Billy Mulligan was the incarnation of fearlessness, fight and frolic—dangerous frolic it was sometimes to any he did not like. Of low stature, slight frame, active as a cat, the expression of a bull-terrier, and as, quick to an, encounter, Mulligan was not a man to pick a quarrel with—the other party invariably second best. He had served under Colonel Jack Hays in his troop of Texan Rangers, and Colonel Hays gave the praise that he was one of the bravest, pluckiest, most daring and desperate fighters he had ever had in his command. Billy had his full share of the vices of drinking, gambling, fighting and a fast life. He was active in politics and "went in to win." But he had the virtue not to lie; and he would not betray any confidence reposed in him, turn faithless to any promise he made. He was bold, frank, manly, magnanimous except towards those he despised as well as hated, and to these he was implacable and merciless. The world's wealth couldn't seduce or bribe him from the support of the men he liked, no matter how poor they might be; and he would on every occasion interpose to protect the helpless and defenseless from the violence or maltreatment of others. Crime of any degree was never alleged to his account. He had faithfully served as collector of moneys for the County Treasurer two years, and fully accounted for every dollar that he received. Beyond his fighting bouts and his conduct in elections—about the same as prevails now—there was nothing to warrant his arrest and banishment. But the terrors of Fort Gunny Bags did not intimidate Mulligan. One of the committee remarked to me, on the occasion of his death by the rifle shot of a policeman while he was wild with delirium tremens, that he was the only prisoner ever put in the committee cells who did not "weaken." He was a character the community could well spare; but he had given the committee no offence to justify his banishment.
Yankee Sullivan's character is notorious. He was a professional prize-fighter—ready to try conclusions in the fistic ring with any in the world; but he feared a pistol or a knife as an ordinary man would fear a blow from his powerful arm. He had helped Mulligan and Casey in some of their election operations, and for that he was arrested. There was no charge of any other nature than this and his fighting quality to warrant his arrest. His courage or spirit broke down while confined in the close cell, and one morning his lifeless body was found stiff in the cell. He had opened a vein in his arm and bled to death. The rumor at the time was—and it is still believed—that he was driven to the deed by the remark made by one of the Vigilance guards outside the cell, but spoken in tone calculated for Sullivan to hear it, that he was to be hanged the next morning. To escape the ignominy of such a death, he anticipated it by his own hand.
Martin Gallagher and Billy Carr were boatmen, and active in party manipulations in the interest of Mr. Broderick in the First Ward. They were tough men to handle in a fight, and usually forced their own way in anything they undertook. With Mulligan they often sat as delegates in city, county and State conventions of the Democracy—together with several other of their associates and kind, who are still more or less prominent in city politics—some of them Democrats, some Republicans. Bill Lewis was sent out of the country none too soon. He was a great, powerful, terrorizing fellow, desperate and unscrupulous, and one to beware of. He took active part in politics, and was terrible in a "scrimmage. Of his redeeming, traits I never obtained information. Doubtless he had some. Unlest it was on account of Woolley Kearney's facial configuration, I have never been able to divine why the Committee banished him. He was the homeliest, ugliess looking mortal I ever saw. Had the Committee compelled him to go as the Veiled Prophet, with a gunny sack instead of silver veil, there would have been at least the essence of justice in their action. His battered, flattened, twisted, gnarled nose, was at every point of the compass, and more hideous at every turn. Why he didn't blow it off when he blowed it, blow'd if any could conjecture. His eyes were squinted, his mouth a monstrous curiosity. Every feature seemed in revolt at that nose. It would have struck awe to the spirit of an Ogre, Woolley was no doubt ready and willing to do any crooked deed, but none who knew him would employ him on any mission in which skill and fidelity were required. His banishment had, perhaps, a good effect upon the unborn generation, whose parents had not then entered the matrimonial state. Whatever other purpose it subserved, except to show to other communities the "latest novelty" from California, is the unfathomable conundrum. John Crowe was a noisy, blatant, meddlesome fellow, the keeper of a livery stable on Kearny street, and a fierce denouncer of the Committee. There was nothing else to his discredit, so far as I could learn at the time. Reub. Maloney was a compound character—a good deal of a knave, something of the man in his fidelity to his friends, reckless of everything except his own safety in any transaction calculated to damage the cause to which he was opposed; indifferent to what might happen to an adversary, He was a most valiant "brave"—with his mouth; the noble quality had never penetrated his cuticle. His passion when bloviating was furious and terrible to look upon; but there was nothing to it more than sound and pretense. His face would redden to congestive hue, his voice swell to sonorous volume; but the simple kindly invitation in quiet tone: "Never mind, Reub, come and take a drink," would unbind him in a moment, and coming up relaxed, smiling to "smile," he would gulf down the dram, and with stated manner remark, "Well, boys, I said about the right thing, didn't I?" He was the faithful henchman of General James A. McDougall; hated Senator Gwin, and between the two preferred Broderick.
Maloney had been a drummer for a large importing house in New York, his field of labor in the South. He had also been employed in the western states, and endowed with good address, portly figure, much volubility, unfailing check and invincible assurance, he successfully pushed his way. He came to California during the fall of '47, located in Stockton, subsequently in San Francisco, and took up "Politics" as his means of support. To gain his point in a partisan deal, he would do anything that was not personally dangerous. He cared for ends, and was utterly regardless of means. He was ceaselessly putting up jobs to promote the cause he advocated, and to break down that of the antagonists. With the courage of Babadil he had the honesty of Ancient Pistol, the habits of Falstaff, and the temptations of Anthony would have been to him as pastures green to the hungering herd. Poor old Reub, his incarceration in the Vigilance cells nearly frightened the life out of him, and his release even under banishment, was as the open door to the caged wild bird. He never did much harm to any cause or party that he opposed. The Committee would have better spared him and exiled many who were worse—some from their own ranks.
Chapter VII.
The last in the list is Edward McGowan—"Old Ned"—Chief of Police, Judge, Emigration Commissioner, politician, fugitive, "ubiquitous" soldier, retired sporting man, and still in life, nearly eighty years of age, clear in all his faculties. He was a devoted, trusted confidential friend of Broderick, and unpurchaseable in his friendship. He had been a prominent actor in many hard contests in behalf of Broderick, and aided materially in the successes which elevated that extraordinary man to the Senate of the United States. McGowan was a warm friend to Casey—his adviser on many occasions. He received intimation the night of Casey's arrest, that his own was contemplated. He was not seen again in San Francisco until his return to the State a year or more afterward, to surrender himself and demand trial upon whatever charge the Committee, or any, could prefer against him. His acquittal was the consequence.
Never was fugitive more assiduously and desperately hunted than he. Domiciliary visits, the intrusion of the Vigilance police into the homes of citizens, of every house and room in which it was suspected McGowan would be caught. Every friend of his was shadowed to get a clew to his place of concealment. Yet he was for weeks securely hidden within five miles of the city. Thence he made his escape to Santa Barbara, through the aid of true and sagacious friends; was sheltered and protected there by another—Jack Powers, one of the Stevenson's regiment, a fearless, dare-devil, desperate, wily man, accustomed to wild adventures, and hair-breadth escapes, whose own many exploits, including pursuit and search, will some day find publication, to rival the most interesting and exciting narratives of frontier life, and the daring and heroism of the men bred to such life. Jack Powers had on several occasions escaped the capture and death his Mexican pursuers had deemed inevitable. His ingenuity now came to do service on behalf of his friend McGowan. Chief of Police Curtis had got word that McGowan was in Santa Barbara. He was a zealous, Vigilance man. A schooner was chartered, and a strong, armed force sailed on her for Santa Barbara, to capture the fugitive. They landed, searched everywhere, particularly the house, premises and surroundings of Jack Powers' residence. Powers and McGowan both well knew that catching meant hanging beyond all hope. After a thorough quest Curtis and his armed band gave up the hunt and returned to San Francisco. At Powers' home they had searched every place except that in which McGowan was concealed. They had been within a toot of him; had nearly stepped on him; were so close that he heard their whisperings and cursings. But they never suspected his hiding place. He was simply rolled in a great mass of old floor matting, at one side of the house, which was covered with dust and leaves, and bits of straw, to give it the appearance of having been there, just as it seemed, for months. After the schooner sailed, McGowan succeeded in making his way out of the State and safe from the Vigilance Committee by the cunning and adroitness of his good friend Jack Powers. The Committee were foiled in their endeavor to capture the man, of all others, they were the most eager to catch and hang. There would have been short invoking of trial in his case and a hurried death by the rope. McGowan lives to relate his adventures and enjoy the narrative.
To give some idea of the manner of procedure and the discipline of the Committee, I will relate an experience of my own: One beautiful moonlight evening I was visiting the family of a prominent member of the San Francisco Bar. About nine o'clock the door bell was rung. Thinking that some friend of the family was at the door, the mistress of the house went herself to see who was there. In the doorway stood a strange man. He asked—mentioning my name—if I was in. She called to me and I went to the door. He requested me to accompany him to the rooms, of the Committee. I wished to know for what purpose, and at whose instance he came. He said he could not tell; he was ordered to request my attendance at once, and could say no more. I got my overcoat and went with him. On the way down he informed me of the diligent hunt he had made to find me—mentioning half a dozen families whom I frequently visited. At last we reached Fort Gunny Bags. He led the way to the Front street door, in the rear of the building. Two rows of guards with muskets, had position from the curb-stone to the door-way. He gave the password to these and we passed through. At the door were other guards—the same giving of pass-word there. We mounted the narrow stairs—my escort in advance. Midway on the stairs were two guards—one of them Dr. Rabe, with whom I had been intimate since 1850. Again the pass-word. And again at the head of the stairs to the four guards there. My escort opened the door of a medium-sized room, which fronted on the street, and requested me to be seated. He left me alone in the room. For an hour I had the room to myself. Then the door was opened, and I saw David C. Broderick over the head of the person who had evidently escorted him, and requested him to be seated. Broderick entered, and the door was closed, and locked from the outside. We had no more than shaken hands and mutually wondered what we were wanted for, when the key was turned, the door again opened, and in came tall Jo. McKibben, taller even than Broderick. As he entered, the door was again locked on the outside. The situation was too amusing, and we all laughed over it. But why were we there? On relating the manner of the "request" and escort, each had been served in similar manner—neither could conjecture the purpose in having us there. No other person was let in until about an hour. "Old Jim" Dows, as he was familiarly called, came to see us. We had known each other for years. He appeared surprised to see us, and McKibben and myself exchanged some pleasantries with him. I said to him, at last, that I wished the Executive Committee would hasten whatever business they had in my case and let me go, as I was eager to return to the house I had been visiting. He said he would and in ten minutes returned to apprise me that I could go right then if I wished. He accompanied me to the head of the stairs, and in loud voice ordered the guards to let me pass out—that it was "all right." With this he passed into the hall. The guard at the head of the stairs duly let me pass. At the middle of the stairs Dr. Rabe, who so well knew me, and must have heard Dows' order, demanded the pass-word, and refused to allow me to proceed. I said, "Why, Doctor, I don't know the pass-word, and you heard Jim. Dows' order to let me pass out." The guard at the head of the stairs cried out to him, "it was all right," and I was then allowed to pass down. But at the foot of the stairs the guard made similar demand, and again the word had to be shouted from above, that I was to be allowed to pass out. One of the guards then took my arm, escorted me through the file of outside guards, into the street, and I was, finally, "all right." But I felt curious in regard to Broderick and McKibben, The next day Dows told me we had all been wanted as witnesses on behalf of one of the prisoners in the custody of the Committee, but that he had got me excused. From Broderick I subsequently learned that he had given his testimony and had then come away. Also had McKibbon.
Rumors had been circulated that Broderick was to be arrested by the Committee. Whether true or false, I never learned, At all events he soon left San Francisco and made a tour of the mountain counties, to promote his canvass for the Senatorship, which he achieved the following year. His devoted friends were all violently opposed to the Committee, and any harm to him, by that body, would have been the occasion of very serious trouble.