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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The war maker
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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eBook.

Title: The war maker

Being the true story of Captain George B. Boynton

Author: Horace Herbert Smith

Photographer: Pirie MacDonald

Release date: April 11, 2024 [eBook #73378]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co, 1911

Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAR

MAKER ***
 THE WAR MAKER
BEING THE
TRUE STORY OF CAPTAIN GEORGE B.
BOYNTON
Photo by Pirie MacDonald
 THE
WAR MAKER
BEING THE TRUE STORY OF
CAPTAIN GEORGE B. BOYNTON

By
HORACE SMITH

WITH PORTRAIT

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1911
 Copyright
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1911

Published March, 1911

W. F. Hall Printing Company

Chicago
 NOTE
THE hero of this book was a real man, though he has carried to his
grave the secret of his true name. It was not Boynton, although it is
known that he was born in Fifth Avenue, near Fourteenth Street,
New York, May 1, 1842, and that his father was a distinguished
surgeon, with an estate on Lake Champlain. He rarely talked of his
remarkable life, and recounted in detail to the author of this volume
the facts of his career of adventure, only in the closing months of his
life.
Captain Boynton was of the type of filibuster that is read of so often,
but rarely met with in life. He was a tall, bronzed, athletic, broad-
shouldered man, one of the most picturesque and daring of the
many soldiers of fortune who have sought adventures over the
world. From Hongkong to Valparaiso fighters of all races knew the
name of Boynton. From Cape Horn to New York he did not permit
himself to be forgotten. Whether exploring the sources of the
Orinoco, or hunting elusive supporters for a deserted American
President, or battling in the Haytian army, or spying out court secrets
in Venezuela, or running a distillery in Brooklyn with Jim Fisk as
partner, he was invariably master of himself and continually a
personality to be reckoned with. Captain Boynton was the original of
the “Soldier of Fortune” in Richard Harding Davis’s story of that
name, and gave to Guy Boothby the facts of his novel “The Beautiful
White Devil,” with which dashing heroine Captain Boynton was on
terms of intimacy. In the account of his life given in this volume
fictitious names have in two or three instances been used for
persons still living who figured in business deals with him. Otherwise
the story is told almost identically as Captain Boynton narrated it to
the author.
After escaping death in scores of forms, including a Chinese pirate’s
cutlass, an assassin’s dagger, the fire of a file of soldiers at sunrise,
and war’s guns, this utterly fearless, cheerfully arrogant retired
blockade runner, revolutionist, and hunter of pirates died peacefully
in his bed, at a ripe age, on January 19, 1911, in New York City,
where he had led a quiet life since 1905, when he voluntarily left
Venezuela, after withstanding repeated efforts by President Castro to
drive him from the country.
H. S.
New York,
Jan. 25, 1911.
 CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
A Soldier of Fortune’s Creed 9
I Under Fire the First Time 13
II Filibustering for the Cubans 34
III In League with the Spanish Pretender 54
IV Lawless Latin America 78
V The Marooning of a Traitor 102
VI A Swift Vengeance 121
VII Preying on Pirates 140
VIII “The Beautiful White Devil” 165
IX A Death Duel with a Pirate King 193
X The Burial of the “Leckwith” 217
XI Stealing a British Ship 243
XII A Land of Mystery and Murder 264
XIII Adventures on the Nile 289
XIV Rapid-Fire Revolts 327
XV Revolution as a Fine Art 357
XVI At War with Castro 387
 A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE’S CREED
THROUGHOUT my life I have sought adventure over the face of the
world and its waters as other men have hunted and fought for gold or
struggled for fame. The love of it, whether through the outcropping of
a strain of buccaneer blood that had been held in subjection by
generations of placid propriety or as a result of some freak of
prenatal suggestion, was born in me, deep-planted and long-rooted.
Excitement is as essential to my existence as air and food. Through
it my life has been prolonged in activity and my soul perpetuated in
youth; when I can no longer enjoy its electrification, Death, as it is so
spoken of, will, I hope, come quickly.
To get away from the flat, tiresome, beaten path and find conditions
or create situations to gratify the clamorous demand within me has
ever been my compelling passion. I have served, all told, under
eighteen flags and to each I gave the best that was in me, even
though some of them were disappointing in their failure to produce a
pleasing amount of excitement. In following my natural bent, which I
was powerless, as well as disinclined, to interfere with or alter, to the
full length of my capabilities, it perhaps will be considered by some
people that I have gone outside of written laws. To such a contention
my answer is that I have always been true to my own conscience,
which is the known and yet the unknown quantity we all must reckon
with, and to my country. In the transportation of arms with which to
further fights for freedom or fortune I have flown many flags I had no
strictly legal right to fly, over ships that were not what they pretended
to be nor what their papers indicated them to be, but never have I
taken refuge behind the Stars and Stripes, nor have I ever called on
an American minister or consular officer to get me out of the
successive scrapes with governments, but most often with
misgovernments, into which my warring wanderings have carried
me. Red-blooded love of adventure, free from any wanton spirit and
with the prospect of financial reward always subordinated, has been
the driving force in all of my encounters with good men and bad, with
the latter class much in the majority. Therefore I have only scorn for
sympathy and contempt for criticism, nor am I troubled with uncanny
visions by night nor haunting recollections by day.
There is just one point in my philosophy which I wish to make clear
before the Blue Peter is hoisted, and that is that most of the so-
called impossibilities we encounter are simply disguised
opportunities. Because they are regarded as impossible they are not
guarded against and are therefore comparatively easy of
accomplishment when they really are possible, as most of them are.
Acceptance of this theory, with which every student of the history of
warfare will agree, will help to explain my ability to do some of the
things which will be told of, that the thoughtless would promptly put
down as impossible.
The name by which I am known is one of the contradictions of my
life. Save only for my father, who sympathized with my adventurous
disposition at the same time that he tried to curb it, I was at war with
my family almost from the time I could talk. I am a Republican in
politics from the fact that they were active supporters of James
Buchanan, and I became a Southern sympathizer simply because
they were bitterly opposed to slavery. When I left home to become
an adventurer around the globe I buried my real name and I do not
propose to uncover it, here or hereafter. I am proud, though, of the
fact that my family is descended from a King of Burgundy; for since
reaching years of discretion, though I have been as loyal to the
United States as any man since 1865, I never have believed in a
republican form of government. In the course of my activities I have
used many names in many lands, but that of Boynton, which had
been in the family for years, stuck to me until I finally adopted it,
prefixing a “George” and a “B.,” which really stands for “Boynton.” I
made it my business to forget, as soon as they had served my
purpose, the different names I took in response to the demand of
expediency, but I remember that Kinnear and Henderson were two
under which I created some comment on opposite sides of the world.
THE WAR MAKER
 CHAPTER I
UNDER FIRE THE FIRST TIME

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