In 1864-65 I was living in Carson City, in the State of Nevada, where, from the abnormal condition of the inhabitants, it was nothing remarkable that some event should happen almost daily that otherwise would have been startling. Many such events did take place, but, from their frequency, were soon forgotten. There was one, however, that impressed itself upon my memory because of the cool daring that characterized it, and it must be understood that bravery was not an uncommon trait in the inhabitants of Carson. Men carried their lives in their hands, and quite frequently lost them.
In order to appreciate the situation fully, you must know that the population of Carson City was composed of about the roughest and most disorderly agglomeration of the refuse of California that was ever assembled at any one time or place,—gamblers, murderers, road agents, and all sorts of unclassified toughs. They were about evenly divided between the North and the South,—the only politics being pronounced Unionism on one side and outspoken rebellion on the other; but, as any discussion between representatives of such views during the hottest period of the war was generally concluded with six-shooters, all parties kept pretty quiet on the subject, and politics was about the least exciting cause of murder, there being others sufficiently numerous to give us a "man for breakfast" nearly every morning.
Like all Pacific Coast mining towns, Carson had an immense saloon, with all the sporting attachments, such as billiards, roulette, faro, poker, etc., and at all times of the day and night it was frequented by hundreds of men, who amused themselves talking, drinking, gambling and reading their letters, as most of them received their correspondence at these headquarters. It was called the "Magnolia," and was kept by Pete Hopkins, who, I believe, still flourishes in San Francisco.
The telegraph had reached us in 1862, and we kept pretty well posted on what was going on in the States. On the 14th of April, 1865, it was flashed over the wires that President Lincoln had been assassinated, and the excitement was intense. Men studiously avoided the subject, for fear of being misunderstood and being drawn into deadly conflict. The news was not credited at first, but soon became confirmed, and generally accepted as true. The Union men determined that some public demonstration should be made to recognize the event. A meeting was held, and a committee appointed to formulate a program. It was decided to put the town in mourning, have a procession and mock funeral, an oration and appropriate resolutions,—all of which was the correct thing. An evening or two before the ceremony was to take place the committee came down to the Magnolia, to announce publicly what it had decided upon. The chairman mounted the bar and made his proclamation, adding that anyone who failed to hang out some emblem of mourning on his house or place of business might expect to be roughly handled.
The room was crowded, and with the most inflammable material. Had a bomb been exploded on one of the billiard tables the effect would not have stirred the rebels to greater depths. Among them was an old Virginian, whom we will call Captain Jones. He almost immediately accepted the challenge, and speaking up loudly, he said: "I am damned glad Lincoln was killed, and if any man attempts to put mourning on my house, or interfere with me for not doing so, there will be a good many more killed."
Everybody knew that the old man meant just what he said, and was always equipped to make good his promises. The effect was remarkable. Instead of precipitating a fight, it seemed to paralyze the crowd, and nothing came of it that night; the captain was wise enough quietly to disappear.
Captain Jones had a small brick building on the main street of the town, a block or two from the Magnolia, where he had his office, and lived in a back room.
At the proper time the procession formed on the plaza. Bands of music were interspersed through the line. The orator and distinguished citizens were in carriages, every vehicle in town being brought into requisition. There was a large cavalcade of horsemen. I rode in a handsome buggy, with the principal gambler of the town, and many hundred footmen followed, the Chinamen bringing up the rear. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining brightly. The procession moved off majestically down a back street, off the main thoroughfare, and then turned into the principal street. Every house on the line of march displayed signs of mourning on both sides of the street. Soon appeared in the distance Captain Jones, sitting just outside the line of the sidewalk, in the street, exactly in front of his house. His head was bare, and his long white hair glistened in the sunshine. He sat in an arm-chair, with an immense double-barrelled shotgun poised quietly across his knees. He was carelessly reading a newspaper, and not a semblance of mourning was to be seen anywhere on his premises. As the head of the procession reached him hundreds of hands involuntarily sought their revolvers, and every man held his breath; even the music ceased, and the expectation was intense. There were many in the line who would have shot him if they had dared, but they knew he had hosts of friends in the line who would have resented it instantly, and to the death, and they also knew the captain's eye was coursing down the line and the first shot would be answered by the contents of both barrels of his big gun. So no one fired; no one spoke; hardly anyone looked. The captain never moved a muscle, and the column passed.
I remember once of reading an incident in connection with the French army. While marching in Africa it encountered a splendid African lion, lying in the road, who did not seem disposed to give the right of way. The army halted. The circumstance was reported to the commanding officer and instructions asked whether they should kill the royal beast or march round him. The orders were to march round him. I have never thought of the incident here related without recalling the cool bravery of the king of beasts; but I always award the superiority to my friend, Captain Jones.