Slike strani
PDF
ePub
[graphic]

The bird's-nest home of Mrs. Josephine Clifford McCrackin, Santa Cruz, Cal. She named it Gedenkheim, after memories of her old home in Germany.

of Westphalia, in one of the oldest inhabitable castles of Europe, Petershagen on the Weser. It dates from the year 1280, grim and squat looking, perched high above the banks of the Weser, with stone statues of saints in niches of the eleven feet thick wall, on the upper terrace, and splendid stone carving gracing door arches and window frames in the interior. But there was the ghost, naturally, the White Lady; and what mother could have prevented nurse girl or house maid from telling the children in their charge all about the ghost? Early impressions are the most lasting; and instead of learning my multiplication table at school, I found it more to my taste to "think up" ghost stories.

And they stayed with me, even when the old castle and the old country had been left behind, and father had realized his dream of bringing his family to the United States, and making good American citizens of his children. To be sure, he had overlooked some slight particulars, in his ardent

desire to secure liberty and freedom from tyranny, not only for himself, but for any number of poor black slaves, to whom his heart went out. The more particular of these particulars being that twenty thousand thalers was not an inexhaustible fortune in the great free America of which every German dreams.

Perhaps this little miscalculation in regard to the little thalers might have been set straight when our family reached New Orleans in January, 1846, had father not been so anxious to reach St. Louis; for in Missouri he meant to purchase the territory on which were to live, not his own family, but the families of the poor black slaves whom he meant to buy of their cruel masters.

Mother could see more clearly that the family coffers would soon need replenishing; and she begged father to remain in New Orleans, and at least investigate what we had known for years to be an estate in litigation in the courts of Louisiana, because the

heirs could not be found in the United States. It was a grand-uncle of mother's who had come with the English troops from Hesse, in the year 1776; had quit the service, acquired vast stretches of land in the then French territory along what was later the border of Texas and Louisiana, and lived the life of a lord, changing the "von" of his name to the French "de," so that instead of being Freiherr von Ende, he became Baron D'Ende. He had never married, and those who claimed the estate, were not legitimate heirs.

After father died—perhaps a little disillusionized-mother lacked the means to prosecute the search for the treasure. But long after after mother's death, and when the Beaumont Oil Wells were spouting their best, some man in Texas, who called himself Dandy, and claimed descent, said he had papers which could establish the Von Ende claim. It was before the death of my cousin, to whom I addressed my letters: "Seiner Excellenz General Lieutenant Freiherr von Ende, Kommandant zn Berlin," and as he was the Military Commandant, of course all the old archives were open to him. I still have the papers he sent me, establishing the identity of our prize grand-grand-uncle, but "Dandy" did not appear again.

I was educated privately and then in a convent school. In 1854 father died; an older brother, George, had left for California in the days of the gold excitement, and my mother, sister and I were alone. Then Lt. Jas. A. Clifford, of the Third Cavalry, U. S. A., came into my life, and I married him. The close of the Civil War found us at Carlisle Barracks, Penn. From there we were ordered to Fort Union, New Mexico, then a frontier post, to report to General Carlton, who was to meet the various troops sent there and assign them to the different posts, camps and stations in his department. Then came a rarely vivid period in my life, when I traveled over the wild and desolate portion of

Arizona and New Mexico, and finally to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Besides the 1,200 mules in the wagons there were some 200 head extra, and large bands of horses for the officers. It was on this trip I met and rode my famous white horse Toby, my affectionate companion of the plains who almost talked to me, so companionable did we become. On this trip I met, a few miles above the present bustling city of Trinidad, Colorado, and near the Raton Tunnel on the Santa Fe transcontinental line, the old pioneer Dick Wooton, and at Albuqueque, New Mexico, the famous scout of General Fremont, Kit Carson, and the less renowned, but equally brave Colonel Pfeiffer.

Several times on this trip, with the troops, we came upon mutilated corpses of civilians and soldiers who had been killed by the merciless Apaches. Just at the foot of a rough, endless mountain, the men who had come under the protection of our train from Fort Cummings, pointed out where the two mail riders coming from Fort Bayard, our destination, had been ambushed and killed by Apaches only the week before. I had heard of these two men while at the fort, one of those was a young man barely twenty, and very popular with the men. When smoking his farewell pipe before mounting his mule for the trip to Camp Bayard, he said: "Boys, this is my last trip. Mother writes me that she is getting old and feeble; she wants me to come home. So I've thrown up my contract with Uncle Sam, and I'm going straight back to Booneville, just as straight as God will let me, when I get back to Bayard. This mail riding is hard work and small pay anyhow-$60 a month, and your scalp at the mercy of these murderous Apaches." His mother's letter was found in the boy's pocket when his mutilated body was brought into camp.

On another occasion, after we had left Fort Craig, we saw what proved to be a party of soldiers. They drew

[graphic]

Joaquin Miller at his home, The Hights, on the sloping hills of Fruitvale, California, overlooking the bay of San Francisco.

up in line as they saw our captain approach. Perhaps they had not discovered my presence in time; before the sergeant could throw a blanket over the cold, stark form lying on a pile of rocks by the roadside, I had already seen the ghastly face and mutilated limbs of the wretched man who had met a cruel death only the day before. It was the usual story of two men, mounted civilians, who were crossing the desert. They were almost crazy with thirst, and attempted to turn down to the river for water for their canteens when they were attacked by Indians. One of them escaped to Fort Selden; the other was captured and tortured to death. The soldiers buried him in the sands of the lonely desert. There were many such scenes in following the army in those days.

After I left Lieutenant Clifford I came to California, where my mother, brother and sister were already lo

cated, and shortly after learned of the founding of a new magazine in San Francisco, the Overland Monthly, with Bret Harte as editor. I was anxious to earn my independence, and so decided upon writing some of my experiences. My first article was entitled "Down Among the Dead Letters;" it appeared in the December number, 1869. Bret Harte liked it so well he urged me to write more, and especially some of my army experiences, and stories based upon them. So I did, and in due time four of them appeared, and others followed. Somewhat later I branched out in the literary field, and by degrees my work was published in the East, Middle West and here, both in magazines and in book form.

In 1881 I went to Arizona to visit old army friends, and there chanced to meet, among others, Jackson McCrackin, a South Carolinan, who had developed into a thorough-going Westerner. He was the first white man to

set foot where Prescott now stands. He had discovered a famous gold mine and was the speaker of the first legislature ever convened in Arizona. We were married the following year. We purchased a ranch in the beautiful Santa Cruz Mountains, which we named Monte Paraiso, Mountain Paradise, and there for seventeen years we lived, surrounded with all we desired. During this period I continued my literary work and published a number of books. A big forest fire, in October, 1899, swept away everything on the ranch, and was the end of the happiest period of my life, for Mr. McCrackin did not die till December 14, 1904. Then I left the mountains and offered what was left of the ranch for sale.

The ranch, with its natural attractions and growing memories, held a rare charm for us and Our many friends. It was the headquarters of all our army comrades, who passed anywhere near Santa Cruz. Ambrose Bierce, the most hated and the best loved man in California, was a frequent guest, and spent many vacations there. Renown followed him wherever the fear of his name penetrated. Yet he could be kind, good and companionable. He was merciless in his sarcasm, hated hypocrisy, and was without fear. He wrote his manuscripts nearby, some of the copy embodying his experience in army days, paragraphs of a pathetic strain from the depths of his heart. Bierce had been an army officer, and though no one was permitted to address him "Major Bierce," I had always maintained that the army lost an excellent officer where the world gained an extraordinarily brilliant writer.

as

Herman Scheffauer, now of London, was a protege of Bierce's, and was with him when the fire swept away our mountain home. Both of them hurried to our assistance. It was this sudden calamity to myself that awakened me to the great necessity of inaugurating a movement to preserve the forest groves of the State from fires of this character.

When I left the ruins of the ranch I

came to Santa Cruz, where I was greeted with great kindness and the gift of a very pretty bungalow, prettily furnished, by the Saturday Afternoon Club. Beside being reporter and writer on the "Sentinel," I am writing for magazines and other papers.

Busy as I am, I have still time to make myself disagreeable to people who have no love for any of the creatures God gave us to protect, the wild life of the forest, or the animals who serve us and guard us, and would love us if we would but let them. In other words, I belong to every protective society and league, and believe myself to be working for the best interests of California.

Since that great catastrophe of our destroyed mountain home, I have never discovered a picture of Bret Harte that looked like him. Like the Bret Harte of the "Overland" period, when, to quote his own expression, he was "seated on the editorial tripod in the sanctum on Clay street." The photograph was taken at that time; he himself pronounced it good, and he wrote a few charming words on it for me.

But it went up in fire and flames that dreadful October day in 1899, when I saw the greedy flames devour my two white doves, Polly and Paloma, as they escaped from the burning barn to seek protection with me.

Bret Harte could be altogether charming; it was his nature to be amiable and sympathetic; but there was about him an aloofness which grew to stony coldness when brought into contact with those who had antagonized him or illy used him. As I have said elsewhere, to Miss Dolson and myself, who were homesick and forlorn, he showed special kindness by encouraging us to visit the editorial rooms on Clay street, and finding for us always some manuscript to look over, or copy, for there were no typewriters in use those days, and some of the manuscripts needed close attention. Mr. Harte and I both knew that Miss Dolson had a young stepmother in the East, and we discussed the matter without hesitation.

But the sorrow that was in my heart lay deeper, and for years I could not bear to speak of it, much less write about it. And Mr. Harte did not urge it; he knew the sore spot in my heart and respected my wish to hide it. The Clay street sanctum was a pleasant room in which to foregather; and a great attraction to all the staff were the paintings which the artist, Munger, had left on the walls for his friend to enjoy. Bret Harte fitted so well in these really elegant surroundings; and when by chance a number of the brightest stars of the "Overland" constellation met here, when wit and satire flashed and sparkled, and the editor merged into the genial companion, there was fascination never to be forgotten by the fortunate witness of the

[graphic]

scene.

I think this singular man was happier with men than with women. That the woman nearest him, his wife, was not always a pleasant companion for him is not a secret. Never has it been a secret since the days she was in the habit of coming to the Clay street sanctum, to order her husband for escort on a shopping expedition. It seemed so utterly ridiculous that this highstrung, sensitive man should be at the order of a woman who seemed to share no aspiration with him, but simply regarded him as an agent for her convenience. Mr. Harte used to say that he did not want to "make points," but would assert himself when the time 'came. He did not. For the fiasco in Chicago, where he had gone, expecting his admirers to purchase the "Lakeside Monthly" for him, was due to the fact that Mrs. Harte forbade him to attend the dinner, where the $14,000 check had been laid under his plate. The cousin of Mrs. Harte, the lady with whom they were staying, had not been invited to the dinner party.

Still, Bret Harte could be very firm, even vindictive. We all know the name of the very particular lady who refused to read proof on Harte's first story, "The Luck of Roaring Camp," because, she said, it was indecent. The

Charles Warren Stoddard, one of the early group of prominent writers in San Francisco.

lady was active in church and Sunday school circles, and she later prepared a number of papers on "Childhood,"

« PrejšnjaNaprej »