USA > California > El Dorado County > Historical souvenir of El Dorado County, California : with illustrations and biographical setches of its prominent men & pioneers > Part 33
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154
HISTORY OF EL DORADO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.
HUMOR OF THE HIGHWAY MAN.
On the morning of November 27th, 1863, as Mr. T. A. Valentine was driving a team on the road be- tween Johntown and Uniontown he was stopped by a highway man, who demanded his money, at the same time presenting a colt's revolver. Mr. Valentine, be- ing unarmed, handed over his money, amounting to twelve dollars, saying he would much rather part with his money than his scalp. The robber politely as- sured him that he did not intend to hurt him; he stated to Mr. Valentine that he was strapped and had resorted to robbing to make a raise. He returned Valentine a dollar to pay toll across the Uniontown bridge and a bit to buy a drink, remarking that he never took bits anyhow.
FRATRICIDE AT GRIZZLY FLAT.
Wednesday evening. January 9th, 1878, Constable J. B. Fisher, of Grizzly Flat, delivered David Brant- hover to Sheriff Theissen, on a charge of having killed his brother, Adam Branthover, near the above- named place. The facts are as follows: There was some trouble between them in relation to a partner- ship in a quartz claim. Tuesday, in company of D. T. Loofbourrow, David went to the cabin of the deceased for the purpose of settling the dispute. While com- paring accounts, according to Loof bourrow's testi- mony before A. J. Graham, Justice of the Peace, David frequently gave Adam the lie, and finally, both being much excited, they clinched. During the struggle, a gun in the hand of David went off, the ball striking Adam in the thigh, coming out at the hip; death ensued in less than an hour. Immediately after the affray, David went to the cabin of Fisher and Morey, stated what had occurred, and said that he ex- pected to shoot Adam through the body, but the de- ceased knocked the gun down; he was not aware at the time that Adam was mortally wounded.
A man by the name of F. L. Smith was murdered on April 23d, 1862, on the Ogilsby road, about 21 miles east of Placerville. A rifle ball broke his spine, passing through his heart. Two young men traveling the same road on foot, heard the report of a gun, hurried to the spot, and arriving where the mur- dered. man fell, saw a man picking up his hat and a rifle. Some dispute arose between the parties, but the two being unarmed left after the murderer threatened to shoot them also. They went to the Goodwin Mountain House, to give the alarm, and on returning to the spot and searching, they discovered the mur- dered man, who had been dragged about 100 yards below the road into the chapparel. A rope was tied around his body. The body was brought to Placer- ville for burial. The murderer was arrested by Deputy
Sheriff Chapman, two days after, near Ringgold, and lodged in jail. The name of the prisoner was C. W. Smith, his case was tried in the District Court before Judge Myers, and as the evidence was entirely cir- cumstantial, but so conclusive as to leave not the shadow of doubt of his guilt, he was convicted of murder in the first degree and on November 24th, 1862, sentenced to be hung on January 9th, 1863.
CAPTAIN DAVIS.
A CALIFORNIA BALLAD BY FREDERICK COZZENS.
All the heroes that ever were born
Native or foreign, bearded or shorn,
From the days of Homer to Omer Pasha Who mauled and maltreated the troops of the Czar ; And drove the rowdy Muscovite back, Fin and Livonian, Pole and Cossack, From gray Ladoga lo green Ukraine, And other parts of the Russian domain,
With an intimation exceedingly plain,
That they'd better cul! and not come again.
All the heroes of olden time Who have jingled alike in armor and rhyme, Hercules, Hector, Quintus Curtius, Pompey and Pegasus-riding Perseus, Brave Bayard, and the braver Roland,
Men who never a fight turned back on ; Charles the Swede, and the Spartan band, Coriolanus, and General Jackson, Richard the Third, and Marcus Brutus, And others, whose names won't rhyme to suit us,
Must certainly sink in the deep profound When Captain Davis' story gets round.
Know ye the land where the sinking sun Sees the last of the earth when the day is done ; Where the course of empire is sure to stop, And the play concludes with the fifth-act drop ; Where, wonderful spectacle, hand in hand The oldest and the youngest nations stand ? Where yellow Asia, withered and dry, Hears Young America, sharp and spry, With thumb in his vest, and quizzical leer, Singing out "Old Fogie, come over here !" Know ve the land of mines and vines, Of monstrous turnips and giant pines,
Of monstrous profits and quick declines,
And Howland and Aspinwall's steamship lines ? Know ye the land so wondrous fair Fame has blown on his golden bugle, From Battery-place to Union Square Over the Park and down McDougal ? Hither and thither, and everywhere, In every city its name is known, There is not a grizzly Wall street bear That does not shrink when the blast is blown.
There Dives sits on a golden throne, With Lazarus holding his shield before, Charged with a heart of auriferous stone, And a pick-ax and spade on a field of ore.
@ RESIDENCE OF FRANCIS VEERKAMP . GRANITEHILL. CAL.8
155
CRIMINAL ANNALS.
Know ye the land that looks on Ind ? There only you'll see a pacific sailor, Its song has been sung by Jenny Lind, And the words were furnished by Bayard Taylor.
Seaward stretches a valley there, Seldom frequented by men or women ; Its rocks are hung with the prickle-pear, And the golden balls of the wild persimmon ; Haunts congenial to wolf and bear, Covered with thickets, are everywhere ; There's nothing at all in the place to attract us, Except some grotesque kind of cactus ; Glittering beetles with golden rings, Royal lizards with golden wings, And a gorgeous species of poisonous snake, That lets you know when he means to battle By giving his tail a rousing shake, To which is attached a muffled rattle.
Captain Davis, (Jonathan R.), With James McDonald, of Alabama, And Dr. Bolivar Sparks were thar, Cracking the rocks with a miner's hammer. Of the valley they'd heard reports "That plenty of gold was there in quartz." Gold in quartz they marked not there, But p'ints enough on the prickly pear, As they very soon found When they sat on the ground, To scrape the blood from their cuts and scratches ; For rickety cactus had stripped them bare, And cobbled their hides with crimson patches, Thousands of miles they are from home, Hundreds from San Francisco city ; Little they think that near them roam A baker's dozen of wild banditti. Fellows who prowl, like stealthy cats, In velvet jackets and sugar-loaf hats, Covered all over with trinkets and crimes, Watches and crosses, pistols and feathers, Squeezing virgins and wives like limes, And wrapping their legs in unpatented leathers ; Little they think how close at hand Is that cock of the walk-" the Bold Brigand !"
And here I wish to make a suggestion In regard to those conical, sugar-loaf hats, I think those bandits, beyond all question, Some day will find out they're a parcel of flats ; For if that style is with them a passion, And they stick to these hats in spite of the fashion, Some Tuscan Leary, Genin, or Knox Will get those brigands in a - bad box ; For the Chief of Police will send a " Star" To keep a look-out near the hat bazar. And when Fra Diavolo comes to buy The peculiar mode that suits his whim, He may find out, if the Star is spry, That instead of the hat they've ironed him.
Captain Davis, and James McDonald, And Doctor Sparks together stand ; Suddenly like the fierce Clan Konald Bursts from the thicket the bold Brigand,
Sudden, and never a word spoke they, But pulled their trigger and blazed away.
"Music," says Halleck, "is everywhere," Harmony guides the whole creation ; But when a bullet sings in the air So close to your hat that it moves your hair, To enjoy it requires a taste quite rare, With a certain amount of cultivation. But never music, homely or grand, Grisi's " Norma " or Jungle's band, The distant sound of the watch dog's bark, The coffee-mill's breakfast psalm in the cellar,
"Home, Sweet Home," or the sweet "Sky Lark," Sung by Mrs. Payne, in "Cinderella ;"
Songs, that remind us of days of yore, Curbstone ditties that we have loved to hear,
"Brewer's Yeast !" and "Straw, Oat Straw ?" "Lily-white corn, a penny an ear ?" Rustic music of chanticleer,
"Robert the Devil," by Meyerbeer, Played at the "Park " when the Woods were here,
Or anything else that an echo brings From those mysterious vibrant strings,
That answer at one, like the telegraph line,
To notes that were written in "Old Lang Syne."
Nothing, I say, ever played or sung,
Organ panted, or bugle rung, Not even the horn on the Switzer Alp, Was half so sweet to the Captain's ear
As the sound of that bullet that passed his scalp, And told him a scrimmage was awful near.
Come, O Danger ! in any form, "The earthquake's shock or the ocean storm ;" Come, when its century's weight of snow The avalanche hurls on the Swiss chateau ; Come with the murderous Hindoo Thug, Come with the grizzly's fearful hug, With the Malay's stab, or the adder's fang, Or the deadly fly of the boomerang, But never come when the carbine's bang That are fired by men that must fight or hang.
On they came with a thunderous shout That made the rocky canyon ring ; (Canon, in Spanish, means tube or spout, Gorge, or hollow, or some such thing.) On they came with a thundering noise ; Captain Davis said, calmly, "Boys, I've been a waiting to see them chaps ;" And with that he examined his pistol-caps ; Then a long, deep breath he drew, Put in his cheek a tremendous chew, Stripped off his waistcoat and coat, and threw Them down, and was ready to die or do.
Had I Bryant's belligerent skill, Wouldn't I make this a bloody fight ? Or Alfred Tennyson's crimson quill, What thundering, blundering lines I'd write ! I'd batter, and hack, and cut, and stab, And guage, and throttle, and curse, and jab, I'd wade to my ears in oaths and slaughter, Pour out blood like brandy and water ;
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HISTORY OF EL DORADO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.
Hit 'em again if they asked for quarter, And clinch and wrestle, and yell and bite, But I never could wield a carniverous pen Like either of those intellectual men. I love a peaceful pastoral scene, With drowsy mountains and meadows green, Covered with daisies, grass, and clover, Mottled with Dorset and Southdown sheep, Better than fields with a red turf over, And men piled up in a Waterloo heap. But notwithstanding, my fate cries out : "Put Captain Davis in song and story ! That children hereafter may read about His deeds in the Rocky canyon foray !"
James McDonald, of Alabama, Fell at the feet of Dr. Sparks, "Doctor," said he, " I'm dead as a hammer, . And you have a couple of bullet marks. This," he gasped, "is the end of life." "Yes," said Sparks, " 'tis a mighty solver, Excuse me a moment, just hold my knife, And I'll hit that brigand with my Colt's revolver."
Then through the valley the contest rang, Pistols rattle and carbines bang, Horrible, terrible, frightful, dire, Flashed from the vapor the footpad's fire, Frequent as when in a sultry night Twinkles a meadow with insect-light ; But deadlier far, as the Doctor found, When, crack ! a ball through his frontal bone Lands him flat on his back on the hard-fought ground, And left Captain Davis to go it alone !
Oh 1 that Roger Bacon had died ! Or Schwartz, the monk, or whoever first tried Cold iron to choke with a mortal load, To see if Saltpeter wouldn't explode. For now, when you get up a scrimmage in rhyme, The use of gunpowder so shortens the time, That just as your " Iliad " should have begun, Your epic gets smashed with a Paishan. gun ; And the hero for whom you are tuning the string Is dead before " arms and the man " you singi; To say nothing of how you jar and shock Your verses with hammer and rammer and stock Bullet and wad, trigger and lock, Nipple and'cap, pan and cock. But wouldn't I like to spread a few pages All over with arms of the middle ages ? Wouldn't I like to expatiate On Captain Davis in chain or plate ? Spur to heel, and plume to crest, Visor barred, and lance in rest, Long, cross-hilted brand to wield, Cuirass, gauntlets, mace and shield ; Cased in proof himself and horse, From frontlet-spike to huckler-boss ; Harness glistening in the sun, Plebian foes, and twelve to one ! I tell you now there's a beautiful chance To make a hero of old romance ; But I'm painting his picture for after-time,
And don't mean to sacrifice truth for rhyme. Cease, digression ; the fray grows hot ! Never an instant stops the firing ; Two of the conical hats are shot, And a velvet jacket is just expiring. Never yields Captain Davis an inch, For he didn't know how, if he wished, to flinch. Firm he stands in the rocky gorge, Moved as much by those vagrant men As an anvil that stands by a blacksmith's forge. Is moved by the sledge-hammer's ten-pound ten l
Firm though his shirt, with jag and rag Resembles an army's storming flag : Firm, till suddenly they give a shout, Drop their shooters and clutch their knives, When he said, " Jackson their powder's out, And I've got three barrels and that's three lives !"
One ! and the nearest steeple-crown Stood aghast, as a minster spire Stand, when the church below is on fire,
Then trembles, and totters, and tumbles down. Don Pasquale the name he bore, Near Lecco was reared his ancestral cot.
Close by Lago Como's shore For description of which, see Claude Melnotte.
Two, and instantly drops, with a crash, An antediluvian sort of mustache ; Such as hundreds of years had grown, When scissors and razors were quite unknown.
He from the Tuscan city had come,' Where a tower is built all out of plumb ! Puritani his name was hight. A terrible fellow to pray or fight; Three ! and as if his head were cheese, Through Castadiva a bullet cut;
Knocked a hole in his os unguis, And bedded itself in his occiput.
Daily to mass his widow will go, In that beautiful city, a lovely moaner,
Where those supernatural sausages grow, Which we mispronounce when we style "Bellona.
As a crowd that near a depot stands, Impatiently waiting to take the cars, Will "clear the track " when its iron bands The ponderous, fiery hippogriph jars, Yet the moment it stops don't care a pin, But hustle and bustle and go right in, So the half of the band that still survives, Comes up, with long mustaches and knives, Determined to mince the Captain to chowder, So soon as it's known he is out of powder.
Six feet one, in trowsers and shirt, Covered with sweat, and blood, and dirt; Not very much scared, (though his hat was hurt And as full of holes as a garden squirt.) Awaiting the onslaught, behold him stand With a twelve inch " Bowie " in either hand. His cause was right, and his arms were long, His blades were bright, and his heart was strong; All he asks of the trinketed clan Is a bird's eye view of the foremost man;
157
INDIAN TROUBLES.
But shoulder to shoulder they came together. Six sugar-loaf heads and twelve legs of leather; Fellows whose names you can't rehearse Without instinctively clutching your purse ; Baldiani and Bottesimi, Fierce Alboni and fat Dandini, Old Rubini and Mantillini, Cherubini and Paganini: (But I had forgot the last were shot; No matter, it don't hurt the tale a jot.)
Onward come the terrible crew ! Waving their poignards high in air, But little they dream that seldom grew Of human arms so long a pair As the Captain had hanging beside him thene, Matted from shoulder to wrist with hair. Brawny, and broad, and brown, and bare.
Crack, and his blade from point to heft Had cloven a skull as an egg is cleft; And round he swings those terrible flails, Heavy and swift as a grist mill sails ; Whack! and the loftiest conical crown Falls full length in the Rocky valley; Smack! and a duplicate Don goes down, As a ten-pin falls in a bowling alley.
None remain but old Rubini, Fierce Alboni and fat Dandini; Wary fellows, who take delight In prolonging, as long as they can, a fight, To show the science of cut and thrust, The politest method of taking life;
As some men love, when a bird is trussed, To exhibit their skill with a carving knife. But now with desperate hate and strength, They cope with those arms of fearful length. A scenic effect of skill and art, A beautiful play of tierce and carte, A fine exhibition it was, to teach The science of keeping quite out of reach. But they parry, and ward, and guard, and fend, And rally, and dodge, and slash, and shout, In hopes that from mere fatigue in the end He either will have to give in or give out.
Never a Yankee was born or bred Without that peculiar kink in his head By which he could turn the smallest amount Of whatever he had to the best account. So while the handitti cavil and shrink, It gives Captain Davis a chance to think; And the coupled ideas shot through his brain, As shoots through a village an express train; And then ! as swift as the lightning flight, When the pile-driver falls from its fearful hight, He brings into play, by way of assister, His dexter leg, as a sort of ballista. Smash ! in the teeth of the nearest rogue, He threw the whole force of his hob-nailed brogue ! And a horrible yell from the rocky chasm Rose in the air like a horder slogan, When old Rubini lay in a spasm, From the merciless kick of that iron brogan.
As some old Walton, with line and hook, "Will stand by the side of a mountain brook, Intent upon taking a creel of trout; But finds so many poking about, Under the roots, and stones, and sedges, In the middle, and near the edges, Eager to hite, so soon as the hackle, Drops in the stream from his slender tackle, And finally thinks it a weary sport, To fish where trout are so easily caught; So Captain Davis gets tired at last Of fighting with those that drop down so fast, And a tussle with only a couple of men Seems poor kind of fun, after killing of ten ! But just for the purpose of ending the play He puts fierce Albini first out of the way; And then to show Signor Dandini his skill, He splits him right up, as you'd split up a quill; Then drops his "Bowie " and rips his shirt, To bandage the wounds of the parties hurt; An act as good as a moral, to teach " That none are out of humanity's reach," An act that might have produced good fruit, Had the brigands survived, but they didn't do it.
Sixteen men do depose and say, " That in December, the twentieth day, They were standing close by when the fight occurred, And are ready to swear to it, word for word, That a bloodier scrimmage they never saw; That the bodies were sot on, accordin' to law; That the provocation and great excitement Wouldn't justify them in a bill of indictment; But this verdict they find against Captain Davis, That if ever a brave man lived-he brave is."
The above ballad made its round from the Knicker- bocker Magazine, referring to a desperate fight between three miners, prospecting after a vein of gold-bearing quartz, and eleven robbers, as had been published in the newspapers of El Dorado county in December, 1854, and at that time had caused quite some contro- versy on account of the credibility in the affair. The Captain's gallant deeds in Rocky Canyon are rendered in imperishable verse, abounding in wit, sprightliness and humor. His name will live in song, if not in story, long after his strong arm and undaunted heart are cold, pulseless and stiff.
CHAPTER XXXI. INDIAN TROUBLES.
EL DORADO INDIAN WAR OF 1850 AND 1851.
About the middle of summer, 1850, some Indians had been killed in the neighborhood of Johnson's ranch, situated about six miles above Placerville on the emigrant road. It was rumored at that time, that no provocation on the side of the Indians had given cause to such occurrence, but that it had been done
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HISTORY OF EL DORADO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.
with a view to stir up the Indians to commit some out- rage or depredation in retaliation, and then have the strongest measures taken against them; a permanent military post to keep them under control was probably the least what those parties did expect. If so, the scheme worked well enough, the Indians revenging themselves, killed several miners, whereupon the settlers and miners complained in a petition to the county and State, asking for relief from the ravages of the Indians. Three companies of militia were consequently mus- tered out, one from Mud Springs, and two from Pla- cerville, the whole army was placed in command of Sheriff William Rogers, as Paymaster, B. F. Ankenny being Quartermaster of the expedition, and as soon as the companies were organized they marched up towards Johnson's ranch there to go in camp, await- ing the appearance of the enemy. In the meantime, for several weeks, J. C. Johnson, (by contemporaries called "Jack," or "cock eyed Johnson,") who kept a store and trading post on his ranch, had the undis- puted revenue from the whole camp, but no Indians turned up. The ardor of those Indian fighters being not yet abated, after about four weeks of easy camping life, the officers in charge of the expedition came to the understanding that they had to do something, and it was decided to go in pursuit of the savages, hunt- ing them up in their own hiding places. Order was given to break camp, and soon after the whole army was on the march scouring the country in the direc. tion of Fiddletown, but as far as to the county line no Indians came in sight, and finally giving up the pursuit removed back to Mud Springs, where the army was disbanded. Thus ended the first Indian war ex- pedition of El Dorado county, with considerably dif- ferent result from the intention under which it was commenced-to punish the outbreak of the Indians, The official report gave one Indian killed. Dr. Miller, of Placerville, accompanied the expedition as an army surgeon, but his services were not often required for, at least not in the direction where he was employed for.
The Indians, however, had not given up hostility, they only had waited their time, undisturbed higher up in the mountains, while they would not dare to operate agressively the few against a couple hundred well armed. But so soon as the army was disbanded they left their hiding places and came down on a raid through Diamond Springs township; they shot at a miner in his cabin which stood on a gulch near Mar- tinez creek and committed lots of other outrages, always avoiding the populated villages or clusters of houses, but annoying the lonesome miners' cabins. This raid was extended as far down as Mud Springs, and returning they drove all the stock what they could
get hold of, from there up on Weber creek toward the mountains, crossed the American river near Brock- less' bridge, and brought their booty in safety; one or two more miners were killed on this retreat.
Renewed lamentations and complaints were made, followed by a flood of urgent petitions for protection, and the consequence was the organization of another army to fight and punish the incorrigible Indians. Sheriff William Rogers was again appointed comman- der-in-chief and Major A. W. Bee, Quartermaster of the expedition, which was accompanied by Chas. Leake. It caused no difficulty to fill the ranks of the companies, as many young men looked at this campaign as a change from the monotonous work in the diggings, and the grand time which the camping life of the first expedition had occasioned, enticed them to enlist. This dene they were sent out in pur- suit of the Indians, and to secure a better result than the first campaign had, Bob Carson was accompanying the militia in the capacity of an Indian scout. The whole of this army went into camp again at Johnson's ranch, giving Johnson the benefit of their stay, and smaller bodies were sent out reconnoiteringand hunting after the aborigines. After one of these reconnoitering trips the report was sent down to Placerville that the militia had met the enemy and had made an attack with the result of a good many killed on the side of the Indians; the report did not mention if there was any loss on the other side. This report, however, it seems, was only manufactured to stimulate the town- people; by making researches for the battle field no such thing could be detected, and some time after Carson, the scout, declared it as nothing better than a hoax.
After all, this campaign was on the best way to end just as fruitless as the first one, and to avoid this result the commander and staff decided to try to compromise with the Indians. The services of Smith,* an old trapper and Indian scout, who was very familiar with Indian habits and languages, were asked for, and he ratified the negotiations for peace with the enemy. Thus ended the second and last bloodless Indian war in El Dorado.
The Indian war matter came up in the State Legislature, in session in 1855, to settle the outstand- ing war claims and to look after the accounts of the officers of both expeditions. The voluminous report gives the following figures for the expenses of the war :
The first El Dorado expedition, William Rogers, Paymaster, paid out, . .$23, 171 83
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