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"SOCIETY, FOR THE MOST PART, CREATES THE CRIMES WHICH IT
PUNISHES"--A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON THE CARS FROM RUTLAND, VERMONT,
ON THE WAY TO BELLOWS' FALLS, BESET BY NEW YORK ROGUES--A
DETECTIVE RECOGNIZES IN HER THE FORMER PLAYMATE OF HIS OWN
DAUGHTER--HE ENCOUNTERS THE ROGUES AT BELLOWS' FALLS, AND
KNOCKS ONE OF THEM DOWN IN THE LADIES' ROOM--THEY ALL TAKE THE
NEXT TRAIN, AND MOVE SOUTHWARD, ON THEIR WAY TO NEW
YORK--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY--A THIRD VILLAIN GETS ABOARD AT
HARTFORD, CONN.--WHY HATTIE WAS GOING TO NEW YORK--AN OLD
TALE--THE DETECTIVE GIVES HATTIE MUCH GOOD ADVICE--A SKILFUL
MAN[OE]UVRE, ON ARRIVING IN NEW YORK, TO PUT THE ROGUES OFF THE
TRACK--A PAINFUL DISCOVERY AT LAST--A DEEP, DEVILISH PLOT OF
THE VILLAINS DRIVES HATTIE TO DESPAIR, AND SHE IS RESCUED FROM
A SUICIDE'S GRAVE--THE ROGUES PROVE TO BE THE MOST HEARTLESS OF
VILLAINS, AND ARE CAUGHT, AND DULY PUNISHED--HATTIE RETURNS
EVENTUALLY TO VERMONT, AFTER HAVING MARRIED HER OLD LOVER--THIS
TALE IS ONE OF THE SADDEST AS WELL AS MOST INTERESTING OF
EXPERIENCES THROUGHOUT.
It was my original intention when I contracted with my publishers for
these sketches from my diary, to avoid such narratives as hinged upon
matters of love between the sexes, and especially to avoid all those
matters of abduction of females for unholy purposes, the detection and
exposure of the schemes of procuresses, or the rescuing from a life of
infamy girls of respectable parentage and home surroundings, from both
the country and city--matters which frequently come into the hands of
detectives, and with which old detectives, in particular, are painfully
conversant. I could fill a quarto volume with what has come under my
own eye of that nature, with recitals far more romantic in their
truthfulness than are the cunning devices of the most imaginative
novelists. Indeed, the more astute novelists of the sensation school
are wise enough to gather instruction, and obtain from interviews with
detectives the plots which they work up, out of facts given them by
these officers. In my own experience I have been, indeed (at one time
especially, when it seemed to me as if all the scribblers had gone mad
upon sensation tales), harassed and vexed by what we would now term
"interviews," fishing from me the issues of this or that experience. It
was my purpose, to which I shall adhere, of course, to give publicity
to not a line in these narratives which may not properly fall under the
eye of the most fastidious or the most innocent child. Nevertheless,
such is the course of life the detective is obliged to lead, finding
himself frequently among the vilest characters,--thieves, gamblers,
highway robbers, unfortunate and lost women, and wretches too low and
vile to be named here, even by the crimes or base offences which they
commit,--that it is almost impossible to give the full history of
anything, with all the incidents of a nature interesting (in some
respects) which may have attended it. The scenes which occur in New
York, for example, in one day, if gathered into a book, such as the
regular police force and the detectives might furnish, would astound
the uninitiated; and were they recited in all their details, would,
many of them, horrify and disgust, as well as "astound," the reader. At
this writing there are crowding upon my memory many occurrences in my
life, that I have been called to take a part in, which would hardly be
fit for these pages, in view of the extreme immorality that generated
them, or follows in their trail, which yet have their romantic side.
Most of these affairs, to which I now especially refer, relate to the
life of fallen women, their first enticements from the path of virtue,
their utter ruin, or their final rescue. But it were better that the
public remain ignorant of these things as far forth as possible, than
to be well informed. Yet the eye of sympathy cannot but fill with tears
of pity over the ruined and wronged; and as I write, I feel a strong
impulse to go aside from my original intention in these tales, and
mingle with them recitals of horrible personal wrongs suffered, and the
lives of infamy led by many females, whom better surroundings than they
enjoyed, or more benevolence and kindness than they received, might
have saved, and elevated to places as comparatively dignified in the
world as the position they now occupy is base and degraded.
"Society," it is true, as a great philosopher has aptly said, "creates,
for the most part, the crimes which it punishes;" and though the
detective, in the pursuit of his calling, is apt to become merciless
towards the really guilty, and to condemn them outright,--declaring
that they could, if they would, do better,--he knows that it would, a
thousand times, seem that the very "conspiracy of circumstances"
irresistibly impels men on to the commission of crimes, and in his
reason he is more lenient towards his fellow-men than his profession
permits him to be in practice. But there are villains in the world who
seem to combine with base desires and notions a persistency in the
expression of them which never wearies. They pursue their base objects
with a tirelessness which would be most admirable in a good cause.
Indeed, virtue, save as exemplified in the characters of a few great
souls, grows weary and careless, and turns almost to vice, long before
the perseverance of these villains would turn from its course of wrong.
There seems to be a romantic impulse for some in the very trials that
beset the path of crime. The more hair-breadth escapes to be made, the
more eagerly do these villains seem to enter upon their course. But I
must not stop to moralize farther here. Unwilling to recite any tale of
my own experience of the kind to which I have alluded, as related to
the rescuing of intended female victims from the snares of the
despoiler, which now comes to my mind, I will recall, as clearly as I
can, the story of a brother detective. I was coming from Buffalo, in
1859, and chanced to enter the car in which he was seated, on his way
to New York, from a successful professional mission at the further
West, and fortunately found a seat with him in the same chair. We
occupied our time mostly as detectives, when travelling together, are
apt to, in the narration of our professional experiences; and let me
say here, that of all "story-tellers," the best I have ever listened to
are detectives,--the most "apt scholars" usually of human nature,--and
what is more, they always have truths enough of a startling kind to
tell, to be under no necessity of "drawing on the imagination."
Thus ran his story of "Hattie Newberry:"--I may get places and names,
in some particulars, not exactly correct. I merely wish to present the
substance; and I remember it more particularly, because the case he
cited was in so many respects like one of mine, which, however, had
features which would be unfit for display in these pages. But to the
narrative.
My friend said, that once on his way from Vermont, he took the cars at
Proctorsville, I believe, below Rutland, coming south; that he had not
been long on the cars before he observed a couple of men whom, by their
"flashy" dress, and certain signs unmistakable by the "initiated," he
knew to be either New York or Boston cutthroats of some sort. He
thought he had encountered them somewhere before; and as he was on a
peculiar mission, connected with the subject-matter of which these very
men _might_ be, he kept his eye on them, watching their manners with
each other. He discovered that they had some iniquity on hand, as he
thought, or were very gleesome over some already secured success, or
something of the kind. He observed, too, that they frequently turned
their attention to a young lady who was sitting alone in the front seat
of the car, by the door, near the stove; and by and by these fellows
got up, and went forward to her, and commenced talking, and it was
evident from her manner that she had seen them before, and that she
wished to avoid them. They tried to affect a familiarity with her,
offered her something to drink which they carried in flasks, and so
conducted, in short, as to attract the attention of the car full of
passengers, who seemed disgusted with their movements. It was evident
to my friend that something was wrong; and eventually, as the cars
stopped at Bellows' Falls for a change of passengers to another train
for those going down, my friend caught a glimpse of the young lady's
face, which he had not seen before, sitting, as he was, some distance
behind her, and at once he reflected that he had seen her somewhere,
and ought to know her. She was startlingly beautiful, not only in the
regularity of her features, but in the expression of her face--"the
most beautiful being I ever saw in all my travels," to use his own
declaration. He felt a great interest in her; and now that he had seen
her pure, beautiful face, he understood well enough that the two
villains had no proper acquaintance with her; that they were only
harassing her, and had some low design regarding her. The cars waited
at the Falls for some fifteen minutes before the other train would come
in, and my friend, leaving the gentlemen's room, wherein the two men in
question were, among others, partaking of refreshments, and "giggling"
over their pretty designs, and talking about "her," "that bully gal,"
etc., and smacking their lips with evident delight over some
contemplated victory,--he sauntered into the ladies' room, and
proceeded towards the young lady, who arose, moved towards him, and
giving him her hand, called him by name. He was astonished as well as
delighted that she knew him.
"But, miss, I am sorry I cannot call you by name. I think I must have
known you," said he.
"Why, then," she replied, "you have forgotten 'little Hattie Newberry,'
whom you used to dance so much on your knees, along with your Jane."
"O, no, I've not," said he, grasping her hand, and shaking it heartily,
but tenderly, for the tears came into his eyes; for his Jane, to whom
Miss Hattie referred, was dead, and he called to mind how dearly she
loved "little Hattie." Ten years had passed since he had seen Hattie.
She was then a "wee bit of a thing" of her age, and she was not very
large now, though grown to full womanhood, as exquisitely moulded in
form as she was beautiful of face. My friend had married a Vermont
girl, he himself being a native of New Jersey. The illness of his wife
had led them to remove to a little town somewhere above Rutland,--New
Haven, I believe, but may be that is not it,--for a summer, in which
place he had first known Hattie, when but a child of six years of age.
His little daughter Jane was just her age, having been born on the very
same day that she was, and the two little creatures, just the
opposites, however, in complexion, color of hair and eyes, and quite
unlike in all respects, fell into the warmest mutual friendship. "They
had not a single taste alike," said he. "Jane was a great romp, loved
to be out in the stables with the horses and cows, was full of
boisterous life;" but Hattie was as mild as her own blue eyes, and as
delicate as her fine, glossy hair. "It was a strange affection these
children had for each other," he said; "very beautiful, and I used to
be constantly with them when there." He used to spend a month or so of
each summer there, while the wife staid from the last of May, he said,
into October. For three years his wife made the little town her summer
home, and these children grew more and more together. Ten years had
gone, and Hattie was now in her nineteenth year,--a beautiful woman,
into whose countenance her advanced years had thrown just enough of
spirit to make her interesting,--with an air of sweet, just ripe
maturity about her, which gave my friend an inkling of what the two
villains were pursuing her for. Pretty soon my friend introduced the
subject of her "friends,"--her two "fellow-travellers,"--and she
shrugged her shoulders with an expression of mingled disgust and dread,
and said, "You are going down?"
"Yes."
"O, I am so glad, for you'll be company for me, and keep those mean men
away from me--won't you?"
"Why, certainly. Where did you meet them first?"
"They came on at Rutland, I think, and the impudent fellows have tried
to talk with me all the way down. At first I said a few words to them,
and told them I was going to New York, and they've left their seats
several times, and come forward to me."
"Yes, I've noticed them," said my friend, "and that's why I came in
here, not expecting to find Hattie Newberry, but sure that you, whoever
you are, were being persecuted by those villains, and needed
protection."
"O, you are so good," said she, "and I shall be so glad to go with you.
I did not know what to do, but I had thought that if they got into the
same cars with me on the next train, that I would speak to the
conductor about them, or go out into another car. They had the
impudence to ask me to take some liquor with them, and I do not think
they were drunk."
Their conversation had proceeded to this point, when into the ladies
room boisterously came the two men. "Here's the darling," said one,
approaching her, bringing cakes, etc., in their hands. "And you must
take something with us." She declined, and turned her face away, when
my friend said to them, "She doesn't want anything--don't trouble her."
"Yes, she does, too," said one, and the larger of the men; "and she
mustn't be bashful--must take it. See here, sis," said he, and placed
his hand familiarly on her shoulder to turn her around; at which she
shuddered, and gave my friend such a look that he couldn't control
himself, "if 'twas in the ladies' room," and dealt the fellow such a
blow in the face with his brawny arm--for though he was not very large,
he was a Hercules in strength, and as skilful with his fists as a
prize-fighter--as stretched him flat upon the floor.
[Illustration: PROTECTING THE INNOCENT.]
"This young lady is under my protection, and if you harass her any
more, I'll break your head," said he, as the scamp "gathered" himself
up, and looked for an instant at my friend, perceiving then, perhaps,
that the plain-looking man, whom he had quite likely taken for a
"common country fellow," was something of a genius in the art of
self-defence, as well as that of offence, for my friend was on his
"pose," ready to resist the attacks of the two.
The scamps almost instantly decamped, and about this time the expected
train arrived, and my friend led Hattie to a car. Into the same the two
men came; but my friend, rising, and looking about at them as they
passed back, and they perceiving him, they said something to each
other, and turned about, and went into a forward car. My friend hoped
that that was the last of them; but at several stopping-places on the
road, one of them--not the one who got the blow--would saunter through
their car, as if looking for some new in-comer, but evidently to feast
his eyes on Hattie's beauty,--so my friend thought.
After being well seated in the cars, my friend called to mind, that,
not long before, his wife had heard from some of the relatives in
Hattie's native village, with whom she kept up an occasional
correspondence, that Hattie Newberry was engaged to a young man by the
name of Dwight Phelps, a member of a quite wealthy family in that
place; and he wondered if Hattie was going to New York to get "fixed
up" for the marriage, for he knew that she had some relatives there
somewhere, and his curiosity led him to inquire if she was going to
stay long in New York.
"Yes, perhaps so. I am going with my cousin Charlotte,--going to work
in the same store with her. She's been trying to have me come for a
long time, and at last I've made up my mind to go." Hattie's parents
were poor people; industrious and respectable, but with quite a large
family; and Mr. Newberry himself, never a very "touch" man, as they
express it in Vermont, and ill a good deal, they had hard work enough
to make ends meet, and send the children to school, and all that.
"O, so you are going to live in New York! How's that? Let me see; it
seems to me that somebody wrote to my wife a few weeks ago, that you
and young Dwight Phelps were to be married; and so I supposed you'd
always stay up there."
Hattie blushed, and replied, "O, there was such a rumor; but that's all
over now." She tried to be cheerful, but a sigh, which did not escape
my friend's ear, and a sad look, for an instant, which did not escape
his eye, revealed to him that something had gone wrong with her; and he
finally found, on joking her a little about the matter, kindly, that
young Phelps's father, who was a sort of a miser, was in the way; that
he wanted his son to marry some rich girl, or not a poor one in money,
at least, however poor she might otherwise be; and the young man was in
his father's hands, so far as pecuniary means were concerned, and would
not be independent enough to think of marrying soon. The old man Phelps
had threatened to disinherit him if he married against his will; and
she had determined to not make difficulty in the family, and was on her
way to New York, at her cousin's solicitation, to go to work where she
could earn something, and help her father and mother support the
family. The subject was a painful one for Hattie to descant upon, and
my friend addressed himself to other matters of conversation. Hattie
informed him that her cousin, Charlotte Keeney, was the chief clerk in
a confectioner's establishment, with a neat restaurant attached, in
Sixth Avenue, near Twelfth Street, New York, the proprietor of which
was a certain Mr. Henry ---- (Brown, for a name)--a popular, thriving
business man, of the rigid school of morals; just, generous, and kindly
in manners, but as fixed in his opinions, and as relentless against
evil-doers, and as unforgiving of actual moral delinquencies, as if he
had been carved out of the "ribs" of the Mayflower--(before she became
a slave-ship); a sort of wooden-headed man in all matters of morals; a
descendant of the Puritan stock. This fact lightened my friend's regret
that Hattie had resolved to go to the city to live, for he chanced to
know Mr. Brown's reputation, otherwise he would have felt it his duty
to say more to her of the perils and trials of city life than he did.
He said, as he looked upon her wonderful beauty, and thought how many
girls, almost as beautiful, had found city life full of thorns; had
borne sad trials, and suffered deathly sorrows, principally through the
fact of their exquisite beauty; and reflected, too, that she was going
there with a wound upon her heart, and therefore less likely to resist
the city's temptations,--his heart quite overcame him, and he wanted to
take her directly into his own family, and as a father protect her.
Along the route, as I have observed before, he noticed the impertinence
of the two men, constantly seeking to get a sight at Hattie whenever
the cars stopped. My friend (call him Frederick Daniels) was greatly
annoyed by this; but it gave him occasion to descant to Hattie upon the
character of certain heartless beings she might meet with in the city,
and to advise her touching the companionships she might make. But
Hattie thought that in her cousin Charlotte's riper experience she
should find sufficient protection, and she seemed to look upon
Charlotte as a wonder of wisdom as well as of goodness; and Mr.
Daniels, reflecting that Mr. Brown's must be as safe a place as any for
a young lady, probably contented himself with asking Hattie to visit
his family as often as she could; but he lived far up town, and on the
other side of the city from Mr. Brown's, so it was not likely that she
could find time, save on Sundays, and then she would be obliged to walk
much to get to his house. But she promised him to visit his family when
she could, and to always come to him if she needed aid or protection of
any kind. The journey was passed pleasantly on to New York, without
notable incident, save that at Hartford, where the cars were delayed
for some time on account of an accident which had occurred on the road
some miles below: the two men were met by a man of the same character
with them, evidently, and who gave them something to drink from his
flask, theirs being apparently empty, and which fired one of them into
unusual impudence, which made him annoying to Hattie and Mr.
Daniels--breaking in at times into the ladies' sitting-room in the
depot, whither they had gone, with other passengers, for "sake of
change" from the cars. Mr. Daniels, it chanced, knew this third man,
who seemed to have no memory that he had ever run across Mr. D. before;
and knowing him, Mr. D. was not at a loss where to place them. He told
Hattie that they were gamblers, and worse; besides, probably being
pickpockets. She, in her innocence, was surprised to learn that so
well-dressed men as these could be so low in character, and Mr. D. felt
that she almost questioned his judgment. So, hoping to impress her with
the danger of "trusting to appearances," in a great city especially, he
told her such tales about such elegantly-dressed scoundrels as came
into his mind; and filled up the time of the journey with such lessons
as he thought might be of use to Hattie, and put her on her guard
against evil.
Mr. Daniels chanced to observe that the third villain took passage with
the other two from Hartford, and he saw that this man had become more
interested, if possible, in Hattie than the other two, if anything was
to be judged by the more extreme eagerness with which he eyed her. The
third villain, whose name or _alias_ was, as Mr. D. knew, "Harland,"
was a more accomplished man than the rest. He hailed from Meriden,
Conn., where it was said he was quite respectably related, and had at
one time occupied a respectable business position in New York; but
turning to sporting, he at last got involved, and operated some adroit
forgeries, and had been connected with a swindling bogus lottery. It
was in the detection and breaking up of this concern that my friend
Daniels had come across Harland. This man had lost his best old
friends, who discarded him outright, he being obliged to take up with a
low class of society; yet there was a natural, or educated pride in
him, which probably suffered much from his debasement, and which
prompted him to make tools of these beings, whom he regarded,
notwithstanding his fraternizing with them, as inferior beings. Mr.
Daniels felt a renewed interest for Hattie when he considered this
adroit man; and the fear came over him that the rascal would, in some
way, manage to make himself felt by her to her sorrow; and he told
Hattie that the fellow would as likely as not seek her out in her
employment, and that the place she was going to, being open to the
public, he would doubtless find her out; but that if he did, she must
not allow him to make her acquaintance, beyond what her necessity as a
clerk would demand of her allowing. She promised him to observe his
advice. My friend, with his usual shrewdness, had preconceived that
these villains would endeavor to follow Hattie, to see where she went
on her arrival in New York; and when the passengers alighted from the
cars, he was not surprised to find these men near him, watching his
movements; and to thwart them, he took Hattie and her trunk, by coach,
to the hotel, intending, as he did, to soon after take her to her place
of designation on Sixth Avenue, and to send from there some trusty man
for her trunk. The scoundrels followed in another coach, and kept close
behind him, alighted at the same hotel, and registered their names just
below his and Hattie's. "Fred. Harland," "Edward Rowe," and "Philip
Jas. McHenry," were the entries, in the bold and elegant hand of
Harland. Mr. Daniels procured a room for himself and one for Hattie,
who began now to see the desperate course which these men would pursue,
and was very willing to be guided by Daniels, to avoid being followed
by these fellows. Mr. Daniels, not being willing to be kept close
prisoner there by these men,--and the night was coming on, too, and he
wished to be at home,--went out to a trusty friend's store, advised him
of what was going on, and asked him to allow one of his lady clerks,
about Hattie's size, to go to the hotel parlor, the gentleman to follow
soon; and the girl, "for the fun of the thing, if nothing more," as she
giddily said, acquiescing, made entry to the hotel parlor, whence Mr.
Daniels took her to Hattie's room, and caused her to assume Hattie's
hat and shawl, in exchange for which Hattie took hers; and after the
merchant had come over to the hotel, and had been made acquainted with
Hattie, Mr. Daniels took the young lady, and proceeded through the hall
to the street; and acting as if utterly oblivious or careless of the
existence of these fellows, passed on, with his thickly-veiled charge
upon his arm, down the street. In crossing to the opposite side, at no
great distance from the hotel, he had opportunity to look back without
being suspected, and saw Harland, and the man "Rowe" (the one whom he
had knocked down at Bellows' Falls), following slowly, but with eyes
bent upon him. He would have been better satisfied had he seen the
third following him. The young lady liked the sport, and Daniels led
the fellows quite a chase, and finally brought about to the store of
his friend, trusting that the latter's sagacity had enabled him
meanwhile to leave the hotel with Hattie, and take her to Mr. Brown's,
on Sixth Avenue.
He had told Hattie to take the key of her room with her, and give it to
his friend. The surprise of the scamps in seeing Mr. Daniels come away
from this store, and leave "Hattie" there, must have been considerable.
Mr. D. went back to the hotel, and to his joy found that the merchant
had gone with the real Hattie; and he withdrew to the store again, and
awaited his return, which he made in good time. It was then arranged
that the porter of the store should be sent for Hattie's trunk, and it
be brought there. Mr. D. went with the porter, paid the bills, and took
the trunk, brought it to the store, whence the next day it was sent to
Hattie's new home, and Mr. D. then betook himself to his own
home,--feeling that his stratagem had saved Hattie much annoyance in
the future, and perhaps much suffering. The next day the ladies
re-exchanged, through the porter, their hats and shawls, and Mr.
Daniels, being called away from the city soon on business, and being
exceedingly occupied for some two months and over, had almost lost
memory of Hattie altogether. She, however, called at his house once in
the mean while, in his absence from home, and had a cheerful "reunion"
with the wife and the family. Mrs. Daniels took the greatest interest
in her, and regarded her beauty as something "almost superhuman," she
said. She knew that as a child she bade fair to become a beautiful
woman; but the change had been so great in her in the last eight years
(for Mrs. Daniels had seen her once since her husband had, before the
latter's late meeting with her), that she would not have known her at
first, had she not given her her name, and then could barely recognize
that it was she.
Mrs. Daniels gladly accepted the husband's invitation to "go down and
call on Hattie Newberry," which they did; and on entering the
confectioner's shop, what was Mr. Daniels's astonishment and horror, on
discovering there both Harland and McHenry, in cheery conversation with
one of the girls, whom he took, and who so proved, to be Charlotte
Keeney, Hattie's cousin! Evidently they were old acquaintances of hers.
Mr. and Mrs. Daniels passed by them, on to where they discovered
Hattie, who saluted them cordially, asked them into the little rear
saloon, and called in her employer, Mr. Brown, to whom she presented
them as old friends, who "used to live in Vermont." They had a charming
visit with Hattie, who was released from her engagements by her kind
employer, in order to entertain them, and Mr. Brown sent in confections
and "goodies" for them to carry back to their family, and gave them
much of his attention besides. Mr. Daniels was indignant to find those
two men there; but he knew not precisely what to do. Had they hunted
out Hattie, or were they old acquaintances of Charlotte, and had found
Hattie there by accident when calling on the former? Were they time-old
customers of the place, or recent comers? These and such like questions
occupied his mind. He wanted to speak to Mr. Brown, and tell him of the
character of these men; but they might be good customers,--certainly
they were lavish with their money that night,--and it was clear that
Charlotte liked them; indeed she seemed fond of them, and Mr. Daniels
hesitated as to what to do, for fear of giving offence. He knew the
reputation of Mr. Brown, to be sure, and that he would not wish his
clerks to be on terms of friendship with such villains, if he knew
their true character. But then he, Daniels, was a comparative stranger
to Mr. Brown, and why should Brown accept his single word as against
such well-behaved "gentlemen," who were good customers, too. Besides,
business men, however good they may be themselves, exist upon, and make
their money out of, their customers; and whoever should enter upon a
close scrutiny of the character of his patrons in New York, would be
apt to find nine scamps in every ten persons. The fact is, that the
greed for money is so great in New York, and all over the country, that
the best men come to be as polite to their most wicked patrons and
customers, as to those of high and noble characters.
Mr. Daniels, as a detective, whose business it is to "mind other
people's business" in some respects, felt more keenly than most men
feel the like, the propriety and expediency of minding his own
business, and was cautious in his proceedings therefore. He made up his
mind to say nothing to any one except Hattie, at first, at least; and
so, when she, and his wife, and himself were quite alone together, he
spoke to her of these men as the ones whom they had encountered on the
cars, and whom she had escaped. What was not his astonishment when he
found that she did not recognize them as such. It appeared that Harland
was an old friend of Charlotte, of whom Charlotte had, in fact, written
her before she came on,--speaking of her having been, the night before
her letter was dated, to the theatre, with her friend, Mr. Harland, "a
very fine, spirited gentleman," etc., whom Hattie would like, she
thought. Mr. Daniels had not mentioned the names of these men to Hattie
on the day of her escape from the hotel. It had not occurred to him to
do that; and when, in the course of a week or two after her arrival at
Mr. Brown's, Harland called on Charlotte, who received him joyfully,
and after a while presented him in warm terms to Hattie, she of course
did not recognize him by his name, though she thought she'd seen him
somewhere; but she reflected that on her way to her boarding-house--for
she did not board with Charlotte--she saw many noticeable men, and
probably had encountered him somewhere in going or coming. But
notwithstanding Mr. Daniels's assurance, she could not identify either
of the men as having been aboard the cars that day; and it was evident
that they had made quite a pleasant impression upon her mind. They had
been there quite often; and Mr. Daniels, from what he saw of their sly
glances towards Hattie, discovered that it was she, rather than
Charlotte, whom they came most to see. But Mr. Daniels was not willing
to leave without making some further effort in Hattie's behalf; and he
asked her to call Charlotte into the room, to see him and his wife,
while Hattie should wait upon the customers, and especially these men.
He thought that possibly Hattie might yet call them to mind as the
scamps who pursued her that day.
It was evident to him that the men recognized him, and were bound to
stay as long as he did, and entertain Charlotte. They proved themselves
"good customers" that night, if never before; in fact, Hattie confessed
that she thought they had bought more that night than in all their
calls before. She went, at Mr. Daniels's request, and asked Charlotte
to go into the little room; and Charlotte said she would "soon." The
men heard the request, and it was clear that they meant that she should
not go, and so they kept chatting on; but Hattie, going out again, and
evincing some anxiety, Charlotte excused herself to the men, and went,
not however till Harland, calling her back after she had gone a few
steps after Hattie, said something to her. She came to the table where
Mr. and Mrs. Daniels were sitting, and thanked them for their wish to
see her, but said they must excuse her; that they saw how occupied she
was, and that Mr. Brown, though a kind, generous man, was very earnest
in wishing his clerks to do their full duty, and not lose a chance to
trade. She hoped they would come again, and find her more at leisure.
Of course Mr. Daniels could have nothing to reply to this, but to thank
her, etc., and she bowed herself away pleasantly, and so Daniels was
foiled in that move; and at last, contented himself with earnest advice
to Hattie to let these men alone, to avoid them all she could, and to
tell Charlotte their true character, and that they were the men who
persecuted her on the day of her arrival. Hattie promised to heed Mr.
Daniels's advice, and she told Charlotte about the men, on the first
good opportunity that she had; but Charlotte could not believe it,
especially as Hattie had not recognized Harland before, and confessed
that she could not yet call him to mind. "But Mr. Daniels cannot be
mistaken," said she. "I did not look the men in their faces much. I
avoided them, and would not be apt to remember them in other dress, and
coming here as your old friends." But Charlotte would not be persuaded,
and believed Mr. Daniels mistaken. Indeed, she finally told Hattie that
Harland said he had seen her friend, Mr. Daniels, somewhere before;
couldn't say where; but that he was a man of poor character he knew,
and he wondered Hattie allowed him and his wife to call on her. This,
Mr. Daniels heard long after from Hattie's lips. That night Mr. D. went
home down-hearted, feeling that he had failed to impress Hattie
sufficiently of her danger; but he had made her promise him, that if
she ever had any serious trouble she would seek his aid, and that she
would call on him and his family, whenever she could find it convenient
to do so.
Time went on, and though Mr. Daniels's mind frequently reverted to
Hattie, yet his business cares did not allow him to visit her. He made
up his mind that night that the wretches intended to possess themselves
of her in some way, and that they would carry out their vile purpose if
possible. He talked with Mrs. Daniels about it. Such beauty as Hattie's
would not fade easily, and such a prize as she would be sought. He
hoped she'd make the acquaintance of some good man, and get married,
and thus be saved from trouble; but he reflected that these villains
would manage to keep such men as that away from her. As for themselves,
even if either of them was moved by her beauty to love her, he probably
then had a half dozen wives somewhere; and would prefer her as mistress
rather than wife, even if he were unmarried. Mrs. Daniels had no fear
for Hattie; which consoled Mr. Daniels somewhat. She said she _knew_
that such a girl as Hattie could take care of herself as against the
seducers. She felt in her woman's nature that there was something in
Hattie's composition which the despoiler could not corrupt, and which
would be her protection; besides, Hattie's duties required her services
evenings, and these men had not much opportunity to ply their villanous
arts. Mr. Daniels deferred a good deal to his wife's judgment in this,
and felt more easy--and time wore on.
Three or four more months had passed, and one night, just as Mr.
Daniels had returned home, there was a violent ringing of his
door-bell, which he answered on the spot, not having yet removed his
overcoat. The messenger had come for him, with imploring word from
Hattie Newberry, that he should at once come to the Jefferson Market
Station to see her. She was in trouble: charged with crime, and was
almost frantic; had been rescued, an hour before, from the North River,
where she had attempted to drown herself, and was calling, in
incoherent terms, his name, and much which they could not make out. He
must go at once, and he did, with a willing but a sad heart. He
revolved all sorts of possibilities in his mind as he accompanied the
messenger, and arriving at the station-house, found there poor Hattie,
who, recognizing him, rushed upon him, threw her arms about his neck,
and exclaimed, "O, if I had but minded your good advice. I am not
guilty! not guilty!--and I wanted to die." "No, no, Hattie, you are not
guilty," he replied; "no matter what the charge is, you are not guilty
of any crime." At this point a brother detective stepped up, one of Mr.
Daniels's best friends. His clothes were still wet, and Daniels
exclaimed, "What, was it you, Montgomery, that rescued my child here
from the water? God bless you!" "Yes,"--and Montgomery, pulling him by
his sleeve, as if to take him away, he said to Hattie, "Be calm,
Hattie, you are my child, and nothing shall hurt you; excuse me a
moment, I'll be right back." "Yes, yes," interposed Montgomery, who was
a splendid officer, and greatly respected by all about the station, "I
assure you that what Mr. Daniels says is right. You shall not be
harmed, and we'll be back soon."
Daniels and Montgomery went aside, and the latter said, "Tell me all
about this girl, Daniels. I never saw such beauty. I thought one spell
she'd drag me down, but I would have gone under willingly to save her;
and when she called your name I was glad, for I knew all was right
somehow--but I haven't questioned her much; indeed, she's been half
delirious till you came; but I see her eye is getting natural."
Montgomery then went on to tell him how he happened to be down near the
wharf, saw a well-dressed girl running in such a mad way as to arrest
his attention, and he followed her, and saw her plunge off the dock,
but not before she had paused a second, and looked about, when he
caught sight of her wondrous face. His first thought was, that she was
some unfortunate of the town, who had resolved to end her unhappy
career; but he stripped off his outer coat and boots, and ran along
some logs which were lying in the water, and reached out a pole to her
which he had caught up. As she rose, puffing and struggling, she seized
it, and he saw that the water had chilled out her purpose of suicide;
and, indeed, she cried for help, and he plunged in, finding the water
deeper than he thought, and had a hard struggle to get out with her,
for she was frantic, and grasped his arms so that he could hardly use
them. He had gotten assistance and a carriage, and had taken her to the
station, and quickly after arriving there had encountered an officer,
who said he was after her; that she was a thief, had stolen a diamond
ring of great value, "and, of course, lots of other things," as he
said. But Montgomery would not give her up till Daniels came, after
hearing her call for him. This was all that Montgomery knew about the
matter.
[Illustration: RESCUE OF HATTIE NEWBERRY.]
Dry clothes had been procured for Hattie, and she had recovered from
her fright a little when Daniels came. Daniels told Montgomery all
about her, and they both believed her innocent, and resolved to save
her. The charge was surely false, they said, and they went back to her,
dismissed those about her, and asked her to tell them her trouble,
which, in her plain, simple way she did. She had been charged by
Harland with having filched from him a valuable diamond ring, worth
three hundred dollars. She had denied it; and Harland had asked her to
let her room be searched, and she had willingly done so; and in company
with an officer, she had gone to her room with Charlotte and Mr. and
Mrs. Brown, and allowed the search; and there, to her consternation, in
her own reticule, wrapped up in a little white paper, was found the
very ring Harland had described. "The villain slipped it in there in
the search!" exclaimed Daniels. "No, no," said she, "Mr. Brown opened
the box, and found the reticule, and examined it himself. Harland did
not touch it." "Did he examine anything?" "No, he didn't touch
anything," said she. "Mr. Brown and Mrs. Brown did the searching; he
looked on." "Then," said Montgomery, "the villain had, in some way, got
the ring in there. He knew what the search would result in,--felt sure
of his game."
Mr. Brown was convinced of the girl's guilt, and was going to discharge
her. He was dreadfully perplexed by it, for he had thought Hattie the
best of girls; but her guilt was so apparent to him as to excite his
old Puritan sense of justice. Mercy lost its hold in his heart, but he
consented, at Harland's suggestion, to let her stay a day or so longer.
Harland said, that now he had got his ring he did not care to punish
her; that he presumed she had been sorely tempted by it, for she had
seen it in his possession, and he knew well enough when she took it. He
thought it too bad to not give her another trial; but Mr. Brown would
have no thief in his employ, but would let her stay a day or two,--but
not to work,--till Harland could get her a place. When Daniels and
Montgomery got to this part of her story, they could account for the
man's villany; and consulting with each other away from Hattie,
concluded to send at once for Mrs. Daniels, for they saw that there
were probably things which Hattie would prefer to tell to a woman.
While the carriage was gone for Mrs. D., they learned further of
Hattie's story: that she partly loved Harland, that she was innocent of
the theft, and somehow suspected him of having planned to destroy her
character. The light began that day to open upon her mind, and she
loathed him; and so dreadful were her feelings, and so deep her sense
of wrong at Mr. Brown's hands, in that he had no charity for her, that,
brooding over it all, and thinking what a horrible story would reach
her home about her, she got frenzied, and resolved to put an end to her
life. She expected Harland at about such an hour, and the nearer that
approached the more terrible her condition seemed to be; and finally,
life seeming unendurable longer, she had rushed from the house, as it
would seem, just about the time Harland and the officer with him had
come. This would account for the appearance of the officer whom
Montgomery had seen.
"That scamp is no officer," exclaimed Montgomery, when he came to hear
this, for he was the same man, she said, who had accompanied Harland on
the day of the search. "I thought I had seen him before. Do you go,
Daniels, and meet him, for he may know me. I think it is a wretch by
the name of Harry Restell; and if it is he, you'll discover a slit in
the lobe of the left ear, shaped liked an inverted 'V,' and if you
notice further, you'll see a slight inclination of the head to the left
side, as if the cords of the neck, on the left side, were a little
shorter than on the other, and stiff. If you find so much, make his
acquaintance pleasantly, get him to talk with you, and go with you
about the cells, and without ceremony shut him in; call Badger for the
keys, and tell him I told you, for this will end that game, and send
for me instantly. I'll fix him. I want him." Mr. Daniels went, and
finding Restell, the man whom Montgomery suspected, was adroit enough
to accomplish the feat given him to perform in less than fifteen
minutes; and Montgomery was delighted with the word to "come." He told
Hattie to be calm; that the rascals would be foiled, and she proved
innocent,--as she was, in reality, before another day rolled round. He
rushed to the cells, opened the one in which was Restell, drew in
Daniels with him, and clutching the villain by the hair, said to him,
"I have you, you scamp, you murderer, you --!" But it will hardly do to
repeat here the last word, implying crimes which, though common enough,
are hardly fit for the eye of the general reader to see named in print.
"You show your guilt, and my proof you know, when I name Mary ----; and
now you have been personating an officer, helping that Harland to
destroy an innocent girl. You have your choice, whether to go with me
at once to the Tombs, and from there to Sing Sing Prison for five or
ten years, or to tell me all about what Harland and you have been
doing. Make a full confession." Montgomery spoke as rapidly as
lightning, and there was a terrible firmness and earnestness in his
voice. Restell quivered. He saw that he was known. He had been guilty
of a terrible crime; had personated an officer, too,--a misdemeanor
punishable with fine,--and he was sure to be caught in the conspiracy
with Harland; and he thought it the better way to confess at once,
which he did; and he told Montgomery that Harland had managed to slip
the ring into the girl's reticule at the theatre a few nights before;
that the ring was a paste one, and not a diamond ring; that its setting
was really worth about twenty-five dollars, but the diamond being only
paste, Harland had not risked much; that Harland wanted to degrade the
girl, get her away from her place, get her a situation himself, make
her dependent on him, and finally make her his mistress. "And he told
me I might have her a part of the time, if I would help support her,"
said Restell; "and when I came to see her, I found her so beautiful
that I agreed to help him, and went with him, as an officer, to look
for the ring, and we were after her to-night, and got there five
minutes after she'd left. That's how 'tis," said he, "and I went one
way in search of her, and Harland another." "Where were you to meet
when one of you found her?" quickly asked Daniels. "At Washington
Parade Ground, on this north-west corner." "Ay, ay," said Daniels, "I
know that fellow. We'll nab him,"--and taking an officer with him,
proceeded at once to the spot, and luckily found Harland walking back
and forth there, very nervously. Daniels knew him, and without a word,
as they were about to pass each other, knocked the rascal down, and
fell upon him, while the officer clutched him too. "Don't make any
noise, or you are a dead man," said Daniels. "Give me that diamond ring
the first thing, or die," clutching the scoundrel by the throat, till
he was so nearly dead that he could hardly point with his finger to an
inside vest pocket, where Daniels put his hand, and found a wallet, in
which he found the ring. Getting that, he let the scamp up. He wanted
the ring to prove its paste character, as one of the evidences against
the villain. "Now," said he, "Restell is nabbed. You see he has
'peached' on you, and we want you to go along with us to him." The
officer told Harland that if he didn't go quietly, he would "put the
irons on;" and Harland felt the propriety of subjection, without any
attempt at escape. Meanwhile Mrs. Daniels had arrived, and being
instructed by Montgomery, had inquired into Harland's conduct towards
her. It was evident that his intentions had long been to possess her,
but that the girl, in her innocence, had not known what he meant; and
when he had asked her to marry him, although she had considerable
liking of, and affection for him, she had refused to accept him for the
time, and he had urged her several times. She said he was always quite
nervous, and sometimes almost angry, that she would not marry him; yet,
after all, he had been very kind to her in most respects; had made her
several presents, and taken her and her cousin to the theatre, etc.,
whenever they could get away from the shop. Some things which she told
Mrs. Daniels, on the latter's minutely inquiring into the modes in
which he had treated her, and what he had said, showed a peculiar
innocence in the girl, amounting to almost stupidity. Yet it was no
wonder, after all, in view of her careful rearing at home.
What Mrs. D. learned confirmed Mr. D.'s and Montgomery's theory, and
with it, and all they had learned before, they had solved the problem.
Harland saw how thoroughly he was caught, and thought best to
acknowledge that what Restell had disclosed was the truth; that the
girl was innocent; and he went so far as to express his love for her
with tears, and was allowed to see her, and beg her pardon on his
knees, with protestations of love, and his desire to marry her. He was
allowed to do this, only that Hattie might have better evidence of her
innocence, for it was done in Mr. and Mrs. Daniels's and Montgomery's
presence. Harland wanted to give her the ring which Daniels handed to
her for him, but she spurned it; and Daniels said he would keep it for
her, to which Harland consented; for Daniels had a notion that Harland
would yet do evil with it if he possessed it. To make all sure, Mr.
Brown was sent for, routed out of bed, and brought before the girl and
Harland, and Harland made to repeat his confession before him. Mr.
Brown was delighted, put his arms about Hattie, called her his own
child, and said he could not all the while believe she _meant_ to do
any wrong; but there was the ring in the reticule, and she had stoutly
denied having any such ring; and how could it have gotten in there
without her putting it there? etc. This had convinced him against his
will; but he said he would never believe any charge against anybody on
circumstantial evidence again, Hattie was taken back into his employ,
remained with him over a year, as kindly cared for as if she was his
child, and finally went back to Vermont as the wife of young Phelps,
who had, at last, overcome his father's objections, mostly through his
mother's intercessions, who had died meanwhile, and who, on her
death-bed, had made him promise to let the son marry the girl he loved.
Harland agreed to leave New York forever if proceedings were not taken
against him; and having money enough (obtained, though, by gambling and
forgeries), the officers thought it no wrong to make him pay pretty
liberally for the trouble he had made; and Mr. Daniels, having Hattie's
good at heart, was not easy with him in his demands, but secured
enough, so that Mr. Brown could afford to do a great deal for her; for,
at different times, Mr. Daniels put sums of money into Mr. Brown's
hands to buy this or that for Hattie, letting her suppose that it all
came from Brown's generosity; and it should be added, that the latter
_was_ generous to her also, for he always added to the sums given him,
and purchased better things than directed for her, as a sort of
quietus, it is supposed, to his wounded conscience, in believing that
she was guilty. Harland decamped; but he came back at last, and carried
Charlotte Keeney off with him somewhere as his wife,--which was the
strangest part of the story. She had loved him before Hattie came, and
he had probably loved her, but Hattie's great beauty had attracted him
from her; that is, his affection,--for he had always taken Charlotte
along with Hattie to theatres and elsewhere. The fact is, there was a
jealousy of Hattie in Charlotte's heart, so great, that though she
loved her cousin, it seemed that she was almost sorry that she proved
innocent at last; and she felt Harland's absence, notwithstanding his
villany, greatly. The heart of a woman will cling to her lover or
husband in crime or obloquy, almost as strongly as the heart of a
loving man will cling to, and protect, the woman he really loves, doing
deeds of crime at her will, and, in fact, wrecking fortune, and health,
and life at her behest. It is common to declare the constancy of woman
greater than that of man; but that is a false notion, cherished only by
the inexperienced in human nature's laws. Charlotte found pardon in her
own heart for Harland; and if she did not invent sensible excuses for
his conduct, was not wanting in the number of them. She married, and
was heard from afterwards as living happily with him somewhere.
[Illustration: RESTELL AT SING SING.]
Restell expected to escape his deserts by peaching on Harland; but
Montgomery had not so promised him when Daniels caged him in the cell,
and Montgomery had taken care to not do so, for officers of the law and
detectives are very scrupulous about keeping their plighted word to
even the basest criminals. And if they were not so, the whole
fraternity of wretches would know it, and refuse to give evidence at
any time, and thus many a criminal mystery would go unexplained, and
many an innocent, like Hattie, might suffer the full consequences of a
criminality of which they were not guilty. It is often better to let a
dozen guilty go than that one innocent should suffer. Restell was taken
to the Tombs, on charge of a crime here unmentionable; but a portion of
the evidence against him failed by the death of a witness for the
prosecution, while he lay in prison, and a matter of forgery having
meanwhile become disclosed involving him, he was tried on that, and
sent to Sing Sing for four years and some months--the longest term the
law would allow for his offence.
Mr. Daniels interwove in this narrative many interesting facts, to
which I cannot, at this distance of time, do justice. He was a keen
observer of human nature, and told a story pleasantly. He recited to me
many other tales of almost equal interest; and, as I learn that he is
alive at this writing, I am not sure that I shall not try to hunt him
up, and engage him to give zest, with his piquant stories, to these
pages; for it matters not whose an interesting experience may be, so
that we have the facts. Truly, "facts _are_ stranger than fictions"
often; and it has occurred to me, while hunting over my diaries and
burnishing up my memory, to hint to my publishers that the truest,
shortest, and best way to collect a volume of marvellous experiences
would be to invite a number of detectives to dinner, accompanied by
short-hand reporters, and treat them so well that they tarry with their
story-telling through the night.
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