Transcriber’s note: Table of Contents added by Transcriber and placed into the Public Domain.
Contents
YOURS WITH BEST WISHES, ASBURY HARPENDING
JUNE 20, 1915—AGE 76
THE
Great Diamond Hoax
AND
Other Stirring Incidents
IN THE LIFE OF
ASBURY HARPENDING
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EDITED BY
JAMES H. WILKINS
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Copyright by
A. HARPENDING, 1913
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The James H. Barry Co.,
San Francisco.
HARPENDING CREST
The Author.
PREFACE.
On my return to California, after an absence of many years, my attention was called, for the first time, to the fact that my name had been associated unpleasantly with the great diamond fraud that startled the financial world nearly half a century ago. Plain duty to my family name and reputation compelled me to tell the whole story of that strange incident so far as my knowledge of it extends. I sincerely trust that a candid reading of these pages will satisfy the public that I was only a dupe, along with some of the most distinguished financiers of the last generation. Concerning two of the historians who maligned me, I am without redress. They are dead. The latest author, Mr. John P. Young, repeated the accusation of his predecessors in his history of San Francisco. This gentleman has admitted that he merely copied the story of the earlier works, having no personal knowledge of events at that period, and has handsomely admitted, over his signature, that he unconsciously did me an injustice.
To the diamond story I have added, at the request of friends, some of my experiences and reminiscences of California of the early days.
ASBURY HARPENDING.
CHAPTER I.
Early Years—My Voyage to California.
My father was one of the largest landed proprietors of Kentucky, in the southwestern section of the State. That was still on the frontier of the Far West. Beyond stretched the land of enchantment and adventure—the plains, the mountains, the unbroken solitudes, the wild Indians, the buffaloes and the Golden State on the shore of the Pacific.
Youngsters whose minds are occupied today with baseball and tennis and who still retain a lingering love for taffy, sixty years ago on the frontier were dreaming of wild adventures that were nearly always realized to some extent. We lived on the border line, where the onward wave of emigration broke and scattered over the vast vacancies of the West, and it is hardly saying too much to assert that fully seven boys in ten were caught and carried forward with the flood before they had gone very far in their teens.
For myself, I simply gave up to the spirit of the times. At the age of fifteen I ran away from college to join an aggregation of young gentlemen but little older than myself, who enlisted under the banner of General Walker, the filibuster. The objective was the conquest of Nicaragua. The Walker expedition sailed to its destination and what followed is a matter of well known history. But for my companions and myself, numbering 120 in all, it ended in a humiliating disaster. For, as we sailed down the Mississippi River the long arm of Uncle Sam reached out and caught us, like a bunch of truant kids. I managed to elude my captors, and after various wanderings and strange experience made my way to the paternal home in a condition that made the Prodigal Son look like 30 cents.
That didn’t abate the wandering fever in the slightest and in order that I might not commit myself to another Walker expedition, my father consented that I should try my luck in California and I started with his blessing and what seemed to me a liberal grub stake. I had just turned sixteen.
Instead of going to New York and taking passage from that port, I decided to travel down the Mississippi River, have a look at New Orleans and leave on one of the various steamers there that connected with the Pacific Mail at Darien.
Here an unforeseen calamity very nearly upset all my plans. My money consisted of currency, issued under the auspices of the various States. A financial storm of some kind had just swept the country and the currency became legal tender only in the borders of the State of issuance. All that I could realize on my bills was barely enough to buy a steerage ticket to California. That, together with five dollars in gold coin and a revolver comprised my earthly possessions.
THE AUTHOR AT 16
Taken just before his migration to California
At Panama we were crowded into a small steamer designed for about 400 passengers, but nearly 1,000 were crammed into it. Conditions in the steerage were appalling. Besides, the ship was under-provisioned and we soon ran short of anything like vegetables and fruit. The purser had thriftily laid in a large private supply of oranges and bananas for sale in San Francisco. These he had divided into two caches. The hungry mob seized on one of them, located between decks, in the night, and cleaned it up to the uttermost peel. The purser knew only too well that the next night would witness the disappearance of the balance of his property. He was in despair. An inspiration seized me.
“How much will you take cash for the lot?” I asked him.
“Give me $10 for them and it’s a bargain,” he answered.
I fished out that lonesome $5 piece, paid it on account and made some vague excuse about getting the other five from my bunk. I was given permission also to hold a fruit auction sale on the upper deck.
Being a fruit peddler shocked my southern ideas of a gentleman’s employment. Nothing but downright poverty could have driven me to it. However, I took the edge off the thing as far as possible by employing an itinerant gambler, also dead broke, to act as general salesman and orator while I took in the cash. He had a voice like a fog horn and the gall of a highwayman. He cried our wares with such success that in a few minutes the whole ship’s company was engaged in mad competition to buy oranges and bananas at five for a half. It would have been just the same if I had made the price five for a dollar.
Money rolled in faster than I could count it. I could see that my chief of staff was “knocking down” on me in a shameless way, but I didn’t have time to check his activities—in fact, I didn’t care. In a little over an hour, the last orange and banana had vanished. I settled accounts with the purser and counted my capital. I had a little over $400 to the good, enough to make a decent start in California.
I do not tell this incident because it is noteworthy in itself. Instances were then so common of needy gentlemen who extricated themselves from the financial bog by some shift which in other days they would have thought ignoble—almost disgraceful—that this event would not be worth recalling; but in the peculiar way that destiny is worked out, it had a decisive part in directing very important matters of the future. And it has been my observation that the most impressive movements in the lives of most of us have been determined more by chance than by a fixed purpose.
Among those who watched my fruit sale with interest was a gentleman named Harvey Evarts. He was a successful plumber in California and was returning from a trip to the “States,” whither he had gone with a party of bankers, mine owners and others of fortune commensurate with his own. Plumbers were not in 1857 the financial giants that they have become today. Still their stars were in the ascendant and Mr. Evarts was one of the brilliant luminaries in the sky.
This gentleman approached me after the sale. I had transferred at once from the steerage to the upper deck, as became my altered fortune, and he congratulated me in a pleasant way on my extraordinary good luck. I told him all about myself in boy fashion and when we reached San Francisco we had become so well acquainted that Mr. Evarts invited me to accompany him to Camptonville, then a great mining district, now off the map, so far as the yellow metal goes, where he had important interests.
Placer mining was on the toboggan in 1857, when I arrived in California. All the great “bars” and gulches had been located and worked out. Very few individual strikes were made after that date. I do not know whether it was good judgment or just a case of pure “nigger luck,” but at all events it happened that even in those days of declining fortune, every suggestion that Mr. Evarts gave me turned to gold. He advised me to take a chance at the head of a couple of abandoned gulches. In both cases I struck it rich enough to add $6,000 to my working capital. Again he suggested a lease of a hydraulic mine on what was known as Railroad Hill, which had been the ruin of several experienced miners. I followed his advice and after being brought to the verge of bankruptcy struck it rich, to my way of thinking, and cleaned up finally with $60,000 to my credit, all before my 17th birthday.
I visited the newly discovered Comstock Lode. Didn’t like it, for deep mining seemed too slow a way of making money. Later I had a spectacular race with Jim Fair, then a hustling prospector, to locate a mining claim in Utah. But the tales of mountains gorged with wealth vanished when we got there.
Then I began to listen to a lot of mining camp talk about Mexico and its riches. California and Nevada were growing dull to my way of thinking and I turned my thoughts to the land of Montezuma.
CHAPTER II.
My Experience in Mexico.
How Luck Again Brought Me Fortune.
All the early gold seekers of California had some knowledge of Mexico. The great argosies of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company stopped at various points, such as Acapulco, Manzanillo and sometimes at Mazatlan. Thus the passengers gained a sort of hurricane deck impression of the Latin nation to the southward. But it extended no further than these glimpses of the coast. A veil of profound mystery and romance shut out a view of the vast interior. Only, we knew that it was immensely rich in precious metals, but so utterly lawless and overrun with bandits that nothing short of a standing army could protect an investment.
Thus none of the adventurous pioneers attempted to explore and prospect the west coast of Mexico, which later poured its hundreds of millions into California. I may be mistaken, but I have a strong impression that I was the first of a long line of miners who went from San Francisco to Mexico and laid the foundation there for mighty fortunes.
Very much like Jason, when he pushed his classic junk from Greece, I started on my ventures in Mexico. I bought a small trading vessel, hired an excellent crew, several of whom spoke Spanish, took very little money along, but a large cargo of goods suitable to the wants of the country. In other words, I figured to make the expedition finance itself. In this I was fairly successful. After sailing up the Gulf of California and stopping at various ports, we arrived at Mazatlan, my original objective point, my cargo sold out.
There was a small American colony at Mazatlan and several groups of foreigners of other nationalities, all of them of the trading class. When I suggested a prospecting expedition into the interior, they assured me it was little better than suicide; that the country was in the absolute possession of outlaws of the most desperate type, and that a prospector’s life would not be worth ten cents among them.
But I met a Mexican gentleman by the name of Don Miguel Paredis, who told me a very different story. He said that the dangers were grossly exaggerated—that there was really little to fear for anyone who understood the people. As a guaranty of good faith he offered to go with me, for at the time he happened to be broke—not an unusual incipient in the life of a Mexican gentleman. Moreover, he promised to lead me to a mine of fabulous riches, in the mountains of Durango, about two hundred miles from Mazatlan. So we set out with a complete mining outfit, powder, steel, tools, general equipment and provisions for six months.
Don Miguel certainly understood his business. We really were in no more real danger than if we had been traveling through one of the New England States. We did meet some uncommonly tough-looking citizens, armed to the teeth, but Don Miguel always rode forward to meet them, handed out some specious palaver in Spanish, whereupon the whole party would disembark from their mules or horses, embrace each other on the trail, pass around some more palaver and part with mutual esteem. The Don was a marvel as a peacemaker and I might add that for genuine good-fellowship and clean dealing in all respects he was one of the finest men of any nation I have met in a long life.
Finally, we reached his mine. This was known for years after as the Guadaloupe de los Angeles mine. He hadn’t exaggerated its riches, hadn’t told half the truth. The vein ran straight up the almost perpendicular face of a narrow gorge. It was merely a case of breaking down the ore as in an open cut. There were no shafts, tunnels, drifts, and winzes that take the heart out of quartz mining as a rule. And the ore was so rich that with careful sorting it was possible to make large cargoes average $500 or $600 a ton.
We never attempted to “beneficiate” or reduce the ore on the spot. Don Miguel was altogether too shrewd for that. Had bullion trains gone through the mountains from our camp it would have taken a standing army to protect them. We simply bought mules and burros, loaded them with rock that no bandit wanted, though it was worth perhaps five hundred dollars a ton. It very seldom failed to reach the seaboard, where there were crude reduction works and plenty of purchasers of ore.
Even our inbound pack trains of costly supplies were unmolested. Don Miguel was forever practicing diplomacy. If a robber appeared at our hacienda he was received like a friend and brother, had the best of everything, couldn’t say “mas vino” too often, was handed a liberal “gratification” or tip and limitless “felicidades” on his departure. By the exercise of these arts, the management became so popular that on several occasions our pack trains were actually protected by professional bandits against marauding amateurs.
We never had a bit of trouble in our camp with the large number of people assembled there. This also was due to Don Miguel’s forethought and knowledge of his people. As far as I can recollect, give the average Mexican plenty of grub, plenty of music, plenty of dancing, a little cheap finery in dress, and the rest of the world can wag on as it will, for aught he cares. He does not take kindly to abstractions, doesn’t worry over his “wrongs,” has no inclination to reorganize society; only wants to be let alone to enjoy the good things of life according to his own simple plan. And when you get down to brass tacks, his is not a bad philosophy, after all.
Don Miguel arranged it so that our little army of employees never had time to meditate mischief. He bought them all kinds of musical instruments, including a brass band on which they became proficient in a wonderfully short time. Every night there was a “baile” in the plaza at which the people danced till they fell from exhaustion. He offered cash prizes—mighty stiff ones—for the best dancers, male and female—the choice to be determined among themselves by a plebiscite or by select committee. Also, on Sundays, we had a bull fight. It wasn’t of the sanguinary description; the bulls weren’t killed, but were thriftily kept in cold storage to fight another day. It made a satisfactory sport for the people, and was also inexpensive. Added to this, we paid high wages in hard cash and kept in stock at our store an assortment of articles for personal decoration at prices that were highly profitable but not prohibitive.
Thus our enterprise became a big success from every standpoint. At a time when nearly all the mines in the Sierra Madre were closed down—practically abandoned—we were swinging along under a full head of steam, without the slightest interruption, with the general good will of all with whom we came in contact. Besides, we were making money at a rate sufficient to turn one’s brain. I doubt if ever such a return was made on the trifling sum invested. There had been no development expense. The mine paid from the very day we began to operate it.
While I was the “capitalist” and owned, by our agreement, two-thirds of the property, I allowed Don Miguel an absolute free hand in all matters of policy; wherein I showed a wisdom superior to my years. And I followed his advice in one matter so important that I must mention it for the general good of mankind.
The women of the Mexican Sierra are remarkable for their physical charms. There were many real beauties resident in our camp—“simpaticas,” they used to call them—which doesn’t mean “sympathetics,” but “good lookers.” Now, I have always believed that a good looking woman was made to be looked at, to be admired; otherwise, wherefore was she created? Down in Mexico I could no more fail to notice a “simpatica” as she passed by, than I could close my eyes to the beauties of nature.
Observing which, Don Miguel gave me a piece of advice which every reader of this chapter who may happen to visit Mexico should write down for future reference.
“Leave our women alone,” he counseled me. “They are romantic, soft-hearted and will meet you half way, but no matter how innocent your intercourse, it will rouse jealousy, ill-will and serious danger. Nearly all the foreigners who get into trouble in Mexico can trace it to this source.”
I realized the truth of this later when a young friend of mine called Eaton, who was a fine fellow but an ardent imitator of Lothario the Gay, was shot down in a lonely spot, jealousy being the evident motive.
In the fall of 1860 I returned to San Francisco, as I thought for a brief trip. Just to show myself, in fact. Among other things, I brought a few tons of ore that sold for $3,000 a ton, the sight of which made the town delirious. I found that my fame, or rather various romances, had preceded me. I wasn’t quite twenty, couldn’t vote, couldn’t make a legal contract, yet I had over a quarter of a million in hard cash to my credit in bank, and my mine in Mexico was worth a million more. These were the actual facts, which were exaggerated and distorted beyond all resemblance to the truth. My wealth was at least quadrupled, and I was dragged through a series of bloodcurdling experiences in Mexico without a parallel in fiction.
Thus, you can see how the orange and banana sale incident set the wheels of fate revolving. If I had come to California with sufficient money. I would have made some kind of a blind stagger at luck, thrown up the sponge in disgust after a few months, and written to my father for a remittance to come home.
As it was, I quietly took rank with the great figures of the State before I had reached my majority, and became a leading actor in an unwritten page of history, when the destinies of California hung by the veriest thread.
CHAPTER III.
Story of Southern Plan to Make California Secede From the Union Is Told for First Time.
Narrator Describes His Invitation Into Band of 30, Which Planned to Organize Republic of Pacific.
I had barely reached San Francisco when the election of 1860 took place, resulting in the choice of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States. All through the South this was accepted as the signal for a civil contest. The work of organization went ahead with feverish haste and long before the inauguration of the new President the authority of the Federal Government was paralyzed in most of the slave States.
The attitude of California was a matter of supreme moment, not understood, however, at the time. Had this isolated State on the Pacific joined the Confederate States, it would have complicated the problems of war profoundly. With the city of San Francisco and its then impregnable fortifications in Confederate hands the outward flow of gold, on which the Union cause depended in a large measure, would have ceased, as a stream of water is shut off by turning a faucet. It was the easiest thing in the world to open and maintain connection through savage Arizona into Texas, one of the strongholds of the South. It does not need a military expert to figure out what a vital advantage to the Confederacy the control of the Pacific would have proved.
History relates in a few brief words how the secession movement here was extinguished by a wild outburst of patriotism. I am now going to relate for the first time the inside story of the well-planned effort to carry California out of the Union and by what a narrow margin it finally failed of accomplishment when success was absolutely secured.
I was young, hot-headed, filled with the bitter sectional feeling that was more intense in the border States than in the States farther north or south. It would have been hard to find a more reckless secessionist than myself. I moved among my own people, got off all sorts of wild talk about spending the last dollar of my money, and my life, if need be, to resist the tyrant’s yoke, and so forth, and was actually about to leave for my home in Kentucky to be ready for the impending struggle, when a quiet tip was given me that more important work was cut out where I was. My exaggerated wealth and the irresponsible stories of my Mexican exploits, made me an actor in a great, silent drama, despite my years and boyish look.
One afternoon I was told to be at the house of a well-known Southern sympathizer at 9 o’clock in the evening. It was well apart from other buildings, with entrances in several directions. The gentleman who owned it lived alone, with only Asiatic attendants, who understood little English and cared less for what was going on. A soft-footed domestic opened the door, took my card, and presently I was ushered into a large room where a number of gentlemen, most of them young but well established, were seated at a long table. I recognized among them leading men of San Francisco of various walks of life.
The spokesman, a great man of affairs, told me that I was trusted, that I had been selected as one to lead in an affair of great peril, an enterprise on which the future of the South might depend, and asked me if I were ready to risk life and fortune on the turn. I answered with an eagerness that satisfied my hearers and took an oath, of which I have a copy, reading as follows:
“Do you, in the presence of Almighty God, swear that what I may this night say to or show you shall be kept secret and sacred, and that you will not by hint, action or word reveal the same to any living being, so help me God?”
The answer, of course, being an affirmative, I repeated after the spokesman the following objuration:
“Having been brought to this room for the purpose of having a secret confided to me and believing that to divulge such secret would imperil the lives of certain Southern men as well as injure the cause of the Southern States, I do solemnly swear in the name of the Southern States, within whose limits I was born and reared, that I will never, by word, sign or deed, hint at or divulge what I may hear to-night. Not to my dearest friend, not to the wife of my bosom will I communicate the nature of the secret. I hold myself pledged, by all I hold dear in heaven or on earth, by God and my country, by my honor as a Southern gentleman, to keep inviolate the trust reposed in me. I swear that no consideration of property or friendship shall influence my secrecy, and may I meet at the hands of those I betray, the vengeance due to a traitor, if I prove recreant to this my solemn obligation. So help me God, as I prove true.”
This oath was committed to memory by every member. At subsequent meetings it was solemnly recited by all, standing and with right hand uplifted, before proceeding to further business. Several years afterwards, while it was still fresh in my recollection, I set it down in writing and preserved it to the present day. Thus I became one of a society of thirty members, pledged to carry California out of the Union.
I might say here, in parenthesis, that I have long been a reconstructed “rebel.” The old flag floats over my home on every national holiday and also on Labor day, for I take an interest in the ideas it represents. I am mighty glad now that my efforts to disrupt the Union failed and still gladder because it has been my good fortune to see the awful heritage of hate that so long divided two brave and generous people die out and disappear.
The Southern mind has a wonderful capacity for secret organization and for conducting operations on a vast scale behind a screen of impenetrable mystery. This had a fine illustration in the workings of the Ku-Klux-Klan, in reconstruction days, which destroyed carpet-bag rule and negro supremacy in the South and restored the government of the white race. The operations of the committee of thirty of which I became a member demonstrated the same peculiar trait.
The organization was simplicity itself. We were under the absolute orders of a member whom we called “General.” He called all the meetings, by word of mouth, passed by one of the members. Anything in the way of writing was burned before the meeting broke up. The General received the large contributions in private, never drew a check, settled all accounts in gold coin and accounted to himself for the expenditure.
Each member was responsible for the organization of a fighting force of say a hundred men. This was not difficult. California at that period abounded with reckless human material—ex-veterans of the Mexican war, ex-filibusters, ex-Indian fighters, all eager to engage in any undertaking that promised adventure and profit. Each member selected a trusty agent, or captain devoted to the cause of the South, simply told him to gather a body of picked men for whose equipment and pay he would be responsible, said nothing of the service intended, possibly left the impression that a filibuster expedition was in the wind. These various bands were scattered in out-of-the-way places around the bay, ostensibly engaged in some peaceful occupation, such as chopping wood, fishing or the like, but in reality waiting for the word to act. Each member of the committee kept his own counsel. Only the General knew the location of the various detachments.
Our plans were to paralyze all organized resistance by a simultaneous attack. The Federal army was little more than a shadow. About two hundred soldiers were at Fort Point, less than a hundred at Alcatraz and a handful at Mare Island and at the arsenal at Benicia, where 30,000 stand of arms were stored. We proposed to carry these strongholds by a night attack and also seize the arsenals of the militia at San Francisco. With this abounding military equipment, we proposed to organize an army of Southern sympathizers, sufficient in number to beat down any unarmed resistance.
All of which may seem chimerical at this late day, but then, take my word, it was an opportunity absolutely within our grasp. At least 30 per cent. of the population of California was from the South. The large foreign element was either neutral or had Southern leanings. We had already, under practical discipline, a body of the finest fighting men in the world, far more than enough to take the initial step with a certainty of success.
And those who might have offered an effective resistance were lulled in fancied security or indifferent. It is easy to talk now, half a century after the event, but in 1860 the ties that bound the Pacific to the Government at Washington were nowhere very strong. The relation meant an enormous loss to California. For all the immense tribute paid, the meager returns consisted of a few public buildings and public works. Besides thousands were tired of being ruled from a distance of thousands of miles. The “Republic of the Pacific,” that we intended to organize as a preliminary, would have been well received by many who later were most clamorous in the support of the Federal Government.
Everything was in readiness by the middle of January, 1861. It only remained to strike the blow.
CHAPTER IV.
Southern General, Albert Sidney Johnston, Played Important Part in Preventing Organized Revolt for Secession.
Discovery of Comstock Lode With Its Vast Hoard of Gold Another Factor in Keeping This State in the Union.
General Albert Sidney Johnston was in command of the military department of the Pacific. He had graduated from West Point in 1826 and saw seven years of active service on the frontier, especially in the famous Black Hawk war. He resigned from the service on account of his wife’s failing health, and settled in Texas. On the uprising against Mexican rule, he had enlisted as a private soldier in the army of his new country, but through the compelling force of genius soon became commander-in-chief of the republic’s forces. At the time of the annexation of Texas, he was its secretary of war. When the war with Mexico broke out, he offered his services to the United States, fought in many of the severe engagements, rose to the rank of general, was sent to Utah to suppress what was known as the “Mormon Rebellion,” which he accomplished with firmness and tact. In January, 1861, he was placed in command of the Department of the Pacific.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON
Commanding the Military District of the Pacific in 1861
Johnston was born in Kentucky but he always in later years spoke of and considered Texas his State. Thus he had a double bond of sympathy for the South. This was the man who had the fate of California absolutely in his hands. No one doubted the drift of his inclinations. No one who knew the man and his exacting sense of honor doubted his absolute loyalty to any trust.
In all of our deliberations. General Johnston only figured as a factor to be taken by surprise and subdued with force. We wished him well, hoped he might not suffer in the brief struggle, but nobody dreamed for an instant that his integrity as a commander-in-chief of the army could be tampered with.
One of the most brilliant members of the early San Francisco bar was Edmond Randolph. He was a man of rare talents and great personal charm. Born in Virginia, a member of the famous Randolph family, he was naturally an outspoken advocate of the South. He was one of our committee, and on terms of social and professional intimacy with every one of Southern leanings. He was on the closest terms with General Johnston and there is hardly a doubt that, purely on his own motion, he approached the General with some kind of a questionable proposition. What happened at that interview no man knows, but Johnston’s answer made Randolph stark crazy. He indulged in all kinds of loose, unbridled talk, told several of our committee that he had seen Johnston, that the cause was lost and otherwise, in many ways, exhibited an incredible indiscretion that might easily have been fatal to our cause. No amount of warning was able to silence his unbalanced tongue.
This situation was discussed at several meetings and finally it was decided that a committee of three should visit General Johnston in a social way, not to commit further folly by any intimation or suggestion, but to gather, if possible, some serviceable hints for future use. I had become prominent in council through my zeal and discretion, and to my great joy I was named as one of the three.
I will never forget that meeting. We were ushered into the presence of General Albert Sidney Johnston. He was a blond giant of a man with a mass of heavy yellow hair, untouched by age, although he was nearing sixty. He had the nobility of bearing that marks a great leader of men and it seemed to my youthful imagination that I was looking at some superman of ancient history, like Hannibal or Cæsar, come to life again.
He bade us courteously to be seated. “Before we go further,” he said, in a matter-of-fact, off-hand way, “There is something I want to mention. I have heard foolish talk about an attempt to seize the strongholds of the government under my charge. Knowing this, I have prepared for emergencies, and will defend the property of the United States with every resource at my command, and with the last drop of blood in my body. Tell that to all our Southern friends.”
Whether it was a direct hint to us, I know not. We sat there like a lot of petrified stoten-bottles. Then in an easy way, he launched into a general conversation, in which we joined as best we might. After an hour, we departed. We had learned a lot, but not what we wished to know.
Of course the foreknowledge and inflexible stand of General Johnston was a body blow and facer combined. There was another very disturbing factor—the Comstock lode.
While we were deliberating, that marvelous mineral treasure house began to open up new stores of wealth. Speculation was enormous. The opportunity for making money seemed without limit. Many of the committee were deeply interested.
Now it had been determined absolutely from the outset that our ambitions were to be bounded by the easily defended Sierra. We knew enough about strategy to understand that it would be simple madness to cross the mountains. That meant, of course, the abandonment of Nevada.
This had been accepted with resignation when the great mines were considered played out. But when it became apparent that the surface had been barely scratched and that secession might mean the casting aside of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, then patriotism and self-interest surely had a lively tussle. If Nevada could have been carried out of the Union along with California, I am almost certain that the story of those times would have been widely different. We certainly had the organized forces to carry out our plans.
That’s the only way I can size up what followed. The meetings began to lack snap and enthusiasm. Just when we should have been active and resolute, something always hung fire.
The last night we met, the face of our General was careworn. After the usual oath, he addressed the committee. It was plain, he said, that the members were no longer of one mind. The time had now come for definite action, one way or another. He proposed to take a secret ballot that would be conclusive.
The word “yes” was written on thirty slips of paper; likewise the word “no.” The slips were jumbled up together and were placed alongside of a hat in a recess of the large room. Each member stepped forward and dropped a slip in the hat. “Yes” meant action; “no” disbandment. When all had voted, the General took the hat, opened the ballots and tallied them; then threw everything in the fire. “I have to announce,” he said, “that a majority have voted ‘no’. I therefore direct that all our forces be dispersed and declare this committee adjourned without day.”
Not another word was spoken. One by one the members departed. All I can say is that they kept their secret well.
Two days later, all the various bands had been paid off and dispersed. The “great conspiracy,” if you wish to call it so, had vanished into the vast, silent limbo of the past.
Only the General knew the extent of the disbursements. My own impression is that they far exceeded a million dollars. I contributed $100,000 myself, which, of course, was an incident of the financial recklessness of youth.
Many of the committee rose to great social and public prominence. The “General” died not so long ago, full of years and honors.
Besides myself, there is one survivor, whose name would surprise the nation.
(Since the above was first printed, this survivor has died.)
CHAPTER V.
Randolph Betrayed Conspiracy for Revolt in California, and Wrote Letter to Lincoln that Caused Johnston’s Removal.
I could not close this phase of the story without further reference to Edmond Randolph, for I sincerely want to set him right. I said he went mad. Everything later proved it. He not only committed the gravest indiscretions, but in addition he, a Southern man, with a couple of centuries of Southern traditions behind him, actually wrote a letter to President Lincoln warning him of a vast conspiracy to carry California out of the Union and questioning the trustworthiness of General Johnston. Nothing but downright lunacy could have inspired the act. This was sent to President Lincoln by pony express and reached him just about the day of his inauguration. The story has been often printed before or I would not revive it now. Its accuracy has indeed been questioned by Randolph’s friends. I am inclined to believe it true.
As a consequence General E. V. Sumner was sent on a tug from New York with sealed orders and placed on board a Pacific Mail steamer in midocean. On the steamer the orders were opened. They directed him to proceed to San Francisco and relieve General Johnston of the command of the Department of the Pacific. History relates further that General Sumner was taken from the steamer by a Government vessel outside the Golden Gate, hurried to Alcatraz, where General Johnston had headquarters, and, in a sensational manner, relieved him of his command.
The latter part is purest fiction. General Johnston never had headquarters on Alcatraz. He lived with his family on Rincon Hill, near the residence of Louis Garnett. Sumner arrived in San Francisco on the steamer, publicly, like anyone else. General Johnston, informed of his arrival, at once arranged for a conference and the two met in perfect amity at the old army headquarters, located on Bush street, if I recollect aright. The transfer of authority took place the next day. There are abundant living witnesses to these facts. General Johnston’s resignation was in President Lincoln’s hands long before Sumner reached California and the same was accepted a few weeks later.
One of General Sumner’s first acts was to order arms from the arsenal and organize patriotic citizens for an expected crisis. But they were simply fighting windmills. The real crisis had disappeared of itself two months before, through General Johnston’s firmness—and the Comstock lode.
As a further proof of Randolph’s madness, he straightway developed into an outspoken, rabid secessionist, made speeches of the most inflammatory nature and it was highly significant that he escaped imprisonment in Alcatraz. He died within the year, a physical and mental wreck. In my humble judgment he deserves sincere pity, not blame.
That some one of important station wrote a mysterious letter to President Lincoln which caused the retirement of General Johnson is beyond dispute.
One of the versions of the story has never been published, to my knowledge. In 1880, when Mr. Justice Field was candidate for President, he flooded the South with literature concerning his friendship for that section, as evidenced by various decisions of the United States Supreme Court in the dark days of reconstruction. In the North, principally among the Grand Army, a pamphlet was circulated to the effect that he had saved California to the Union by a timely letter to President Lincoln, which resulted in General Sumner’s hasty mission. Whether it was authorized by Judge Field, I do not know. But it fell into the hands of the Southern leaders and doomed his candidacy in the section where he counted on support. Not at all because he had saved the Union, but because of the implied aspersion on the memory of one who will ever be dear to the South—a gentleman of unimpeachable honor, a great soldier who died a soldier’s death, fighting for the Lost Cause.
After he resigned, General Johnston earnestly advised many Southerners, some of them still alive, to do nothing that would bring war to California. “If you want to fight, go South,” was his constant counsel to all. Many followed his advice. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them were cut off by Indians in Arizona, where the savages had full swing, all the frontier army posts having been abandoned. General Johnston stayed in California till his State—Texas—seceded. Then with a few followers he traversed the savage wilderness and after many adventures reached the South.
There is a rather pathetic sidelight to the story that illustrates the simple devotion of the old-time slaves to their white masters. General Johnston had freed all his slaves before he came to California. One of them, called “Rand,” brief for “Randolph”—he had no other name—followed him as a body-servant to the Pacific. When Johnston left for the South he ordered “Rand” to stay behind. He was a famous cook and could have commanded big wages in a high-class restaurant. But the faithful body-servant would not be denied. He fought his way with his former master through the Apaches of Arizona and was with him at Shiloh when he died. He hung over the dead body of the fallen leader in a wild passion of primitive grief.
Later some hundred colored body-servants of General Johnston’s appeared at various parts of the South. The real “Rand” settled in Louisville, where he was an object of solicitous regard on the part of the Johnston family and others of the old regime.
“Rand” proved himself no less great in peace than war, for he married a widow with seven children, an act that needed moral courage of the highest sort. His career was somewhat checkered, but he was always well looked after, and “looking after” “Rand” was often quite a job.
He became something of a character in the border city; resolutely declined to be “reconstructed” and remained an unrepentant rebel to the last. He was very bitter in his talk about the “poor white trash” of the North. When he uncorked the vials of his wrath he called his adversary an “abolitionist” as the last word of scorn.
In his final illness tender Southern hands smoothed his way into the hereafter. Mrs. H. P. Hepburn of Louisville, once of San Francisco, was present when the curtain rang down on “Rand.” He raised his feeble head and said: “I’se ’gwan to meet ole Marse Johnston,” then sunk back on the rough pillow, closed his eyes and died.
CHAPTER VI.
Perilous Trip Across Mexico and Voyage on Blockade Runner Enter Into Narrator’s Experiences on Visit to Jefferson Davis.
Southerners in California Form Plan to Intercept Gold Shipments on Pacific Mail Liners from San Francisco to Capital.
I was broken-hearted at the turn of affairs in California. Needless to say, I was one of those who voted “yes” on the memorable night when the committee disbanded. The actions of General Sumner, which were needlessly severe and autocratic, tended to make the tension more severe. Just for some idle expression of sympathy for the South, all sorts of really inoffensive people were clapped into Alcatraz and subjected to indignity and loss. President Lincoln later on realized that Sumner was only making matters worse and sent General Rice to relieve him, who at once adopted a policy more pacific and wise.
But this is no part of the story. The idea of interrupting the gold shipments by the Pacific Mail, very essential to the Government at Washington, again took form. This was to be effected by seizure on the high seas. A number of prominent men were interested and I was requested to become one. I had no stomach for downright piracy, though ready for any risk. I stipulated that I must first receive a regular commission from the Confederate Navy. This being agreed to, the sum of $250,000 was subscribed, of which $50,000 was mine.
In company with H. T. Templeton, a well-known Californian, later a familiar of the Crocker family, we traveled by steamer to Acapulco. Mexico was then in an uproar over the threatened French invasion. The American Consul, a son of John A. Suter, advised us that it was little short of madness to cross the country to Mexico City, which we gave as our destination. But Templeton was brave as a lion and I was young, reckless and confident in my luck. Heavily armed, with a single guide, who, by the way, fled in terror at the first sight of danger, we set out on a venturesome journey.
That trip would make some story by itself. We had several pitched battles with small bands of “ladrones” or robbers. Once both our horses were shot from under us. My previously acquired knowledge of Spanish stood us in good stead in securing fresh equipment, knowledge of the way and sometimes hospitality, and shelter. Finally, after great hardships and danger we reached Mexico City, and thence proceeded without incident to Vera Cruz, which was a sort of rendezvous for blockade runners. Here Templeton and I parted company with mutual regrets. He took a ship for New York and returned to California. I boarded a blockade runner and during a rainy night we slipped past the Federal warships into Charleston.
I had no difficulty in reaching Richmond, Virginia, the Confederate capital. It was a vast, hustling, military camp. Troops were marching and counter-marching, officers on horseback dashing to and fro on mysterious missions and everywhere the atmosphere of war.
It was a couple of days before I saw President Jefferson Davis. I laid my plans before him fully, to his great interest, and later we had several interviews. He did not come to a swift conclusion. To my way of thinking at the time he was over-deliberate in making up his mind. That was a youthful illusion. I think of him now as a very great man, lacking only one thing—luck.
He fully realized the importance of shutting off the great gold shipments to the East from California. President Davis said it would be more important than many victories in the field. At the same time, he saw grave difficulties in the way. He did not believe that a vessel could be outfitted for the purpose in any of the Pacific ports without arousing suspicion, disclosure and capture. He warned me that my associates and myself were taking an awful risk, almost sure to result in ultimate disaster. Moreover, he was uncertain whether under any circumstances the enterprise could be justified under international law and whether the proceeding would not fall under the head of piracy, against which he resolutely set his face.
All these questions were submitted to one of his Cabinet officers, Judah P. Benjamin. Mr. Benjamin was of Jewish ancestry and one of the ablest men who guided the way of the Confederacy. After the general breakup, he escaped to England, became a leader of the bar of London, counsel to the Queen and won the highest honors of his profession before he died. This distinguished gentleman examined with great care the questions involved, particularly on the piracy point, and he gave an opinion that it would be entirely within the scope of international law to equip and sail a vessel out of any port of the United States provided no overt act against commerce were committed before a foreign port was reached, letters of marque exhibited there and the open purpose of those in command declared. So for what followed I had at least the advice of eminent counsel and I still believe that the advice was absolutely sound.
In due course of time I received a commission as a captain in the Confederate Navy. I had never been on a man-of-war in my life, but that made no difference. A fresh water naval hero may be as good as the salt water kind. Also I received letters of marque in blank, the names to be filled in when the vessel reached a foreign port. Besides that I was intrusted with quite a bundle of mail, addressed to leading Southerners in California and doubtless of a highly compromising character.
JEFFERSON DAVIS
The able and illustrious leader of the Lost Cause
This literary consignment nearly got not only myself but many other people into a peck of trouble, which I might as well tell of now, although it is somewhat ahead of my story. Returning to California, liking not the route through Mexico, I had the blockade runner land me at Aspinwall, where I joined the passengers of a Pacific Mail liner and embarked at Panama for the run north. As we were approaching San Francisco I became uneasy about my documents, fearing that enough about my movements might be known to cause a close personal search.
On board the steamer was a lady long famous in California, Mrs. Charles S. Fairfax. Her husband was the lineal Lord Fairfax of the British peerage. She was a niece of John C. Calhoun, a woman of great beauty, wit and resourcefulness and an intense Southern sympathizer. We became rather confidential on the way up and I told her about the package and my fears.
“Why, what stupid fools men are, anyhow,” she laughed, “give that package to me and set your mind at rest.” The suggestion looked good, for, of course, I could assume responsibility if the documents were found. That night Mrs. Fairfax left her door just a bit ajar and as I passed it something was slipped to her. No one saw the transfer.
When we reached San Francisco what I feared came true. Not alone my luggage, but my person were subjected to a search that hardly overlooked my soul. While I was in the hands of the minions of the law, who seemed sadly disappointed over their fruitless quest, Mrs. Fairfax swept by in her stately way; all the same I seemed to catch a twinkle of humor in her eye.
Two days later, the lady handed me the package. The seals were broken, but the contents intact. “You gave me a lot of bother,” said the lady, “I had to sit up all night sewing these wretched papers in my dress. What was worse still, I never dared to change it. Just imagine what the other women thought of me.”
I passed the letters around to various leading lawyers, bankers, financiers, and so on. Without mentioning any names I told them how near they came to falling into Federal hands. Many a cheek paled and jaw dropped as they heard the story.
We have been told much of what women did for the North, very little of what the women did for the South. That is a noble and inspiring story that remains to be told.
But to return to Richmond. The Confederate cause seemed at its zenith. Everywhere was abounding confidence in the final result. And now came a whisper that a great battle would soon be fought that ought to be decisive. I was eager to see something of the war game and with letters from the Secretary of War, hurried westward, arriving at Corinth, Miss., on April 4, 1862. Here a small Confederate army was assembled under the same Albert Sidney Johnston, not exceeding 5,000 men. Nine miles away, General Grant was encamped at Shiloh with 35,000 men, confidently awaiting the arrival of General Buell with 30,000 more, to begin the invasion of the South.
At the risk of criticism by experts I am going to tell briefly what a great, old-fashioned battle seemed like to a raw looker-on.
JUDAH P. BENJAMIN
One of the ablest Confederate Statesmen
CHAPTER VII.
The Great Battle of Shiloh and the South’s Irreparable Loss in the Death of General Johnston.
War, fifty years ago, was bad enough, but it wasn’t the plain, cold-blooded deviltry that it is to-day. When men met face to face and leaders led, in fact as well as theory, I can understand the inspiration, the enthusiasm, the wild love of glory, that invited the best blood to a military life. But now, when victories are to be won by pressing buttons, switching on or off electric currents or dropping bombs from the sky on the heads of helpless women and children, while it may attract those of a mechanical turn of mind, it has ceased to be a business that should interest a gentleman.
My recollection is of the old fighting days. I said that when I arrived in Corinth on April 4, 1862, not more than five thousand men were assembled there. But all that night and the next day troop trains were unloading enormous reinforcements and some were arriving by forced marches on foot. By the night of April 5, between twenty-five and thirty thousand soldiers were in camp, the flower of the fighting army of the South. General Albert Sidney Johnston, with his heroic figure and magnetic presence, roused the men to a height of martial exultation very hard to describe. Everyone knew that a great battle was impending. Most of them guessed that the morrow would be the day. But they hardly seemed able to wait. They were like war dogs tugging at the leash, confident in themselves, confident in their cause. One would have thought they were bound for a holiday excursion instead of a death grapple from which many would never emerge.
Very much to my disappointment, I was assigned to the staff of General Beauregard, second in command. I had hoped to be with General Johnston, where the fighting would be the fiercest. Nevertheless, I had enough.
The troops retired at an early hour on the night of April 5. But in the darkness flitted shadows of alert men, making busy preparations for a great event. At two o’clock in the morning, the troops were roused from their sleep, had hasty refreshment in the darkness, and then fell in, company after company, like so much clock work, and the march to Pittsburg Landing, or Shiloh, nine miles away, began. The infantry was well in front, separated by perhaps half a mile from the artillery and more noisy equipment.
The nature of the country was admirable for a secret movement. It was well wooded, with abundant cover to screen our presence, and it seemed almost uncanny how the thousands of men marched forward with scarce noise enough to stir the early morning air. Not a word was spoken.
MRS. CHAS. S. FAIRFAX
Wife of Lord Fairfax, niece of John C. Calhoun
[Reproduced from an
old photograph.]
It was just daylight when we drove in the Federal pickets. Before us lay the army of General Grant. It seems to me that it was not more than two hundred yards away. Breakfast was being cooked, the officers and men totally off their guard. Nothing in the nature of surprise could be imagined more terrible and complete. Quick commands were given, there was a rattle of musketry, the “rebel” yell rang out—a sound that might well start the resurrection of the dead—and the next instant I saw what appeared a long line of racing apparitions in gray, with fixed bayonets, clear the intervening space and fall like a cloudburst on the men in blue.
Nothing saved the army of General Grant from utter destruction but the presence of several gunboats in the Tennessee river. These were splendidly handled, and the fire was deadly and precise. It gave the Union forces an opportunity to recover somewhat and put up a gallant fight. Field artillery was concentrated on the gunboats. Sharpshooters climbed into nearby trees and picked off the gunners at their posts. The fire became less frequent, less precise.
Anyone could see the line of General Johnston’s strategy. Grant’s army was encamped on rising ground beyond the Tennessee. Behind it the ground fell off rather abruptly to a narrow plain along the river bank, beyond which was no retreat. The object of the attack was to force the Federal line to the river bank and then drive in the wings until the Union army became a huddled mass on the low ground where it could not fight effectively, and be at the mercy of artillery fire. Then it must either surrender or be wiped out. The first step was accomplished by the initial bayonet charge. The second required more time.
The battle raged into the afternoon. The field was covered with dead and dying, but the strategy of General Johnston was rapidly bearing fruit. The gunboats were almost silenced, the Federal columns showed apparent signs of disintegration. Another hour would have seen a total rout. General Johnston had been everywhere, the directing genius, exposing himself to needless dangers. Just in the moment of triumph, he fell headlong from his horse.
It seemed as if the news of this irreparable loss spread through the army like wildfire and caused, not a demoralization, but a general pause. Beauregard took command, evidently under a great mental strain. To the surprise of many, he gave orders to retire. I heard him say: “To-morrow we will be across the Tennessee river, or in hell.”
He had another guess. Early the next morning General Buell crossed the Tennessee with thirty-five thousand fresh troops, and all day we were fighting our way back to the strong position at Corinth. The great opportunity was lost.
CHARLES S. FAIRFAX
Last Lord Fairfax in direct male descent
[Reproduced from an
old photograph.]
Thus I saw the bloodiest battle of the war and I think the most decisive—far more so than Gettysburg. Had Johnston overwhelmed Grant at Shiloh, met Buell with an army flushed with victory, with no gunboats to contend with, there might have been another tale to tell. With Tennessee liberated, Kentucky and Missouri might have joined the Confederate cause and influenced the final outcome profoundly. When I look back at the long series of mishaps and unforeseen misfortunes that seemed to haunt the Lost Cause, I cannot but conclude that God’s will was there. After many years of bitter recollections, we are all of one mind—that the outcome was best for the country, and best of all for the South.
I saw General Johnston’s body on the field, where he fell. The wound that caused his death was of a trifling nature. A rifle ball had cut an artery in his leg. A surgeon with a tourniquet could have stopped the hemorrhage. But he never sought assistance. He stood by his post like a true soldier, and slowly bled to death.
History has classed Johnston as a great military genius. Years after, the Government of the United States erected a shaft with a suitable inscription on the spot where he fell at Shiloh. His tomb, with a noble equestrian statue, is in New Orleans. Most of his direct descendants live in California, the State that he saved from the desolation of war.
Concerning the battle of Shiloh, I have better testimony than my own. A score of years later, I met General Grant in New York. Out of an acquaintance, an intimate friendship developed. During his first financial embarrassment, of which the world never knew, I piloted him to a safe haven. Grant’s genius was entirely one-sided. In matters of business, he was the veriest child. He had tied himself up in Wall Street ventures and was facing ruin when he sought my advice. I took his account to my brokers, Henry Clews & Company, where I had a balance of nearly two millions to my credit, and, by careful nursing, brought him out, not only even, but ahead. The General and I often spoke of Shiloh, and he admitted, with a soldier’s frankness, that only Johnston’s death saved his command. He also added that he learned a lesson in war that fateful day, the most important in his long experience.
In this era of good-will and reconciliation, when the old boys in blue and gray are meeting in comradeship on the scenes of their former struggle, why cannot someone write a trustworthy and impartial history of the great drama—the greatest of our national life—which our boys and girls may read and learn the truth? The text-books of our schools are still deformed by a spirit of intolerance and prejudice, most unfortunate and misleading in an age that has happily outlived the bitterness that divided us in the past.
U. S. monument and marker on battlefield of Shiloh, indicating spot where General Johnston fell.
CHAPTER VIII.
Nephew of Celebrated English Leader Takes Hand in Conspiracy, and Also Figures in Amusing Near-Duel.
I did not return to California after my visit to the seat of war until late in the month of July, 1862. Everything seemed in regular shape for outfitting a privateer. But again the Comstock Lode interfered. Speculation was fast and furious. Of those who subscribed to the fund of $250,000 to carry on the enterprise only two remained steadfast, Mr. Ridgley Greathouse and myself. Greathouse was connected with some of the well-known families of the South and of California. He was a man of unusual courage and determination. We laid our heads together and decided to go ahead alone.
At this point we gained an unexpected ally. As he cuts quite a figure in this story, especially in the great diamond hoax, I might as well explain the strange way in which we met.
Mr. Alfred Rubery was a young English gentleman of fortune and culture, with the roving disposition and love of venture that was part of the make of high-strung Englishmen of his day. Traveling in the South just before the war, he had acquired an admiration for its aristocracy. Thus happened something that seemed paradoxical. Rubery was the favorite nephew of John Bright, the great English statesman and publicist. It was due to his influence and leadership among the laboring masses that England declined to interfere in favor of the Confederate States when its industries were ruined and the industrial classes starving, because the cotton staples from the South, on which they depended, were suddenly cut off. Thus, while John Bright, across the Atlantic, was resolutely upholding the North, his dear nephew in San Francisco was openly expressly sympathy for the South.
Sectional feeling at that period was so intense that the slightest word brought on a quarrel. One evening Rubery met a young officer, Lieutenant Tompkins, stationed at Fort Point, scion of a prominent family of New York. Somehow the subject of the war was broached. High words followed, and Tompkins made a remark that touched Rubery’s honor. The latter simply said, “You will hear from me, sir,” and left the room.
The code duello was still in full force. Though a cause of instant dismissal from the army, no officer would hesitate for a moment to refuse satisfaction to a gentleman who considered himself aggrieved. Rubery sought a friend of mine and asked him to bear his challenge. He was on the point of leaving for Oregon to attend to some of my business. For that reason he turned the young Englishman over to me.
ALFRED RUBERY
Nephew of John Bright, the great British publicist
[Reproduced from an
old photograph.]
Now, when a man chose his second, he placed his life entirely in his hands. It became at once my duty to examine certain details. The challenged party had the right to name the weapons, and I knew Tompkins to be an expert swordsman. I asked my man about his saber experience. He admitted that he had some knowledge of carving ham, but as to carving anything else he was as ignorant as a child. I tried him at pistol practice and found that, with extra good luck, at ten paces he could hit a barn.
To go into a duel under such conditions was downright madness. I told Rubery that I could not suffer him to be a chopping-block for a Yankee or to be coolly potted while he was shooting at the sun. I advised him that he must take time to practice with swords and pistols. But the Englishman would not be denied. I never saw a man so determined. He said he would rather die a thousand times than survive an unresented public insult. Having no alternative, I carried Rubery’s challenge to Tompkins at Fort Point.
Lieutenant Tompkins referred me to his friend, Quartermaster Judson, whom I met without delay. I found he had little stomach for the duel, not because he or his principal were afraid, but because they dreaded dismissal from the service. He admitted that his principal was in the wrong and asked if there were any reasonable terms to adjust the difference. I told him I was instructed by my principal to accept nothing but a written retraction of the offensive language. “That is out of the question,” said Judson. “We are wasting time. Let us proceed to details.”
“Proceeding to details” was quite a formal function in the code. Arrangements for the slaughter of a couple of human beings were always discussed over a bottle of wine, in a spirit of friendly benevolence. Judson produced the refreshments, filled my glass, handed it to me standing, left his own unfilled and sat down.
Now, in Southwestern Kentucky, where I was raised, gentlemen always drank together. To offer wine or corn juice to an equal and not partake yourself was an almost unpardonable affront. You might do that without offense to an humble dependent, but not to one of the same social rank.
I had determined that the duel should not take place and was watching for any chance to spar for time. This seemed to offer an “opening.” Of course, Judson had not the most remote idea of being discourteous. But I assumed to think otherwise. I looked as indignant as possible, dashed the glass on the floor, slapped my hat on my head and left the apartment before the astonished quartermaster had time to catch his breath. A few hours later my second, Captain Fluson, a famous duelist, waited on Judson with my challenge.
I hope no one will imagine I am bragging. I took not the slightest chance in sending the challenge and knew it very well. No man was compelled to accept a challenge without a full knowledge of the nature of his offense. If a person wanted to fight you just for his own amusement or because he disapproved of the cut of your coat, no one was expected to humor him, and a man of honor could properly refuse to consider a challenge based on trivial grounds or even kick the bearer out of doors. As soon as my second presented himself to Judson, just as I expected, he asked to be informed in what way he had given offense to Mr. Harpending. My second explained the deadly nature of the one-sided invitation to drink, according to the usages of Southwestern Kentucky, whereat the quartermaster laughed and said he was ignorant of any such custom; that he had never had the remotest intention of being discourteous and asked that this explanation be given me before going further.
Of course, I had to appear immensely gratified. I wrote Judson, expressing my entire satisfaction, apologized for my own hasty conclusion, and asked him to dinner. We had a jolly sort of time and over black coffee we discussed the proposed Rubery-Tompkins duel. Both agreed it was a shame to see two fine young fellows fill each other with lead and decided to co-operate to prevent it. We managed to bring the principals together and after a lot of diplomacy on all sides Tompkins agreed to a written retraction of the insulting language, Rubery promising that it should never be exhibited unless he were charged with cowardice as a result of the billiard-hall incident.
Everything terminated in a dinner party and the incident was closed.
Rubery and I, thus strangely brought together, became inseparable. We were nearly of an age, both crazy for adventure, both devoted to the South. It was not, therefore, strange that I confided to him all my plans of outfitting a privateer. When he learned the details he became almost idiotic with delight. “Now, we’re getting somewhere,” he cried. “Let me be your associate and count me in to the limit.”
That is how the nephew of John Bright became associated with Greathouse and myself in an effort to destroy the commerce of the Pacific Coast and how he came to loom largely in what was known to history as the “Chapman piracy case.”
CHAPTER IX.
Plan to Capture Gold Ships Develops, But Trouble Follows Engagement of Villainous-Looking Pilot.
The three of us—Greathouse, Rubery and myself—now worked in unison. My first intention was to outfit in British Columbia, but an agent stationed at Vancouver was unable to find anything fit for our purpose. We negotiated for the purchase of the steamer Otter, owned in Oregon, but on a trial trip she failed to develop a speed much greater than that of a rowboat—not enough either to fight or run away.
While we were fretting over the delay a small deep-water vessel came into port, after a record-breaking voyage from New York. The ship was called plain “Chapman.” Historians have seen fit to name it the “J. M. Chapman,” for what reason I am not aware. Probably it was a case of what literary folk are pleased to call “poetic license.” At any rate, we considered it a serviceable craft, in default of a steam vessel. We purchased the Chapman from her owners at a reasonable price, as it was winter and an outbound cargo was not obtainable at that season of the year.
Our plans might as well be explained fully here. We proposed to sail the Chapman to some islands off the coast of Mexico, transform her into a fighting craft, proceed to Manzanillo, exhibit our letters of marque and my captain’s commission in the Confederate navy and then lie in wait for the first Pacific Mail liner that entered the harbor, capture her—peacefully if possible, forcibly if we must. All of this was in line with instructions. Then we proposed to equip the captured liner as a privateer and figured to intercept two more eastbound Pacific Mail steamers before the world knew what was happening, in those days of slow-traveling news. After that we proposed to let events very much take their own course. It was a wild, desperate undertaking at the best, but we were all of an age that takes little stock of risks.
Having our ship, other details followed rapidly enough. We purchased two cannons throwing a 12-pound shot. This was arranged by a Mexican friend of mine, acting through a well-known business firm, which was entirely ignorant of the nature of the transaction. In the same way, we bought shells and solid shot and a large quantity of ammunition. In those days of adventure it was no uncommon matter for corporations or even private persons to purchase armament on a considerable scale, without comment. Often remote investments had to be protected not only with armed men but also with a show of artillery. Our Mexican friend merely had to say that he needed the military supplies to guard a mining property in his own country. As a matter of fact, he never knew what the war material was intended for—just took it for granted that he was doing something in the line of accommodation.
Also we bought a large assortment of small arms, rifles, revolvers and cutlasses. Everything was heavily boxed and marked “machinery.” We laid in, also, to avoid suspicion, a small line of general goods of a kind salable in a Mexican port, and an extra supply of provisions.
We engaged an ordinary crew of able seamen and without much difficulty selected twenty picked men—all from the South, of proved and desperate courage. These were to constitute our working force. They were not known to each other, did not even know the nature of the service—further than that it meant fighting and plenty of it—somewhere in Mexico.
All our plans were perfected. It only remained to secure a navigator who could be implicitly trusted. Men of the South did not have much practical experience in seamanship. Several of our confidential friends scoured the town for a suitable person for this all-important post.
Finally a man was brought to me by the name of Wm. Law, guaranteed to be a competent navigator familiar with the Mexican coast and a Southern sympathizer. He was the possessor of a sinister, villainous mug, looked capable of any crime and all in all was the most repulsive reptile in appearance that I ever set eyes on. From the moment I saw him, I was filled with distrust. After a short general conversation I dismissed him and told his vouchers that I could put no faith in such an ill-omened looking character. But time was pressing. No one else showed up and after further guaranties, Greathouse, Rubery and myself saw Law again and frankly gave him a general outline of our plans. He accepted the responsibility with a well-feigned eagerness; his tough-looking face seemed lighted with a sort of demoniac exultation. There was still another who shared our confidence to some extent, Libby, the sailing master of the Chapman.
Everything was now ready to launch the enterprise. Our clearance papers were secured from the custom-house with a readiness that might have suggested a suspicion to more alert minds. The “Chapman” was duly certified to sail for Manzanillo with a cargo of machinery and mixed merchandise.
It was on the night of March 14. Greathouse and Law were to be on board at ten o’clock. Rubery and I stationed ourselves in a dark alley behind the old American Exchange Hotel. One by one, our fighting men assembled silently, by prearrangement. The night was dark, the sky overcast. We divided into three squads to avoid attention, slipped through the dimly lighted streets, past roaring saloons and sailor boarding houses and reached an unfrequented part of the waterfront unnoticed, where the privateer was moored.
Everything thus far had gone so smoothly that Rubery and I were exultant. The wind, too, was propitious. We figured to sail without delay, pass Fort Point in the dark and be beyond the horizon before the morning broke. We scrambled aboard the Chapman. Greathouse was pacing the deck in agitation. Law was not there.
I experienced a shock such as a man receives when a bucket of ice water is emptied on him in his sleep. The suggestion of treachery could not be avoided. We cast loose from the wharf and anchored in the stream. But we were helpless. We could not sail without our navigator. We had nothing to do but wait.
We scanned the bay for an approaching boat, but the dark waters answered not. At two o’clock we turned in for a much needed rest. We left a trusty man as a lookout with orders to waken us at five o’clock if nothing happened before. We still had a lingering hope that Law might appear in season to carry out our plans. And soon, as the hours glided by, the Chapman rocked us to sleep.
CHAPTER X.
We Wake to Find Warship Near and Boat Filled With Police Approaching.
Somebody else slumbered on board the Chapman that night besides the men below. Morpheus evidently got a strangle-hold on our vigilant sentinel, from what followed. I was wakened by a shake and a startled cry from the lookout. I sprang hastily to the deck.
It was broad daylight. A couple of hundred yards away I looked into the trained guns of the U. S. warship Cyane. Several boatloads of officers and marines were just starting from her in our direction. A hasty look also revealed a tugboat making for us from the waterfront, filled with San Francisco cops, headed by I. W. Lees.
Of course, even had we been prepared, resistance would have meant suicide, for the gunners of the Cyane stood waiting orders to blow us out of the water. I rushed down to the cabin, jerked Rubery and Greathouse from their bunks and after a brief word of explanation we proceeded to destroy as many incriminating papers as possible. We made a hasty bonfire on the cabin floor, burned a number of documents that might not have looked well if read in open court, tore into little bits and scattered the fragments of other documents that resisted a quick fire and made a clean-up in general. Smoke was streaming up the gangway when the naval officers and policemen swarmed on board. Someone yelled, “They’ve fired the powder magazine.” This made a diversion and gained a little more time. Nevertheless, out of the destruction, Captain Lees gathered together the scraps and by piecing them together and guessing at the missing parts, collected some evidence that was produced against us in court later on.
Greathouse, Rubery, Libby and myself went on deck and surrendered. We admitted nothing, contenting ourselves with saying that we alone were responsible for the ship and everything on board. They did not show the least surprise as they searched the ship and opened boxes containing our “knocked down” cannon and stands of firearms. They saw vast quantities of powder, shells and ammunition of all kinds exposed with as much indifference as if they held a copy of the ship’s manifest, which, in fact, they did have in their possession, through the treachery of Law. If anything further were needed to complete the knowledge that he had betrayed us, it was furnished by an unguarded remark of Captain Lees.
Our twenty fighting men, very much down on their luck, were found in a foreward compartment. On our solemn declaration that they were employed only for service in Mexico none were prosecuted and finally all were discharged with a “look out” in the future admonition from the officer in charge.
Some effort was made to sweat the four of us. We were cordially invited to step up like men and make a clean breast. All these courtesies were politely declined. We only asked to be advised what we were charged with, and the answer was sufficiently illuminating, “Why, piracy, of course.” We were rather carelessly searched, so far as our persons were concerned. I was allowed to retain a small penknife, but one rather important thing was overlooked. In those days everyone carried a derringer, which looked like a sort of toy pistol, but was really one of the most deadly close-range emergency weapons ever invented by the evil genius of man. Each person had a pet place for keeping his derringer secreted, but handy. For myself, I carried one in a specially prepared pocket inside of the right cuff of my coat. Just a practiced twitch, and I could have it in my hand ready for use in an instant. This, as I said, in some way escaped the notice of my searchers, so though I was a prisoner, I remained fairly well armed.
All day long the wires around the world were telling of the great Chapman piracy project, happily nipped in the bud by the efficiency of Uncle Sam’s government. One of the facts that gave it a peculiar interest was because John Bright’s nephew was a participant. The story did not lose anything by age or travel. I had once a book of newspaper clippings relating to the Chapman affair and a dispassionate reading of the more lurid descriptions would have satisfied anyone that Greathouse, Rubery and myself were the most bloodthirsty pirates who ever cut a throat or scuttled a ship.
We were taken to Alcatraz and later to the old Broadway jail. Greathouse was released after a few days of confinement on bail furnished by his relative, Mr. Lloyd Tevis. Among the pleasant incidents of our confinement were visits from Lieutenant Tompkins and Quartermaster Judson. Our late enemies became our best friends, brought us all kinds of necessaries and refreshments, including newspapers, periodicals and books, and in every way sought to cheer us up and make our confinement less burdensome. Rubery, for his part, returned to Lieutenant Tompkins his letter of retraction, which the latter seemed very glad to receive, for in those days no man of honor cared to have documents of that kind floating around loose. Such incidents of goodwill between men engaged on opposing sides in the Civil War prove to my mind that there was no fundamental line of cleavage, no real antagonism, in fact, between the North and South, and if there had been some power to steady the masses, instead of lashing them to fury, there never would have been a war.
As for Law, he had actually gone with us in good faith up to a certain point, then had a case of cold feet. It occurred to his sordid mind that a handsome sum of money could be obtained from the Government without any risk at all, by betraying his associates. He made a cold-blooded, mercenary bargain with the authorities through which he realized a small fortune, disclosed all our plans, and our steps had actually been dogged by detectives for days.
But the first day at Alcatraz I nearly landed Law. I was locked in a lath and plaster room. I had not been there long before someone began tapping on the wall. After several repetitions, thinking it might be Rubery, I asked, “Who is there?” The acoustics were admirable. A voice replied, “That you, Harpending? This is Law. I am under arrest. I want to tell you all about the awful mishap that prevented me from being with you on the Chapman last night.”
The voice of the wretch drove me to absolute madness. I knew he wanted to draw me into admissions, probably had two or three witnesses with him in the room. I simply thirsted for his blood. As before mentioned, the searchers on the Chapman had overlooked a small penknife and a derringer concealed on my person. My first impulse was to take a chance shot at him through the plaster, but I thought of something better instantly. With my penknife I easily bored an opening in the wall.
“Law,” I said, “there is something I want you to hear very distinctly and I don’t want to speak loud. Put your ear to this hole I have made through the wall.”
If he had ever put his ear to that hole he would certainly have heard something very distinctly and much louder than I intimated. Also, perhaps, this story would not have been written. But if such a fellow can have a good angel she was not napping that day. Law did not put his ear to the hole and a few minutes later I heard the door close behind him as he left the room.
CHAPTER XI.
Technicalities Fall Before True and Perjured Testimony and Author is Quickly Convicted of Treason.
We Find Consolation in Lack of Proof Until a Foolish Remark Causes Weakling to Turn Informer.
As I said, Rubery, Libby and myself were brought from Alcatraz to the Broadway jail, while Greathouse was enlarged on bail. We remained there over six months, while the Government was preparing for our trial.
At that time there was published in San Francisco a paper called the American Flag. It perished peacefully after the war ended, but while it lasted, outclassed every publication of the North in downright ferocity, not alone to the cause of the South, but to every person of Southern parentage. It demanded that we be tried on a charge of piracy—a capital offense. But the closest examination of the law proved that no such accusation was tenable. The final indictment was for high treason. That also used to be a capital crime, but such a multitude of treason charges were brought during the war that Congress stayed the hand of the executioner and made the offense punishable only by imprisonment and fine.
Even that charge might have come to naught. Against us was the accomplice Law, whose unsupported evidence was not sufficient. The armament found on the Chapman might have been intended for a filibuster expedition against a Central American State. The false custom-house papers might be explained in the same way, also the secret preparations for leaving the port, for the United States Government was bound to intercept any illicit expeditions against friendly powers. Some general literature of an inflammatory “secesh” character was found on us, but our natural inclinations were a matter of public knowledge in San Francisco. Finally the scraps of torn paper collected on the Chapman by Captain Lees and pasted together, while incriminating, were not complete and hardly admissible in a court of justice. In other words, while there was an ocean of suspicion, the prosecution could offer very little proof. Our best friends knew that the indictment was true enough, but to maintain it according to the rules of evidence was another thing.
The needed testimony, however, was supplied through some senseless talk of Greathouse. I have always contended that a man’s worst enemy is his mouth, and there never was a better illustration. Greathouse visited us one day at the Broadway jail. He was handsomely caparisoned, full of spirits and I think had just risen from a good dinner, or rather lunch. Libby asked him anxiously about our prospects. “Well,” said Greathouse, “they are not exactly flattering. I guess all of us will have to go to prison for a long term, but,” he added somewhat grandly, “I will be able to buy my way out.” He didn’t say a word about the rest of us.
This remark started Libby to thinking. He was scared stiff before. Now he became a nervous wreck. He knew that Greathouse was powerful enough to be at large on bail. He knew that Rubery and I had influential connections. He was himself a poor fellow from Canada, adrift on the Pacific Coast, without a cent or a friend. He saw himself made what we moderns call the “goat” for the whole Chapman incident and concluded that the wisest thing was to look out for his own hide. Somehow I have never had it in my heart to blame Libby overmuch for whatever happened. My impression is that he intended to “sit tight” until he thought himself left in the lurch.
Be that as it may, the day after the visit of Greathouse, Libby sent for the United States District Attorney, made a complete statement of all he knew concerning the outfitting of the Chapman and our designs against the commerce of the coast, adding, I am sorry to say, some details that were false.
This confession, brought on as I believe by the foolish talk of Greathouse, absolutely sealed our doom.
We were brought to trial on October 2 in the United States Circuit Court, Judge Stephen J. Field and Judge Ogden Hoffman sitting in bank, with an array of eminent counsel on each side. It did not take long to pick a jury in those days. The very dogs of San Francisco knew of the Chapman case, yet the twelve good men and true who swore they were unbiased were impaneled in less than an hour. Some of them were later noted. Here are the names: John Wheeler, Jacob Schrieber, A. S. Iredale, Samuel Millbury, Joseph D. Pearson, Joseph A. Conboie, G. W. Chesley, J. K. Osgood, James W. Towne and W. P. C. Stebbins.
The evidence against us was overwhelming. Law and Libby told their stories in great detail. About half of it was rank perjury. They related conversations that never took place. Also incidents that existed only in their imaginations. Everything was set forth in its blackest light. The witnesses were well drilled and were not shaken by cross-examination. All of the other incidents were proved, the purchase of the ship through a custom-house broker named Bunker, the purchase of cannon and arms, the false manifest of the vessel and the assemblage of a considerable fighting force. The Government also proved that Greathouse and myself were citizens of the United States, not of the revolted States, while Rubery was classed as a common foreign adventurer. This, it seems, was necessary to establish the charge of high treason.
Our lawyers made the best of a bad job. They argued manfully many points of law concerning which I have no recollection, except that they contended that the mere loading of a ship with arms did not constitute a crime any more than buying a pistol constituted murder; that in order to constitute the overt act the ship must sail for its destination. On this point the court held that leaving the wharf and laying to in the stream constituted “sailing.”
Finally our counsel made a grandstand bluff. They declared that witnesses, then in Mexico, could clear up the whole transaction, but in the absence of these they were compelled to submit the case without testimony. None of us took the stand.
The lawyers unlimbered the usual forensic lore, illumined by bursts of fiery eloquence. Both the judges charged dead against us. However, Judge Hoffman threw me the following judicial bouquet:
“For the accused I feel a deep regret, especially for one of them who appears to have been animated more by a zeal for the cause which he has unhappily espoused than by the sordid and unworthy motive of enriching himself by the plunder of his fellow-citizens. It is to be regretted that the courage and willingness to sacrifice himself for the benefit of his associates, a slight glimpse of which has been revealed by the evidence, have been wasted on an enterprise which is indefensible in morals as it is criminal in law.”
It took the jury just four minutes to bring in a verdict of guilty of high treason.
A few days later we were brought into court and sentenced each to ten years’ imprisonment and to pay a fine of $10,000. The county jail was named as the place of our confinement until the Government of the United States directed our imprisonment elsewhere.
As for Law and Libby, they were secretly placed on board a ship bound for China by the United States authorities, and were never heard of afterward, though I took some pains to learn their fate.
So ended the famous story of the so-called “Chapman piracy.” I have given the details at some length because, while in itself rather trivial, it has been made to cut quite a figure in history. The facts have been so outrageously distorted that I thought it best for some one having full personal knowledge of every detail to tell the truth.
Libby’s first name was Lorenzo. People often ask, “What’s in a name?” Perhaps nothing; but I think otherwise. Lorenzo Libby helped to land me in prison. Lorenzo Smith did me up in a business deal, and I have unpleasant recollections of Lorenzo Sawyer, once on the Federal bench of San Francisco. I never see a man christened “Lorenzo” without an impression that he will bear a heap of watching.
CHAPTER XII.
Arrest of Accomplice Alarms Author and on Advice of Friends He Takes Flight.
Amnesty Act Unlocks Prison Doors of Conspirators, But Fails to Bring Security.
In war times, the American Eagle was not a bloodthirsty bird. We began to have sympathizers, even among prominent Union men.
Greathouse was released after a brief confinement under a general amnesty act and upon taking the oath of allegiance. Rubery, a foreigner, could not take advantage of the amnesty act. However, at the request of John Bright, President Lincoln granted him a free pardon. But the astute statesman arranged that his precious nephew should not be involved in future trouble because of his Southern proclivities. He was placed on a Pacific Mail steamer and transferred at the Isthmus to a British ship bound for England. We had an affectionate parting, with the hope that we might again meet, a wish that was realized in a dramatic manner.
I alone was held, because it had been shown that I had a commission in the Confederate Navy. In almost exactly four months after my sentence, I was brought before Judge Hoffman and ordered released, under the same general amnesty act. The fine was likewise remitted. I am not versed in legal technicalities, but it seemed to me that the learned jurist stretched the strict letter of the law a bit in my behalf. Be that as it may, I always held the name of Hoffman in high esteem.
I was free at last, but only to enter into a new kind of bondage. I was broke. The fortune I had won by incredible good luck had vanished absolutely. What was worse, my mine in Mexico was abandoned during the French invasion and my title to it finally lost. It yielded wealth to other owners later on. I never saw my old chum Don Miguel Paredis again, but he kept his money and cut quite a figure in Mexican affairs.
When I stepped out of Broadway jail I was outwardly chesty, but inwardly depressed, for I had just eight dollars and fifty cents to my name. Having been a free spender at one of the leading hotels in my capitalistic days, I went to the proprietor and frankly made a clean breast of my impecuniosity. He was overjoyed to receive me as his guest, gave me a fine room and settled all my anxiety as to lodging and three square meals a day. That was nothing out of the common in the old days. But I would like to see the photograph of a man with nerve enough to make such a proposition to the manager of one of our first-class hotels in the present generation.
THE AUTHOR’S FATHER
A. Harpending Sr., a supporter of the Union
Still my financial affairs gave me no little concern. I thought of writing to my father for temporary assistance, but there was an impediment even there. While I was raising Cain, and wasting my substance for the South in California, my progenitor was one of the strongest Union men in Kentucky. Some rather crisp correspondence had passed between us on that subject. Doubtless he would have been glad enough to assist or welcome the prodigal. But I was too proud to seek his aid.
This may justify a word of explanation. My father was a lineal descendant of Baron Harpending, who came to New York, New Amsterdam, with the original settlers from Holland. It was one of his ancestors who gave a lease for ninety-nine years to the Dutch Reformed Church of a piece of property in the business center of New York, now worth, approximately, three hundred million dollars. It was another Trinity Church case, with this exception, that there was no doubt about the lawful heirs when the lease terminated. My father brought suit to recover the property. That was one of the great lawsuits of the last century. Henry Clay, Daniel Webster and Judge Underwood were my father’s counsel. He won the case in the lower courts, but was vanquished in the Supreme Court of the United States on a technicality by a four to three decision. The family lost the vast property, but the church still displays the Harpending arms, as required by the lease of my ancestor, executed nearly 175 years ago.
My mother, on the other hand, was of the Clark family of Virginia, which settled in Kentucky over a hundred years ago. She was of the typical Southern strain. Thus, while my father, with his Northern antecedents, was an ardent supporter of the Union cause, I had the maternal blood in my veins. How we came to take opposite sides in the great civil struggle was an instance of plain heredity, nothing more.
But that has nothing to do with this story. While I was worrying over finances, not knowing which way to turn and mighty downcast and blue-deviled, I was suddenly informed that my companion, Mr. Ridgley Greathouse, had been rearrested and was in custody. Ignorant of the charge and not having the wherewithal to fly, to say nothing of inclination, I determined to put on a bold front, walked down to the United States marshal’s office and asked him if he wanted me.
The mental processes of that functionary were of a leisurely nature. He looked me over with great care, scratched his head with a pen in a meditative way, slew a distant fly with a well-directed squirt of tobacco juice and answered, weighing each word, “Well, not to-day, but I guess I will to-morrow. Where do you live?”
I gave him the name of my hotel and the number of my room, which data being duly noted, we bade each other good-day. To tell the truth, I was badly rattled. Nothing seemed more certain than that I was doomed to incarceration on a new charge, and, having enjoyed the public hospitality for almost a year, I had no stomach for any more.
THE AUTHOR’S MOTHER
Mrs. A. Harpending Sr., an ardent Southern sympathizer
Just as I reached my hotel, filled with these disturbing thoughts, a friend asked me to go with him to a business office. I sat down in the reception room, while my friend disappeared in a rear office. I could hear the sound of voices and the clink of gold. Presently my friend reappeared, carrying a small coin sack. “Harpending,” he said, “you are certain to be arrested on some sort of an accusation. The Yankees will never let you stay at large. There are fifteen of us who have subscribed a hundred dollars each. Here is the money. We will also provide you a good horse and necessary equipment. You must leave to-night.”
I asked the privilege of meeting my friends and was accorded the privilege. Several were not overburdened financially, and $1,500 was more than I could reasonably need. I selected the three richest, gave each of them my promissory note for $100, and returned the other contributions. We talked more or less of plans. I was advised to ride south to the neighborhood of Santa Cruz, across the mountains to the plains, and journey thence through the San Joaquin Valley to what was then known generally as the “Tulares,” where such inhabitants as there were came mostly from the South and where, more important still, the law writs did not run.
So, shortly after dark, I made my preparations and proceeded to put as many miles between myself and San Francisco as the means of travel would permit. I turned down the horseback proposition, slipped on a southbound train in the evening and before midnight reached its terminus, San Jose.