CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: George Miles White]

FROM BONIFACE TO

BANK BURGLAR

OR

THE PRICE OF PERSECUTION

HOW A SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS MAN, THROUGH

THE MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE, BECAME

A NOTORIOUS BANK LOOTER

BY

GEORGE M. WHITE

ALIAS GEORGE BLISS

BELLOWS FALLS, VT.

TRUAX PRINTING COMPANY

1905

COPYRIGHT, 1905,

BY B. F. SLEEPER, WESTMINSTER, VT.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

PREFACE

While paying the penalty of a last misdeed, I resolved that no more of

life’s precious years should be spent in sowing to the wind and that

my life’s sun should not set in eternal night; and I have been able to

keep my resolution. In the awful moments of lonesomeness in the prison

cell, I conceived the idea of publishing my life history in so far as

I could make it interesting to the financial world and general public.

Many hours of solitude, while others slept, I devoted to rummaging

through the past in search of facts, dating them from the innocent days

of my young manhood and resurrecting them from period to period, until

I succeeded in compiling a life history which, I sincerely trust, will

prove not only a helper to those who have the care of great sums of

money devolving upon them, but will also be accepted by those tempted

to depart from the path of rectitude as a warning not to be lightly

regarded.

I have endeavored to be accurate in my treatment of each part of this

history, and if there shall be discovered an error here and there,

kindly, dear reader, attribute it to a lapse of memory. I kept no

record of events, for in leading the life of a transgressor it is not

conducive to safety; so I have been forced to depend solely upon my

memory, which, as it dwelt on the past, soon became alive again with

old scenes. Acts long forgotten returned to me clothed as they were

more than twoscore years ago, and I found myself living over the bright

days, the dark days, the days of wealth, and the days of poverty. I

started to write a small book, but facts crowded upon me until I have

been enabled to issue a volume of no mean proportions.

G. M. WHITE.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER PAGE

I. MY HOTEL DAYS 1

II. THE WALPOLE BANK BURGLARY 9

III. ONE SHERIFF I KNEW 17

IV. THE UNEQUAL FIGHT 22

V. HANGING OF THE MILLSTONE 31

VI. PERSECUTION 56

PART II

I. SIDETRACKED 73

II. VISITED BY THE WHITECAPS 83

III. THE CADIZ BANK LOOT 96

IV. AN EXPENSIVE CHICKEN 109

V. A ROCK CLEFT FOR ME 130

VI. ’TWAS A SWEET BABE 156

VII. POLICE SHIELD NOT WORN FOR HEALTH 165

VIII. SHERIFF SMITH’S BRIBE--THE LITTLE JOKER 185

IX. BREVOORT STABLES 207

X. I CORRUPT A BANK CLERK 215

XI. A COLOSSAL BANK BURGLING ENTERPRISE 232

XII. JUGGLING WITH DEATH 244

XIII. CAPTAIN JOHN YOUNG’S GRAB 272

XIV. PLOTTING AGAINST YOUNG 286

XV. MY PATENT SAFETY SWITCH AND JIM IRVING 303

XVI. HARD WORK UNDER GREAT DIFFICULTIES 319

XVII. MARK MAKES PI OF LOCK TUMBLERS 337

XVIII. DISPOSITION OF OCEAN BANK LOOT 341

XIX. A CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH 356

XX. TALL JIM MOVES FROM COLUMBUS PRISON 368

XXI. JIM BURNS AND HIS CONGRESSMAN PAL 380

XXII. WILLIAM HATCH, ESQUIRE, DAY WATCHMAN 403

XXIII. THE PLOT THAT FAILED 421

XXIV. THE PERFIDY OF CAPTAIN JIM IRVING 440

XXV. SOME DETECTIVES I FOUND USEFUL 463

XXVI. THE MICROBE “CALLOUSITIS” 480

FROM BONIFACE TO BANK BURGLAR

PART I

CHAPTER I

MY HOTEL DAYS

“Here I am back again, Ellis, my dear boy!” I said to my clerk in the

Central House, as comfortable and inviting a country hostelry as the

average man of travel would want to make an occasional visit to, if I

do say it myself.

“Glad of it, Mr. White,” returned Ellis Merrill, as he reciprocated my

hearty hand-grasp. He had been with me in the hotel business for some

time, and I rather fancied him. And he was a most trustworthy young man

too.

I glanced at the register on the desk, as any hotel proprietor is apt

to do after several days’ absence.

“Ah,” remarked I, as my eyes fell on two names--“Wyckoff and Cummings.

They came yesterday. Are they together?”

“Yes, Mr. White; and they seemed to be mighty well stocked with cash.

Up to date they’ve been very prompt in paying their bills; in fact,

have paid for everything in advance.”

I glanced over a file of business papers. Then I said: “It seems

they’ve hired one of our best teams for three days, paid for it, and

will return to-morrow. That’s good business, Ellis.”

“Right you are, sir.”

I gossiped more about my guests,--as to what business they might be

engaged in, and the like.

“Mr. Wyckoff told me that he’s a United States deputy marshal. As to

his companion, he didn’t say anything,” said Merrill. “I allowed him to

have about the best team we had in the stable, on the representation

that he was a government official.”

This was in the spring of 1864, when there was much reason to believe

that the war between the North and South over the negro was drawing

to a close. I was a resident of Stoneham, Massachusetts, and, after a

fashion, felt pretty well satisfied with myself and surroundings. I

was the owner of a hotel, a large livery with a fine stock of horses

and vehicles, besides a grocery business in which I employed several

clerks, and a goodly interest in Towle & Seavy’s wine house at 21

Congress Street, Boston. Also, I had a few parcels of real estate in

Stoneham, which were increasing in value. In these days of colossal

fortunes, the total of my worldly possessions then would be of no

account; but I, the holder of thirty thousand dollars and a happy home,

surrounded by a happier family, my father and mother still living, and

I barely thirty, with the spirits of youth, felt, as I have just said,

pretty well satisfied with my life and the world generally.

I had just returned from a delightful visit to my paternal home in

Vermont, to find this United States deputy marshal and his friend,

James Cummings, guests at my hotel. I must confess to having a feeling

of curiosity as to what they looked like, which may have been a trifle

effeminate in me; so I was not sorry when, the next day, this Mr.

Wyckoff, unaccompanied by his friend, drove up to the hotel. Aside

from curiosity, I had the excusable characteristic, usually found in

public-house proprietors, of wanting to cater to patrons with full

purses and a disposition to spend money freely. Naturally, I greeted

Wyckoff effusively and made him a welcome guest. He seemed to be of a

good sort; a bright, stirring young fellow, with a pleasing address

and a ready flow of language. I was very much interested in his

conversation on war topics, his knowledge, it seemed to me, being based

on a wide experience. He appeared to be well versed in the financial

opportunities of the war, particularly as to army contracts,--how they

were obtained and the large amount of money that was being made out of

them.

Wyckoff was not the first marshal to stop at my hotel, for in those

tumultuous times they popped up frequently in search of deserters from

the army. I confess to taking a great liking to him, and when in a few

hours he left the hotel, saying he must go on farther, I felt genuine

regret, in which there was not mingled an avaricious thought.

“I hope you’ll stop here whenever you come down this way,” I said to

him at parting.

“I certainly shall,” was his reply; “and I’m quite likely to be

along soon, too. I liked the team I had, and all of your hotel

accommodations. If I do come, I shall need another team no doubt, and I

hope you’ll let me have your best.”

“That you shall, Mr. Wyckoff. The best service of my house and stable

shall be yours.”

The next I saw of him was in September, when he put up with me again.

He engaged one of my best spans and was away three days. Later in the

same month he was my guest, and, hiring another outfit, was gone three

or four days. In October I saw him, but in a most unexpected manner, as

shall be related in due time.

Affairs prospered with me in the usual happy channel, and day by day

saw me adding a few dollars to my little fortune. I saw no speck,

portentous of trouble, on life’s horizon, nor did I discover anything

that foretold disaster. My business was firmly established and my

credit was of the highest order. For my honesty I was respected, and as

for wisdom, I was supposed to possess as much, if not more, than the

average resident of my town. On an occasion I had been a postmaster,

with all the honor that office of the United States government confers

upon one living outside of the great cities. As I have said, life

was flowing like a placid river, when, one day, James Cummings, the

companion of Marshal Wyckoff, registered at the Central House. Now I

did not like this man from the first, though he seemed a good enough

fellow and talked freely of his affairs and his home in Rochester, New

York, where there was a big fruit-tree nursery, of which he said he was

an agent. I had not met him on his first visit, and it was not until I

had seen the register and asked who the stranger in the bar-room was,

that I knew Marshal Wyckoff’s friend.

Presently Merrill told me Cummings wanted a team to make a hurried

journey to Keene, New Hampshire, something like a hundred miles

distant. I objected to sending my horses on a trip like that; but

Cummings insisted that he must meet Wyckoff at Keene the following

night, as they had a very important matter to transact there.

“I have certain business interests to look after in Lowell and Nashua,”

declared Cummings, “and I can’t get through in time to make railroad

connections to Keene.”

I said it was not possible to accommodate him, that my time was

occupied sixteen hours out of twenty-four, and that I hadn’t a man in

the stable who knew the way to Keene. If a team was furnished, Cummings

was told, I would have to go along with it, and that I didn’t feel like

doing, as the trip would require too much of my time. But he insisted

that it was of the utmost importance to him and Wyckoff that he get to

Keene. Having in mind that Wyckoff was such a good fellow, and desiring

very much to be of service to him, though I couldn’t see my way clear

to spare the time, I told Cummings that I would undertake the journey,

provided I was paid twenty-five dollars a day and my expenses. I really

hoped that I had fixed a figure that would not be accepted, for the

regular charge was nearly one-half less. But to my astonishment, he

took me up. Indeed, I have reason to believe, having learned more of

Cummings, that I could have had double the amount I asked, for he

snapped me up in a breath.

Early the next day we started with one of my finest double turnouts.

The roads were heavy with mud, yet the trip to Lowell was accomplished

in excellent season. There Cummings had me drive him to the American

House, where I waited for him nearly an hour. He told me he had called

on a man who put him on the track of a very important matter, but

he was careful not to tell me what his business was. The time was

passing in an uninteresting way, to my mind, and I would have been

glad enough to listen to any sort of drivel. Somewhere about noon

we reached Nashua and put up at the Indian Head Hotel. Cummings had

another engagement, which left me alone for more than an hour. He

seemed a little excited on returning, but said nothing, other than

that he was getting through with his business in fine shape, and we

would reach Keene in time to see Wyckoff according to their agreement.

After a needed bite to eat, we resumed our journey, and got to Keene

about eight o’clock, just as darkness had well come down. Cummings

congratulated me on the quick trip we had made, as I let him down at

the Cheshire House, after which I put up at Harrington’s Eagle Hotel,

having known the genial-faced proprietor since my early boyhood days.

While I was at supper, a tap on the shoulder caused me to look up.

Beside me stood Marshal Wyckoff. Before I had time to speak he took a

seat opposite me, and remarked with a smile, “I caught you napping!”

Then he added: “Cummings has received word from his business house in

Rochester to start back at once, and he must leave on the first train.

Indeed, he has already gone.”

I said something commonplace at this, and then Wyckoff went on, “I’ve

got a matter of importance to look up at Claremont, about forty-five

miles from here, and I’d like you to drive me there to-morrow.”

I knew that the distance would be too much for my horses, so I said

that I’d take him there if he’d hire a rig in Keene. This was agreeable

to him, and on the following morning we got an early start, I having

engaged a team from Layton Martin’s stables, and arrived at Claremont

about midday. At Wyckoff’s request we drove to a hotel, where I

remained while he went to transact the business for which he came. We

were off for Keene not long after one o’clock, and passing through

Surrey about supper-time, I drove Marshal Wyckoff to the residence of a

kinsman of mine, where we pulled up and had a hearty meal. My companion

made a great impression on my relatives, who urged him with much

earnestness to visit them if ever he chanced to be in the neighborhood

again. Resuming our way, we reached Keene not long after nightfall. The

following day, with my team, we went to Concord, Massachusetts, where

the marshal got a train for Boston--or so he told me. I started for

Stoneham, with the better part of a hundred dollars in my pocket, which

had been paid me for my services. On the way I thought not a little of

Marshal Wyckoff. Never had I come in contact with a man so active in

business affairs, yet so affable, considerate, and generous. Withal,

he was a most jolly companion, and I say once more that I felt great

regret at parting with him. It was foolish of me, no doubt, but I have

to record the fact. When we next met, seven months had intervened.

CHAPTER II

THE WALPOLE BANK BURGLARY

B. F. Aldrich was the cashier of the Walpole Savings-bank, and the

bank was in his general merchandise store. Thus it can be readily

understood that the village of Walpole wasn’t much from the viewpoint

of map-makers, though its residents were not a little proud of their

abiding-place.

These facts being known, it will not be difficult to imagine the

consternation of the Walpole people, when one morning, just prior to

Thanksgiving Day in 1864, they got out of bed to find that their only

bank had been robbed of nearly half a hundred thousand dollars. At

first it was doubted; but not long delayed was the confirmation, and it

came with all the thunder that such events create in small villages.

Soon, scared and white-faced men, women, and children, depositors

and bank officials, crowded to Aldrich’s store. I will not deal with

the clamoring ones who thought their savings of years, perhaps, were

gone forever. My object is more to tell how the robbery became known

and in what manner the burglars were apprehended. I have it from an

eye-witness that Cashier Aldrich was in a state bordering on frenzy at

times, and at others seemed to be on the verge of a collapse. The keys

found dangling in the store door were his, and had been undoubtedly

left there to hide the identity of the real perpetrators of the crime.

Any one with reason would not deny that, and Aldrich realized his awful

position only too well.

He told the bank officials that the store door was strongly secured,

when he left, late the previous night; but upon waking the next

morning, he missed the keys from his trousers pocket, the trousers

being found on the floor in the hall. He could not believe that any

one had been in the house during the night, for not a soul had heard

a sound. He could not make himself believe that he’d been so careless

as to leave the keys in the store door, but to be certain, no time was

lost in making an investigation.

All his worst fears were confirmed. The keys were dangling in the lock,

the safe had been opened with a key, and papers were scattered over the

floor. Every dollar of the cash and bonds had been taken. The bank was

ruined, and great was the excitement in Walpole for many days.

The town constables and the sheriff of the county looked wise for

several weeks, but got no trace of the burglars. The depositors of the

bank were wroth at this, and declared that some action that would

bring results must be taken. Herbert T. Bellows, one of the largest

of these, led the movement. He was powerful in social and political

life, and more able to lose his interest in the bank than almost any

one else. He said that good detective work would be sure to result

in the recovery of some of the property. So he went to New York City

for detectives. Bellows was determined that his wealth should not be

taken from him without his putting forth a great effort to recover

it. The New York police force sent Timothy Golden and James Kelso,

two of the ablest sleuths of which it could boast, and placed them

at his disposal. They hadn’t been at work long when it was concluded

that the robbery had not been committed without the assistance of some

one familiar with the routine of Aldrich’s store. The directors were

told that the cashier’s story of the loss of the keys was exceedingly

flimsy, and that it looked very much as though he knew more about the

robbery than he cared to tell.

“We admit that it is a delicate matter,” said Detective Golden,

with great decision, “but unless your cashier can offer a better

explanation, you’d better direct us to arrest him.”

The directors repelled this conclusion with the greatest vigor.

Cashier Aldrich, they declared, had not been unfaithful to his trust.

They said they’d stake their reputations and lives, if necessary,

on it. However, Golden and Kelso believed he was guilty, and pushed

their investigation on that line. Their persistence in this belief,

after many weeks, began to weaken the confidence of some of the bank

officials, and it was only a matter of a very few days, when he would

have been arrested, that an unexpected clew turned up. It served to

change the tide of suspicion from Aldrich, who eventually came from

under the cloud, with his character undefiled. It was like giving him a

new life. For many weeks he’d borne the torture--that mental agony that

must come to the innocent man suspected of a crime by those who had

once believed him to be honest beyond question.

At the verge of casting Aldrich in jail the detectives were suddenly

called back to New York. It was long past the time when a tangible clew

was expected from that quarter, but at last one of the government bonds

taken from the Walpole Bank had turned up in the United States Treasury

at Washington. It had been purchased from a man named Cummings, by

a reputable business man of Scranton, Pennsylvania. Armed with this

information, the detectives interviewed the Scranton man, who told

them he understood that Cummings was an agent for a fruit-tree nursery

at Rochester, New York, and that he was said to be a friend of a Dr.

Hollister at Providence, a hamlet on the outskirts of Scranton. Golden

and Kelso went to Providence, though they didn’t believe that Cummings

would be the real game they were after. However, if he proved to be a

link in the chain that would lead them to the “looters” of the Walpole

Bank, they would be satisfied. Arriving in Providence, Dr. Hollister

was found, but Cummings wasn’t there. The doctor at once became a

mystery in the case. While insisting that Cummings was merely one of

his patients, his information was so unsatisfactory, and so evidently

reluctant was he to assist the detectives, that they began to suspect

him of knowing more about the Walpole burglary than he cared to tell.

The result was that Dr. Hollister was arrested, and extradited to

New Hampshire as quickly as the law would allow. It proved to be a

fruitless piece of work of the detectives and undoubtedly a most

unpleasant experience for the doctor. They could only prove that

Cummings had been his patient, which was less than nothing. An early

hearing resulted in the prisoner’s discharge from custody and his

return to Pennsylvania. As for Golden and Kelso, they were deeply

chagrined, to say the least. They felt happy indeed, when, finally, no

serious financial loss through a criminal libel suit came of the arrest.

But the tireless energy they’d put in the case was at last rewarded.

Cummings was located in New York City. Thither they returned, but

arrived one day too late, for the bird had flown. However, as Golden

was talking to the housekeeper, his eyes fell on a sensational weekly

story paper lying on a table, which bore the name of Cummings,--and

he gained the information from the housekeeper that the paper had

been changed to another address. As she apparently knew little or

nothing about Cummings, the detectives went to the office of the story

paper. There they found that the paper was being sent to “M. Shinburn,

Saratoga, New York.” This was a mighty small clew to follow. At their

wits’ end, however, the detectives decided to make the trip. Possibly

they might find Cummings there.

It was not difficult to find “M. Shinburn.” The gossips in Saratoga

believed him to be a wealthy business man who had recently located

there and who had purchased a large farm on the outskirts of the

village, where he lived with a brother, whose name, they had heard, was

Frank. The few who had made his acquaintance found him to be of a most

affable sort. Indeed, they declared that he had come from the South

or West, and had bought the farm about a month previous. Just when he

first put in an appearance at Saratoga they could not tell, however.

As the days wore on, many little characteristics in Shinburn made the

detectives believe that he was not all he professed to be. They felt

certain that it would be a wise move to arrest him; yet there was

the Dr. Hollister _fiasco_ still fresh in their minds, and to make

another mistake was something not to be relished. At last, driven to

desperation by circumstances, Golden told Kelso that the risk must be

taken; and it was--but I will allow the former to relate, in his own

way, what came of it.

“We were at our last ditch,” said he, “when we decided to take him in.

It was a big risk,--much like a plunge in the dark,--but we determined

to do it. The favorable opportunity came one night right after the

theatre. Kelso and I waited on the outside, and when Shinburn came to

the street, we pinched him. Now, mind you, it was just speculation.

Well, he put up the stiffest kind of a kick, but we would not let up

on him until every pocket had been turned inside out and every scrap

of paper examined. We found on him five coupons cut from bonds, and

two railroad bonds, all stolen from the Walpole Bank. Of course that

settled it for keeps. We locked him up, and then, armed with only

our nerve, we searched his house, his brother Frank putting up a big

holler, and found files, skeleton keys, wax impressions, and other

burglars’ tools. Among the keys we discovered was a duplicate that

would open the outer vault door of the Ashuilot Bank at Keene.”

I have it from Golden that Cashier Faulkner of the Ashuilot was about

unnerved when shown how easily the key opened the vault door. He

realized how narrow had been his escape from an experience like that

of Cashier Aldrich. The detectives told him there was no doubt that

the Ashuilot would have been robbed as soon as the excitement of the

Walpole case had died out.

Shinburn was taken to New Hampshire and locked under a strong guard in

the jail at Keene. Meanwhile the detectives took up the trail after

James Cummings, which led them to Philadelphia, where he was arrested

a few days later. In his possession were something more than five

thousand dollars in currency, undoubtedly the result of the bond sale.

He was extradited to New Hampshire and lodged in the same jail with

Shinburn. District Attorney Lane was handed the money by Golden and

Kelso.

CHAPTER III

ONE SHERIFF I KNEW

“Good afternoon, George!”

“How do you do? Upon my word, sheriff, but you’re the last man I

expected to see in Stoneham to-day. How’s business in Fitchburg?” Such

was my response to Sheriff Butterick, who, with a young man, very

sprucely dressed, had called at my hotel. It was a delightful afternoon

on the second day of June in 1865.

“Shake hands with Mr. Golden--Mr. Tim Golden!” said the sheriff,

introducing his companion, and a warm hand-clasp followed. I told the

sheriff that I was pleased to meet any friend of his in all seasons. I

laughed loudly when Mr. Golden said:--

“I suppose you don’t know you’re under arrest, Mr. White?”

“Why, certainly I do,” was my answer, being perfectly willing to carry

on the joke. “What’s the charge? Chicken-roost theft, bank robbery, or

high-handed murder?”

I turned to Sheriff Butterick, and a laugh died on my lips. I’d caught

a peculiar light in his eyes, and it sobered me up in a moment. I

looked again at Mr. Golden. A silver shield of some sort was on his

vest, and he was holding his coat back that I might read an inscription

on it. “New York City Detective Bureau” was what I saw.

“I’m Tim Golden, one of the New York detective force,” said he. “I’m

here with the sheriff to get you for that Walpole Savings-bank job.”

“Bank job?” I repeated, failing to catch his meaning.

“Yes, the Walpole bank burglary.”

I had begun to feel a little upset. The worst I could think of was,

that by the barest possibility I had made a business mistake and that

a lawsuit was confronting me. At the mention of a bank burglary I felt

that little worriment vanish, and bursting into a laugh, I cried:

“Come, come! you can’t persist in that joke, sheriff, for it won’t

work. Try another, old fellow.”

Detective Golden’s next words frightened me, for I realized that he was

in earnest.

“This is serious, Mr. White. You’re wanted in New Hampshire for that

Walpole bank burglary, and there is no dodging it.”

“Burglary! Why, man, my business affairs occupy me from sixteen to

twenty hours a day, and I’ve been at it every day.”

“Can’t help that,” said Golden.

“But I can.” I felt my anger rising rapidly.

“You had time enough to be much in the company of Mark Shinburn,” said

the detective, looking at me, his eyes half closed. There was a harsh

appearance about his face I failed to like when he did that.

“And who’s Shinburn?” I asked. “Never have I heard of such a name.”

“You were with him a lot last fall.”

“It’s a mistake--a big mistake!” I insisted angrily.

“But you have heard of Wyckoff?” insinuatingly inquired Detective

Golden. I started. Any one else as innocent as I would have done the

same. I had actually forgotten Wyckoff; yes, I had been with him last

fall when he made the trip to Claremont and Concord.

“True, I have heard of Wyckoff, a deputy marshal who stopped at my

hotel and hired my teams, and I did drive him from Keene to Claremont

and to Concord,” said I. “But what of it? Is that bank burglary?”

“It seems to be of no use, Mr. White,” put in the sheriff, “for that

Wyckoff you were trundling about the country is Mark Shinburn, now

under arrest at Keene. I confess the whole thing is a puzzle to me, but

Golden, here, says you’re mixed up in the case somehow, and you’ll have

to come up to Keene with us.”

“But it is an outrage,” cried I, following up the outburst with an

argument much too long for the occasion, for it profited me nothing.

Not a word I could say would in any way straighten out the tangle. In

short, I was under arrest. Detective Golden asked me if I would go with

him to New Hampshire without extradition formalities.

“Of course I’ll go, if I must go at all; but, being innocent of this

mess, I hate to be treated in such an ignominious manner. It is not the

result I dread, for an innocent man can’t be proved guilty in this age.

Yes, I’m ready to go with you now.”

And I went on to my fate--a fate I could not have foreseen. What a trip

it was--one I never shall forget. We arrived at Keene, a lively though

old-fashioned town, and the county-seat of Cheshire County, and I was,

for the first time in my life, behind prison bars.

After all the years since that tremendous affliction, the like of

which turns black hair to gray and the smooth brow into furrows, I

can’t bring myself to a calm retrospection of the scenes in which I

was powerless in the strong hands of my unscrupulous enemies. But in

all the blackness that memory still brings up to me, I have one bright

remembrance of the faithfulness of my relatives and close friends, who,

thank God, believed me innocent then, and do to this day.

While awaiting the action of the law and consulting frequently with my

lawyers, I had ample time to learn the inside story of the Walpole

bank robbery, of which I had no knowledge, save what I heard from

neighbors and the newspapers. I had no pecuniary interest in the bank;

therefore, when the arrest came, I had forgotten that a crime of that

sort had been committed. Many of its details were told me later, by

Detective Golden, and such as he didn’t know were supplied me by

others, among whom were my legal advisers.

CHAPTER IV

THE UNEQUAL FIGHT

May no other man realize what I suffered in the weeks of confinement in

the jail at Keene.

Innocent of the crime of burglary, a man who had always stood up boldly

among his fellow-men, looking all squarely in the eye, to be thus

ignominiously, horribly entangled in the meshes of the law was to set

upon him the torments of hell. I doubt, if there be a corner set apart,

in the infernal region, in which certain condemned ones must meditate

forever over their evil deeds, whether their mental agony will be a

tittle of the writhing anguish that besieged my soul, until I was left

a wreck of my former self.

Ay, the torture I endured--an indescribable, lingering horror--can in

no manner be compared with the most excruciating physical distress that

mortal may bear and survive, except to demonstrate, by comparison, the

insignificance of the latter. So far apart are they, that they stand as

the East from the West, the remotest Past from the remotest Future.

I was at times far removed from a calm contemplation of my position,

and on more than one occasion wondered if my brain would retain its

normal reasoning. Once I feared that I would go stark mad, with the

wild rush of a thousand fancies, pursuing each other through my brain,

like so many little green-eyed imps. Oh, it was horrible. And there

came moments when I cursed man and God, and raved that man was a

misnomer for all that was devilish and that God was only a myth. Again,

and I was being sifted, as it were, through a sieve of the finest mesh,

that part of me left in the sieve being transformed into all that was

vile, and my pulverized self passing through, all the good in me, being

blown to the four winds of heaven. No doubt that this was a fantasy,

yet as I lay in my cold cell I was so vividly impressed that it seemed

a hideous reality.

Following such an affliction, there would come calmer moments, in

which I was able to contemplate my condition, in much the same manner

as a hardened criminal. When this mood possessed me, I had an awful,

haunting dread of what the future might hold to rule my after days.

But, as the time passed, and I had frequent consultations with my

attorney; talked of the associations I had had with the man Wyckoff,

whom I had come to know as Mark Shinburn; discussed my arrest at

Stoneham, when I believed, at first, that I was the victim of a joke;

and went over the various stages of my case, I began, at intervals, to

be somewhat philosophical.

It was a hard matter to realize, that I, an innocent man, was actually

under arrest and locked in the same jail with professional criminals,

and accused, jointly with them, of burglary. Yet more difficult was it

to believe that this man Shinburn was Wyckoff, the United States deputy

marshal and guest at my hotel. Though he was identically the same

smooth, affable gentleman in jail that I had met and travelled with the

year before, I found it almost impossible at times to believe that he

was a criminal--which I knew from the accumulating evidence. Day after

day I came in contact with him, talked with him, discussed the evidence

for and against him, and heard him confess to being sorry that his acts

had involved me. I had liked Wyckoff the deputy marshal, and I liked

none the less Mark Shinburn, though he was the means of my undoing.

My attorney, A. V. Lynde, with whom I had done no little real-estate

business, often visited me in jail, and we discussed the points that

were held by the prosecution to be positive proof of my guilt. There

was my journeying about the country with Shinburn and Cummings, while

they were, at the same time, plotting to rob the Walpole Bank, and

many other points that were brought against me, but of a still more

circumstantial nature. All these matters were laid before me, and I

could well understand how some people might honestly believe me guilty.

As I lay in jail, I did not know that the avarice of a stockholder

of the Walpole Bank would lead him to persecute me almost beyond

measure. I did not think that he would, with good reason to believe me

guiltless, use his influence to set one of the real criminals free, and

set the law upon me, in order that he might recover the loss he had

sustained through the robbery. I did not know that he would continue

his persecution until every dollar of my wealth was stripped from me,

and I was left at the mercy of my friends to defend my innocence. But

so it was.

While I lay in jail, asking day by day for a hearing, the coils of

injustice were being tightened about me. The prosecution did not show

its hand by any too quick action. It was only when the process of

the law must be carried out that there was no longer secrecy kept by

those who held my fate in their hands. I had asked for an immediate

hearing on the day of my arrest, but it had been denied me. One would

have thought that a man who had borne a good reputation in a community

bordering on the very jail that held him, would have been given more

consideration than a professed criminal. It was not so. The earliest

opportunity given me to be heard was four weeks after my arrest. Then I

was afforded only a chance to plead not guilty to the charge, for the

district attorney, F. F. Lane, asked for an adjournment for two weeks

and was given it. What conspiracy was hatched during those two weeks, I

shall allow the facts to tell in their undeniable way.

The jail was one, for strength, that modern builders might copy with

profit to governments. It was of granite walls, two feet thick, with

double-barred windows and ponderous doors, well secured with massive

locks. The main floor of the jail proper was used for small fry thieves

and petty offenders, but the second floor contained three cells which

were used for the safe keeping of those charged with murder and felony.

Shinburn, Cummings, and I occupied these cells. The two end ones were

light, but that in the middle was on the order of a dungeon. My cell

was large, and two windows opened from it to the street.

One morning, shortly after the adjourned hearing, I missed Cummings.

No meals were brought to him that day, and when I could speak to the

jailer’s wife, she told me that he had been set free. At the first

opportunity I communicated with Shinburn, whose cell was the farthest

from mine. He said that Cummings had been let out of the back door

of the jail, so to speak, after relinquishing all claim to the five

thousand dollars he had when Detective Golden arrested him.

“Although the district attorney knew that Jim sold the bond to the

Scranton man, it was not possible to prove that the cash found on him

was received from the sale,” said Shinburn; “and when Jim said he’d let

up on the dust in case there was no conviction, Lane let him go. What’s

more, Jim’s railroad fare was paid to Rochester.”

Galling to me were these facts, if facts they were; and I had no reason

to doubt Shinburn in view of the positive information that Cummings was

no longer a prisoner. What a turn of fate was it, indeed, that wrought

out the freedom of a guilty man and left me, the innocent one, still in

jail! Was it any wonder that I groaned aloud and wondered whether there

was a God?

I now recall with what rapidity my case was called after the district

attorney had gotten Cummings out of the way. It was put forward with

all the vigor that I had clamored for six weeks prior, and excuses were

made that the delay was caused by the difficulty in framing the case.

As the time for the hearing drew near, I had a feeling that I was in

deadly peril, though Mr. Lynde assured me that there was no doubt that

I would not be held for the grand jury.

At last the day of the hearing before the magistrate came, and Shinburn

and I were taken into court. Mr. Lynde represented me, while Don H.

Woodward, a bright young attorney, had been retained by Shinburn. The

latter’s brother Frank, of Saratoga, had come East to look after his

interests. At times I had hopes that I would be free at the close of

the hearing, and again I would be despondent. I knew that I ought not

to be where I was, and it did seem to me that no circumstances ought to

be convincing enough to long imprison an innocent man. The discharge of

Cummings, by what means I never quite knew, created a grave doubt in

me; besides, I hadn’t much faith in the wisdom of the magistrate at the

hearing.

Mr. Lynde made a good representation for me, and so did Woodward for

Shinburn. In taking up my case, Mr. Lynde asked for a separate hearing

on my behalf, on the ground that the facts in the charge were vastly

different from those Shinburn must meet. This, District Attorney Lane

opposed with all his legal power and personal influence. All the

pleading that my attorney or I could do fell on unsympathetic ears,

apparently. My plea, as an innocent man, for the administration of

common, humane justice, was as futile as was Mr. Lynde’s. It was ruled

that Shinburn, the guilty, and White, the innocent, must be examined

together. And we were. The facts were against him, and I, with him for

a millstone about my neck, as it were, was held to await the action of

the grand jury. Shinburn, being guilty of the crime charged, had hoped

to escape, and it seemed to me that I had a right to.

Thus was I doomed to stand in the same prisoners’ dock with him, my

case tightly fastened to his with legal thongs,--the innocent and

the guilty to stand or fall together! What an unequal fight, what an

injustice, was dealt me!

In my declining years I often wonder, if there be a Supreme Ruler,--and

I believe there is,--whether, on the Judgment Day, there’ll not be an

awful reckoning for those who were so unjustly against me in my vain

battle to establish my innocence.

Realizing how matters were going, I asked Mr. Lynde to retain the

services of Mr. Woodward, and as I bade him good-night at the jail,

we’d decided to call to our aid also, ex-Judge Cushion and John M. Way,

both of whom I knew very well. The bail in my case was fixed at fifteen

thousand dollars, and in Shinburn’s, five thousand more. I hoped to be

out into the world again, before many hours, no matter what the future

held for me beyond the grand jury. As I meditated over the release of

Cummings and the action of the magistrate, I actually would not have

been surprised if Shinburn had been discharged, while I, alone, was

held to an accounting.

While I had lain in jail, Herbert Bellows began a suit in tort in

Middlesex County, Massachusetts, and, attaching my property, sacrificed

it at a forced sale. Though the trial of the suit was never had, I

was stripped of my property and left financially helpless, save for

the loyalty of my friends. Notwithstanding this lack of means, these

friends, not a few of them my creditors, came to my assistance, and

I was admitted to bail. In the meantime the grand jury handed down a

joint indictment against Shinburn and myself, and the case was placed

on the calendar of the October term of the Cheshire County Court.

CHAPTER V

HANGING OF THE MILLSTONE

It was toward the middle of October that Shinburn and I were brought

to trial, in the meantime the grand jury having presented indictments

against us, but that didn’t seem to affect me greatly, for the reason

that I was becoming more hopeful every day. Having been admitted to

bail and afforded an opportunity to be among my friends once more, the

despondency which attacked me in jail had given way to a feeling of

almost certainty that I would be declared not guilty. My attorneys,

the day before the trial, having examined all of our witnesses, from

Stoneham and Boston, were even more sanguine than I. John M. Way told

me that the prosecution could no more convict me than it could walk on

air. In fact, he said there wasn’t “a peg to hang a hat on.” And as to

Shinburn, though he had not been able to get bail, his counsel said

there would be no trouble in proving an alibi for him. If Shinburn,

who, I had no doubt, was guilty, could hope to escape, how much more

reason was there for me to expect a verdict of acquittal.

The trial day came, but our case was not called until long after noon.

A big crowd was in the court-room, as widespread interest had been

caused by the predicament which I was in. There were hundreds of people

present from several counties, a great many of whom could not obtain

admittance, owing to the lack of room.

I sat with my counsel, while Shinburn was seated twenty feet away, with

his. My attorneys had planned to make a great fight for a separate

trial, and had come to court primed with material to wage the battle.

While District Attorney Lane, who I knew was as persistent as ever to

convict me, was trying to get a jury, I had an opportunity to look

about me. Herbert T. Bellows was there to press the charge against us,

and as I looked in his face, I could see that he had no sympathy for

me. Two women and a man, sitting not far from Shinburn, were pointed

out to me as Mrs. and Miss Kimball and Frank Shinburn. The former,

mother and daughter, and the latter, Shinburn’s brother from Saratoga,

had come to testify to an alibi for him. The women, I was told, had

dined in a Boston hotel with him, at the time of the burglary. Another

friend, whose name was said to be William Matthews, of New York City,

sat near Shinburn and was present to testify that the latter was in

Boston at the time of the burglary; and again, in testimony as to

character, would swear that he knew the prisoner in New York, as a

respectable Wall Street broker.

There were many of my friends present, which included my Boston

business partners, Charles Meriam, a broker who had done no little

business for me, and my friends and my employees from Stoneham. Besides

these, I saw, what was dearer than all, my relatives, sitting there

to say by their acts that they believed me innocent, though the whole

world should be against me.

Disregarding the district attorney’s anxiety to get a jury together,

we registered a plea of not guilty to the crime of burglary, and Judge

Cushion, addressing Judge Doe, the ruler of the court, asked for a

separate trial of the indictment against me.

“We do not, your honor, dispute the law,” said he, “but we wish to

plead for a deep consideration of the merits of the case. It has

been set forth that the prisoner Shinburn and my client, Mr. White,

must, under the construction of the statutes of this state, be tried

together, because the acts alleged to have been committed by one are

linked with the acts committed by the other, as charged, and that this

is the best procedure, in order to best serve the interests of the

state, to the end that the law shall be vindicated and those punished

who committed the Walpole bank burglary.

“Now, your honor, there is no man who stands firmer than I for the

elevation of the moral and legal standards. I would see men walk

in the best paths of citizenship, and I would have the people look

upon the law as something too pure and unsullied to be lightly held,

instead of being obeyed for fear of the consequences. I would have the

law respected because it is right, and not because there is a penalty

if it is violated. But in the case of the prisoners before the court

to-day, there is a distinct difference. In Shinburn we have a man about

whom there is nothing known in this community. He may be guilty of

the charge of burglary or he may not. So far as I know, he is falsely

accused. But, as to George White, my client, many of you here know, and

I know, that until this damnable accusation was brought against him he

was untouched by the shadow of suspicion.

“There are, no doubt, many in this court-room to-day who have known him

as child and man, and who know him to be all that a well-bred youth and

man should be. Born almost on this very soil, he has been educated,

instructed in business affairs, and by his diligence and unusual energy

has won the respect of all who have personally known him, and such

as have not been fortunate enough to have an intimate acquaintance

with him have respected him for the fine business reputation that his

efforts have won. From one pursuit to another he went on, only to

become more and more successful, and until the day that this awful

charge was laid at his door, no man had dared to breathe a vile word

against his splendid character. I doubt if he had an enemy in the world

the day of his arrest, and, as far as I know, he has none to-day.

“But a robbery was committed in Walpole; a bank was unlocked with the

cashier’s keys, and several thousands of dollars were appropriated.

Presently we find that two men, accused of that crime, have been

apprehended. In the course of an investigation by the authorities,

it was developed that these men, one alleging himself to be a United

States deputy marshal, had hired, at various times, horses and

carriages from the livery stable owned by my client, Mr. White, and

that on an occasion he drove them to the points they desired, as he had

been engaged to do. Having acted as their servant, and having been well

paid for it, Mr. White returned to the pursuit of his business, and was

in entire ignorance of the fact that the two men he had thus served

were, at the very time, plotting to rob the Walpole Savings-bank, as is

charged in the indictment.

“Now I claim, your honor, that in Mr. White, an innocent citizen, a

reputable business man, whose character is above the awful imputation

against him, we have an unusual case; and that this court of justice,

in view of the fact that all men are entitled to every privilege

whereby they may establish their innocence, is bound to respect those

rights.

“In Mr. White we have a man known to the community in which he is to

be tried. In the moral court he has been on trial before his fellow-men

all his life, and the verdict has been handed down, that he has done

well. We find that the magistrate who held him for the grand jury

declared that he must stand trial, side by side, with a man who is

an entire stranger in the community; and why? Because, your honor,

this man saw fit to hire horses and vehicles from him! One of the men

who went to Mr. White’s stable and engaged a carriage, and who was

apprehended and charged with the Walpole bank burglary, has been set

free. Why is it that the man Cummings, about whom we know nothing,

is given a clean bill of health, while my client here, Mr. White,

whose life has been an open book, is held to prove his innocence? If

the prisoner Shinburn, who, with Cummings, hired vehicles from Mr.

White, is guilty, why is not the man Cummings brought before the bar

to answer? Instead of that, your honor, the district attorney has

arraigned one of the accused and permitted the other to go, and my

client, Mr. White, seems to have been brought in to fill up the vacancy.

“But of the man Shinburn I know nothing. It is alleged, however, that

bonds were found in his possession, the same the property of the

Walpole Bank, and it is also charged that he was seen in Keene shortly

before the burglary. As I have stated, I know nothing of this, but I do

know that the evidence, such as it is, is entirely different from that

alleged against my client. I do know that he had nothing to do with

stolen bonds, that none were found in his possession, that he had no

guilty knowledge that he had been driving criminals about the country,

and that, in view of these facts, he is entitled to a separate trial

from that given the other prisoner at the bar.

“And now, your honor, in the name of common justice, in the name of

humanity, I ask, ay, demand, that Mr. George White, the honorable

business man of Stoneham, be given a fair opportunity to prove his

innocence of this infamous allegation the district attorney has made

against him. And, your honor, the way to accord him that right which

the constitution bestows on him, in my opinion, is to give him a

separate trial. In the name of justice I demand that right.”

Judge Cushion’s plea made a profound impression, it seemed to me, on

every one in the court-room; not excluding Judge Doe and the district

attorney. There was an intense feeling within me that I would be

accorded the privilege for which my counsel had spoken. Judge Doe

looked at the district attorney as if to say, “I’ll hear you now,” and

Mr. Lane arose and began his short opposition, in a cold, hard voice.

“We have a case against two men,” said he, “and they are before the

court--Mark Shinburn and George White. The Walpole Savings-bank

burglary was committed by two men, and we are prepared to show by

competent testimony that the prisoners at the bar are guilty of the

crime with which they are charged. They are jointly indicted, are

jointly guilty, and they, according to the law of this state, must be

tried together.

“The prisoner White was a poor farmer but a few years ago. It is not

possible that he could have honestly accumulated the wealth he now

possesses. Where did he get it? He was seen driving about the country

with the prisoner Shinburn at the time the plot to rob the Walpole Bank

was being concocted. These are the plain facts which the state will

prove. There can be no legal decision rendered by the court which will

accord the prisoner White a separate trial. I will quote the law.”

District Attorney Lane then read at length from the criminal law of the

state, and sat down.

Don H. Woodward, as I have said, was a young attorney, and never

had had an opportunity to show his powers. Undoubtedly fired by the

injustice which had been meted out to me, he pressed into the fight

with an energy that even surprised himself. He spoke of the unfairness

of the law that precluded a separate trial for the prisoners, and

then proceeded to bitterly arraign the district attorney. Seldom

has a prosecutor been compelled to listen to a flaying such as was

administered him by this dashing young lawyer. His words were fearless,

and at times he charged the district attorney with being influenced by

ulterior motives.

“A man was arrested in Saratoga, your honor,” said he, “a business

man, a broker. That man is the prisoner, Mr. Mark Shinburn. Bonds were

found on him by the police. Two weeks later a man known to the district

attorney as James Cummings was apprehended and held in the jail with

Shinburn by Mr. Lane. The first knowledge of the whereabouts of the

property taken from the Walpole Bank was obtained through the sale of

one of the government bonds, and the man who sold the bond was James

Cummings. When the detectives arrested him, they found more than five

thousand dollars in his possession, the result of the sale of one or

more of the stolen bonds. This man Cummings placed bonds in the keeping

of my client, Mr. Shinburn, to be sold in the open market. The result

of doing a legitimate business for a man who has turned out to be a

‘looter’ of the Walpole Bank, is that my client is before this court

accused of the crime of burglary.

“Now, your honor, I wish to show, in plain words, that mighty queer

proceedings have been going on since the arrest of this man Cummings,

and particularly since a third prisoner, Mr. George White, was brought

into the case. The district attorney has placed himself, through

certain acts, mighty near where a foul cesspool of conspiracy can be

scented. Whether he has readied that condition of his own volition,

or whether the powerful political influence of a stockholder of the

Walpole Bank has forced him into it, I am not in the position to say.

But I do charge that there has come into this case an element that

should bring to the cheeks of all honest men the blush of shame.

“Why, your honor, the district attorney brings into this court two men,

one a respectable business man and broker of Saratoga, New York, and

the other an honorable gentleman known to this community for nearly all

his life, and charges them with an infamous crime. He has come here to

ask a jury to convict them and your honor to pass sentences that shall

put them in state prison, to their everlasting disgrace, the loss of

their citizenship, the loss of their fair reputations, and what is

more, the district attorney would further tear the bosoms of loving

mothers and fathers already grievously afflicted with sorrow. All

this District Attorney Lane would do, in face of the fact that he has

allowed James Cummings, the actual Walpole burglar, the Walpole stolen

bond seller, to go entirely free of prosecution. He dare not deny it,

your honor. And why has he done this? Ask Herbert T. Bellows, sitting

in this court-room, and perhaps he can tell you and the others why

this unheard-of thing has been done. Will Mr. Bellows speak out? No,

sir--not he! Neither will the district attorney.

“Why, your honor, the very money found on Cummings was from the sale of

one or more of the Walpole bonds. When Detective Golden arrested him,

this money was confiscated and turned over to District Attorney Lane.

While it may not be proved that it was the fruit of the bond-selling,

it can be proved that Cummings sold the stolen bonds. My client, Mr.

Shinburn, sold no bonds, neither did Mr. White; but Cummings did. Why

was Cummings allowed to slip out of the back door of the jail, your

honor? Will the district attorney tell us? What has become of the five

thousand and more dollars? Was that money the price of the release of

the ‘looter’ of the Walpole Bank? If so, who prompted District Attorney

Lane to accept the price, if he did?

“Again, your honor, I wish to call your attention to the fact that the

defendants, through their counsel, made persistent efforts to get an

early hearing, but it was denied them at the instigation of District

Attorney Lane. For six long weeks their pleas were disregarded, and in

the meanwhile the district attorney made a dicker with Cummings, the

Walpole bank burglar, and in that bargain this Cummings turned over to

Mr. Lane more than five thousand dollars. Then the enterprising burglar

was set at liberty, to continue his preying upon the public, it being

done in a star chamber proceeding, and supplied with money to pay his

railroad fare to Rochester, New York. I state all this, your honor,

with a view of opening your eyes to what is going on in this case, and

with the hope that the prisoners, so infamously charged, may be given

the benefit of this warning.

“All of this looks very plain to me, sir. Cummings was arrested with

a large amount of cash in his possession, and some one wanted it, and

he was willing to give it up, provided he was set free. Two men, it is

alleged, your honor, robbed the Walpole Bank. Mr. Shinburn was arrested

and would do for one prisoner; but if Cummings were given his liberty,

who would take his place? That was the question. Where was the second

victim to come from? Ah, a thought strikes some one! A certain hotel

keeper and liveryman in Stoneham let teams, according to the district

attorney, to a man resembling Mr. Shinburn, one of the defendants here.

Excellent! Grand idea! The liveryman was arrested, and was none other

than Mr. George White, the other defendant here. The men behind this

case got detectives from New York to journey to Stoneham and drag into

this awful mess this respectable business man; and we find him in court

before your honor to-day, the second victim, standing in the shoes

which Cummings should fill. Is not this an infamous state of affairs,

your honor? I charge that the district attorney set James Cummings

free. I charge that Cummings did not take the five thousand dollars

with him, and that the district attorney paid for the railway ticket

that took him to Rochester. If ever there was a case of compounding a

felony, then this is one. In view of all these facts, your honor, I say

that the prisoners at the bar should be granted separate trials.”

Judge Doe had listened to this impassioned speech with much interest,

apparently, but without any delay decided that Shinburn and I must be

tried together. Asking for a moment in which to consult, Judge Cushion,

and Mr. Woodward and the others of Shinburn’s and my counsel drew

aside and earnestly discussed the attitude of the court and district

attorney. My counsel believed me to be innocent and Shinburn guilty,

yet in view of the ultimatum that both must be tried at once, it was

a question whether there could be found a way to further fight for

separate trials, or, bowing submissively to the ruling, proceed to

establish a joint defence in which the innocent and guilty must stand

or fall together.

“It’s sink or swim, gentlemen!” Judge Cushion told the others at the

termination of the conference; and they returned to the tables.

Well, when court adjourned that afternoon, a jury to try us had been

chosen, Sumner Warren being its foreman, and the preliminaries had been

accomplished so that the prosecution was ready to call its witnesses

the first thing the next morning. As for my feelings, they had

undergone a great change since the convening of the court. All the fear

that possessed me after the hearing at which I was denied a separate

chance to prove my innocence, was upon me again. The hopefulness of

the morning had resolved into the gloom of night. I must fight my way

through the great cloud that beset me, handicapped by the case of a

man I had no reason to doubt was guilty of the crime with which he

stood accused. Linked with a criminal, I must prove my innocence or be

convicted a felon.

My lawyers said there was no reason for me to feel despondent; that we

would win despite all that was pitted against us; that there wasn’t any

evidence upon which the jury could possibly base a verdict of guilty,

though they might be ever so prejudiced. As to the jury being a fair

and well-disposed body of men, Judge Cushion said he had no doubt of

that. I took all this as poor comfort, however, and in my hotel that

night there was precious little sleep for me. After a long, weary

vigil, the dawn came, and with it the nerve-distracting trial, which

lasted ten days.

I shall not go into the details of the testimony. Herbert Bellows

was a witness, testifying to the ownership of the bonds found in

Shinburn’s pockets; and another witness declared that Shinburn was a

man he’d seen riding in a rig, between Walpole and Keene, early in the

morning following the burglary, and upon being asked to identify the

other man with Shinburn, said I looked very much like him. Detectives

Golden and Kelso swore to the facts surrounding Shinburn’s arrest,

and to the search in the Saratoga farm-house where burglars’ tools

were discovered. Other witnesses told how I let horses and carriages

to Shinburn, and drove him to Claremont and Keene, and that I had

engaged a turnout from Layton Martin’s stables to do so. All of

which I had done; but was it not horrible to sit and listen to the

criminal construction placed upon these innocent acts? to listen to

the motive attributed to me? And still other witnesses swore that

I had accumulated a fortune in two years, that was impossible of

accomplishment through honest means, and that being the case, I must

have gotten the money somewhere, and why not from the Walpole Bank?

At times I writhed under these damning words, and it was with the

utmost difficulty that I was restrained, time and time and again, from

springing to my feet and crying out that they who talked thus were

liars. Glad I am that my friends made me hold my peace!

At last the prosecution rested and the defence called its witnesses.

Frank Shinburn told the jury that his brother was a broker and that

James Cummings placed the bonds in Mark’s hands for sale. Shinburn’s

sister corroborated him. On cross-examination this testimony was

shaken, particularly that of the brother. Mrs. Kimball and her

daughter testified that they dined with Shinburn and Billy Matthews

at the Revere House in Boston at the very time District Attorney Lane

alleged he was in Keene plotting the burglary. These women were honest

in giving this testimony, but a subsequent examination of the hotel

register showed that the dinner took place the day after the robbery.

William Matthews swore that Shinburn was a broker who did much business

in Wall Street, New York City, and that he had often sold bonds for

him, and that he’d dined with the prisoner and the two women in the

Revere House, Boston, as had been testified to.

My witnesses from Boston testified to the business which took me to

that city every day, from ten o’clock in the morning until evening.

The time for every day in the week prior and after the burglary was

accounted for. One of my partners in the Boston firm of Towle & Seavy

told of the manner in which I had accumulated wealth. Several bank

officials testified to the dates on checks which showed where I was

at vital moments,--the moments when I was supposed to be actually

engaged in robbing the Walpole Bank. A number of witnesses testified

to various business ventures in which I was engaged with John M. Way

and several other reputable business men, and how many checks passed

in this business; and Charles Meriam, a broker of Boston, swore to

the sums of money that he received and invested for us, all of which

made a perfect accounting of the prodigious wealth which the district

attorney had conjured up against me. A. V. Lynde went on the stand

and told of my real-estate transactions with him; how I had bought

tracts of land from him and how I had dealt at all times honorably.

My clerks, Ellis Merrill and Fred Benson, told in detail of my strict

attention to business; of how I got up every week day at five o’clock

in the morning, attended to my business in Stoneham, and leaving that

in charge of my employees, went to Boston to look after my business

interests there. After finishing in Boston I would return to Stoneham

to look after things at the close of the day. In fact, all of my

time was well accounted for, making a complete alibi. Ellis Merrill

testified to the fact that he had been the first to meet Wyckoff and

Cummings at the Central House; that I was away when they came, and that

he let a team to them of which I knew nothing until my return from

Vermont. All these witnesses testified to my splendid business and

social reputation, my honesty, veracity, and integrity. Fully twenty

witnesses, all intimate friends, took oath on my behalf, to combat the

testimony of a few witnesses, none of whom could swear positively to a

point against me, except that I drove about the country a man who, they

swore, was Shinburn.

Shinburn was not wanted by his counsel to take the witness stand; but

I impatiently awaited my time to tell what I could, in the minutest

detail, of my movements that could in any way be dragged, even by

conspiracy, into the case. At last Judge Cushion called my name, and I

arose to testify. District Attorney Lane was on his feet in an instant,

protesting loudly that I had no right to witness for myself, that it

was contrary to the New Hampshire laws; and he quickly quoted from the

statutes.

Judge Cushion answered back in clarion tones, that, law or no law, I

must be given an opportunity to explain many circumstances; that the

law of God and common sense entitled me to every opportunity to prove

my innocence. He declared that I could easily explain away all the

ugly suspicion that attached to me through my association with the

bogus United States deputy marshal. But it was a fruitless argument for

me. Judge Doe decided that I could not testify on my own behalf, and

in this manner another thong was added to those already binding the

millstone to my neck. The remainder of the trial was a vague dream to

me. Judge Cushion made a masterly plea for the defence, and Assistant

District Attorney Wheeler, the brightest legal brain then attached to

Mr. Lane’s office, wove a web of evidence about Shinburn and spoke of

my suspicious acquaintance with the man Wyckoff. I know the judge

wept as he pleaded my case, and I know that Lawyer Wheeler was bitter

in his arraignment of Shinburn. Standing out prominently in my memory,

however, are the words he chose in closing his “summing up” for the

prosecution. They were directed to the witness William Matthews.

“And this is the sort of a witness they bring from the reeking hells

of New York to be a witness in a New Hampshire court of justice,” he

cried, pointing to Matthews. I thought it was a terrible thing to hear

said of a man, and wondered why this friend of Shinburn’s did not

measure the assistant district attorney’s length on the floor, in front

of the very eyes of the judge and jury.

Judge Doe charged the jurors to consider well the facts in the

testimony, and told them what was evidence and what was not. It was a

hard, merciless review of the case, and I shivered with apprehension.

It struck me like a chill wind from a damp, mouldy cavern. The jury

retired, and when it was evident that they would not bring in a

verdict that day, I was taken to a cell to await the morning. Oh, the

uncertainty, the horror of it all!

As I was conducted to the court-room the next day, it did not take long

to tell what the verdict was; for I could read the dreaded news in the

face of Sumner Warren, the foreman, as he and the other jurymen filed

to their seats. I felt faint with the strain.

“Guilty!” I heard Sumner Warren say, in response to the clerk’s solemn

question.

“Guilty!” I groaned to myself. “Was ever there such injustice?”

“Bad enough, but I’m glad it’s no worse, George,” said my good friend

and attorney, Mr. Lynde. “We’ll have you free--a disagreement is as

good as an acquittal, in this case.”

“How? what? why?” I stammered, all but dazed.

“Shinburn has been convicted, but the jury has disagreed in your case!”

said he. “That’s why they were out all night. Six of them believe you

are not guilty.”

“Thank God!” I breathed. “Then six of them believe that I could not

be guilty of the awful crime charged to me. But how in God’s name can

_any_ of them believe it?”

I could not see all the hope that my attorneys seemed to derive

from the situation. I wanted to be entirely free from the horrible

accusation. Six men, under oath to render a verdict according to the

evidence, had determined that I was guilty, though I was innocent.

I was half condemned, and to me that meant a stigma would ever be

hovering about my reputation, and some one always would believe

that I was not the good man I claimed to be. Judge Cushion freely

expressed the opinion that there would never be another trial; that I

would be admitted to a nominal bail, if not allowed to go on my own

recognizance, and that in due time the indictment would be dismissed.

Despite the depression that the verdict had left upon me, I went to the

jail that morning with a faint hope.

Later in the day Shinburn was sentenced to ten years at hard labor

in the Concord state prison. He took the judge’s words with an

indifference which I couldn’t understand. In fact, a little later,

in his cell, I saw him making eyes at a pretty woman who lived in a

house across the street, just back of the jail. She was married, and

seemed to enjoy very much the many sly flirtations she had had with

him from her windows. I thought that she was better off attending to

her husband’s affairs than wasting her smiles on a man convicted of

burglary. But then, there was never a gauge that would truly measure

the taste of women. Some of them do most unaccountable things where a

man is concerned.

At the first opportunity Shinburn told me that he was really sorry I’d

got into trouble at all, but congratulated me on the prospect of my

getting entirely free of the charge. He seemed to entertain the same

idea with my counsel as to the outcome of my case, and expressed the

wish that he’d been as fortunate as I.

During the day I had a long consultation with Judge Cushion and my

faithful attorneys, who said that they would get Judge Doe to fix a

bail for me at the earliest possible moment. I urged them to do so, as

I wanted to get away from the terrible haunting thoughts that besieged

me. I said that prison bars were not conducive to pleasant thoughts.

At about five o’clock that day I saw Shinburn, coat and hat on, come

out of his cell. He had unlocked his door, as I could plainly see, with

a key that looked very much like a piece of heavy tin. He relocked

it, motioning me to keep silent, and slipped behind the grated door

through which the jailer and his wife were expected to appear, almost

any minute, from the corridor into the cell room. I waited. Almost

immediately the couple came in and passed over toward his cell; why

he was not discovered with only the grated door between him and the

jailer, I can’t understand. The instant the way was clear he slipped

from behind the door and, waving his hand to me, disappeared. In an

instant the visitors to Shinburn’s cell found it empty, and then there

was excitement enough for all hands in the jail.

The next morning I heard how Shinburn fared as far as those engaged

in pursuing him would tell. Upon passing from my view he had hastened

downstairs, and through the apartments of Jailer Wilder, threw up a

window sash in the parlor, and jumped into the yard. Getting into the

street, he encountered Under-sheriff Davis, who chanced to be passing

the jail. Dodging him, Shinburn started eastward out of the village

toward the woods. The under-sheriff, recovering from his surprise,

began yelling like a madman, and started in pursuit, followed by a

crowd of shouting villagers. Soon there was a mob after him, but not

one of them was armed, and it was supposed that Shinburn was no better

off.

For three-quarters of a mile the fugitive kept ahead of his pursuers,

and by that time he had reached the woods, in front of which was a tall

fence. Climbing over it, he coolly seated himself on a log and waited

for his enemies to come near. When they had, he drew his revolver and,

covering them, said sudden death was awaiting any one who attempted to

cross over the fence. Not one dared to disobey him.

In the meantime Jailer Wilder, arming himself, followed on after the

first party. When Shinburn saw reënforcements approaching, he got up

from the log, and, smiling cheerfully, said, “Now you see me and now

you don’t!” At this he turned and plunged into the woods and was lost

to view. He left his overcoat behind, for it had retarded his escape.

For several hours, according to the story I was told, the woods were

searched, but Shinburn was not found. Later I heard there was a

wholesome dread of the pistol he carried, and that none of the party

was too venturesome. Jailer Wilder was at loss to know where Shinburn

got a key to his cell door and where he had obtained a revolver. I was

asked more than once, but of a truth I knew nothing of the plan of

escape. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to the sheriff.

High-sheriff George Holbrook made an investigation which resulted in

putting upon the jailer the suspicion that he conspired in Shinburn’s

escape. Subsequently Wilder was removed from office, and the stigma of

it he carried with him to his grave. But be it recorded here, that he

was innocent beyond all doubt. In later years I had it from Shinburn’s

own lips, that the unfortunate jailer was blameless; and that his

descendants may know it, even at this tardy day, is why I have been

thus earnest and painstaking in recording the fact.

[Illustration: Maximilian Shinburn]

CHAPTER VI

PERSECUTION

I awoke the next morning, with a start, from a night of interrupted

slumber. The closing hours of the trial and the escape of Shinburn had

command of my brain till it was a relief to open my eyes and become

conscious of my surroundings. As I thought of Shinburn away from the

horror of the jail, I will not attempt to deny that I had a sense of

gladness for him. I had seen considerable of this man in jail, and I

had to confess to myself that he possessed the rare faculty of winning

the friendship of almost any one. He had won mine as the fictitious

deputy marshal, and knowing him at length as the bank burglar, I could

not do else but like him. His whole-souled, generous nature shone

through his criminal craft, until at times I found myself wondering

if he really were a felon,--wondering if I were not in a dream. When

this mood was dissolved, and I realized that he was a criminal of

exceptional cunning,--all he’d been proved at the trial,--I asked

myself what it was that had sent him on to the commission of crime.

At times, when I would hear his soft, gracious voice, look in his

kindly blue eyes, and admire his genial smile, it was not difficult to

fancy him standing in a pulpit, preaching the word of God. But I am

digressing too much.

These thoughts gave way to the more important matter of getting bail.

Now that the jury had disagreed, my counsel applied for my release,

believing that only nominal bail would be required; but imagine their

astonishment when Judge Doe announced he’d increased it to twenty

thousand dollars. This was as outrageous as it was unexpected, in

view of the issue of the trial. Had I not been declared innocent,

practically, by some of the jurymen? Was not their action sufficient in

itself to warrant the authorities, on the moral ground, if on no other,

in giving me the benefit of the doubt, so far as bail was concerned?

My counsel were up and doing, unsparing of words in protesting against

the injustice, proceeding almost to the point of offending Judge Doe.

And my loyal friends again came to the rescue. Speedily setting about,

they subscribed the new bail, and in a few days my release was once

more applied for. To our consternation this sum was declared to be

insufficient, and when an explanation was demanded of Judge Doe, he

answered by increasing the bond to forty thousand dollars.

“And if that is offered,” he declared coldly, “I’ll make it eighty

thousand dollars!”

Here was persecution absolute. His decision was a flat refusal

to accord the right guaranteed me by the constitution,--the right

of admission to bail, charged as I was with a felony only. A

constitutional guaranty had been swept away like so much waste

paper. My trial had been a travesty on justice, and then to crown

that, I was being persecuted, was hopelessly bound in the toils of a

relentless, powerful enemy, it seemed. I must remain in jail to await

another trial--bear the agony longer--helpless, because a certain

influential man had schemed to drag my wealth from me to reimburse

himself and others. As to getting my wealth, that, indeed, had been

accomplished. My business had been seized and sold, and I was penniless

and dependent. What more did they want? Would the human vultures not

be satisfied until my body had been thrust in a prison cell and kept

there for years--until torture had devoured it? Was there, I cried out

to God, no limit to the persecution of an innocent man? Where was that

boasted justice, that love and that piety of the Puritans? Had mammon

ridden roughshod over and crushed out those high ideals of old New

Hampshire? I found no answer, not even an echo of my words from the

four bleak walls of my prison-house.

As the weeks wore on and there was no relief, the evil that persisted

in forcing itself upon me, from time to time, and which I had as often

conquered, came back again with still greater force. Made reckless

to the danger point by the power of my wrongs, I fostered the evil

thoughts until they were almost my ruling passion. I swore one day I

would no longer willingly submit to such inhuman treatment; that I

would be a law unto myself, and that I would accept the consequences,

be what they might.

The dreary autumn days had merged into winter when the decision to

break out of jail became an accepted thought. Day and night I meditated

over a plot that would make freedom from my cell certain. My friends,

aroused over the injustice heaped upon me, were only too willing, at

last, to lend their aid. All the tools, clothing, and money needed

would be forthcoming at the proper time, and I believed that God would

forgive any one who would brave a violation of the law to succor an

unfortunate one like me.

At last I completed a plan, and when February came I had secreted in

my cell the saws, files, and other implements necessary to cut my way

to freedom. In the cell with me at that time was a young burglar named

Woods, whom I did not much trust, but felt obliged to include in my

plans. He, naturally, was willing, and from then on we labored together

in one common interest.

It looked like a hopeless job at the beginning, barred and triple

barred as the cell window was. There were two sets of inner iron bars

in trellis work, and attached to the set nearest to the window sash

by four iron rods in sockets was yet an outer trellis. The only way

to get through this network of bars was to cut an opening in the two

inner trellises, large enough to admit the passage of our bodies, and

sever the inner ends of the four rods supporting the outer trellis.

This done, the outside trellis could be pried off, when it would drop

in the jail yard. But all this necessitated sawing twenty-seven square

inches of iron--a tremendous undertaking, as can be readily understood.

However, I was determined to succeed, even to the surmounting of

greater difficulties.

I decided that the sawing must be done in the daytime, else the

rasping of the saw would attract the attention of some one in the

jail. Besides, Sheriff Aldrich, who had succeeded Jailer Wilder after

Shinburn’s escape, slept in an apartment on the floor below, and not

any too far away for our purpose. By daylight we could work fairly

well by dodging people passing in front of the jail and those who

occasionally came in the corridor leading to the cell. From the inside

was where we must expect the most interference. Believing that I could

best throw off suspicion, in case any one came near while we were busy,

I had Woods do the sawing. The points most pregnable were pointed out,

and we began. At once it became a most difficult and tedious job. The

weather was frigid, and when we weren’t shivering with apprehension

lest we be discovered, we were being badly nipped by Jack Frost. Very

frequently people passed in the road, or Jailer Aldrich came in the

corridor, or there was danger of our work attracting the attention of

some one of the prisoners below. There were days when we accomplished

scarcely anything, owing to the almost incessant interference; while

on other days we made hopeful advancement. Finally, after two weeks

of work and worry, we had cut, all but the shreds, an aperture in

the inner trellises, sufficiently large, we believed, through which

we could crawl. The shreds we would cut the afternoon before we

made the exit. The four bars holding the outside trellis had been

similarly treated. Then, having been provided with what we needed

to make the journey, we set the following midnight as the hour for

our surreptitious exit. The next evening, after supper, we finished

the opening in the bars and prepared for the vital moment. We had a

stout piece of wood in the cell to use as a lever for prying off the

outside trellis, and at midnight, all being ready, I proceeded. Despite

my greatest effort, the lever would not move the trellis, and when

Woods added his weight, there was no better success. I was shocked

and disappointed. It seemed that we had not sawed near enough to the

severing point, so far as the four rods supporting the outer trellis

were concerned. I had feared that the thing would fall off before we

were ready and spoil our escape. The stick seemed too short to furnish

the leverage needed. I looked about for something better, feeling

satisfied I wouldn’t find it in the cell. Suddenly it flashed across

me that I could use a part of the iron bedstead, and I cut off one of

its legs, and we went at the work again like madmen, as time was fast

leaving us in a sore predicament. Even the new lever didn’t avail us

anything further than to show me that we had made the opening in the

inner trellises too small. We were confronting a critical situation

indeed.

It would soon be daylight, and the jailer would call with our morning

meal; and if the aperture in the grating was not filled, we could not

expect anything but discovery.

“What can we do, White?” asked young Woods, pale-faced. It was bad

enough, he thought, to be in jail for burglary without facing a charge

of attempting to escape from it.

I recalled we had cosmetic. Perhaps the iron-work could be kept in

place with it until we could get something better. I put the patches of

grating back in their places and filled the crevices with the cosmetic.

It didn’t seem to me they would stay in. Any vibration, I thought,

might tumble them out.

“It’s the best we can do, Woods,” I said, not cheerfully; “and as to

that lame bed, we’ll have to be mighty careful it doesn’t betray us.

We’ll see that it is carefully made,--no one can do that job so well

this morning as one of us.”

“I’ll be the chambermaid,” Woods said, with a laugh that had a false

ring in it.

“By cracky, how my back hurts!” I said, with a groan, as I doubled

forward and hobbled about the cell. “I never had such a peculiar pain

in my life.”

“Must have caught it from the open window,” suggested the young man.

“Hope it won’t make you sick. Better get a porous plaster from Aldrich.

Mother allers uses ’em.”

“The ordinary kind won’t cure my pain, lad,” I answered, with a laugh

and straightening up; “I’ve got to have some pitch--the real pine.

Nothing else will relieve me.”

Woods looked mystified.

“Wait,” said I.

When Jailer Aldrich brought in breakfast, he was sorry to see me in

such “rheumatiz” distress, and I had little difficulty in inducing him

to fetch me a quantity of pitch with which to make a “home-made” porous

plaster. It was to be differently applied than he dreamed. It was not

difficult to obtain the pitch, because Aldrich usually supplied the

prisoners with any necessities.

With it I patched up the grating so that it would stand inspection at

long distance, though a casual examination close by would have meant

instant exposure. However, that day we began to make the opening in

the inner trellises five inches larger. On the third day we received

a fright that caused me to tremble for an hour afterward and wonder

how it all turned out so well for us. High-sheriff George Holbrook

and two visitors came unexpectedly upon us, despite my precaution. It

was with great difficulty that we assumed our normal conditions. Any

other time I would have been glad to see them, but now it was simply,

it seemed to me, like playing tag with discovery. Holbrook must not be

allowed to get near the window or all would be over. I never was too

much of a talker. I had often declared I would never make a book agent

or an insurance solicitor, but how I did chatter away at them. I said

anything, nothing, talked of all subjects I could think of, until it

seemed I must have driven them away in disgust. Indeed, they were about

to depart when the sheriff moved toward the window.

“Holbrook!” I cried, in sheer desperation. “Here--see this!” and

caught up a law book Don Woodward, one of my counsel, had loaned me. I

don’t know what I said or read and I don’t care, for it did the trick.

Holbrook and the visitors a moment or two later had gone. Woods was

near the window, trembling. I sat down and wiped the clammy sweat from

my brow. My heart was beating sluggishly; and for a few minutes my

vision was dazed and I could see naught but dancing sparks like little

stars. I came mighty close to swooning.

“We’ve got to get out of this to-night, Woods,” I said, on recovering.

“It won’t do to spend another day here under these conditions.”

And we went to work again and at dark had finished the sawing,

practically. Five minutes more of that kind of work would suffice.

Clothed, a rope of blankets ready, and in every way fitted for our

journey, we waited for midnight. I well remember the weather--severely

cold and plenty of snow on the ground. We were to race for the

farm-house of Woods’s father, two miles out of Keene. There, without

Mr. Woods’s permission, we were to get a horse and sleigh.

At last the hour came, and with the bed leg for a lever I pried at the

outer trellis. Thank goodness, this time it moved, and I shoved it

outward, expecting it to fall to the ground. Fate was with us--instead,

one of the shreds of iron tenaciously hung fast and answered as a

hinge. The two hundred and fifty pounds of iron swung back almost

noiselessly against the masonry and remained there. Had it fallen, the

crash, notwithstanding the snow, might have aroused Jailer Aldrich,

sleeping not far away. The rest of the journey to _terra firma_ was

not difficult. With blankets tied end to end, we let ourselves down

to the ground, and, scaling the stone wall, quit the jail at one

o’clock in the morning. We found it pretty hard plodding through the

snow. Getting to Woods’s barn, we stealthily as possible hitched up

the horse, but not without some trouble with the family watch-dog.

However, Woods succeeded in quieting him, and, getting off with no

further discovery, we were soon driving at a fast pace through Surrey,

past Walpole, and toward Bellows Falls. When near the bridge over the

Connecticut River we passed a noisy sleighing party, among whom I

recognized, by his voice, Sheriff Stebbins of Charlestown, Sullivan

County. We kept our heads well down in our coats and felt glad when

we’d got by without being discovered. Several years after that I saw

Sheriff Stebbins at Charlestown under rather peculiar circumstances.

We encountered nothing unpleasant in the six miles drive from Bellows

Falls to Saxton’s River, where lived a fine old uncle of mine. He and

my aunt had a comfortable place on the outskirts of the village, and

although they knew we were fugitives, they made us welcome. My aunt

prepared a nice breakfast while I sent Woods to the village with his

father’s rig, instructing him to leave it there to be returned and

gave him money to pay for the hire of another. He came back, and after

breakfast we resumed our journey toward Londonderry. It was my plan to

drive over the Green Mountains into New York State, and, getting rid

of the team, to strike out for a large city, probably New York. Woods

had a cousin in Londonderry, where he said we could get some food for

ourselves and fodder for the horse, after which the next point to be

made would be Salem, just over the Vermont border in New York. This

we did to a dot. I, being ready to continue the journey from Salem by

rail, directed Woods to drive the team from there eastward twelve miles

to a village, where he was to put it in charge of the stage driver who

journeyed regularly to Saxton’s River. Thus the liveryman would get

back his property in the good condition we found it. Woods was to make

Troy or any other place he saw fit.

By rail from Salem to Troy, thence to New York, was a matter of only

a few hours, and as I whirled along I had ample time to meditate over

my lot; but the more I thought of what I had gone through, the more I

seemed to be forced down to by-paths into which I had never dreamt of

setting foot. After a time I compelled myself by sheer force to think

of other things--what I would do, whether I would go farther west

or remain in New York, and whether it would be wise to immediately

ask for employment in some big dry-goods store there. I knew I could

do passably well as a clerk in that line, for the experience in my

father’s store and in my own later would stand me in hand.

At Albany I managed to get a newspaper, but saw nothing in it about

my escape. A few hours later I was in New York. It was a dreary day,

but after all there was a sense of freedom about me. I was no longer

in a grewsome cell at Keene. I was away from those months of horror.

Reflecting over what I had done, I felt certain that a reward would be

offered for my capture. In plain terms I realized that I was a fugitive

from justice. As the word “justice” came to me I seemed to fill up with

hatred. What a travesty my experience had proved the word to be. I

shuddered at the possession of such thoughts, for hitherto I had been

a firm believer in the righteous adjustment of all things; had been a

sincere believer in the law. Again I stifled these ugly feelings that

surged up within me.

Starting out for lodgings, I soon found them and sat down to lay out my

plans. Again despite all my best efforts to the contrary, the terrible

experiences dating from the second day of June would come to the fore,

and I seemed to hear evil voices urging me to forsake all that was

good and plunge into the swift-flowing current of vice. But, as on

other occasions when I’d battled with evil, I could see the faces of my

father and mother looming up in this train of thought, like a shaft of

silver light athwart a threatening cloud, and I could hear, it seemed,

the earnest solicitation of my loyal friends to be courageous though

the worst come, and that they would stand by me until the last. When

these good thoughts gained the ascendency, again I resolved to profit

by it, and straightway set about to seek honest employment in which I

could make a fresh start, endeavor to fight down my persecutors, and

rebuild my fortune.

I found a clerkship in A. T. Stewart & Company’s retail dry-goods house

after some effort, and though the wage was small and the prospects of

an advancement were not encouraging, I began once more to take on a

little hope. I succeeded in communicating with my friends at home in

good time, but obtained precious little encouraging information. A

reward of a thousand dollars had been posted throughout the country for

my apprehension, and it was with a feeling that only a man can know

who has experienced woes like mine that I read the description of the

desperate bank burglar, George White, and of his midnight escape from

jail along with another burglar.

The first knowledge in the jail of our escape came from a citizen

passing just at daylight. He saw the rope of blankets hanging from

the open window, and, rushing excitedly into the jail, woke up Jailer

Aldrich with the cry, “Better look after your boarders--there’s a

blanket hanging out of the jail windows.” Poor Aldrich, I was afterward

told, rushed about as though bereft of his reason.

Another piece of unpleasant news was the row made by the liveryman of

Saxton’s River. It seems that Woods had disregarded my instructions

as to the team we hired from there, and, instead of paying for it

with the money I gave him, had it charged against me. Besides that

he had driven to Troy, got intoxicated, and while attempting to sell

the outfit was arrested and taken back to Keene. The liveryman,

ascertaining who had engaged the team, lodged a complaint against me,

and in the minds of some people I had become a horse thief as well

as a bank burglar. Eventually the liveryman recovered his turnout

unharmed. Later, though, through my brother, I paid him one hundred and

twenty-five dollars to escape an indictment for horse stealing. Woods’s

love for liquor and disregard of my instructions was the means of

casting further odium on me.

I had been in Stewart’s nearly three weeks when I learned that

Shinburn had been recaptured and sent to Concord prison to complete

his sentence. I was sorry to hear this. Indeed, I felt despondent for

several days over the mishap to that criminal, regardless of my effort

to shake off the almost unaccountable feeling. I hadn’t succeeded when

a development forcibly turned my attention into another channel. My

hopes, which had grown wonderfully since my employment, were suddenly

dissipated like a morning mist before an August sun. One morning a

man whom I had known intimately in Boston--indeed, considered to be

a trusted friend--came to the store. He was as much surprised at the

meeting as I was frightened. There was no opportunity to evade him,

so I made the best attempt I could to be unconcerned, and declared

my delight at seeing him. We shook hands heartily and talked over my

predicament, not forgetting to speak of the reward that was offered for

my return to New Hampshire. He expressed sympathy for me and bemoaned

the fact that I had been dealt with so unjustly, and held me blameless

for escaping from my enemies. We were about to say adieu when I asked

him if he would mention anything of our meeting when he returned to

Boston.

“On my honor, no!” he answered with a ring in his voice which sounded

true and friendly.

“I hope not,” said I, gratefully, “for I’ve been pretty badly handled,

and I’m trying hard to get myself together again. If they find I’m

here, it’ll be all day with me.”

And so we parted, but in my heart there came a heaviness, a sense

of depression that I couldn’t shake off, try as I would. I had a

premonition that this friend, regardless of his protestations, would

be sadly tempted by the reward. I felt that he would argue that I

would sooner or later be captured, and that there was no reason why

he shouldn’t get the benefit of the thousand dollars. In the scales,

his friendship on one side and avarice on the other, I believed that

the former would prove the lighter weight. Indeed, I was so deeply

impressed with impending danger that I resigned that day, drew five

dollars due me, and left the store forever. It was well that I

acted thus promptly, for not many hours subsequently the police were

searching for me. My friend’s faithfulness had been of the kind that

wouldn’t stand the test. In the balance, weighed against his love for

money, his friendship for me had proved many ounces too light.

Verily, I was being persecuted to the end.

PART II

CHAPTER I

SIDETRACKED

Hunted out of honest employment, I found myself very much in the

position of the pursued rabbit; therefore I was compelled to seek the

first cover that presented itself. I had been robbed of every dollar

of my hard-earned fortune. A fugitive from justice, there was a reward

proclaimed abroad for my arrest, though I was an innocent man. All this

was awful to realize, the bitterness of it eating still deeper into my

soul. What would the end be?

Anxious to begin life afresh, I had sought a strange city and under a

new name had attempted to do it, but fate was horribly, relentlessly

cruel. What would I do? where could I turn? I had only five dollars

in the world, and that wouldn’t carry me far. Alas, I was not unlike

the hunted rabbit. I had been the victim of a cruel game of life. It

was a most critical period at which I had arrived. The fatal line must

soon be crossed. Good and evil would fight out their battle. In the

jail at Keene I had been besieged by thoughts that made me shudder,

but the evil that battered my soul now was as the blackness of hell in

comparison. Bitterness was rapidly eating into my worst nature; the

tender words of a fond father and the sweet prayers of a loving mother

were fast becoming far-off sounds in my dulled ears. Recollections of

the sort that sear consciences came to the fore, uppermost being the

words I had heard from the lips of an old conductor of the Fitchburg

railway, not far from my home. I had often been with him on his trips

and talked with him, for he was well known to me in my youthful days.

How well I remembered the words. They burn in my brain even to-day, as

well they should, for they played a strong part in the influence which

sent me on to a life of reaching out for that which was not lawfully

mine.

“See that fine property?” this conductor said to me one day, as he

pointed out a big country residence; and when I nodded assent, he

added, “Well, I’ve got a first mortgage on that.” Presently he said,

with a meaning I could not misunderstand, “We conductors have the name

of knocking down fares, so we may as well have the game.”

Twice on the trip he made that remark. For several years the meaning

of the words “name” and “game” lay dormant in my mind, but how freshly

it came back to me in the moment of my standing balanced between

the narrow path of rectitude and the broad road of crime. Homeless,

desolate, hunted like a real criminal, a reward hanging over my head,

made a good soil in which the seeds of evil deeds might take quick

root. To whom in this extremity might I turn? I asked this question of

myself many times, and the only reply was the echo of my own words.

There was a Boston man in the city with whom I was well acquainted,

and who knew my side of the case thoroughly, and whose sympathy I had.

I must have some money, therefore I appealed to him, and he loaned me

twenty dollars. This, with five I had, constituted my cash capital. The

remainder of it was my brain, and it shall be seen to what purpose I

put it, ere many days passed.

There was another man in New York I knew--Shinburn’s friend Matthews;

Billy, he called him. I remembered that his address was 681 Broadway,

so I determined to look him up. Knowing Shinburn, I ought not to have

been surprised at anything in Matthews, but I was actually dumfounded

when I learned that 681 Broadway was a notorious gambling house kept by

one Harvey Young, and that Matthews was a faro dealer there. Young’s

place was at that time an attractive resort for the younglings of New

York’s rich men, thousands of whose dollars passed over the green cloth

every night. I now knew why Mr. Wheeler, the assistant prosecutor, in

summing up at the Keene trial, had pointed out Matthews and asked the

court in scornful tones to look upon the sort of man “they bring from

the reeking hells of New York to be a witness in a New Hampshire court

of justice.” Undoubtedly the New York detectives had known that much of

Matthews and had told it to Mr. Wheeler.

But I had reached and passed the fatal line now, and it seemed to me

that I wasn’t sorry to learn what this man Matthews was,--an employee

in a gambling den. Even if he were a criminal like Shinburn, I felt

that I didn’t care. When I rang the bell, a man who looked like a

servant answered it, and to my inquiry said Matthews wasn’t in, but

would be that night. I said I would come again, and did several hours

later. I had only met Matthews speaking with Shinburn in the jail at

Keene, altogether perhaps a half-dozen times. He was a dapper, earnest

little fellow, and seemed in all ways a better man than I imagined a

gambler could be. I was greeted heartily by him, and he told me that my

escape wasn’t news, an account of it having been in the newspapers. My

face must have been a delineator of my determination to do something

desperate, for he asked me if he could assist me in any way. I told him

he might, and that there could be none too much haste to suit me.

“You see the fix I am in by accommodating your friend Shinburn, whom I

believed to be a government official,” I said with great feeling. “I

had a clerkship here, but have been forced to resign it, that I may

keep clear of arrest. Here I am, practically on my knees; and, frankly,

I don’t know what to do. Can you help me on my feet again?” I knew what

was in my mind to do, for I was desperate, and I awaited his answer

with anxiety.

“What can I do?” he asked; “you certainly are in a peculiar fix.”

“I’ve got to get out and hustle,” exclaimed I, while trembling in every

joint.

“What do you mean?”

I meant to say steal, but my tongue couldn’t, seemingly, utter the

word. Swallowing hard, I asked him to put me in with some of Shinburn’s

friends; and thus was forged the first link in the chain that was

to fasten me to a criminal career for many years. A few days later

Matthews introduced me to George Wilson, a partner of Mark Shinburn.

He took me to Wilson’s rooms at 303 Bleecker Street, where there was

assembled the first gang of safe burglars I ever set eyes on.

Wilson was forming a prospecting party which was going West in search

of banks whose vaults could be cleaned of cash and salable bonds and

securities. With him were Big Bill, another of Shinburn’s partners

hailing from Canada; Eddie Hughes, _alias_ Miles; and John Utley, a

partner of the latter. The trio last named had just returned from a

failure to crack a bank at Schuylerville, New York. Surprised in their

work by a constable, they would have been arrested had this country

official possessed the nerve to tackle them. Finding himself pitted

against three big, husky fellows, he retired for reënforcements; but

while he was thus engaged, the quarry reached Saratoga, boarded a

train, alighted at Troy, and thus clouding the trail, managed to arrive

safely in New York.

In the proposed party was another of the crooked fraternity, whom

Wilson described as Tall Jim, he making the fifth one--and a mighty

fine sort of a fellow he proved to be. Then I was mentioned as the

sixth and last member. The introduction of my name precipitated a row,

perhaps through the fact that I was a stranger, not only to the party,

but to the art of bank “burgling.” However, George Wilson had proposed

me for membership, which was sufficient to squelch all the objectors,

with the exception of Jack Utley, who seemed to take a dislike to me

from the start.

“What does this man know about robbing banks?” growled he. “You’d see

his heels showing their color at the first bark of one of them Western

dogs.”

I half believe that Wilson would have listened to Utley’s protests,

which were many, had it not been for Matthews, who put up a strong

argument on my behalf. However, Wilson soon settled the matter by

announcing that I must be considered in, whereupon Utley ceased his

objections. But he did a lot of grumbling on the side, and I could see

that he would not, of his own volition, do me a favor in the future,

should I need one even more than at the moment.

All being ready in a few days for the launching of the enterprise,

we started out. It was in the middle of April, 1866, and spring had

opened up in excellent style as if for our convenience. Big Bill, Eddie

Hughes, Tall Jim, and I went to Pittsburg, where we were to begin

prospecting for loot. When the first bank selected to fall under our

attack had been settled upon, Wilson and Jack Utley were to be notified

by telegraph, to follow on immediately with the necessary tools.

No man can tell what my feelings were, when at last I found myself

pushing out into the world of crime, hitherto unknown to me, unless he

were placed identically where I was. There were moments when I was at

the point of abandoning the short road of contemplated crime, which

would soon lead me into the absolutely broad road of crime committed.

In such moments as these, retrospection would bring up before me the

green hills of Vermont, the far-away old homestead I loved so well, the

dear old folks at home; the happy days in Stoneham, with its prosperous

years, when I could walk forth in God’s free air and be respected and

honored by those who knew me, and no hand was raised against me.

All these bright remembrances would come up to me, with powerful

influences for good; but when the real present crowded in, and crushed

back those dreamlike days, I had to ask where I could go, if I cut

away from the men with whom I had cast my lot. Nowhere among those I

had known; for was I not a man with a price on my head? I could not

return to the Vermont hills and the old place and dwell openly with my

dear old folks, nor even in secret be near them; for not then would

I be safe from the clutches of the law. Nor could I wend my way back

to the later home of my prosperity; for there the same hand, the same

hard injustice of the law, would close in on me. No! I was an outlaw,

not daring to clasp hands with any one save those of the outlawed men

with whom I was now associated. One by one the influences for good

were counted and laid away. What could I do--I, an innocent man with

the scales of justice weighing against me. And one by one I buried the

thoughts of those things, which were no longer to be my stepping-stones

along life’s journey, as far as I could tell, and passed on to what the

unsolved future held in reserve for me. Come what might, I would accept

the gauntlet thrown down to me by a cruel fate.

I put up at the Scott House in Pittsburg. When Big Bill, Eddie Hughes,

and Tall Jim concluded to spread out and canvass the surrounding

country, they assigned me to look over a small bank in Allegheny

City, near by. We were to meet again in five days, at my hotel. I felt

that a considerable responsibility had been placed on my shoulders for

one so young in the business, therefore I determined to try my best

and disprove, if the chance came my way, what Jack Utley had said of

me. Somewhat to my disappointment, the bank I inspected proved to be

an impracticable undertaking, so the experienced ones said on their

return, and I had to wait for another opportunity to show what sort of

an inspector of lootable banks I was. When all the reports were in,

that of Tall Jim’s seemed to be the most alluring, so it was voted to

make a strike at his bank, which was in Wellsburg, a small town in

Brooks County, West Virginia, several miles below Steubenville, on the

left bank of the Ohio River.

The next day Wilson and Utley, having been notified, joined us, fully

prepared for business, whereupon we started by rail to Steubenville,

leaving there on foot early in the evening. We followed the railroad

track until we reached a point about opposite Wellsburg. Here a boat

was borrowed without a consultation with its owner, and in this way we

rowed across to the other shore, where we set it adrift. When within

three-quarters of a mile of the village, we camped in a piece of woods,

thick enough to make a good hiding-place. Being the greenhorn of the

party, I was detailed the “chief cook and bottle-washer” of our feeding

department, and immediately upon getting into camp I was sent hustling

for provender. I made for the village in the fresh hours of the morning

and foraged for food, and later prepared our first meal in camp. During

the daylight hours Tall Jim and Eddie Hughes took a turn in town to

investigate, and when they returned, which was near evening, all hands

excepting the cook went away again. They were absent several hours, and

when they came back I had prepared a breakfast for them, consisting of

cold ham, sardines, bread, and hot coffee.

There was nothing the matter with the appetites of the lads, unless

they could be called devouring. Though I had provided a goodly

quantity, one meal made a sad inroad on my larder. When the inner

man of my associates had been somewhat satisfied, all but the cook

stretched themselves out for a sleep. I, not unwilling to do my part,

stood at picket duty until they awoke, late in the afternoon, when I

managed to get another meal together. I cannot refrain from saying that

furnishing food to my comrades was much like shovelling coal into the

mouth of a mine, as far as satisfying them was concerned. Never in my

hotel days had I come across such hungry two-legged animals. But enough

of this, and to the other and more important subject.