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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The war maker
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Language: English
By
HORACE SMITH
WITH PORTRAIT
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1911
Copyright
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1911
I WAS born on May 1, 1842, on Fifth Avenue, New York, not a long
way north of Washington Square. My father was a distinguished
surgeon and owned a large estate on Lake Champlain, where most
of my youthful summers were spent. I had three brothers and two
sisters; but not for many years have I known where they are, or
whether alive or dead. After having had a private tutor at home I was
educated by jumps at the Hinesburgh, Vermont, Academy; at the old
Troy Conference Academy at Poultney, Vermont, and at the
Burlington, Vermont, Academy, where, young as I was, I became
deeply interested in the study of medicine, for which I had inherited a
pronounced liking; that was the one point on which I seemed to fit in
with the family. I did not stay a great while at any institution because
of my success in leading the other students into all sorts of dare-
devil pranks, to the detriment of discipline and the despair of the
dominies. As an evidence of the inclining twig I remember, with still
some feeling of pride, that during one of my last summers on Lake
Champlain I organized fifteen boys of the neighborhood into an
expedition against the Indians of the far West. We were equipped
with blankets stolen from our beds, three flasks of powder, and
nearly one hundred pounds of lead, which was to be moulded into
bullets for the extermination of the redskins of the world. As
Commander-in-Chief I carried the only pistol in the party but we
expected to seize additional arms on the way to the battlefields. I
had scouts ahead of us and on both flanks and by avoiding the roads
and the bank of the lake we managed to evade capture until the third
day, although the whole countryside was searching for us, in rather
hysterical fashion.
After a somewhat scattered series of escapades, which increased
the ire of the family and intensified my dislike of their prosaic
protestations, my father solemnly declared his intention of sending
me to the United States Naval Academy. It was his idea, as he
expressed it, that the discipline which prevailed there would be
sufficient to restrain me and at the same time my active imagination
would find a vent in my inborn love of the sea. I was delighted with
this promised realization of my boyhood dream, for it seemed to me
that the career of a naval officer presented greater possibilities of
adventure than any other. Former Congressman George P. Marsh, of
Burlington, Vermont, an old friend of the family, who afterward was
sent to Italy as American Minister and died there, arranged to secure
my appointment to Annapolis, and I entered a preparatory school to
brush up on the studies required by the entrance examination. The
machinery to procure my appointment had been set in motion and I
was ready to take the examination when the opening gun of the Civil
War was fired at Fort Sumter, on April 12, 1861.
I was immediately seized with a wild desire to be in the fight, but my
father would not consent to it, on account of my age. He would not
hear to my going into the army as a private but promised that if I
would wait a year, and was still of the same mind, he would try to get
me a commission. As I have said, my sympathies were with the
South but it was more convenient for me to take the other side, and
at that moment I was not particular about principles. The family were
duly horrified one evening when I went home, after some things I
needed, and told them I had enlisted. The next day my father bought
my discharge and hustled me out to the little town of Woodstock,
Illinois, where I was placed in charge of an uncle who was abjured to
keep me from going to war, without regard to anything else that
might happen. He prevented me from joining an infantry regiment
which was then forming but I got away with a cavalry regiment which
was raised in that section some months later, and was made one of
its officers. We went to Cairo, Illinois, and from there by transport to
Pittsburg Landing, where we arrived just in time to take part in the
battle which was fought on April 6 and 7, 1862. My regiment was
pitted against the famous Black Horse Cavalry of Mississippi and we
came together at the gallop. I was riding a demon of a black horse
and, with the bit in his teeth, he charged into the line two or three
lengths ahead of the rest. A Confederate officer came at me with his
sabre raised. I ducked my head behind my horse’s neck and shot
him between the eyes, but just as my pistol cracked his sword cut
through my horse’s head to the brain and the point of it laid open my
right cheek, from the ear almost to the chin. The horse fell on my leg
and held me there, unconscious. In the evening I was picked up and
sent to the general hospital, where I stayed for three weeks.
When I was discharged from the hospital I was too weak for active
service so I was sent into the Tennessee mountains in charge of a
detachment to intercept contraband which was being sent into the
South from Cincinnati. We had been there about ten days when,
early in the morning, one of the patrols brought in a fine-looking
young man, who had been arrested as a spy. There was a
refinement about the prisoner that aroused my suspicions, and
during the day I satisfied myself that “he” was a woman. While she
would not acknowledge her identity, I had reason to believe, and
always have been sure in my own mind, that she was none other
than Belle Boyd, the famous Confederate spy. I was born with a
fondness for women, which then was strong within me, and besides,
my heart was with her cause. Therefore it is without apology that I
say I arranged things so that she escaped the next night through a
window in the shed in which she was confined.
Soon after my return to headquarters I contracted a bad case of
malaria and was sent home, which meant back to Woodstock, where
I had eloped with a banker’s daughter just before going to the front. I
was disgusted with the war and I expressed myself so freely, and
was so outspoken in my sympathy for the South, that I made myself
extremely unpopular in a very short time. It probably is true, too, as
was charged against me, that I swaggered around a lot and
presumed on the reputation I had made. At any rate the people set
their hearts on hanging me for being a “damned copperhead,” and
they might have done it if old man Wellburn, the proprietor of the
hotel at which my wife and I were staying, had not helped me to
stand off a mob that came after me. I met them at the door with a
revolver in each hand and Wellburn was right behind me with quite
an arsenal. They suggested that I come out and renounce my
principles and make certain promises, or be hanged at the liberty
pole. I told them I would renounce nothing and promise less.
“If I am a copperhead,” I told them, “I am a fighting copperhead,
while you are neither kind. If you want a fight why don’t you go to the
front and get it, instead of staying home and making trouble for a
better man, who has fought and bled for the cause you are shouting
about? If you prefer a fight here, come on and get it. I’ve got twelve
shots here and there will be just thirteen of us in hell or heaven if you
try to make good your threat.”
Old Wellburn was known as a fighter and the sight of his weapons
added weight to my words, so the crowd concluded to let me have
my way about it, and dispersed. That experience intensified my
dissatisfaction with the whole business and I sent in my resignation.
It was accepted, and when I had thought it all over I considered that I
was lucky to have escaped a court-martial. It was fortunate for me
that Governor “Dick” Yates and my father were warm friends. The
Governor was thoroughly disgusted with the way I had conducted
myself, but he stood by me.
I then moved to Chicago, with my wife. She had a small fortune and I
had come into considerable money on my twentieth birthday, so we
were in easy circumstances. I bought a vinegar works on Kinzie
Street; but the dull routine of business was repulsive to me and I sold
it in less than a year, after having operated it at a handsome profit,
and went on to New York. We stopped at the old St. Nicholas, at
Broadway and Spring Street, which was the fashionable hotel in
those days.
I was looking for anything that promised excitement. I had heard that
Carlos Manuel de Cespedes was fomenting a revolt in Cuba,—
afterward known as the “Ten Years’ War,”—and had conceived the
idea of taking a hand in it. To my disappointment, I found that no
Junta had been established in this country, nor, so far as I could
discover, were there any responsible men in New York who were
connected with the revolution. While I was wondering how I could get
into communication with Cespedes my interest was aroused by a
newspaper story of the new blockade runner “Letter B,” which had
made one round trip from Bermuda to Beaufort, North Carolina, and
was being looked for again by the Federal fleet. The “Letter B”—its
name a play on words—was a long, low, powerful, schooner-rigged
steamship, built by Laird on the Mersey. Though classed as a fifteen-
knot ship she could do sixteen or seventeen, fast going at that time.
The story which attracted my attention told all about her and said
there was so much money in blockade running that the owners could
well afford to lose her after she had made three successful trips.
In five minutes I decided to become a blockade runner and to buy
the new and already famous ship, if she was to be had at any price
within reason. I bought a letter of credit and took the next ship for
Bermuda. On my arrival there I found that the “Letter B” had been
expected in for several days from her second trip and that there was
considerable anxiety about her. I also learned that her owner was
building a second ship on the same lines and for the same trade. A
fresh cargo of munitions of war was awaiting the “Letter B,” and a
ship was ready to take to England the cotton she would bring. I got
acquainted with the agent for the blockade runner and, after making
sure that he had an ample power of attorney from her owner, offered
to buy her and take the chance that she might never come in. He
was not disposed to sell, at first, and wanted me to wait until the
arrival of her owner, Joseph Berry, who was daily expected from
England.
After waiting and talking with the agent for several days I said to him
one morning: “It looks as though your ship has been captured or
sunk. I’ll take a gambler’s chance that she hasn’t and will give you
fifty thousand dollars for her and twenty-five thousand dollars for the
cargo that is waiting for her; you to take the cargo she brings in. I’ll
give you three hours to think it over.”
I figured that the waiting cargo of arms was worth a couple of
thousand dollars more than my offer but it looked as though I was
taking a long chance with my offer for the ship. However, I had a
“hunch,” or whatever you want to call it, that she was all right, and I
never have had a well-defined “hunch” steer me in anything but a
safe course, wherefore I invariably heed them. At the expiration of
the time limit there was not a sign of smoke in any direction and the