“You look like you is, all the same,” Banjo said to Lonesome Blue.
“All the same, I am going to see what I can do,” insisted Ray. “We don’t want to see him die off like a dog around here, like that old man in Joliette.”
Ray went off with Lonesome Blue.
The old man in Joliette was a half-crippled, white-head fixture who came on crutches every morning to squat in the Place de la Joliette near the fountain where the coal workers stripped to the waist to wash themselves after work.
When the black beach boys bummed food they brought him some, pieces of bread and scraps of meat. And sometimes the coal workers gave him coppers. Banjo would get food for him and give it to one of the boys to take to the old man. But Banjo always steered wide of the spot where he sat. Banjo lived entirely on his strength and was scared of contacts with any Negro that had lost the one thing a vagabond black had to live by.
The old man was a used-up British seaman. Looking down on the square from a hilly street is the British Mediterranean Mission to Seamen, which operates under the patronage of His Britannic Majesty, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and other distinguished personages. Floating above it is a blue flag bearing a white angel flying to the aid of seamen. And nearly every day a cockeyed white servant of His Majesty’s mission passed by the disabled old black seaman in the square to visit the incoming ships and distribute tracts and mission cards to able-bodied sailors. One morning the old man could not come to the square, for he had died in his sleeping-hole on the breakwater.
XV
White Terror
Simultaneously with the American squadron, an American freighter and two large English ships, one from South Africa and another from India, had arrived in port. There were also a number of British tramps at anchor for some days. There was much changing of dollars and pounds and ten-shilling notes in agencies and cafés by sailors, officers, and tourists. The guides were as busy as could be showing the new arrivals about. For the chauffeurs of the docks it was a picnic day. All the night places were excited with anticipation of new guests. The boîtes de nuit had sent delegations of cocottes down to the docks to greet the newcomers with cards of invitation.
Some of these cards were decorated souvenirs, and, like many of the cabarets, bore the flags of the great shipping nations and advertised British ale and whisky and American cocktails. …
It was twilight and Ray was hurrying along the Rue de la République toward Joliette where he was to meet Banjo, as he had promised. Besides its usual peripatetic exhibition of youths in proletarian blue, cocottes, Arabs, Senegalese, soldiers, and sailors with red pommels on their caps, the street parade included groups of British seamen and white-capped sailors from the destroyers.
In the Place Sadi Carnot, Ray was accosted by a staggering seaman with a card in his hand.
“Is this the—the—Bru—Bru—Bru—Brutish-Amurican Bar?” he asked in a drunken stutter, punching with his finger a card that he held.
Ray looked at it. An advertisement of the British and American Bar with its delightful symbolic trademark—a Union Jack and Stars and Stripes united upon a Tricolor. It also bore a plan of Marseilles, with a long red line like a serpent indicating the route from the quays to the establishment in the Place de la Bourse.
“No,” said Ray, “this is not the British-American Bar, but you keep straight on until you reach the end of this street. Then you are at the Vieux Port and anybody will show you the Bar.”
“Thank yer, mite,” and the seaman staggered onward, repeating, “Bru—Bru—Bru—Bru—Brutish-Amurican Bar. …”
On the same street, where the Boulevard des Dames crosses it, Ray had another rencontre, this time a surprising one—three American Negro seamen from an American freighter, one of whom was a waiter he had known on the railroad.
Ray’s old friend insisted that he should turn back with them. They went to the Senegalese Bar. Banjo was there, having returned from Joliette by the short way. Ray introduced the seamen to him, the patron, and a handsome Senegalese boxer.
The acquaintance between Ray and the railroad waiter, now turned ship’s steward, was slight. They had never worked on the same dining-cars, but had met each other casually at the railroad men’s quarters in Philadelphia. Yet they met now and acted like old and dear friends. Meeting like that was so unique, it stirred them strangely.
The seamen stood drinks. They said they would like to go to some place where they could amuse themselves. Banjo suggested a place in the Ditch, but they wanted something of the better sort. All three of them were well dressed. The boxer thought the British-American Bar would be all right. So the whole party decided to go. Banjo was in such an exciting, merrymaking mood that he won the admiration of the boys and was the target of most of the questioning. The atmosphere of the Senegalese Bar had won them immediately. It was run by a Negro and catered to colored men and they agreed that it was the best they had seen in any foreign port. When the proprietor talked English to them they felt proud that he had emigrated to America and made enough money there to return to France and start a business. … And Banjo! So gay and dressy on his hand-to-mouth existence without ever worrying about anything. That was marvelous!
“You find it all right over here, eh?” one of the newcomers asked him. “The froggies treat you better than the hoojahs, eh?”
“Well now, that’s a question I wouldn’t know how to answer noneatall,” said Banjo, “for it all depends on which way you take it. There ain’t no Canaan stuff sweeter than this heah wine and honey flowing in this place, but otherwise speaking, the Frenchies them
