ARREST OF ACCOMPLICE ALARMS AUTHOR AND ON ADVICE OF FRIENDS HE
TAKES FLIGHT.
_Amnesty Act Unlocks Prison Doors of Conspirators, But Fails to
Bring Security._
In war times, the American Eagle was not a bloodthirsty bird. We began
to have sympathizers, even among prominent Union men.
Greathouse was released after a brief confinement under a general
amnesty act and upon taking the oath of allegiance. Rubery, a
foreigner, could not take advantage of the amnesty act. However, at the
request of John Bright, President Lincoln granted him a free pardon.
But the astute statesman arranged that his precious nephew should not
be involved in future trouble because of his Southern proclivities. He
was placed on a Pacific Mail steamer and transferred at the Isthmus
to a British ship bound for England. We had an affectionate parting,
with the hope that we might again meet, a wish that was realized in a
dramatic manner.
I alone was held, because it had been shown that I had a commission in
the Confederate Navy. In almost exactly four months after my sentence,
I was brought before Judge Hoffman and ordered released, under the same
general amnesty act. The fine was likewise remitted. I am not versed
in legal technicalities, but it seemed to me that the learned jurist
stretched the strict letter of the law a bit in my behalf. Be that as
it may, I always held the name of Hoffman in high esteem.
I was free at last, but only to enter into a new kind of bondage. I
was broke. The fortune I had won by incredible good luck had vanished
absolutely. What was worse, my mine in Mexico was abandoned during the
French invasion and my title to it finally lost. It yielded wealth
to other owners later on. I never saw my old chum Don Miguel Paredis
again, but he kept his money and cut quite a figure in Mexican affairs.
When I stepped out of Broadway jail I was outwardly chesty, but
inwardly depressed, for I had just eight dollars and fifty cents to my
name. Having been a free spender at one of the leading hotels in my
capitalistic days, I went to the proprietor and frankly made a clean
breast of my impecuniosity. He was overjoyed to receive me as his
guest, gave me a fine room and settled all my anxiety as to lodging and
three square meals a day. That was nothing out of the common in the old
days. But I would like to see the photograph of a man with nerve enough
to make such a proposition to the manager of one of our first-class
hotels in the present generation.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S FATHER
A. Harpending Sr., a supporter of the Union]
Still my financial affairs gave me no little concern. I thought of
writing to my father for temporary assistance, but there was an
impediment even there. While I was raising Cain, and wasting my
substance for the South in California, my progenitor was one of the
strongest Union men in Kentucky. Some rather crisp correspondence had
passed between us on that subject. Doubtless he would have been glad
enough to assist or welcome the prodigal. But I was too proud to seek
his aid.
This may justify a word of explanation. My father was a lineal
descendant of Baron Harpending, who came to New York, New Amsterdam,
with the original settlers from Holland. It was one of his ancestors
who gave a lease for ninety-nine years to the Dutch Reformed Church
of a piece of property in the business center of New York, now worth,
approximately, three hundred million dollars. It was another Trinity
Church case, with this exception, that there was no doubt about
the lawful heirs when the lease terminated. My father brought suit
to recover the property. That was one of the great lawsuits of the
last century. Henry Clay, Daniel Webster and Judge Underwood were
my father’s counsel. He won the case in the lower courts, but was
vanquished in the Supreme Court of the United States on a technicality
by a four to three decision. The family lost the vast property, but the
church still displays the Harpending arms, as required by the lease of
my ancestor, executed nearly 175 years ago.
My mother, on the other hand, was of the Clark family of Virginia,
which settled in Kentucky over a hundred years ago. She was of the
typical Southern strain. Thus, while my father, with his Northern
antecedents, was an ardent supporter of the Union cause, I had the
maternal blood in my veins. How we came to take opposite sides in the
great civil struggle was an instance of plain heredity, nothing more.
But that has nothing to do with this story. While I was worrying
over finances, not knowing which way to turn and mighty downcast and
blue-deviled, I was suddenly informed that my companion, Mr. Ridgley
Greathouse, had been rearrested and was in custody. Ignorant of the
charge and not having the wherewithal to fly, to say nothing of
inclination, I determined to put on a bold front, walked down to the
United States marshal’s office and asked him if he wanted me.
The mental processes of that functionary were of a leisurely nature.
He looked me over with great care, scratched his head with a pen in
a meditative way, slew a distant fly with a well-directed squirt of
tobacco juice and answered, weighing each word, “Well, not to-day, but
I guess I will to-morrow. Where do you live?”
I gave him the name of my hotel and the number of my room, which data
being duly noted, we bade each other good-day. To tell the truth, I
was badly rattled. Nothing seemed more certain than that I was doomed
to incarceration on a new charge, and, having enjoyed the public
hospitality for almost a year, I had no stomach for any more.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S MOTHER
Mrs. A. Harpending Sr., an ardent Southern sympathizer]
Just as I reached my hotel, filled with these disturbing thoughts, a
friend asked me to go with him to a business office. I sat down in
the reception room, while my friend disappeared in a rear office. I
could hear the sound of voices and the clink of gold. Presently my
friend reappeared, carrying a small coin sack. “Harpending,” he said,
“you are certain to be arrested on some sort of an accusation. The
Yankees will never let you stay at large. There are fifteen of us who
have subscribed a hundred dollars each. Here is the money. We will
also provide you a good horse and necessary equipment. You must leave
to-night.”
I asked the privilege of meeting my friends and was accorded the
privilege. Several were not overburdened financially, and $1,500 was
more than I could reasonably need. I selected the three richest, gave
each of them my promissory note for $100, and returned the other
contributions. We talked more or less of plans. I was advised to ride
south to the neighborhood of Santa Cruz, across the mountains to the
plains, and journey thence through the San Joaquin Valley to what was
then known generally as the “Tulares,” where such inhabitants as there
were came mostly from the South and where, more important still, the
law writs did not run.
So, shortly after dark, I made my preparations and proceeded to put
as many miles between myself and San Francisco as the means of travel
would permit. I turned down the horseback proposition, slipped on
a southbound train in the evening and before midnight reached its
terminus, San Jose.