The facts connected with this episode in my life may prove not uninteresting to the reader. A farmer by the name of Jesse B. Hudson, living about five miles east of Roanoke, had been robbed of a large sum of money by bush whackers. One of the robbers rode a horse belonging to John Emery, which he had taken from a hitching post in the town while Emery was on a spree. The horse was accidentally shot. Owing partly to the existence of a neighborhood feud, and partly to my bad reputation, I was arrested as a participant in the crime, and taken to Huntsville for trial. There I gave bonds in the sum of $3,000 for my appearance when wanted, two reputable farmers—W. H. Lockridge and Geo. Aulthouse—signing my bond. Among the men suspected of the crime were such notorious outlaws as the James boys, Quantrell, Anderson, Hunter, Clingman, Lyons, and others, yet I was the only one arrested. At different times before, while I was living at home, the bush whackers had aroused me at night and ordered me to supply them with liquor from my father’s store. This fact may have given rise to a suspicion that I was a member of the gang, and may have led to my arrest. Be that as it may, my innocence was easily established at the trial, and the jury promptly rendered a verdict of acquittal.
May’s fidelity was unshaken by my arrest, and my vindication was hailed by her with triumph. Shortly afterwards she was sent as a pupil to the Convent of the Visitation at St. Louis, and peremptorily forbidden by her parents to hold any communication with me. Similar instructions were given to the Mother Superior and her assistants. The sisters faithfully obeyed Dr. Harvey’s behest. Under these circumstances I had recourse to strategem. I had followed her to St. Louis, where I had engaged in gambling with many well-known sporting men of that city. Calling at the convent I asked for an interview which was refused by the Mother Superior. I had told the latter that I was from Roanoke, Miss Harvey’s home. I had expected a refusal and was not unprepared. Producing a package, I handed it to the convent Cerberus, and brazenly informed that suspicious individual that I had been commissioned by the young lady’s parents to convey it to her. The package contained a volume of Longfellow’s poems and a pair of kid gloves. In one of the fingers of the gloves was a neatly folded note, written on tissue paper, calling attention to the fact that a letter was pasted between two of the book’s pages. The scheme was well laid, as I thought, but failed to work. The bundle was opened and examined by the Superior; its contents sent to Mrs. Harvey, and the letter burned. My efforts to hold an interview with my inamorata upon the streets proved equally fruitless, it not being permitted to her to take her “daily walks abroad” unless accompanied by a watchful attendant. Despairing of seeing her alone, I started with a small party on a gambling tour to the far west, visiting Colorado and Wyoming. The trip was uneventful, and I returned to Roanoke to find that May had been at home and had been sent to school at Columbia, Missouri. Thither I followed her, only to be again denied an interview. Returning home, I forwarded to her as present from her mother, a box of fruit. A portion of the core of one of the apples had been extracted, and its place deftly filled by a letter written on extremely thin paper. No suspicion was aroused by the receipt of the fruit, which was handed to Miss Harvey. She examined every apple in the expectation of finding a letter from me but failed to discover[discover] the right one. While sharing the fruit with her schoolmates, one of them, in biting an apple, was surprised to find a pin in her mouth; the mystery was solved, and the letter reached its destination.
In due time I received an answer, full of love and encouragement, showing that neither absence nor intimidation could conquer her faithful spirit. To be near her I went to Columbia, where I opened a saloon and resumed gambling. Every Sunday I was made supremely happy by seeing her. About this time she received a letter from her mother severely reprimanding her for encouraging my attentions. Smarting under this rebuke she impulsively returned all my letters and presents, among which was the engagement ring. This blow fairly overwhelmed me. To accomplish what had now become the chief aim of my existence, any and all means seemed to me justifiable. Accordingly, on the following Sunday evening I attended the church at which I knew she would be present. At a favorable moment I sank to the floor in a simulated swoon, and was carried to the hotel by four men, whither was summoned a physician, who made me four visits. Probably he suspected the sham, but he kept his own counsel. The ruse had the effect desired. May’s sympathy was aroused, a reconciliation followed, my presents and letters were again accepted, and the engagement ring once more found a place upon her finger.
To hope for the consent of her parents to our union was, we both knew, to expect the impossible. We therefore laid our plans for an elopement. About nine o’clock on the evening of an August day in 1870 we met at the appointed place of rendezvous. I was accompanied by a friend, Frank Payne, who was to act as witness and best man. May mounted behind me one of my father’s best saddle horses, and our little party set forth in quest of some clergyman or justice of the peace to tie the nuptial knot. After meeting with sundry rebuffs, and riding all night, we reached Renick, a small town in Randolph county, about eighteen miles from Roanoke. Here we found an accommodating magistrate in the person of Esquire Butler. After Payne had sworn that Miss Harvey was eighteen years old on August 24th, and therefore of lawful age, the magistrate consented to perform the ceremony. That evening we returned to the home of my father, who was living alone, my mother having died on Oct 12, 1865.
Great was the sensation which our marriage created in our little village, and greater the indignation of my bride’s parents. Dr. Harvey promptly caused the arrest of Frank Payne for false swearing, and of Esquire Butler for solemnizing the marriage. The prosecution of Payne was soon dropped, but the magistrate did not escape so easily, being sentenced to pay a fine of $300 and to be imprisoned in the county jail for three months. Both these penalties, however, were soon afterward remitted.
For two years we lived at Roanoke, my wife’s parents refusing to recognize us even on the streets. At the end of that time we removed to Moberly, Missouri, where I lived by gaming, finding all avenues of respectable employment closed against me.
Among those with whom I gambled during this period were Joe Woods, Si. Beatty, Levi Perkins, James F. Wallace, Bill Robertson, Pat Carmody, Perry McDaniels, John Guy, Bill Williams, Dave White, and Judge Worden.
While at Moberly I formed the acquaintance of one Sam Martin, a jovial, good natured man, who first taught me the use of marked cards. I found him a congenial companion, and during the eight years from 1873 to 1881 we were partners in gambling. In the latter year Martin’s health failed and he had recourse to the waters of Hot Springs, where he died in 1885, at the early age of thirty-five.
Perhaps I may be pardoned for relating here a few incidents of our life at this time, which may serve to illustrate both Martin’s character and my own. On one of our gambling expeditions we arrived at Columbia, Missouri, and went to a hotel kept by Jim Hume. Placing a carpet satchel upon the counter, Martin blandly demanded the best room in the house. Being informed that the hostelry was full, he thrust his hand into his empty vest pocket and offered to settle in advance. This audacious piece of assurance won the confidence of the clerk, and we were assigned to the parlor for the night. At the end of a week a bill for $12 was handed to Martin, who excused himself from payment by saying that he had handed all his money to me, and that he would go and find me. It was after dark before he came across me and explained the modus operandi which he had devised. He was to lower the antique satchel from the window of our room by a string upon receiving a signal from me that I was below. I assented to the plan, and returning to the hotel, told the landlord to go out and give the prearranged whistle. This he did, and down came the string with the satchel attached, which was removed by Hume and carried into the hotel office. Here it was opened in the presence of a large crowd of “fakirs” who had been drawn to Columbia by the fair then in progress. Its contents were found to be as follows: item, one deck of cards; item, one pair of socks; item, one dirty collar; item, one rock (for ballast). Sam’s wardrobe was regarded as unique, but of hardly sufficient value to liquidate his bill. One of the amused sporting men present proposed taking up a collection for Martin’s benefit. The proposition was hailed with favor and twelve silver dollars soon jingled on the counter. The landlord joined in the merriment, and in the exuberance of his mirth offered to treat the crowd if someone would fetch Martin to participate in the festivities of the occasion. Sam was soon found, and a general jollification followed. When asked why he had not paid his bill, he replied, “What for? Why, I could go to St. Louis and board at the Lindell or Southern by paying for it.”
On the following day we started for St. Louis. On the train Martin formed the acquaintance of an old gentleman, whom he courteously invited to dine with him on reaching the refreshment station. The invitation was accepted. Martin hurried through his meal and politely excused himself to his companion. At the door he was asked for seventy five cents; pointing towards the old gentleman, he said: “Father will settle.” When his traveling acquaintance returned to the car he sought out Sam and took a seat by his side. “Pretty good dinner for seventy-five cents,” said Sam. “I should say so,” remarked the old gentleman. “I paid a dollar and a half for yours and mine, and I want seventy-five cents.” At this Martin started up in great apparent indignation, and in a loud voice asked the conductor, “What sort of a man is that who keeps the eating house? He has collected from both of us for our meal.” Before the conductor could answer, the old gentleman exclaimed, “I want you to give me that seventy-five cents that I paid out for your dinner.” Sam said that he had no small change, but the old man assured him that he could make change for “any sized bill.” I comprehended the situation and quietly remarked, “Mr. Martin, this gentleman ought to be paid. I have not enough money with me to cash your draft, but he should be paid.” My companion at once perceived his opportunity. Producing from under the lining of his hat a draft for $500, he said, “Now give me $499.25 and you are paid.” Thinking that this was an attempt to “bluff” him, the old gentleman reached down and pulled from his boot leg a large roll of bills, from which he triumphantly counted out the “change,” as he called it. Martin gave the conductor $20 to slow up and we jumped off the train. The draft was, of course, utterly worthless, but the old man apparently never made any effort to find either Martin or myself.