MURDER OF B. F. YOST.
In the interim, while many of the collieries were beginning to work,
making up for lost time, and others putting machinery in order,
preparing to do so, the Mollies kept themselves as active as ever, and
McAndrew found himself so busily employed, attending to the interests of
his division, that he was entirely unable to put his threat, to leave
the neighborhood, into execution, had he continued of that mind. He was
so chagrined by the failure of his comrades to kill Thomas, that, for a
fortnight, he made it his principal daily duty to saunter about the
streets, abusing the unsuccessful men as “blundering idiots” and “arrant
cowards,” drinking much whisky, and everywhere asserting that, if the
job were to be tried again he would trust nobody, but just attend to it
in person. At about this time the Bodymaster obtained employment in one
of the Reading Company’s mines, was well contented, and said no more
about going away. As McKenna had kept his word, and helped him all he
could, and really been instrumental in finding McAndrew something
profitable to do, the Bodymaster was a firmer friend of the operative
than ever. He proclaimed aloud, wherever he went, that there was “no
better man living than Jim McKenna.” Few were bold enough to dispute
this statement. But for poor, unfortunate Mike Doyle, the Bodymaster
chose only hard and insulting words. He was especially severe upon him,
as it secured belief that he might easily have finished Thomas had he
not run off the ground too early in the game.
It was now arranged that Gomer James should be shot, on or about the
fifth of July, when a night picnic was to be held in the neighborhood of
Shenandoah. McAndrew even went to Girardville, to see Kehoe and have him
furnish four men to do the act, but the King of the Mollies said there
were none in that place capable of transacting such delicate business.
McAndrew traveled to Big Mine Run, found Barney Dolan, with a similar
result, and returned to Girardville, where he met Larry Crean,
Bodymaster, and that officer bluntly refused his request. Father
Bridgeman had, only the previous Sabbath, denounced Kehoe and himself
from the altar, and the Mollies were in a state of perturbation from
that reason. Otherwise the County Delegate and the President of
Girardville Division might have been more efficient and prompt in
seconding McAndrew’s proposition. As it was, that person felt
constrained to go home, his aims as far from fulfillment as when he
first departed from Shenandoah. He told McKenna, the same night, that
Jack Kehoe was too mean to be half-way honest, and that he had barely
given John Gibbons a dollar and fifty cents toward defraying expenses to
Luzerne County, which was in contrast with the action of Tom Donahue,
who donated two dollars in money, hired a horse and buggy, and drove
Gibbons over to Rupert Station, where he was to take the train for
Wilkesbarre—Tom Donahue being a poor man, while Kehoe was known to have
plenty of money.
The detective now knew where John Gibbons was.
Finally, Pat Dolan, a brother of Barney, sent word to the troubled
Bodymaster of Shenandoah that he would find some men, and lead them
himself, and see that the James affair was satisfactorily settled. The
party was surely expected to arrive in Shenandoah, at or before the
picnic of the fifth of July.
It was near the same date that Pat Butler, of Loss Creek, made his
advent in Shenandoah, caused McKenna and some others to meet him in the
bush, and then and there gave out that he would, in a day or two, bring
five men over to take the life of a boss named Forsythe, who had, in
some manner, made himself repugnant to a few of the clan.
It was definitely arranged, through a suggestion from the operative,
that a second meeting, to perfect the plan of attack, should convene,
the following night, in a small school-house on Number Three Hill. By
this postponement McKenna gained time in which to notify Superintendent
Franklin, who, in turn, took measures for warning Mr. Forsythe, and this
Mollie scheme of assassination was wholly defeated. Mr. Forsythe had
urgent business elsewhere for a few weeks. Butler held his meeting;
McKenna attended, witnessed the discomfiture of the gentleman from Loss
Creek, when he learned that Forsythe had been suddenly called away, and
was as loud and vehement as the rest in execrating the ill-luck that
dragged a doomed man from their murderous hands. Not a person present
suspected that Forsythe had been informed of the plot to take his life.
This was far from their thoughts. The disappointed gathering in the
dark, at the rustic school-house, dispersed at an early hour, and the
Mollies retired, unaccountably cheated of their prey, to their homes.
The fifth of July arrived, but not the men promised from Big Mine Run.
Certainly they did not show themselves to the committee of Shenandoah
Division, McKenna, John Morris, and Mike Darcy, appointed to receive and
lead them up to their victim. To state the whole truth, this committee
was purposely dispersed by McKenna, who had no desire to see James
killed, and if Dolan’s party came to the picnic there were none present
to show them the least attention. It is more than probable they never
reached the vicinity. The operative sent Morris to the base-ball ground,
on a plea that he should bring home Tom Hurley. Morris at first obeyed
orders, but found Hurley so drunk that he could not be forced away,
hence went in for a spree on his own account and remained absent until
past midnight. Darcy was dispatched in another direction, with a
different excuse, and McKenna then waited alone—waited in the city of
Shenandoah, where he conferred with Linden, informing him of the plans
afloat, and telling him to have his men near the picnic grounds, in case
his own schemes to prevent bloodshed should miscarry. Returning to the
festivities, after it was entirely too late to expect the Big Mine Run
men, the detective continued the watch. Dancing was ended and the lights
nearly all put out when he left—and Gomer James had once more made a
narrow escape. Why the young man would persist in staying in the
neighborhood, after the repeated notifications he had received to leave,
or fail to take precautions against sudden surprises, was more than the
detectives could easily explain.
But the murderous order was more successful in other localities. It
never paused or permitted its purposes to entirely fail. The work was
often slow, while the assassins stayed their hands from week to week,
but in few known instances were attempts, once prepared for, easily
abandoned until the task had met at least partial performance. Wm.
Thomas was a living evidence of the fact. Time was yet to bring forth
many dead and silent witnesses to testify to the same thing.
The city of Tamaqua, in Schuylkill County, is a handsome place of five
thousand inhabitants, located fifteen miles north-northeast of
Pottsville, on the Catawissa Railroad, and connected with the
Philadelphia and Reading Railway by a branch from Port Clinton. Like all
the larger mountain towns of Pennsylvania, Tamaqua has narrow streets,
brick sidewalks, steep ascents and descents, good hotels, fine business
and residence structures, and a mixed population, in a great measure
dependent upon the mining business for support. There are seven or eight
churches, which ring out their musical chimes on the Sabbath day, with
the usual complement of banks, offices, and warehouses. Broad Street is
a principal thoroughfare. The town, or borough, has its municipal
officers, magistrates, and a small city police.
On the night of Monday, the fifth of July, 1875, the ordinarily quiet
city was considerably excited over the conclusion of the observance of
the national anniversary, which had absorbed attention during the day.
There were many people upon the streets, among others a few visitors
from adjoining localities. The police, at the time, consisted of only
two men, Benj. F. Yost and Barney McCarron, the former a German and the
latter of Irish descent, and they were expected, in addition to regular
patrol service, to light and extinguish the gas lamps in the principal
streets. Yost had experienced considerable trouble with the Mollies, at
the head of whom was one James Kerrigan; had arrested the latter for
drunkenness on several occasions, and, as would be natural in his
position, sometimes felt compelled to use his club to enforce obedience
on the part of those apprehended. McCarron came in for his share of
ill-will, but, from his German parentage, Yost was peculiarly disliked.
Several times had he been threatened with violence, but, being a
fearless man, an old soldier, and veteran of many battles, the policeman
laughed at danger and kept on in the performance of his duty. McCarron
was also openly menaced.
Time passed until about midnight of the fifth, or the first small hours
before the dawn of the sixth, when McCarron and Yost, passing Carroll’s
saloon, noted that the place was still open, went into a hotel, where
they saw and drank with Kerrigan—described as a small, round-faced,
short and stubbed little Irishman, and a miner, but then out of
employment. Subsequently they moved to the westward, on Broad Street,
extinguishing the lamps in their way. Soon their task was almost done,
and, before two o’clock in the morning, the policemen turned toward
Yost’s residence, near the corner of Broad and Lehigh Streets, to
partake of a lunch, preparatory to finishing up the night’s work. They
had not put out all the lamps in the locality, but it was customary, on
their part, to have some refreshments before ending the last half of the
patrol, during which the city would be in utter darkness, unless the
moon shone—which it did not—and, on this occasion, opened Yost’s front
gate, passed to a rear door, used a latch key, went into the house, and
found a simple repast ready spread for them, Mrs. Yost having long since
retired to her chamber on the second floor of the building. Having
satisfied their appetites and enjoyed some moments of repose, they
emerged from the same door and went upon the street, prepared to turn
off more lights. Hearing the noise below Mrs. Yost was awakened, arose,
the night being warm, and sat by an open front window, sending a loving
word and look to her husband, as he and his companion advanced to the
performance of their duty. It was a few minutes after two o’clock when
she saw Yost go toward the lamp at the corner, place the ladder against
its iron post, lightly ascend two steps, extending his arm to shut off
the gas. But his hand never reached the base of the lamp. The woman
beheld two rapidly succeeding and alarming flashes of light, instantly
followed by two loud reports, and her husband fell, his face still
turned toward her, lighted up by the rays sent slantingly down from the
still blazing gas jet. That was all her eyes saw. That was enough for
her ears to hear. She ran madly down the stairs, thinly clad as she was,
and into the street, through the front door, beyond the gate, and met
the wounded man, staggering and weak with loss of blood, clinging to the
fence, looking toward his once happy home. Alas! happy home no more!
“My God, Ben, what is it?” asked Mrs. Yost, her face turning ghastly
white.
[Illustration: “_‘Sis., give me a kiss! I’m shot and have to die!’_”]
The wounded policeman threw his arms pleadingly forward to her, and
said, faintly:
“Sis, give me a kiss! I’m shot and I have to die!”
She ran very fast, but before it was possible to reach him, he came down
upon the pavement, blood spurted from his mouth, and he was, for a few
minutes, unconscious.
Meantime where was Barney McCarron?
Having separated from Yost upon the street, he was going slowly
eastward, in the direction of Mr. Lebo’s dwelling, leaving the other
officer to care for the lamp near his own house, and had expected him to
come up in a moment. But that moment was destined never to arrive. Not
hearing Yost’s familiar footsteps, McCarron looked backward over his
shoulder, at the very second of time that Mrs. Yost was gazing tenderly
in the same direction. He heard the two pistol shots, saw the
quick-following flashes, and knew that Yost was hit, as he dropped
heavily to the earth. Two dark figures had left the shadow cast by a
collection of shade trees near the fence, walked to within a few yards
of the policemen, discharged their weapons and started on a brisk run
toward the cemetery. McCarron immediately set out in pursuit. Gaining
somewhat upon the assassins, when near a clump of bushes, he let fly two
shots after them, and the men paused long enough to return the fire,
fortunately without effect, and in a second resumed their precipitate
retreat. He could merely see, in the brief moment they stood in the
lamp-light, that one was a large man and the other somewhat smaller. It
was useless to go further alone. Hastening at once to his wounded
comrade, he aided some neighbors to convey him into the house that they
had so recently left in such joyous mood. There Yost was placed on a
lounge and word sent for a surgeon.
Dr. Solliday lived not far distant, and was soon on the spot, but, after
a brief examination of the injured man, said he could live but a very
short time. The bullet had passed in at the right side, between the
eighth and ninth ribs, and hemorrhage would be sure to carry him off.
There was no human skill that would avail anything. The end must come.
Mrs. Yost heard the sentence, and burst into passionate weeping,
clasping the fast-paling face of her dying husband in her two hands, and
kissing his livid lips as if her caresses might renew his short lease of
life.
“Do you understand?” said the physician. “You are sure to leave us in a
very short time—possibly in one moment! Tell me, before it is too late,
all you know of your murderers!”
The dying man’s fast-glazing eyes slowly opened and stared vacantly in
the face of his friend. But he recognized the necessity for action.
“I know,” he answered, in German, “I know! You want the whole truth!”
“Yes!”
“Well! I was just outening the light when two men made up to me and
fired! They came down from the direction of the cemetery, and, when they
had done their work on me, ran back in the same way. They were two
Irishmen. I truly think they shot me by mistake, meaning to kill
McCarron, there! They had threatened him, and he was afraid he would get
it. They were two strangers. Still, I should not say that, for I have
seen them before. They were both down at Jim Carroll’s—a party of
them—last night, and Barney pointed them out to me, or I showed them to
him—I can’t tell which, now—as we went by Carroll’s!”
This was all that the dying man could say just then. After resting a
space, during which his faithful mate knelt at the side of the sofa and
bathed his brow with her tears, he motioned McCarron, who stood nigh, to
move up closer, and said to him:
“Barney, who were those men that I pointed out to you—or you pointed out
to me—which was it?—as we passed Jim Carroll’s saloon, last night?
Didn’t you remark, ‘They’re fellows from the other side?’”
By “the other side,” Tamaqua people described the country the other side
of, or beyond, the Schuylkill.
McCarron bowed his head and assented. He remembered the time and event,
but did not know the men.
To all his friends, Mr. Shindel, Mr. Lebo, Mr. Shepp—the latter his
brother-in-law—Mr. Houser, and others, the policeman made precisely
similar declarations, knowing that he must die. He did not want to
accuse anybody unjustly. To Dr. Solliday, who questioned him once more,
he said:
“One was a large man, and the other was smaller!”
“Was not one Jimmy Kerrigan?”
“No! He was larger! Kerrigan was not there! If so, I did not see him!
And I had been with Kerrigan just before, at the United States Hotel,
where he drank with me! Oh, no! He didn’t do it!”
“Was it Duffy?”
The doctor was aware that Yost had had trouble with a man by that name.
“I am sure none of our men did it! They were strangers, believe me!”
To his brother-in-law, Daniel Shepp, the prostrate and dying man said,
as he closely held his hands, and the life-blood slowly ebbed from his
side:
“Oh, Dan! To think that I served so long in the army, was in so many
hard-fought battles, and escaped all the bullets, to die now
innocently!”
This was about the last that the brave officer said, excepting the
utterance of some gentle words to his distracted wife. At a little
past-nine o’clock, the morning of the sixth of June, 1875, seven hours
subsequent to receiving his wound, Benj. F. Yost breathed his last
breath on earth, and one of the most cruel murders of all the great
number perpetrated by the Mollie Maguires was consummated. It was even
then implicitly believed to have been the work of the order, as, outside
its blood-stained ring, Yost did not have an enemy. The fact, also
commonly credited, that the assassins were strangers in the borough, or
at least not residents of it, gave color to this supposition.
The carnival of blood had fairly commenced. This deed was speedily to be
followed by others of an equally mysterious nature, and no man could
tell whose turn must come next.
McCarron gave it up, after questioning Yost, that neither Kerrigan nor
Duffy, both of whom were enemies of the dead policeman, from the same
cause, having been arrested by him while they were drunk, and,
resisting, having felt the weight of his baton, had fired the fatal
shot; still it could not be erased from his memory or belief that they
possibly knew something about it. Thinking of the men he had noted at
Carroll’s, and to whom Yost had, on the occasion, made allusion, the
partner of the deceased determined, unknown to any person, to make an
investigation of the locality, and find if the same persons were still
there. The hour was nigh half-past four in the morning. Yost was fast
losing consciousness. McCarron went to Carroll’s, but, after walking
about the house and into the back yard, he saw no lights, heard no
sounds, or anything to indicate that people were astir in the dwelling
or saloon. Evidently all were in bed. Nothing could be discovered of
either citizens or strangers, and he therefore returned to Yost’s
residence and there remained until taking the eternal farewell of his
friend and companion.
B. F. Yost was thirty-three years of age, and universally respected in
Tamaqua, his widow constituting not the only one that shed bitter tears
over his untimely taking off. Hundreds of men and women in the city, who
knew his brave, frank, and honest heart, and remembered the warm, firm
grasp of his strong hand, felt that they could mingle their tears with
those of the one left wholly bereaved and desolate by the murderous
bullet of the cowardly assassin. Some of these thought that crime had
now gone its length, and it was time its course was ended. They had only
seen the beginning, but believed the end was in view. Among this class
were many men of wealth and influence, and those who grieved to see the
fair fame of their home smirched with innocent blood. They then
determined, if they could prevent, violence should no longer reign in
Schuylkill County.
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