A Night at Harrison Street Station.

Though honest men sometimes do not seem able to put their fingers upon a policeman at the instant they want him, rogues find far oftener that the policemen are on hand when not wanted.

In the earlier days of police history, when politics were eliminated from the force, the ordinary policeman was more effective, and guarded the “beat” upon which he traveled with a jealous eye. Wander where he might, the ruffian could not get away from the law. This constant surveillance exasperated bad characters. They chafe under the restraint, make feeble efforts to rebel, but it is useless. The power of the police over the evil circles of society is enormous; they have a mortal fear of the force. They know that behind that silver star there resides indomitable courage, and in that close buttoned coat are muscles of iron and nerves of steel.

The “Boiler Avenue Boys” and roughs were all cowards and they knew it. They dare not meet half their weight in righteous pluck.

I have seen a great bully cringe and cry under a policeman’s open-hand cuffing. Very likely he had a bowie-knife, or revolver, or slung-shot—or all three in one, as I saw one night on Fourth avenue—in his pocket at the time, yet he does not attempt to use it on the officer of the law, the occasional exceptions to this are rare and notable. How many times has a single policeman arrested a man out of a crowd, and not one of his fellows raised a finger to help him; they dare not, they have too wholesome respect for law, for that revolver in the pocket; most of all they are awed by the cool courage of the man who dares to face them on their own ground.

Yet in spite of all this the policeman’s life is full of danger. He must patrol streets which are known to be dangerous, narrow alleys, where a well-delivered blow from a slung-shot, a skillfully aimed thrust from a knife, or a bullet from a revolver, would make an end of him before he could summon help. He is an object of hatred, as well as of fear, to the dangerous classes, and they do not hesitate to take advantage of him. Often some brave fellow is set upon by a gang of toughs and beaten or wounded. Yet, whatever danger, the policeman must face it all, and to the honor of the force be it said, he does not shirk. Whatever their faults may be, cowardice cannot be charged against the police of Chicago.

I remember well a tough basement saloon in Clark street; it had been growing worse and worse and one dismal November evening, hearing a disturbance, Captain Mulligan and the officer on that post went in. There were about fifty persons, men and women, of every color and nationality, all of the worst characters, and some notorious in crime. The captain took in the situation at a glance, and determined without a thought to arrest the whole party. Placing his back to the front door he covered the back door with his revolver, and threatened death to the first person who moved. Then he sent the patrolman to the station for help, and for fifteen long minutes held that crowd of desperadoes at bay. They glared at him, squirmed and twisted in their places, scowled and gritted their clenched teeth, and tried to get at their knives and tear him to pieces; but all the while the stern mouth of that revolver looked at them, and looked them out of countenance, and the steady nerve behind it held sway over their brutal ferocity. It was a trial of nerve and endurance. Captain Mulligan stood the test and saved his life. They could have shot him a hundred times. Certainly it was not because they had any scruples against it, for the first two prisoners sent to the station killed Officer Burns with a paving stone before they had gone two blocks. Captain Clare made an almost precisely similar single-handed raid on the famous “Burnt Rag” saloon in Boiler avenue one winter night in the Seventies.

Let us take our seat beside Sergeant Cameron. It is 10 o’clock and the night cold and keen without, but the room is brightly lighted, warm and comfortable. With the exception of a few early lodgers who have been given quarters, no one has put in an appearance, and we begin to wonder if it is to be a dull night after all. The sergeant smiles, and remarks that there will be business enough in the next three hours.

The door opens as he speaks, and a woman in a faded black dress, a battered bonnet, and a very dirty face, enters, and hesitatingly approaches the desk.

“Can I have a night’s lodging, sir” she asks.

The sergeant makes no reply for a minute, but gazes at her with curious interest, and then asks abruptly: “When did you wash your face last?”

“I washed it in Bridgeport, sir,” she answered, “an’ I come from there today, and never a drop o’ water have I seen.”

“Give her a lodging,” says the sergeant, nodding to an officer standing by. “But see here,” he added to the woman, “what are you doing in this district?”

“Ah! it’s a long story, sir,” she begins. “It was a man that was the cause of it, an’ bad luck to him. He left me after deceivin’ me, an’ I’ve come here to find him.”

“How did he deceive you?”

“Oh, the way they always do. He got the best of me because I was innocent, an’ he promised to marry me. When he was tired of me he walked out, an’ I’ve never seen him since.”

“Where do you expect to find him?”

“Here in this city; I’d know his skin on a bush, an’ I’ll find him or die.”

“Well, you had better take a rest for tonight.”

The woman goes off to her hard bed in the lodging room, and the office is silent again; but only for a short while. The door opens again, and this time with a crash, and an officer enters, with a prisoner in his vice-like grasp. The man’s coat is pulled over his head, his hat is gone, the blood is running from his nose, and his gait so unsteady that he would certainly fall to the floor but for the firm hold of the policeman. His shirt front is covered with blood and beer, and his eyes are bruised and bloodshot.

“Well, officer, what is it?” asks the sergeant, taking up his pen, as the patrolman drags his prisoner to his desk.

“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” replied the patrolman. “Wanted to fight everybody he met on the street. He got pretty badly damaged in being put out of Schlosheimer’s saloon, and I had to take him in charge.”

“What is your name, and where do you live?” asked the sergeant of the prisoner.

The man gives his name and address, in a sort of incoherent manner, and is sent back to a cell, while the sergeant jots down the circumstances of his arrest in his “Blotter.”

The door opens again, and a woman neatly draped in mourning, and with a pale, sad face, enters timidly, and approaches the desk. In a low voice she asks the sergeant if he can tell her of any respectable place in the neighborhood where she can obtain a lodging at a moderate price. Her manner is that of a lady, and the sergeant listens with respect to her request, and gives her the address of such a place as she desired. In the same low tone she thanks him, and disappears, and the stern face of the officer of the law for a moment has a troubled expression.

The door is thrown open violently once more, and two flashily-dressed women enter, and hurry forward to the desk. Their faces are flushed, they are greatly excited, and have evidently been drinking. They begin their story together, talking loudly and angrily. They will not stand it any longer, they declare. Madame Loraine owes them money, and they “are going to have it or raise h—l.” The sergeant, having listened patiently, mildly interposes with the hope that nothing of the kind will be raised in the station house, and then asks:

“How much does she owe you?”

“Seventy-five dollars,” they reply in one voice.

“And why don’t she pay you?”

“Because she thinks by keeping herself in our debt we won’t leave her,” they respond together, “and we want a policeman to come along and make her hand over.”

The sergeant considers for a moment and then declares the matter does not come within the jurisdiction of the police, and that he can do nothing for them. They stare at him in blank amazement for a while, and then flounce out of the room, loudly cursing the whole police force, and the sergeant in particular.

The next comer is in charge of another officer. He is very dirty and wretchedly drunk. His tall hat is smashed in, and there is mud sticking in his hair. He is placed before the desk.

“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” says the patrolman. “I found him trying to climb a telegraph pole in front of Pottgieser’s saloon. He said he always went to his room by way of the fire escape, when he came home late.”

The prisoner is silent, but tries to listen to the officer, and fixes upon the sergeant as solemn a look as his bleared eyes will permit. He is too drunk to give his name, and is sent to a cell, where he is soon in a drunken slumber.

Toward midnight, a poor woman, shabbily dressed, with a thin, well-worn shawl around her head enters, and approaches the desk.

“Can you tell me if anything has been heard of my husband yet?” she asks—the same question she has repeated every day for the past week.

“No, ma’am, nothing,” answers the sergeant, briefly; but his eyes as he glances at the poor sorrowful creature, have a pitying look in them.

“What is your husband’s business?”

“He was a stevedore, sir.”

“And you were married to him how long?”

“Eleven years and over, sir, we had four children, all dead now but the youngest. He was a good husband to me; but he took a drop too much now and then, and was cross and noisy. He left the house three weeks ago, and we have never seen him since.”

“Did he leave you any money?”

“He left us nothing, sir. The child and myself live on the charity of neighbors; but we can’t expect to live that way always.”

“Well, I’ll speak to the captain,” says the sergeant, kindly, “and see what can be done for you, and if a dollar will do you any good, here it is.” And the good-hearted sergeant passes a silver coin over the desk, and sends the woman away sobbing out her expression of gratitude.

Loud voices are heard on the station steps as the woman passes out, the door is thrown open, and six well-dressed men enter, accompanied by two policemen. They approach the desk, talking excitedly, and charge and counter-charges, mixed with much slang and profanity, are brought before the sergeant, who sits steadily gazing at the party, waiting for a return of something like order. There is a lull in the talking, and one of the policemen states that two of the men have been engaged in a drunken assault at a political primary held in the neighborhood, and that the other two have come to prefer charges against them. The charges are made and entered in the “Blotter,” and the accused prefer counter-charges against the other two, but as the policemen do not sustain them, the accusers are suffered to depart, and the accused are sent to a cell where they raise a tremendous racket.

As the officers are departing for their beats again, two more enter, this time having in custody two handsomely dressed, fashionable looking youths, whose flushed faces show they have been drinking, but not enough to prevent them from feeling the shame of their position.

“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” says the officer, “Knocked an old woman’s peanut stand in the street, knocked all her stuff into the mud and then tried to run away.”

“But, sergeant,” pleads one of the youths, “it was only for a lark, you see. We will make it all right in the morning with the old woman.”

“Your names and addresses?” asks the sergeant, coldly.

They are given, but are evidently fictitious.

“It was only a lark, sergeant,” begins the young man who spoke before, “we didn’t mean——.”

“Lock them up,” says the sergeant, cutting him short, “you can state all that to the court in the morning.”

And they were led away.

The silence that has fallen over the room after the young men have been led out is rudely broken by the hasty entrance of an officer from the direction of the cells. He is pale and excited.

“Sergeant,” he exclaims, “the woman in number ten has committed suicide. She’s hung herself.”

The sergeant springs up, tells the officer to take charge of the room, and hurries to the cells. We follow him. The door in number ten is wide open, and the doorman is in the act of cutting down the woman, who has suspended herself by the means of a line made of her garters. He lays her on the floor, in the cell, and he and the sergeant bend over and gaze into the bloated face. The woman is not dead and exhibits signs of returning life. Efforts are made to restore her, and are successful. As she recovers her consciousness she raises herself on her elbow, and glaring around savagely, curses bitterly the men who have saved her from death, and begs for a drink of whisky. No liquor is given her, however, and when the officers are satisfied she is out of danger, she is hand-cuffed, to prevent her from attempting further violence. The rest of the night she keeps the place lively with her yells and blasphemous cries.

We return to the desk with the sergeant, who enters the occurrence in the “Blotter.” We are scarcely seated when two of the worst looking tramps to be found in Chicago enter, and come up to the desk.

“Cap’n,” exclaims one of them in a thick voice, “let’s have a shake-down for the night?”

“All right,” says the sergeant, “show these men back.”

The tramp who has spoken, encouraged by the ready granting of his request, says coolly, “You hain’t got a chew of tobaccer, Cap’n, you can let a fellow have?”

“No, I hain’t,” answers the sergeant, imitating the voice and expression of the tramp; “but I’ll send you in an oyster supper presently, with a bottle of Mum’s extra dry, and a bunch of Henry Clay’s; and perhaps some of the delicacies of the season, if they are to be had.”

The tramps laughed at this sally, and followed the officer to the lodging room.

Half an hour later four policemen enter the room bearing a stretcher, on which is laid a badly wounded man, while two or more lead in the assailant, who is securely hand-cuffed, and bears the marks of the officers’ clubs. He had assaulted and stabbed the wounded man in a brawl in a saloon on Fourth avenue; had resisted the officers who attempted to arrest him, and had proved so dangerous that they had been compelled to club and hand-cuff him. The wounded man is sent to a hospital in an ambulance and the statements he made are recorded in the “Blotter” by the sergeant. The name and address of the prisoner is also written down, and he is sent to a cell, with the irons still on him.

Shortly after 2 o’clock another detachment of officers bring in a batch of about twenty prisoners, male and female. They are dressed in all manners of costumes. Here are dukes, Don CÆsars, Hamlets, Little Buttercups, Indians, Princesses and Warriors and the like. They have been to a “fancy ball,” and left it so drunk that they fell to fighting among themselves in the street and were taken in custody by the officials. They are a motley lot indeed and lent a strange aspect to the station. They appear to feel the ludicrousness of their position, and beg to be let off; but the sergeant has no discretion, for the testimony of the officials is positive and the charge is a serious one. So they go back to the cells, and in the morning will appear in full costume before the Court to answer to the charge against them.

So the hours of darkness pass away, and the remainder of the night is only a repetition of many scenes we have described.