Pulitzer_ A Life in Politics, Print, and Power - James McGrath Morris [14]
With money to spend, the troops celebrated at night, under a full moon, with bonfires, civilian food, and illicit alcohol. The soldiers knew that they were returning to a civilian workforce already suffering considerable unemployment. The men in Pulitzer’s company, all with homes overseas, had to decide where to go in the United States. The choice was soon made for them.
On June 26, the regiment marched to the railroad station to begin the trip back to New York. After a journey filled with delays, the troops reached New York two days later. Because of the tardy arrival the reception committee had dismissed a musical band of thirty pieces, as well as a cavalry escort. So the men marched up Broadway unaccompanied and unnoticed except by the odd pedestrian who recognized the regimental colors, battered and torn on the battlefield. At the Eighth Regiment Armory, on Twenty-Third Street, the men were seated at tables, which had been loaded with fruit and flowers the day before, and were served the dinner that had sat waiting for them. After they finished their meal, and the dignitaries concluded their welcoming speeches—not a word of which was understandable to Pulitzer—the men marched back down Broadway to the Battery and rode the John Romer out to Hart Island, where they had begun their military service.
Peace had its risks. On July 7, Pulitzer joined legions of unemployed soldiers on the streets of New York. The economy could not accommodate all the veterans looking for work. Although many returned to their farms or prewar jobs as craftsmen or professionals, others, in particular foreign-born recruits, were looking for new situations. With few employable skills and still unable to speak English, Pulitzer had no luck in finding work. His money soon ran out.
Bewildered, alone, and desperate, he turned homeward for help and wrote to his family for money. In the interim he continued to look—in vain—for work, wandering the streets of New York at day, and at night sleeping in doorways and any other place he could find. Frequently his bed was a bench in City Hall Park in front of French’s Hotel and the newspaper buildings that lined Park Row. “Every pleasant night until I found employment,” Pulitzer said, “I slept upon the bench, and my summons to breakfast was frequently the rap of a policeman’s club.”
One day, as he sat on his bench, Pulitzer was approached by a man who asked if he wanted a job. What kind of job? asked Pulitzer. Three years’ work, replied the stranger. Food and lodging were included. Pulitzer agreed to follow him. They went down a side street to a small, unkempt office whose reception room was crowded with men, most of whom were drunk. The office belonged to a shipping agency recruiting men to ship out on a whaling vessel. Unwilling to enter a maritime purgatory, Pulitzer declined and after some effort escaped the clutches of the recruiter, whom he called a “land shark.”
At last, the long-awaited money arrived from Pest. Pulitzer decided to leave New York and try his luck in St. Louis. The city’s large German population was like a safe harbor, and its promise of jobs was drawing German-speaking immigrants like a beacon. Passage on an immigrant railcar, with its plain bench seats and communal cooking stoves, could be had for only a few dollars. Pulitzer paid the fare for what he hoped would be a fresh start at finding a place for himself in postwar America.
Once again, he headed west.
Chapter Three