THE RING MAN

More Haunting Tales of Old New Orleans from Alyne A. Pustanio

THE RING MAN

Another ghostly denizen of the Old Quarter that is greatly feared is the Ring Man, or, as the Creoles call him, “L’homme d’anneau.”

THE RING MAN

ALL ARTICLE CONTENT Copyright Alyne A. Pustanio © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

In the late 1800’s the little Italian Ring Man would announce his imminent arrival with the peculiar lilt of a cheap tin whistle; in another instant, his little push cart would roll into view. Then, from almost every nearby house, children would rush into the street with squeals of delight, penny in hand to exchange for some gaudy toy or brass trinket. In hard times, the Ring Man would take empty bottles in trade for his wares; these he would exchange to make his meager living.

Nothing about the Ring Man ought to have offended anyone and he was completely harmless, beloved by so many children. But there came a time when, plying his trade in the Rue Burgundy, the man ran afoul of a riotous, drunken Irishman, and the outcome was very bad.

Whatever offence came between them, the Ring Man did not deserve the beating given him by the Irishman who certainly would have killed him there in the street had not a group of wily Italians rushed into the fray. The Italians beat the Irishman senseless but were too late to prevent the fatal injury of their friend. The Ring Man died in a pool of blood in the Rue Burgundy, not far from St. Phillip Street, amid the wails of children and Italian matrons who had crowded around in horror.

The Irishman awoke from his violent bender in a damp, dark cell in the Orleans Parish Prison and because the wheel of justice turned particularly slow for Irishmen and other immigrants in those days, he knew he could look forward to a long stay. True to his nature, he immediately fell to bullying other prisoners and within only a few days found himself alone in the darkness of solitary confinement.

The bare cell had only a moss-stuffed mattress and bare blanket for comfort, and a rank, wooden bucket for convenience. A tiny square window near the roof looked out on the expanse of the Congo Fields and let in the only light, barely enough to see by. He was the only prisoner in the solitary ward at the time and thus confined, the Irish criminal had no interaction except with the prison guards who passed his food and drink to him through the solid cell door.

One humid night, the Irishman lay musing at the dust floating on a rare stream of full-moon light and listening to the steady chirping of crickets in the fields. Sleep was far off, but nature was at the ready and as the Irishman stood over the awful bucket that served as his chamber pot, he noticed something flash in the shadows near the floor. He stooped to see what the shiny thing might be; reaching into the shadows, he drew back a glinting tin whistle.

He eyed it curiously for a long moment, pondering who might have put a whistle in his cell and how he could have missed it for so long. He shrugged. No slacker when it came to playing the whistle, the Irishman settled back onto his mattress and put it to his lips. He blew. Not a sound came out. He blew again. Spittle blew back into his face. Frustrated, he tapped the whistle on his knee and tried again. Still nothing. Now he was truly annoyed. Standing close to his cell window to capture what little light there was, he held the whistle up like a tiny telescope and peered inside. He could not see through; the whistle was blocked, as if something was packed inside.

Now utterly engrossed, he tapped the little whistle vigorously against the bricks of his cell wall. Soon his efforts were rewarded as clumps of what looked like dried mud fell out onto the floor. Proud of his ingenuity, he tapped out the remaining dust, wiped the little whistle clean, put it to his lips again and blew.

A single, clear note echoed in the silent darkness of his cell. The whistle had a gentle, pleasing sound, inclining the Irishman to blow yet again. But just as he was about to launch into a jaunty tune, he stopped dead. In the shadowed darkness he heard a strange rustling sound. He stepped gingerly about his darkened cell, looking here and there. A sudden movement on the floor where his mattress lay caught his attention; he could plainly see his ragged sheet moving as if of its own accord.

“Just a rat,” he thought, discerning what clearly looked like a small head snuffling about under his sheet. He reached out, intent on grabbing and killing the rodent, but his hand stopped in mid-air.

As the Irishman watched, transfixed with dismay, the shaggy, dirty sheet lifted off the ragged mattress and began to float into the air. With each passing minute, the sheet seemed to take on a definite form; he could clearly see the shape of a man forming under the sheet. Painfully slowly, the animated sheet moved toward the Irishman, now cringing against the cell wall. The sound of the tin whistle nearly stopped the man’s heart and where he clutched it in his hand he could feel the vibration of the sound through it. With a scream he cast it away.

The form under the sheet continued toward him, reaching with ghostly arms. With each step came a rustling sound mixed with a horrid clanging; metallic objects were falling to the floor.

Just before he went insane, just before the hands of the vengeful ghost locked tightly around his thick neck and he passed out of this life, the Irishman saw that the objects littering his cell floor were little toys and brass trinkets, spin tops and whistles, and more: all the simple treasures that the Ring Man had provided to delight the children over the years.

The next morning, when the guards brought the Irishman’s breakfast, they noted that there was no sound or movement coming from within the cell. They opened the heavy door and stepped inside.

In a corner of the cell, prone upon the dank floor, was the hulking form of the Irishman; he was dead, his face paralyzed in a final scream of fear, his arms clutching at the bedsheet wound tightly around his neck.

Lagniappe:

New Orleanians who grew up in that section of the French Quarter will tell you that after he took care of business in the Irishman’s prison cell, the ghost of the Ring Man came back to his old route and may never have left.

Even today there are reports from tourists who claim to have encountered a man selling toys and trinkets in the block of Burgundy where the Ring Man was murdered. They claim the man is dressed in old-fashioned clothes and pushes an antique, two-wheeled cart, like the kind street vendors used at the turn of the century. Many believe the man is part of a show or historical reenactment presented by the City of New Orleans; some locals have even made purchases from the man.

Many will tell you that on summer evenings, above the din of traffic and the endless droning of air-conditioners and televisions, the rumble of old wooden wheels and the shrill, sad sound of an fretful tin whistle can be heard in the deepening gloom. The Ring Man still walks the streets of Old New Orleans.

A peculiar little whistle breaks on the stillness; and a man stops his little "push cart" at the corner. He is the "ring man,** the delight of every child in the quarter; in another instant from almost evsry house in the square, little tots are rushing breathlessly toward the quaint little "push store," bottle in hand, to exchange for some gaudy brass trinket, toy or flag, and then the "ring man" goes on his way to the next corner and childhood In that square is made happy.

You meet a curiou.. atii peddler with a little wagon on wheels. He is one of the last of the famous old "Marchand Rabais," peu de marché sur des roues for which the quarter was noted in the days gons by. Each "marchand" had his own list of regular customers, and what you could not get in the way of small fancy trimmings in the big stores up- town, you were sure to find in his "little, store on wheels."

But the "Marchand Rabais," as a distinct business, is passing out of the life of the Faubourg, and the faces of the few you meet are very sad and pathetic. The organ man = l'uomo dell'organo la rectifieuse d'organe