s Picnic Mêlée of 1893
Two light raps sound upon the door to the office of ye humble Compositor, but are met with silence.
Knocking again . . . still nothing.
“Hello? Are you . . . ?”
The voice was that of a female, and rather pleasant. She had apparently come in search of someone or something.
She peeked her head in—I never lock the place, no reason to, really—and found the office empty, just as I’d left it not two hours before.
Thankfully, her sharp eyes noted the papers on the desk. I’d left them there for her with a note:
My Dear Madame,
Pardon if you will my absence. I tried to reach you this morning without success. If you read this anytime soon—within the next few hours anyway—I am gone, but just temporarily. Was offered yesterday evening a ticket for tomorrow’s game at Fenway, down to Boston, which (as you see from my absence) I accepted.
You will find beneath this note another widget—a baseball story ironically enough—that as near as I could find out was written in 1893 by some sportswriter feller from—the ink was hard to read, but I think he was from the New Bedford Mercury. T. E. Lawrence, his name was. (No, I don’t think he ever made it to Arabia, hehe.)
He did if there’s any justice in the world though—one of the worst sportswriters I ever saw!
I’ll bet they fired him, and he went off somewhere figuring to cover camel racing. From what I saw of this, he’d fit right well with the camels—and their mess!
I fixed it up as best I could, but was rushed on account of a two o’clock train. Feller did have a talent for titles though if nothing else, I’ll give him that.
The mess was to be named Of Twenty-One Rules & a Poodle: The Policeman’s Picnic Melee of 1893.
Whoops . . . must dash here—train is to leave in twenty minutes or so.
Hope to see you on my return.
Your Humble Compositor
Of Twenty-One Rules & a Poodle:
The Policeman’s Picnic Melee of 1893.
T. E. Lawrence
New Bedford Mercury
Hindsight being what it is, we may say (taking a fully-backward view) that it was bound to happen. Any fool worth his salt could have seen it coming had he given it just a few seconds’ pondering.
That it did happen is uncontested. Indeed the whole sordid tale was related—as are most things—in the news tabloids of the day. The newsprint came thick and fast, much as it had the year before in trumpeting the untimely demise of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Jackson Borden, late of 92 Second, Fall River.
It was bound to happen right enough, given circumstances. We might say that fate almost willed it if we were of a mind to say that.
This time, however, rather than the few days or weeks it took for the “Lizzie Borden” verse to sprout wings and take flight, the poetry began within hours.
It was mostly bad poetry now that you mention it, but poetry just the same. One early quatrain follows:
That summer’s day dawned bright and clear
With nary a cloud in the sky –
A day which, veiled by the mists of years
Leaves some folks wondering “why?”
Yet when the sun set upon that day there would be no real mystery—or at least most certainly not any mystery of like quality to the Borden murders.
No. No murder this day with malice, or blows with axe or hatchet. But mayhem and mischief this day there would be—and nothing in memory would match it!
It might never have happened at all but for a seemingly innocent (if complicated) memorandum, issued over the signature of His Honor Dr. John Coughlin:
14th July 1893
From: John W. Coughlin, Mayor
To: Rufus B. Hilliard, City Marshal
Sir:
I should like to inquire into the state of matters as regard the forthcoming policeman’s picnic, now tentatively scheduled for August 5th.
Be advised that last year’s facilities are unavailable to us this year, so that a suitable local ground will be needed.
The said locale must be suitable for a Massachusetts base ball tournament, prepared according to the rules thereof, in which you are sufficiently versed, and which are referred to herein.
The planned tournament shall consist of three games, each played to fifty tallies rather than the usual one hundred dictated by Rule 17.
The field will be prepared in such fashion as dictated by Rule 4. Tournament victor shall be the winner of two of the three. Position assignments I leave to you, with the understanding that you yourself will be present in the capacity of team manager and coach.
Assistant Marshal Fleet will have the helm in your absence.
You will arrange things such that sufficient personnel to staff two teams are available, plus a few alternates who may serve as substitutes when needed.
In this same vein, we will suspend, amend, or otherwise waive provisions regarding substitutions, such as are described in Rule 19. Mutual consent will not be necessary so long as the substituted player is known to be a member of the police force, or a member of said officer’s family. (The consent rule will, however, apply to members of the public who might be present and wish to participate.)
For purposes of this tournament the maximum number of fourteen players constituting each team will be permitted, in accordance with Rule 18. The object, of course, is to ensure that all those present will have an opportunity to participate should they wish to do so.
I expect also that when the teams are ordered to take the field, they shall respond with more than a thundering chorus of “We’ll try!” Our beloved motto it may be, but as this is a base ball game, we must react more fervently, backing these beloved words with hearty and heart-felt deeds!
Barring unforeseen circumstances, I will be on hand to serve as team physician.
Please attend the above and advise as needed upon your progress.
Respectfully,
John W. Coughlin
Mayor
With a sigh betraying the patience of Job, the Marshal laid the paper aside, idly wondering if ever the Mayor would master the art of simple composition.
It’s a good thing I know what game he’s talking about!
He picked up the telephone receiver and in a moment had the Mayor’s office on the line. “Yes, Marshal Hilliard here. Is the Mayor—oh, he’s on a call to a patient? Thank you. I’ll try again after bit, or get hold of him later. Oh—no it’s not terribly important at the moment. I’ve just gotten his memo of yesterday afternoon about the—yes, the base ball game, and need to clarify a few things.
Yes, it was. I thought you might have typed it just the way he –
Yes, I should be here the rest of the afternoon. Would you? Thank you, I appreciate it.”
A moment later, he folded the memo in half and began scrawling names on it . . .
Then at the appointed hour
Upon the appointed day,
Did sixty of Fall River’s finest turn out
A`primed and ready to play.
By midmorning the field was nearly there, the perimeter established and the bases set—these being in accordance with Massachusetts Base Ball Rule 4, which states: “The bases shall be wooden stakes, projecting four feet from the ground.”
A referee strode past accompanied by the mayor and a second official, who carried a stick pre-cut to measure 48 inches exactly.
The official laid the stick alongside the base, frowned a very small frown, then raised two fingers as if to form a “V”; at which point another came along (who, incidentally, resembled Patrick Doherty quite a lot) carrying a sledge hammer.
“Twice more, if you please, Pat,” the mayor spoke quietly into the man’s ear.
Doherty nodded, placed himself, and delivered the requested hammer-blows: Ker-whap! Ker-whap! On the second blow, a few stray splinters dislodged from the post.
Measurements were taken again and this time met the Rule 4 height requirement exactly.
“Just mind you don’t do to the ball what you did to that post—you’ll kill it!” Mayor Coughlin said, chuckling.
The picnickers came,
The nitpickers came –
Two hundred and more in all;
To laugh, to eat, to socialize,
And of course to play base ball.
The picnicking part was flawless, thanks in part to lunches bagged, boxed or otherwise contained in sundry and varied vessels. The highlight was a New England boil of crabs, lobster, corn and other varied vegetables amenable to being boiled.
Then too there were slim sausages, served up at a stand set just off the field. The gentleman doing the cooking had a rare combination of gifts: he was a sausage maker of excellent repute, a baker of yeast-breads of varying sizes, and a pretty good musician too. Between sessions of cooking sausages, he’d fill the surrounding environs with light Teutonic airs played on a concertina.
A hand-lettered sign advertised his wares:
Wiener sausages – Beef and Lamb
(No Mutton!)
Fresh Rolls – Baked Today!
5 cents!!
Patrons could have any condiment they wished, so long as they wished for mustard.
The message was passed at 1:15 p.m. “Players—Form up! Tournament begins in fifteen minutes!” So the word spread among the assemblage with reasonable speed, though not quite so quickly as first word of the Borden murders had gotten out the year before.
Over on the side was Marshal Hilliard, who first took a census so as to know just how many there were that wished to play. Only four of those policemen present declined, saying that their age would make them better spectators than players. Whereupon a brief conference was held, and four players to serve as substitutes were selected from among willing family members, as had been alluded to in the mayor’s memorandum of a few weeks before.
“Count off if you please, gentlemen,” Hilliard instructed. So they did, and thereby established the striking order pursuant to Massachusetts Base Ball Rule 10.
At 29 past one o’clock,
A referee sounded the call:
Came a blast from policeman’s whistle
And those hallowed words:
“Play ball!”
So the play began. One spectator said afterward that it was one of the finest examples of sportsman’s ballet he’d seen in his life—that is until . . .
By all accounts things ran along nearly as slick as a railroad man’s watch. Things weren’t perfect though, as in the haste of making all the plans and getting things arranged just so, no one really thought to give the opposing teams names. This of course led to some confusion among the spectators, but presented no trouble at all to the players, who all knew who they were anyway.
So came the steady chorus:
Of Whoosh! Ker-Whap! Hurrah!
Hard work and play most certainly,
But a joy to one and all.
Twenty-three runs into the second game, the first injury occurred, the misfortune of one of the players selected as substitutes in the beginning when those first four would-be players begged off on account of years.
He was a spare and lanky boy of about seventeen years, in for the day from Taunton. No one was absolutely sure which policeman he was related to, but someone claimed his kinship. True or not, the lad was red of hair and freckled of face. Like hair was claimed by one man dating from his younger days, while yet another claimed a bad case of freckled skin as a boy of seven years.
The youth suffered a severe sprain to his right wrist, being much too near to a low-flying pop-up. He caught the ball right enough, but the force caused the hand which caught the ball to snap back— “sorta like what happens when a young feller lets loose with a sling-shot, but in the wrong direction—backwards,” is how one spectator described the motion.
The final score in that one was 50-45, but no one of course had any clue which team won. The answer was either “They did” or “We did,” which worked well enough so far as the players themselves were concerned.
Once again at mid afternoon
A whistle blast was heard
Which notified all those present
Of the start of Game the Third.
The first ball was thrown at quarter-past three to Frank Wixon. He had been one of those who earlier in the day was undecided about playing, on account of his having not picked up a base ball bat since two days after President Garfield was shot in early July of 1881.
The hiatus did him no apparent harm, however; for he struck the ball so squarely and with such force that it split into two halves, which fell rather listlessly back towards earth.
“Hey Frank,” someone called from the bench. “After today, no more base ball; we’ll need you on the roster for the 1903 picnic!” A chorus of laughter and cheers went up among the players on both sides.
A referee tossed the thrower a new ball from the sidelines, and play resumed.
The thrower threw such a mighty blast that a loud Whoosh was heard as the ball proceeded. In a split second Wixon took his aim and swung, the bat meeting the ball dead-on: Ker-Whap! Wixon took off like shot from a cannon.
By the time he reached first base, gravity had yet to reclaim the ball, so he started for second. Five yards into his dash from second to third, a thud was heard, followed by a piercing scream and the terrified cries of a small dog.
She’d brought along her poodle dog,
Now cradled in her lap;
When the thrower fired off the ball
She heard a bang: Ker-Whap!
Distracted by her poodle dog
(Or perhaps a spot of mud)
She had no idea where the ball had gone
‘til it hit with a cracking thud.
She was a woman of perhaps forty years or a bit younger, “out for a weekend’s airing, from the looks of her” said another woman sitting nearby.
“You know, to look at her,” said another, “I’d have sworn it was Alice Russell! I’ve known Alice for many years, worked with her at one time actually.
The woman is dressed very like Alice does or would dress—right down to that hat of hers, which personally I always thought looked too much like an explosive cross between a flower shop display and a farmer’s chicken yard—because of all those fancy flowers and the feathers, you understand.
She was mad at me two weeks flat once. I saw her out somewhere with that hat on her head—
I couldn’t help myself you understand—and said ‘Alice, get yourself two eggs to go on top of that and you’ll be fixed just right.’
She looked at me as though I’d slapped her across the face and did not speak to me for two weeks. I meant nothing by it, you understand—would have said it to anyone wearing a hat like that.”
“These are the hats I wear.” The woman showed off her own hat: a simple, not-unattractive straw bonnet wrapped with sky-blue ribbon ‘round the crown.
“When I got here I was surprised. These are not the sorts of things Alice usually attends, you understand. I greeted her in a friendly fashion (the hat business being nearly a year ago now). She met my eye with hers, but then looked away.
Possibly it isn’t her, but if not she has a twin.”
“Hey! I wonder if that man next to her—isn’t that John Morse? I was at the Borden trial one day a couple months ago, the day he testified. The suit that man has on is almost identical!”
Wixon’s cannon shot came to earth—or met its only resistance in doing so—when it landed atop the head of the woman with the fancy hat—who may have been Alice Russell, and had at least two other spectators wondering.
The hat gave no protection of course, except from the beating sun, and was first to hit the ground. It was followed in close succession by its owner, who toppled from her seat next to a shabbily-suited stranger.
The poodle jumped away, unharmed, but badly frightened. He barked at his mistress a time or two, but getting no response, arched his neck, nose in the air and began to howl and whimper pitifully before being taken into temporary custody by a young boy, aged about seven years. He took the poodle pup a short distance away and sat down on the grass.
The pup still cried a bit but began to calm down after just a few minutes. The poodle didn’t care much for the boy’s lemonade, but did rather like the cold water someone thoughtfully brought over to him.
Someone cried out frantically for a doctor, at which point his Honor Mayor Coughlin was dispatched to render aid.
The stranger—whom no one really knew, but some said looked an awful lot like John Vinnicum Morse, brother of Andrew Borden’s first wife, now many years deceased—picked up the offending projectile and threw it back toward the field, apparently unaware of the sheer force he’d put into the throw.
Thanks to his slightly-elevated position and carefree manner, the ball traveled slightly upward and into the sun.
At that moment, only three players were in the general target area of the throw—all three had seen it. Two of them judged well enough to sidestep. The third, however, lost the ball’s course in the bright sunlight.
It wasn’t long before he found it again.
Just two and three-quarter ounces at most,
(Pursuant to Rule One)
By the time yon sphere returned to the earth
He swore it weighed a ton!
Witnesses nearby reported hearing a loud crack when the ball struck the crown of the player’s head. As it rolled off and to the side, he shook his head, then pitched face forward into the grass.
A woman in the crowd cried out. Before the scream had died away, the two players behind had reached the scene, followed closely by Dr. Coughlin, who had bag in hand. Reaching inside the bag, he extracted something, which he promptly broke open and placed as near to the player’s nose as possible. A foul and bitter stench suddenly filled the air.
Dr. Coughlin motioned to the two players. “Hold him there for a minute, as easy as you can.”
Into the bag again, he extracted another device identical to the first, breaking it open as he had the other a moment before. This application had better effect: The prostrate player began to react to the strong scent with groans and feeble attempts at moving.
“Doherty? Pat—listen to me. Don’t try to get up just yet. Move only what I tell you to move—understand?”
The response was a groan which to witnesses nearby sounded very much like an expletive.
“Now then, move your right foot, wiggle it—got it? Take your time, but wiggle that foot, the right one.”
As instructed, the foot wiggled.
“Good! Now do the same with the left, okay?”
The opposing foot wiggled next.
“Okay, let’s see about getting him moved.
Pat—turn yourself over if you can. We’ll help you if need be, but let’s see what you can do first.”
This was met with the same response as before, but clearer this time. There was definitely an expletive intermingled with the groan!
A woman within earshot whispered something to her male companion and was met with: “Oh, you’re out of your hat, Prudence – and even if he did say that, he doesn’t know much what he’s saying at the moment, I’d wager on that.”
The woman sniffed a haughty sniff at her companion and turned aside, blushing mightily.
At last the prostrate figure began to move, such that cheers went up from those spectators who noticed it.
“Well, if that—feller beaned me with the ball, sure as I see stars in my eyes this minute!” For an instant nobody moved, watching expectantly. Spectators nearby reported a low, rustling noise, as if a gust had suddenly begun to blow through the trees nearby.
There was no mistaking the next sound heard, for it seemed to echo off walls that did not exist: “Stand aside, boys. I’m about to whip the felt-headed fop who threw that ball!” The dazed player patted at his waist—“Where’s my billy stick??!!”
From the stands too there were rumbles which suddenly erupted into muffled cries of “Run!” The top-hatted stranger sat a moment, dumbfounded by the scene on the field; then he stood up, suddenly conscious of his impending predicament. Witnesses reported that he stood there as if locked in place, frozen by a wave of indecision.
“That’s right, feller—you just stand where you are. I’ll fix your wagon but good!”
Up in the stands, a youngster, aged about seven years, comforted the whimpering poodle in his lap. Setting aside the lemonade cup he’d been steadily sucking at, he tugged at the man’s sleeve. “Hey, Mistah, ‘less you got a wagon needs fixed, I’d be moving my feet was I you.” He turned his attention back to the lemonade and the poodle pup, but keeping half an eye on the field. The stranger glanced briefly in the direction of the sleeve-puller and laughed hesitantly.
Down on the field, the offended and formerly upended player had crouched forward low, sprint at the ready. He appeared to be waiting only for the pistol shot. At that moment one of the more enterprising juvenile delinquents opposite obliged him by setting off a snapcracker. The expected pop pop was exaggerated by the silence of the moment, melding into a single, deafening report: Ka-Boom!
With that and a this-time-unmistakable string of expletives fit enough to make any connoisseur of profanity beam with admiration, the ballplayer raced for the stands, the stranger’s “wagon” squarely in his sights.
Witnesses estimated a distance of fifty-five yards between the spot where the player had fallen and the stranger in the stands. No one could estimate the time it took to cover that distance beyond that it did not take long.
“That feller moved like his feet were touched with hellfire,” is how one man expressed it.
The stranger—whom no one really knew, but some said looked an awful lot like John Vinnicum Morse, brother of Andrew Borden’s first wife, now many years deceased – then made his third mistake of the day: He stepped down and away from the stands, and turned his back, as if seeking some manner of assistance.
Turn thy back not upon a raging bull was apparently not a maxim with which he was terribly familiar, which seems strange, particularly given Morse’s apparent western experience—if indeed that stranger was Mr. John Vinnicum Morse, brother of Andrew Borden’s first wife, now many years deceased, who’d claimed at least once under oath that he had made his home in the west for some forty years.
The result was that when the two collided they did so with such force as to roll head-over-heels like the wheel of a cart for several feet—if ever of course there was a cart wheel possessed of human arms and legs protruding out from each side, that is to say.
“That feller never shoulda turned away,” said one man who was standing only yards away at the time of impact.
“It was though, one of the most beautiful things I ever saw: Whomp! and there they went, ass-over-applecart for probably seven feet. Not seen such a good fight as that since I was a boy in Ireland!
That’s the odd part: Even an idiot knows, when you face your man, face him head on. It’s better to see the onrushing train rather than to stand there and turn your fool head in hopes it will disappear!”
So began the donnybrook
Whose like was seldom seen:
A knock-down, drag out –
Plain vicious affair
On the summers day carpet so green.
The referees and tallymen stood stock still there in the afternoon’s now-fading sunlight, knowing they should do something to cease the rolling squabble that unfolded before their disbelieving eyes. What exactly to do about it was the only question.
Marshal Hilliard directed several more into the fray with instructions to break it up. Those instructions, however, merely resulted in the starting of more fights caused by unintended punches. In a very short time, they all melded together into a single Herculean struggle.
The Marshal caught sight of a faded uniform worn by a dapper-looking man of about sixty years. He stood off to the side, observing. A G.A.R. button winked in the light from its place on the man’s collar.
Hilliard beckoned to him, and he walked over.
“Worcester Post Ten, sir. Visiting my daughter at Taunton, heard about the ball game; came to watch. Didn’t think you folks would mind much. Seems today I’m gettin’ my money’s worth, doesn’t it?”
“Any advice on stopping this brouhaha, sir?”
“Well, now . . . ” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Mind you it’s been years but – you got a pistol handy? A shot or two fired in the air worked years ago. We never did that in the field though —no tellin’ who might shoot back if you get my meaning.”
Marshal Hilliard shook his head. “No guns today. This was supposed to be a family picnic.”
The old veteran grinned. “Mind if I have a crack at it? I’ve not fired this thing since I’ve forgotten just when, but I never go without it.” He pulled a Navy Colt Model 1851 from under his coat. “Ever see one of these?”
“I have sir, but not since my father carried one years ago.”
“Shall I? I keep it capped and ready.”
“By all means.”
“Mind your ears, son. These are a bit loud close up.”
The Marshal nodded, stepped back a few paces as the old veteran raised the venerable Colt skyward. He pulled the trigger. The result was a damp, crackling fizzzzz . . . The pistol had apparently been loaded and primed so long that moisture had invaded, dampening the powder.
“Well, dashitall, what . . . ? Oh . . . never mind, I know what happened—the powder sogged out on me. You might give ‘em a few raps on the—well, no I suppose not. Raps on the head started this in the first place!”
“You’re a hard man not to like, sir.” Hilliard shook the veteran’s hand warmly. “If you’re out this way again, stop by the office and say hello. I’ll show you what we’re carrying these days. Just ask for—”
“Rufus Hilliard, City Marshal?”
“Yes sir, that is me.”
“You did pretty good, for a Pembroke boy.”
“Now how did you know about Pembroke, sir, if I may ask?”
“I served the Cause of whippin’ the rebels as a member of the 55th Massachusetts right enough. Wasn’t born here though. Like you, I was a Pembroke boy.” The grin returned. “I don’t remember you much, but I do remember your father. He was a good man.”
“Listen, you’ve got things to tend here. I’ll stop in when I’m next over this way. Was nice being reminded of an old friend.”
Hilliard turned away to survey the situation. When he turned back, the gentleman of the G.A.R. was in the vicinity of the sausage vendor, enjoying some music.
In the distance, the same shrill blast of the policeman’s whistle which only hours had served as a call to the game sounded again, this time with a listless air of futility and defeat.
Meanwhile, back at the fracas, the formerly dazed Pat Doherty finally regained some of his senses, if none of his usual good humor.
He yanked his opponent up from the ground and was overcome by a wave of recognition.
“Wait just a minute! I thought you looked awfully familiar! Morse! John Morse, from Iowa by way of South Dartmouth and God-only-knows what other parts! You dirty dog—why did you not be more—?”
His opponent began to protest—not too much, but feebly.
“Now don’t you dare try to weasel away! You know very well who I am, you’ve seen me in better clothes than these! Anyone that reads newspapers knows very well who you are: Mr. John Vinnicum Morse, brother of Andrew Borden’s first wife, now many years deceased.
If that’s not enough, I recognize that suit—
The thread’s still loose there at the sleeve. You wore that same suit to court, two months ago.”
Morse, now exposed beyond measure, looked silently at Patrick Doherty.
“Well, sir, it was good to see you again. In fact I enjoyed it so much I’ll give you this Irishman’s blessing:
May the road rise always to meet you
Squarely upon your snout.
May your union suits crawl always with fleas,
And you, unable to get them out . . .
At which point, both Dr. Coughlin and Marshal Hilliard both raced furiously toward the pair.
May you suffer from endless thirst,
Always finding an empty glass.
Now get out of my sight you dirty cur,
Or by the Virgin I’ll kick your . . .
“Pat!”
The Marshal and the Mayor uttered the same word. It hung in the air, as if teetering on the edge of silence in the waning sunlight.
