Saturday, October 6, 2018
Asteronga, New York: New Edition 2018
Originally published in 2013, the eleven stories collected in Asteronga, New York have been re-published in a newly formatted and revised edition.
On Amazon in two formats: Kindle at $2.99 and paperback at $9.95
Set in a mythical Mohawk Valley town, the linked stories trace the boyhood and young adulthood of the central character from about 1959 to 1970:
Juliana's Little Cemetery describes a cemetery for pets created by an undertaker's daughter. When a smaller neighborhood boy volunteers to help her with the project, Juliana comes to accepts the steady supply of dead animals and birds that he provides. It is only by accident that she discovers exactly how the boy obtains the candidates for her graveyard.
Jimmy Jenko Was My Double resembled the narrator so closely that he was always getting blamed for the other boy's misdeeds, from arson to brandishing knives.
People Who Live in the Feeney Flats were the kind of people to avoid, as three boys learned when they set out a rescue a stolen rabbit and discovered a murder.
How Willie Zimmerman Got Crippled: Two boys set a trap for the local misfit, convinced he is a danger to children.
My Sister Elizabeth Was Different: She was a terrific athlete in great contrast to her brothers and happened to be there when a boy rose from the dead in Kubichek's funeral home.
Snowstorm in Lover's Lane: The narrator becomes convinced that the girl he loves is trapped in a car buried under the snow on a local lover's lane.
Responsible for All These Souls: When teenage vandals break into the abandoned Beardslee mausoleum, cousin Genevieve takes home in a card board box scattered bones and skulls
The Drowned Village: A swimming party ends in tragedy when the lively Karen vanishes beneath a murky lake.
Gracie Was Never a Prostitute: Even though everyone in school says that she is a prostitute, the narrator not only rescues Gracie from local hoods but falls in love with her.
An Appearance of the Blessed Virgin Mary: In the summer of 1969 thousands flocked toWoodstock a hundred miles south but only one draft dodger saw the Virgin Mary.
Burying Uncle Artie becomes a family project when the monsignor refuses to let Artie go to the family plot in old St. Dymphna's Cemetery.
Several of the stories are also available as podcasts on SoundCloud
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
The Immortal Woman of Asteronga & other stories
A new collection of stories set in the mythical upstate New York village of Asteronga is now available at Amazon in digital and paper formats. The sixteen stories are inspired by history, legends and rumors of the Mohawk Valley from the 1830s to the present.
The title story "The Immortal Woman of Asteronga" is inspired by an eccentric lesbian who once held court in an old Model T on Mary Street in Little Falls. In the story she is befriended by a high school girl who is mystified by her knowledge of ancient peoples and languages.
"When the Saints Came to Asteronga" features the return of Judge Nathaniel Benton and attorney Arphaxad Loomis, last seen in the novela of the underground railroad, "Greater Love." In the present story, the two legal scholars take action when the father and brothers of Mormon prophet Joseph Smith bring their new gospel to the small Erie Canal town.
"Roxalana" is a variation on the story of the 1884 ax murderess of Jordanville explored in much more detail in Roxy Druse and the Murders of Herkimer County
"Factory Girl" is a variation on the story of the 1912 Little Falls textile strike described more fully in The Red Nurse.
"Pursuit of Happiness" is a happier version of the 1914 school teacher murder in Poland, NY.
"The Colonel Takes Command" features the commander of the local Home Guard and combines elements of the Guard's infamous cattle slaughter at Camp Jolly and the manhunt for trunk murderer Mike Masco just before World War I.
"Bad Water" intersects with the cattle slaughter scene of the previous story but is primarily a study of a recovering alcoholic of a century ago.
"Battle at Indian Cave" features of gang of immigrant children who fight to save a disabled older boy from the 1917 military draft. Their hideout is in a forgotten cave not far from Overlook Mansion in Little Falls.
"The Colored Murderer" is a look at racial attitudes in an almost entirely white mill town and is inspired by an infamous domestic murder. Like other stories, this features the actual police and fire chiefs of Little Falls, New York.
"Sister Margaret Mary"is a look into the often desperate yet creative lives of the nuns who taught generations of Catholic children in Valley towns.
"Displaced Person" is about one of the many refugees who came from Europe in the aftermath of World War II, hiding terrible secrets about what they had seen and done.
"The Marxist of the Mohawk" is the tale of a couple whose love was destroyed by intrusive FBI agents dispatched to Asteronga by Senator Joseph McCarthy.
The Golden Stairway to Heaven tells what happens when a DJ at Asteronga's radio station sees a UFO.
Check It, 99 is about Joe Halsdap who gets out of the Army in 1972 and decides to drive a taxi in New York City, only to retreat to Asteronga after discovering his own capacity for violence
"The Osatoot" is the story of a young boy trying to cope with his father's death.
"The Dead Boy's Suit" is a dark comedy of success in the 1960s.
The first collection of 11 Asteronga stories, published in 2013, is also available on Amazon . Ranging from the tale of an undertaker's daughter with her own special cemetery to "Burying Uncle Artie" and "Gracie Was Never a Prostitute," the grimly humorous stories are unified around the experiences of a boy growing up in the mid -20th century Mohawk Valley. A newly reformatted and revised version of the collection is available.
Sunday, August 19, 2018
When the Saints Came to the Mohawk Valley, 1830
Joseph Smith Sr, courtesy LDSanswers.org
The following short story is from a new collection of historical fictions set in a Mohawk Valley village sometimes known by its Iroquois name of "asteronga," or tumbling waters. The local protagonists of the story, Arphaxad Loomis, Nathaniel Benton and John Dygert are actual historical figures and politicians of the pre-Civil War era in Little Falls, NY. The incident around which the story is centered is the missionary journey undertaken by Joseph Smith Sr, father of the Mormon prophet and his two younger sons in 1830. At that time the followers of Joseph Smith were still living in western New York state and the elder Smith decided to return to their native Vermont in an effort to convert former neighbors and relatives to the new faith. Along the way, it can be imagined that he and his sons stopped in a village such as Asteronga and ran afoul of the nemesis of the early Saints, Eber Howe., author of "Mormonism Unvailed."
Arphaxad Loomis 1798-1885
Nathaniel S. Benton 1792-1869
Loomis began his political career as village president later that same year and went on to serve as a judge, congressman and state legislator. His friend Nathaniel Benton was a judge, a state legislator, US Attorney and historian. Since Benton later joined the American (Know Nothing) Party and the Republican party while Loomis remained a Democrat through the war years, perhaps the close friendship pictured here did not survive the political storms of the era.
When the Saints Came to Asteronga
The first word about the new
religion came in the form of a small paid notice in the Peoples
Friend. “Look here,” said the attorney Arphaxad Loomis to his
colleague, Judge Nathaniel Benton. “Some fool has a new Bible for
sale.”
“It’s always been a
reliable seller, Deuteronomy and Leviticus notwithstanding,”
observed the judge.
“This notice is not for the
good old book beloved by Methodists and Presbyterians alike. This
fellow is hawking a whole new Bible. Says here his name is Smith and
he acquired a copy from the Almighty Himself.”
“Smith, hmm? A very popular
assumed name. He’s probably a Quaker.”
“Quaker? I think not. More
likely one of those so-called perfectionists that follow the madman
Noyes.”
“The wife-traders of
Oneida?”
“As likely as not, your
honor. Now, will you pass that jug or do you intend to drink it all
yourself?”
A week later, the two jurists
had nearly forgotten the notice when their evening on the judge’s
front porch was interrupted by the village president, John Dygert. He
invited himself onto the porch and asked the judge’s girl to fetch
a third glass. Helping himself to a tot of cider, Dygert asked what they
thought of the agitation in Utica. “Utica is a very fount of
agitation,” said Loomis. “But of what agitation in particular do
you speak?”
“The Smithites showed up and
took a sound thrashing. The feathers without the tar, you could say.”
“Smithites?” asked the
judge.
“They follow the false
prophet from Ontario County. Reverend Van Slyke warned us to expect
them.”
John, you’ll have to tell us
a bit more. Not being Reformed Church, neither the judge nor I have
enjoyed the eloquence of your esteemed parson.”
“Joseph Smith is the false
prophet who claims that an Angel of God came down to earth and gave
him a new bible, a book of big gold plates.”
“Must be a heavy object to
carry about,” observed the judge, winking at Arphaxad.
“This Smith claims to have
translated the gold bible into English with the help of magic
spectacles. Then he had a no-count printer publish a stack of this
so-called bibles and to top it all off, started a new church. Calls
it the Church of Christ.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Doesn’t everyone what?”
demanded Dygert who did not appreciate their wit in such a grave
matter.
“Doesn’t every church
claim to be the church of Christ?”
“Except the Mohammedans.”
“And the Jews,” added the
judge.
“I don’t doubt that
they’ll be here soon,” concluded Dygert. “I am advising you to
be prepared for any exigency that may arise.” And with that, the
village president marched off.
The Erie Canal had been opened
for five years and had brought greater prosperity each year to
Asteronga. The new limestone aqueduct carried flatboats over the
rushing Mohawk to a secure anchorage at a man-made harbor. Innkeepers
and purveyors of all sorts kept up a lively commerce with the canal
men, as did whores, pickpockets and confidence men. In short, the
little town had changed greatly since the glorious day when Governor
Clinton’s flotilla came down the canal bearing a pail of Lake Erie
water on its way to the mighty Atlantic.
Judge Benton had served as
village president for the first few years of the new dispensation.
John Dygert had been elected this past year but the judge soon
realized that his successor could not manage the influx of rowdies
and grifters who came with the canal. The judge would persuade Loomis
to successfully defeat Dygert in November of 1830 but that was still
a few months off.
These village politicians were
not aware of the moment the next afternoon when the three Smiths
stepped off a canal boat and strode up River Street. First proceeded
the grizzled farmer whose son had become a prophet. Close behind were
his grown sons, Sam and Don Carlos. None had the slightest doubt that
God Himself had spoken to their Joseph.
The Smiths’ intention on
this journey was to preach the message of salvation in canal towns
most noted for sin before seeking new converts in their native
Vermont. As was their practice since leaving Palmyra, they each
sought a separate bar-room or house of ill repute before which to
launch their sermons.
In keeping with this practice,
the elder Smith stopped a passing farm hand and asked to be directed
to a house where women freely committed sins of the flesh. The lad
grinned at the old-timer and sent him on his way to Madame Murphy’s.
Sam Smith stationed himself before the most raucous of the many
taverns on River Street, while young Don Carlos Smith went in search
of a Methodist meeting house where he expected to find a more docile
congregation. None of the three notice a cadaverous man, clad in
black broadcloth, noting their movements.
Two hours later, Arphaxad
Loomis and Judge Benton were holding forth on the judge’s porch,
damning all Whigs to hell when Constable Hinman came walking up with
two young fellows close behind.
“Appears to be a need for
judging,” said Nate Benson to his companion.
“Shall I prosecute or
defend, your worship?”
“Remains to be seen,”
returned the judge. “So what fish have you hooked for us, Hinman?”
“These two lads report their
Pa to be abducted.”
“I’m sure it was Eber Howe
what done it!” exclaimed the younger boy, who appeared to be about
fourteen.
“Shh! You don’t know
that!” the elder, who looked to be twenty or twenty one, tried to
shush his brother.
“But I seen old Eber Howe
lurkin about when I was searching for the Methodist house.”
“Which you never found!”
“I appreciate the ex parte,
lads,” said the Judge. “But let’s start with some facts. Who,
for example, blackened your eye, young man?”
“Twas heathens, sir, that
done it.”
“Heathens?” smiled Loomis.
“Do you mean to say that Red Indians gave you a thrashing? Have you
seen any war parties about, Constable?”
“No, your honor, I mean Mr.
Loomis. This one here, Sam Smith he calls hisself, was given a
beating by the patrons of Klock’s Tavern. Seems he tried to preach
the gospel to them and they tossed him out on his ear.”
“So what’s the offense
brings them here, Hinman?” asked the judge. “No one was knifed,
were they? Surely, we can’t call a bit of fisticuffs an assault,
can we?”
“No, your honor, but there’s
more. They’re preachers of the Gold Bible.”
“Is that so?” The judge
looked from one to another. “They seem a trifle young to be
hardened grifters of that sort.”
“They came to town with
their father.”
“He’s been kidnapped,
sir!” cried out the younger boy. “I swear Eber Howe done it!”
“I can’t make heads or
tails of this,” said the judge. “You boys stay shut and the
Constable will sum up matters. You have one minute, Hinman.”
“There’s other witnesses,
your honor, who saw an old man struggling against three other men who
threw a sack over his head and tossed him into a wagon. The older one
here, Sam, was just finishing up getting his beating at Klock’s but
he saw the last of his Pa being carried off.”
“Did you inquire of the lads
if their father owed anyone money?” asked Loomis.
“I did, but they maintain
that a dispute over religion is at the bottom of it. They assert that
this Eber Howe was formerly a follower of their brother, and has now
become an enemy to the sect.”
“Nate,” said the lawyer,
“These fellows must be part pf the crowd Dygert was telling us
about. Here, you two lads, tell us what we should know about your
church.”
Sam and Don Carlos then
provided a somewhat lengthy summary of the divine revelations which
had been received by their brother Joseph over the past several
years. The eminent jurists heard of the first time God Almighty spoke
to a boy in the woods, followed by countless angelic visitations, and
finally directions as to digging up the famous golden bible buried on
a hilltop by ancient Indians thousands of years ago.
“And you say that the
Indians are really Jews?” Loomis stifled a smile.
“Israelites. They built a
big boat and sailed across the Pacific,” said Don Carlos.
“Tell me,” asked the
judge, “Has anyone tried to steal those gold plates from your
brother? They must be worth quite a sum.”
“The angel took the gold
plates back to heaven,” Sam promptly answered.
“How fortunate,” said the
judge. “And now to the matter at hand, who is this Eber Howe whom
you suspect of abducting your father?”
“He is an evil man who was
excommunicated from our church for his sins,” Sam told them. “Now
he is traveling about gathering lies about our family so he can put
them in a book and make people fall away from the true faith restored
for us in these latter days.”
“What sort of lies is he
gathering about your family?” inquired Loomis.
“That we Smiths are a
shiftless and indolent lot,” cried Don Carlos before his brother
could answer. “He found deceitful men who have sworn that our
brother Joseph was a hoaxer and fraud who pretended to find buried
treasures. And that he was arrested in some town!”
“I see,” said the judge,
“and now Eber Howe has turned from gathering lies to abduction? For
what purpose?”
“We know not,” answered
Sam, “other than that his purpose must be nefarious.”
The judge whispered an aside
to Loomis and then turned to the Constable. “Hinman, take these
young gentlemen to the lock-up for their own safety. ‘Twouldn’t
do to have the whole family kidnapped.”
“Yes, sir!” The constable
clapped each young man by the elbow.
“And then meet us at Mrs.
Murphy’s establishment. We will need to fully investigate this
matter. Bring a few other likely lads.” After the constable had led
off the Smith boys, the judge fetched his sword cane and a cap and
ball pistol that he handed to his friend. “As a judge I can’t be
shooting visitors to our fair village.”
Loomis pocketed the small
pistol and the two gentlemen set off from the judge’s Garden Street
manse down the hill to the less elegant part of the village.
Approaching the new aqueduct, they heard the sounds of merriment and
commerce arising from all sides. A few shouts and shrieks drifted out
of the gin mills but no one seemed to be getting murdered, as Loomis
noted. In front of Mrs. Murphy’s, they found one of her large Irish
relatives pummeling a pair of inebriated sailors. “What’s all
this, Paddy?” asked the judge, poking the red-haired man with the
butt of his cane. The Irishman, who knew that the judge’s cane was
a scabbard for a sizable sword, grinned obsequiously. “Just
reminding these customers that our ladies deserve some courtesy.”
“Indeed they do, Paddy. And
how is your charming proprietress?”
“Molly? Just fine, your
honor. Will you be requiring anything special this evening?”
“I never frequent whore
houses, my fine Celtic hero. Doctor’s orders. But do tell the Madam
that we require a word with her.”
In about a minute, Molly
Murphy was at the door inviting them into the parlor “for a nip of
the good stuff.” The judge confided to Loomis that he had his
doubts about entering such a dubious establishment. “But the
exigencies of the present investigation clearly require it,”
advised the attorney. Sipping some genuine Kentucky, the judge was
slow to come to the point. “Molly, some hare-brained preacher’s
been grabbed from hereabouts. Name of Smith. Preaches that Jesus has
come down to earth once more, and in fact here to New York state.
What do you hear?”
There wasn’t much happened
on the street that Molly didn’t know and she had no reason to hold
back. “Dygert’s in the game,” she whispered. “He and that
scarecrow preacher Van Slyke and a stranger who looks like he died
last week.”
“Dygert!” exclaimed
Loomis. “It seems an awfully low water for him to stick his oar.”
“He’s a fool, Arph. Fools
by definition are apt to do anything. Tell me, Molly, where have they
taken the preacher? Or have they killed him already?”
“They can’t have gone far.
Mose Wheldon loaned them his wagon to carry off their victim, and he
was back on the street not an hour later at his usual occupation.”
“Shoveling up horseshit?”
laughed Loomis.
Molly nodded. “And if
neither of you fine gentlemen wish to sample my wares, I’ll be back
to business.” The judge patted her on the rump and pressed a coin
in her bosom. “A reliable lass,” he commented as they two set to
wait for reinforcements. They discussed the coming legislative term
and the incompetence of Governor Enos Throop. “There’s few can
measure up to DeWitt Clinton,” opined the judge. “He leaves an
eternal legacy, to be sure,” concurred Loomis. By then, Constable
Hinman and several other men with lanterns had arrived. The judge
informed them of what he had learned from Molly Murphy.
“D’ye think it’s a case
of ransom?” asked Hinman.
“What else? Those fools
probably think the gold plates to be real. Now, scatter and bring
Mose Wheldon to Klock’s tavern. He’ll have the knowledge we
seek.” Loomis and Benton made their way to the tavern and continued
their discussion of Albany politics. They considered their colleague
Van Buren an inspired choice for vice president. “Old Kinderhook
will keep Old Hickory on the straight and narrow” was the judge’s
view, being somewhat cautious about Jackson’s fitness for the
highest office.
“Twas wise not to mention
Dygert to Hinman,” observed Loomis. “We need to keep his name out
of this tomfoolery if we can.”
“Indeed, Arphaxad, my boy.
But ne’er forget I have you in mind for his successor.”
“All the more reason to keep
the honor of the office untainted. But tell me, Nate, do you truly
take Dygert to be so avaricious as to kidnap a man?”
“Seems odd, does it not?”
The judge found his pipe and proceeded to poke about in the ashes of
the fireplace for an ember. “We’ll soon see to the truth of the
matter.”
Presently, Hinman returned
with the manure collector in tow. “Let’s be short, Wheldon,”
said the judge. “Where did you carry those three men and the fourth
with the hood over his head?” The farmer professed ignorance until
the constable hit him in the ribs two or three times. Then he
recalled taking the persons to a shack across the Mohawk from Lovers
Leap. Assigning one of the young men to take Wheldon to the village
lock-up, Judge Benton led the remaining investigators to the shack
designated by the manure man.
Following the towpath eastward
for a mile, they soon saw a flickering light The judge ordered Hinman
to keep his men back to prevent an escape by the kidnappers while he
and Loomis advanced to where they could peer through the tilting
boards of the shack. By the dim light of the kidnappers’ lantern,
Arphaxad could make out a man tied to a chair and a tall figure
standing in front of the bound man. “Is that a Bible he’s waving
about?” he whispered to the judge.
“I’d say so. It appears
that Reverend Van Slyke is preaching a sermon to the messenger of the
new prophet. Sounds like he’s proposing repentance. Where are the
other two?”
“Enjoying a libation, I’d
say.” Loomis pointed to a rough bench on which the village
president and another man were passing a bottle back and forth.
“Let me have a go at ‘im!”
The unknown man staggered to his feet.
“That must be Eber Howe, the
sworn enemy of the new Muhammad,” Loomis whispered. “Let’s hear
what he has to say.”
Howe leaned over their victim,
poking the man repeatedly in the chest. “Do you deny, Smith, that
you and your boy Joe are thoroughgoing frauds? I have the affidavies
right here ascertaining that you took money from numerous folks under
false pretenses of treasure-seeking and such.”
“I will pray for ye, Mr.
Howe, lest ye be drug down to the infernal regions by Satan and his
minions,” declared the old man.
“I have here an affidavy
from Constable Philip DeZeng of Bainbridge, New York!” Howe waved a
paper in Smith’s face. “He attests, under oath mind you, that he
arrested your son Joseph Smith for defrauding a farmer by name of
Josiah Stowell. You recognize the name?”
“Stowell was an agent sent
by Satan to mock at God’s holy messenger!”
“Hmm, Satan? Easy to say,
sir,” Howe nodded to his companions as if some point had been
proven. “It says on this paper that your son, sir, took money from
that poor old farmer on the pretense that he had a magic stone
through which he would look, and in such manner discover great
treasures of gold and silver. Sounds very like those magic spectacles
he makes so much of now, don’t it, Mr. Smithy?”
“You mock at the Urim and
the Thummin at your peril, sir!”
“I guess that’s how Joe
Jr. styles those magic specs of his, the ones he claims let him
translate the golden plates which, by the by, never existed!”
Old Smith glared at his
tormentor, too enraged to speak. Peering at the sight from their
place of concealment, Loomis could not stifle a guffaw.
“What’s that?” Dygert
exclaimed. “Is someone there?”
“Game’s up, Arphaxad,”
said the judge. “Let’s join the dance.”
John Dygert’s face turned
white and the minister frowned mightily as the judge and the
atoorney entered the shack. Eber Howe barely looked up from his
interrogation, posing a question to Smith about a more recent arrest
of his son for being a disorderly person.
“What’s all this, John?”
Benton asked with seeming joviality. “What fish have you and
Reverend Van Slyke hooked?”
Since neither Dygert nor Van
Slyke could form an answer, the judge continued. “I see that you
have caught two of the imposters for which the canal is so noted.
We’ll lock them both up, if you’re agreeable?” The village
president nodded weakly and the judge called loudly for Hinman and
his men. As soon as the agents of the law appeared, Benton indicated
that Smith and Howe should be taken to the lock-up forthwith. “Mr.
Dygert and the Reverend have beat us to it, lads. It is to their
credit that these two confidence men are in custody.”
When Hinman had departed with
his prisoners, the Judge’s feigned smile disappeared. “You’ve
been up to some monkeyshines here, the pair of you. And you don’t
need to mount your high horse, Reverend. If I had not happened on
this matter, the both of you would before the Oyer and Terminer by
morning.”
“In other words,” Arphaxad
felt the need for clarity with such fools as these. “We intend to
conceal your foolishness with a cloak of lies, much as it offends our
consciences. Before morning, Hinman will hasten the whole passel of
Smiths on down the canal.”
“That man and his sons are
enemies of Christianity!” the minister finally exploded. “We’ve
done no wrong in condemning their infamous lies.”
“Condemn all you like from
your pulpit, Van Slyke,” the judge advised, “But try any more
abductions and the only pulpit you’ll have will be on Blackwell’s
Island.”
“Leave such madmen alone and
they quickly fade from public notice,” observed Loomis, taking a
milder tact.
“Indeed,” said the judge.
“Such cranks are no threat to church or polity. Americans will
never give credence to their nonsensical ravings.”
“A farm boy digs up a whole
new Bible of solid gold? Hah!”Loomis picked up from the floor the
book which Smith’s son had published a few months before. “And
this is the sacred word, I take it?”
Arphaxad Loomis tossed the
book out the door and straight into the canal. “And now, my
friends,” said the future village president, “let us repair to
Klock’s Tavern for a needful libation.”
Sunday, June 17, 2018
"Camp Jolly" - an excerpt from a new volume of short stories
View of Little Falls - a postcard from the 1960s
“Camp
Jolly” is a story from a work in progress, a new series set in the
village of Asteronga, a fictionalized version of Little Falls, New
York. Readers may recall the first volume of Asteronga stories
in which a young man recounts a variety of experiences from the mid
1950s through the late 1960s. Several of those stories are also
available on podcast. In a day or two I will post a second story from the collection, a version of the Roxy Druse murder case.
The
new series is inspired by events from the history of the town and
county in the late 19th and early 20th century.
The story now made available below and as a free PDF is based
on an infamous murder of 1916, moved here to 1917 to coincide with
the beginning of World War I. Mike Masco, a “foreigner” living on
the South Side, murdered his wife, stuffed her in a trunk, and then
attempted to ship the body to a fictitious address. When his crime
was discovered, he fled into the woods and fields east of the village.
A manhunt ensued, in which Chief of Police Long was joined by volunteers, including
firemen led by Fire Chief Cooney.
The
second element of the story drawn from actual events is the Home Guard, a loosely regulated version of what later became the
National Guard. Some time before 1917, the local militia men held a
picnic at Camp Jolly, a resort on the railroad about five miles east
of Little Falls. Some or all of the men became drunk and, as their excursion train headed home, took a few pot shots at innocent cows peacefully grazing
in their pasture. They were disarmed by Chief Long and their rifles,
obsolete single shot weapons last used in the Indian Wars, were confiscated. When war
came in 1917, many of the same Home Guard men were inducted into the
new National Guard unit in Mohawk, NY which suffered significant
losses in France. Although a Colonel Beardslee was associated with
the old Home Guard, no one of that name was involved in the tragic accident depicted in this story.
Here
is the story of “Camp Jolly” - Reactions by email will be
welcome: wildernesshill@gmail.com
Camp
Jolly
by
Michael
Cooney
copyright
2018
based
on several true stories
When the people of Asteronga
heard that Home Guard boys were taking pot shots at cows on their way
home from Camp Jolly, they wondered what the hell was wrong with the
Colonel. Those boys were his pride and joy so why was he letting them
get drunk and raise hell. Was he getting too old to manage that gang
of his?
When the train pulled into the
depot, his boys were ordered to hand over their ancient 45-70s to the
cops, who had gotten word of their bovine mayhem. However, the troops
like they were in no mood to take orders from Chief Long, and for a
minute it was touch and go. The Colonel finally came out of the depot
gent’s room where he had hurriedly betaken himself and called up a
few military commands. Looking them up and down with disgust as they
staggered and swayed to attention, he pronounced himself very glad
that the State of New York in its wisdom had seen fit not to issue
repeating rifles to a crew such as his. He turned to his sergeant and
told him to order the men to stack their rifles. “Bear in mind, you
fools,” he added a final word, “that unlike cows, the Spaniards
do tend to shoot back.”
Two years later, the murdered
cows had been forgotten, and it was the Germans and not the Spaniards
who were on everybody’s mind. The Colonel, being over seventy, was
denied the privilege of accompanying his troops into the machine gun
fire, and he was outraged. He called in every favor he had,
bombarding the War Department with letters, reminding the youngsters
in Washington of his youthful service at Petersburg, his valor
against the Sioux, and his sanguinary work in the Philippines, all to
no avail.
“Those lads are utter
fools!” he thundered to Homer P. Snyder, Member of Congress. “No
one but I can keep the Kaiser from cutting them to bits. They don’t
know a damn thing about war!”
“Sorry, Colonel, but I went
all the way to Pershing and even he can’t do a thing. It’s a
matter of age, just numbers of course, but there it is. Nothing I can
do.” The Congressman stifled a yawn and offered his guest a fine
Cuban cigar. “But don’t worry over the lads. The Regular Army
will whip your Home Guard rascals into shape.”
“Those are the same idiots
who shot up eight hundred dollars worth of cows. They are drunkards,
fornicators and shiftless louts. Only I can keep them in order.”
The Congressman managed to
avoid pointing out that his guest had assembled, not to say
hand-picked, that sorry lot that he now wished to lead to France. “Be
that as it may, Colonel, Uncle Sam has declined to make use of your
services this time around, despite my most vigorous efforts.”
Throwing down the half-smoked
cigar, Colonel Beardslee stalked out of Snyder’s office with barely
a word of thanks and made his way to Union Station. For the long
trip back to upstate New York, he sat in the bar car sipping bourbon
and cursing Woodrow Wilson to all who would listen. “That snooty
bastard turned down Teddy Roosevelt too. Said he was too old! Why,
between him and me, we practically whipped the Spaniards
single-handedly, Teddy in Cuba and me in Manila.”
After boarding the Twentieth
Century Limited in New York, he found a fresh audience. “The
problem with Wilson,” he confided to his fellow passengers after a
fourth bourbon, “is that he’s a glory hound. It would kill him to
share the spotlight with real men like me and Teddy. He’s a
goddamned college professor, that’s all he is and all he ever will
be!”
As the train neared Asteronga,
he woke from a long nap, soothed by the sight of familiar hills,
farms and roads. Through the train’s grimy windows, he saw Camp
Jolly, abandoned now for two summers in a row, the once bright colors
of the picnic pavilions fading quickly, the walkways covered with
weeds. He frowned at the sight but smiled to see the gables of his
own majestic mansion at East Creek.
Clambering down from the
train, the Colonel brushed aside his wife’s solicitude. “Just
dandy, girl. I’m just dandy. Wasted too much time on those stuffed
shirt in Washington. Waste of time. Waste of time.”
“Have you heard the news?”
his wife asked as they were driven toward home by Fernando, the
chauffeur who had been with them since Manila. “There’s been a
murder.”
“Some Italian, no doubt.
They have heavily infested the south side of town.”
“Well, I suppose he might be
Italian. Mike Masco is his name and he killed his wife. Stabbed her
in the heart and stuffed her body in a trunk.
The Colonel glanced at his
wife, appreciating once again her lively manner. Although they were
of an equal age, he still saw her as the young girl he met in St.
Joseph not long after the War ended. “So what happened? Has this
Masco been arrested?”
“No, that’s what has
everyone in a tizzy. He killed her, that’s certain, and put her
body in a trunk and can you believe he was about to ship it to
Chicago when the stationmaster noticed the blood...” She paused
dramatically.
“The blood? What about the
blood?”
“Well, you see it was like
this. He was all set to ship the trunk containing his wife’s body
to a fictitious address in Chicago when the stationmaster, even
imagine that it could be human blood so he said to the Italian
fellow, ‘What’s that?’ “What’s in here, raw meat?’ Hurley
says, “it’s against railway regulations to ship raw meat.’ Can
you imagine the two them just conversating over the trunk containing
the body of a dead woman and just chatting away?”
“Can you picture it?” she
continued. “there’s this Irish fellow, very officious as they
always are as soon as you put them in a uniform and...”
“Isn’t that the truth?”
interrupted her husband.
“So this Hurley is out to
dot every i and cross every t and meanwhile the Italian fellow must
be sweating to beat the band. And all the while the poor woman’s
blood must be dripping more and more out of the bottom of the trunk
and...”
“Yes, Yes,” her husband
interrupted her again. “Please, to the point, dear. The
stationmaster sees the blood and what did he do then?”
“Why, Hurley didn’t do a
thing other than to ask his questions and then this Mike Masco – a
very good looking fellow in a dark Italian way, they say – he just
takes off like a jackrabbit! He runs right out of the depot and
straight down Main Street. People say the last they saw of him he was
running along the railroad tracks out toward the Burnt Rocks...”
Mrs. Beardslee paused to
assess her husband’s attention before resuming her tale. “So the
stationmaster pries open the trunk with a screwdriver and sure enough
the sees the corpse of poor, murdered Mrs. Masco. They say she was a
very beautiful young girl, long dark hair, a perfect little figure,
shining dark eyes...Of course, in the trunk she didn’t look like
that.”
“No, I would imagine not.”
“They say that she was very
badly slashed by her beast of a husband. And they say he broke her
legs squeezing her into the trunk.”
“I see.” The Colonel was
recalling images of the many young foreign women who had come to work
in the mills over the past decade. He wondered if he had ever seen
the murdered girl, just walking past. He didn’t realize he was
smiling, but his wife noticed and took it as a sign that he
appreciated her narrative abilities.
“The neighbors say that he
accused her of adultery,” she added.
“Did the Italian kill her
paramour, as well?”
“Paramour? You mean, her
boyfriend? Well, according to the neighbors, he was yelling at her
and beating her, demanding that she tell him who the man is so that
he could go and kill him.”
“He was shouting all this in
English?”
“Well, I suppose it was in
Italian but all his neighbors were Italian and they could hear every
word he said right through those thin tenement walls. They’re the
ones who told Chief Coughlin.”
“Coughlin? But he’s the
fire chief. Why did they tell him?” The Colonel had strongly
disliked Coughlin ever since the Chief had found fire code violations
in some of the tenements he owned on the south side.
“Well, I really don’t
know. Maybe they saw his uniform and just assumed he was a policeman.
People say he’s very friendly with the Italians because his wife is
Italian but from what I hear, she claims to be one of those Dark
Irish, as if there was such a thing!”
“Say, dear, this Masco
fellow didn’t live in one of our buildings, did he?”
“Well, I really wouldn’t
know, dear. After all, you are the one in complete charge of our
business dealings. I wouldn’t even know if we owned any of those
terrible rookeries by the river if your sister hadn’t told me.”
“They are not rookeries, as
you put it.” The Colonel was irritated but not so much at his wife
as at the fire chief. It seemed to him that Coughlin was always
meddling in his affairs, even sticking his nose in that business
about the slaughtered cows. And then there was the 1912 strike when a
whole crowd of those IWW radicals were turned loose from the lock-up.
Everybody said Coughlin did it just because he recognized some
volunteer firemen in that mob, but of course nothing was done because
the Chief of Police was another Irishman. Thick as thieves, they
were, all of them.
“So to make a long story
short,” he said, “This Masco killed his wife because he thought
she was stepping out, then tried unsuccessfully to hide her body, and
is now on the loose.”
His wife was about to add
another detail when suddenly they were both thrown forward as
Fernando jammed on the brakes. The Packard shuddered and swerved,
ending up sideways and nearly tipping over before coming to a halt.
“You goddamned fool!” the
Colonel shouted at his driver. His wife’s nose was bleeding and he
felt a pain in his wrist. “What the hell are you doing?” He saw a
man picking himself up just to the left of the car. Had the car hit
him? Just missed hitting him? He leaned out the window, shouting now
at the man limping away across the road and climbing up onto the
rocks on the opposite hillside. “Are you trying to get yourself
killed?” he shouted after the man who didn’t even turn to look
back.
“Human stupidity!” he
muttered. “I’m surrounded by it everywhere I go.” He noticed
his wife holding a handkerchief to her nose. “Are you injured,
dear?” she asked him. She was breathing heavily.
“Palpitations? Should I ask
Fernando to take us to Dr. Eveleth?”
“No, it’s just that...it’s
just that...it’s that..” She could barely get the words out. Her
husband was afraid that she would become hysterical.
“It’s that...that...that
man...”
“Yes, dear, we almost hit
the fool. Ran right out in front of the vehicle but Fernando managed
to bring us to a halt in time. Good man, Fernando!” The small
Filipino smiled weakly.
“He’s the man!” his wife
was able to say. “The murderer. Mike Masco. His wife rose
dramatically from her seat in the open car, still holding the
handkerchief to her nose, and pointing at the trees into which the
man had just vanished.
The Colonel immediately sprang
into action. “Fernando, double quick now! Open the storage
compartment. Fetch the Springfield 45-70 and the bandolier of
cartridges.” As ordered, the chauffeur went around to the back of
the car and procured the single-shot rifle, one of the many
confiscated from the Camp Jolly merrymakers in ‘15. Pulling back
the “trap-door” breech, the Colonel inserted a single cartridge,
slung the bandolier over his shoulder and prepared to track down the
murderer. He regretted that he had no bayonet but he was very glad to
be going into battle once more with an old black powder weapon.
“Fernando, drive Mrs.
Beardslee home, call Dr. Eveleth to see about her palpitations and
then stand guard with the Remington double-barrel. No telling which
way this miscreant will head.”
“Yes, sir,” Fernando
saluted, getting back behind the steering wheel.
“Take care, dear, don’t do
anything foolish,” cried his wife, waving her bloodied handkerchief
as the Packard pulled away. The Colonel was already striding
resolutely in the direction in which the man had vanished. As he
walked up a hillside and into a patch of trees, Colonel Beardslee’s
memory took him back to Richmond in 1865. He could still see
President Lincoln and his young son, surrounded by the grateful
former slaves. “Fine people, the darkies,” he said half-aloud.
“Damn fine soldiers with the right officers.”
The day was warmer than he
realized and soon the Colonel had taken off his jacket. Hanging it on
tree branch, he proceeded forward in his shirt and vest, Springfield
at the ready. Through a clearing in the thick June foliage, he caught
a glimpse of a man. Masco, surely! Who else would be out here?
Dropping to one knee, the old soldier held his breath and took
careful aim at the man’s legs. Before he could squeeze off a shot,
a loud outcry of many voices startled him. His quarry looked over his
shoulder and found himself directly in the colonel’s sights. He
ducked sideways and rolled rapidly out of sight.
Rising with difficulty to his
feet, the Colonel found himself facing a crowd from Asteronga, led by
none other than that obnoxious fire chief, Coughlin. The chief, a
heavy-set man a good twenty years younger than the Colonel, was
surrounded by firemen and other loafers from town. His son, young
Tom, was carrying the only visible weapon, a .22 pump gun. “Say,
Colonel,” the chief grinned, “are you ready to take command of
these troops?” The old soldier saw the invitation as a mockery of
his recently sundered authority over the local military unit, now on
their way to Long Island without him.
“I nearly had him just now!”
he snapped at the chief. “That was before you and your pack of
layabouts scared him off.”
“Layabouts?” echoed
someone in the crowd, laughing.
“Well,” said Coughlin,
stifling a chuckle, “maybe it’s just as well, seeing as we were
hoping to take him alive. Masco’s not a bad character, just lost
his head. Crime of passion, as they say.”
“Glad to know you have
already exonerated the man.” The colonel was growing furious at
what he took as a barrage of insults to his authority. “Evidently,
we wont need a judge and jury. Let him go scot free instead of
hanging him, is that how you see it?”
Coughlin was puzzled by the
Colonel’s rising anger. He had kept his job all these years by
knowing just how manage people of the Colonel’s class but his usual
joviality seemed to be backfiring this afternoon. “To tell you the
truth, sir, the real manhunt is led by Chief Long. He’s circling
around from the river with about ten men and Deputy Walrath is coming
from the Burnt Rocks. The plan is to drive Masco towards a point of
convergence at the old Camp Jolly fairgrounds. Our part of it here is
just to keep him moving in that direction, toward the cops.”
“That’s your brilliant
strategy, is it? What if Masco tries to rush through your line of
men? He may still have the knife. Or even a pistol. What then?”
“I have my rifle,” said
the chief’s son.
“That .22?” The colonel
examined it skeptically. “Even if you hit him one or twice with
this, he could keep on charging and slash up a few of you before
dying later on from loss of blood.”
“So what do you recommend,
colonel?” The old soldier was gratified to see the fire chief
beginning to recognize his authority. After all, who other than he
had commanded men in battle? “It’s like this, chief,” he
explained, making note of a new look of respect in the Irishman’s
eyes. “Masco must be presumed dangerous. Forget whatever you knew
of him before he committed this crime. He has now tasted blood and
will not hesitate to kill again. I will shoot to kill and I recommend
the same to your son. Keep in mind that the man now faces the
electric chair and there is no logical reason why he would not kill
one or more of us to avoid that penalty.”
He looked each man in the
eyes, and each nodded. There would be no more weak-kneed talk of
taking Masco alive. “You men who are unarmed must depart for town.
Your presence here will endanger your comrades. Those who are armed
form ranks here.”
“Colonel,” the chief was
clearly weakening in his resolve to recognize superior authority. “Is
it really necessary for us to be armed? This isn’t exactly a war.”
“And that is where you are
wrong, sir! We face an enemy no less dangerous than the Hun that our
men will face in France. This murderer will be as eager to take our
lives as any Teuton. Here, as in France, we represent civilization
and our enemy, barbarism.”
The men milled about
uncertainly, no longer sure who was in charge. They began to drift
off toward town with vague ideas of procuring firearms. The chief
took a nickel-plated revolver from his pocket. Young Tom rested his
small rifle over his shoulder in a vaguely military fashion. ‘It
looks like just the three of us who are armed,” his father told the
Colonel. He told the few remaining firemen to head back to the
firehouse. When the last of them had departed, the Colonel silently
moved forward, motioning to the father and son to follow. “Keep a
sharp lookout, men, so that he doesn’t double back on us.”
The chief saw that his son was
impressed by the Colonel’s military bearing and decided to go along
with the old man, despite his uneasiness. After a few minutes he was
hot and panting heavily. “That old goat’s in pretty good shape,”
he whispered to his son. “I’ll give him that.”
His son nodded grimly. He had
been very moved by the declaration of war against Germany in April.
On the day when Congress gave Wilson the vote that he wanted, young
Tom had marched with the other high school boys all around town,
carrying a huge American flag and singing patriotic songs. He was
still a few months too young to volunteer and the chief prayed that
the war would be over before it took his only child.
“Listen, Pa, if you’re
tried, you can rest here,” the boy whispered to his father, his
eyes never moving from the old man twenty feet ahead of them. “I
can guard the Colonel’s back.”
“No, that’s okay,” the
chief panted. “A little warm weather can’t slow down an old
football player like me.
The three men moved on in
single file across another patch of woodland, pausing when the
Colonel paused and advancing when the Colonel advanced. They reached
the brow of a hill overlooking the river. “He’s probably in
those bottom lands,” the Colonel said, wiping off his glasses to
get a clearer look.
“I see him!” Young Tom
pointed excitedly toward the river. “He’s got a white shirt on!
Down there!” He lifted his .22 to his shoulder and took aim.
“Don’t fire, boy,” the
Colonel ordered. “He’s out of range of your pea-shooter.” The
old soldier squinted in the bright sunlight but could see no trace of
what the boy said he had seen.
“He must heading toward Camp
Jolly, as you fellows had anticipated. If he has a pistol, he may
hole up in one of the buildings and make a last stand.”
“Somehow,” the chief said,
“I don’t think he’s the kind of man to go in for any melodrama.
He’s as likely to surrender as not.”
“All these Italians love
melodrama,” disagreed the Colonel. “Everything’s a grand opera
for them. I’ve seen several of their operas in New York City and
they offer profound insights into the Italian mind. Puccini. Verdi.”
“Masco isn’t Italian.”
“Not an Italian?” The
Colonel was incredulous. Stabbed his wife? Stuffed her in a trunk?
And you say he’s not Italian?”
“His wife Maria was Italian.
Beautiful girl. But Masco is some other nationality, maybe
Slovenian.”
“Whatever he is,” said the
boy, “we’re going to catch him, right Colonel?”
“You bet, son!”
“Go ahead, sir. We’ll
cover your back.”
“Good man!” The old
soldier held onto a tree branch with one hand and his rifle with the
other as he started to descend toward the river. Then he missed a
step and began to slide down the embankment. “Be careful, sir,”
said Tom, taking the old man’s elbow to steady him. His father
caught up with them and helped the Colonel to sit down on a stump.
“Catch
your breath here, sir. My father and I can go forward
and apprehend this
criminal. You keep watch in case he circles around to get behind us.
If you see him, just blast away, sir. Shoot first and ask questions
later.”
The
Colonel nodded, struggling to catch his breath. The boy’s face
seemed to waver before him. “Good man,” he muttered, “Keep
up the pressure. Run him to
ground.”
The fire chief looked back
once to see the old Colonel sitting on the stump, leaning on the
rifle barrel with both hands, his shirt and vest dark with sweat. The
Colonel waved weakly, unable to summon even his usual surge animosity
toward the fireman.
As
he sat on the stump, holding onto the 45-70, the old man dozed off
and
returned to Virginia in a dream. He had fallen asleep on picket duty.
General Granthad given
orders that any soldier falling asleep on picket be shot.
He forced himself to wake up but he wasn’t in Virginia. He
wasn’t on the banks of the
Rappahannock. He was...where? He
remembered the words of the boy. The boy had told him to stay here
and shoot first, ask questions later. Somebody mustn’t get past
him. He checked the breech to make sure he had loaded a cartridge. He
squinted toward the river, the river but not the Rappahannock. What
was the river called?
The brush was moving. He heard
footsteps and dry branches snapping. The Colonel stumbled off the
stump and fell into a kneeling position. He raised the familiar rifle
to his shoulder. A dark figure appeared, moving toward him, trying to
hide behind the trees. He had only one shot, he knew that. He had to
make it count. He held his breath. He pulled the trigger. A huge
cloud of black gunsmoke. He heard the man moaning where he had
fallen.
The old man’s fingers were
trembling and he dropped several cartridges before he was able to fit
one into his Springfield. Several men arrived and one of them grabbed
the rifle out of his hands. They were all shouting at him. One of
them was the fire chief who found those violations of the fire code.
The man had him by the throat but the other men pulled him off. The
Colonel stood up straight and tall. “The boy? You are saying the
boy was shot?”
“You shot Tommy Coughlin,
you old fool!”
“You killed him!”
“You shot my son!”
“You damned fool!”
“God damn you to hell!”
The Colonel looked from one
face to another. “We shelled our own boys. That’s what we did at
Petersburg. We shelled our own boys. No one’s fault. Accidents of
war. No one’s fault.”
The other men pulled the fire
chief back and took away his nickel-plated pistol.
The Colonel looked across the
river to where the murderer was running along the West Shore tracks.
He was escaping. He was free.
“That lad over there, he
knows how to throw off pursuit. I could have used more like him in
the Philippines.”
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