Roughing It
specifications, and the succeeding paragraph shows that the suggested
investigation ‘might EXONERATE those who are generally believed guilty.’
You see, therefore, the context proves they are not preferred as
charges, and this you seem to have overlooked.”
While making those comments, Mr. Winters frequently interrupted me in
such a way as to convince me that he was resolved not to consider
candidly the thoughts contained in my words. He insisted upon it that
they were charges, and “By—,” he would make me take them back as
charges, and he referred the question to Philip Lynch, to whom I then
appealed as a literary man, as a logician, and as an editor, calling his
attention especially to the introductory paragraph just before quoted.
He replied, “if they are not charges, they certainly are insinuations,”
whereupon Mr. Winters renewed his demands for retraction precisely such
as he had before named, except that he would allow me to state who did
write the article if I did not myself, and this time shaking his fist in
my face with more cursings and epithets.
When he threatened me with his clenched fist, instinctively I tried to
rise from my chair, but Winters then forcibly thrust me down, as he did
every other time (at least seven or eight), when under similar imminent
danger of bruising by his fist (or for aught I could know worse than
that after the first stunning blow), which he could easily and safely to
himself have dealt me so long as he kept me down and stood over me.
This fact it was, which more than anything else, convinced me that by
plan and plot I was purposely made powerless in Mr. Winters’ hands, and
that he did not mean to allow me that advantage of being afoot, which he
possessed. Moreover, I then became convinced, that Philip Lynch (and for
what reason I wondered) would do absolutely nothing to protect me in his
own house. I realized then the situation thoroughly. I had found it
equally vain to protest or argue, and I would make no unmanly appeal for
pity, still less apologize. Yet my life had been by the plainest
possible implication threatened. I was a weak man. I was unarmed. I was
helplessly down, and Winters was afoot and probably armed. Lynch was the
only “witness.” The statements demanded, if given and not explained,
would utterly sink me in my own self-respect, in my family’s eyes, and
in the eyes of the community. On the other hand, should I give the
author’s name how could I ever expect that confidence of the People
which I should no longer deserve, and how much dearer to me and to my
family was my life than the life of the real author to his friends. Yet
life seemed dear and each minute that remained seemed precious if not
solemn. I sincerely trust that neither you nor any of your readers, and
especially none with families, may ever be placed in such seeming direct
proximity to death while obliged to decide the one question I was
compelled to, viz.: What should I do—I, a man of family, and not as Mr.
Winters is, “alone.” [The reader is requested not to skip the
following.—M. T.:]
STRATEGY AND MESMERISM. To gain time for further reflection, and hoping
that by a seeming acquiescence I might regain my personal liberty, at
least till I could give an alarm, or take advantage of some momentary
inadvertence of Winters, and then without a cowardly flight escape, I
resolved to write a certain kind of retraction, but previously had
inwardly decided:
First.—That I would studiously avoid every action which might be
construed into the drawing of a weapon, even by a self-infuriated man,
no matter what amount of insult might be heaped upon me, for it seemed
to me that this great excess of compound profanity, foulness and epithet
must be more than a mere indulgence, and therefore must have some
object. “Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird.”
Therefore, as before without thought, I thereafter by intent kept my
hands away from my pockets, and generally in sight and spread upon my
knees.
Second.—I resolved to make no motion with my arms or hands which could
possibly be construed into aggression.
Third.—I resolved completely to govern my outward manner and suppress
indignation. To do this, I must govern my spirit. To do that, by force
of imagination I was obliged like actors on the boards to resolve myself
into an unnatural mental state and see all things through the eyes of an
assumed character.
Fourth.—I resolved to try on Winters, silently, and unconsciously to
himself a mesmeric power which I possess over certain kinds of people,
and which at times I have found to work even in the dark over the lower
animals.
Does any one smile at these last counts? God save you from ever being
obliged to beat in a game of chess, whose stake is your life, you having
but four poor pawns and pieces and your adversary with his full force
unshorn. But if you are, provided you have any strength with breadth of
will, do not despair. Though mesmeric power may not save you, it may
help you; try it at all events. In this instance I was conscious of
power coming into me, and by a law of nature, I know Winters was
correspondingly weakened. If I could have gained more time I am sure he
would not even have struck me.
It takes time both to form such resolutions and to recite them. That
time, however, I gained while thinking of my retraction, which I first
wrote in pencil, altering it from time to time till I got it to suit me,
my aim being to make it look like a concession to demands, while in fact
it should tersely speak the truth into Mr. Winters’ mind. When it was
finished, I copied it in ink, and if correctly copied from my first
draft it should read as follows. In copying I do not think I made any
material change.
COPY. To Philip Lynch, Editor of the Gold Hill News: I learn that Gen.
John B. Winters believes the following (pasted on) clipping from the
PEOPLE’S TRIBUNE of January to contain distinct charges of mine against
him personally, and that as such he desires me to retract them
unqualifiedly.
In compliance with his request, permit me to say that, although Mr.
Winters and I see this matter differently, in view of his strong
feelings in the premises, I hereby declare that I do not know those
“charges” (if such they are) to be true, and I hope that a critical
examination would altogether disprove them. CONRAD WIEGAND. Gold Hill,
January 15, 1870.
I then read what I had written and handed it to Mr. Lynch, whereupon Mr.
Winters said:
“That’s not satisfactory, and it won’t do;” and then addressing himself
to Mr. Lynch, he further said: “How does it strike you?”
“Well, I confess I don’t see that it retracts anything.”
“Nor do I,” said Winters; “in fact, I regard it as adding insult to
injury. Mr. Wiegand you’ve got to do better than that. You are not the
man who can pull wool over my eyes.”
“That, sir, is the only retraction I can write.”
“No it isn’t, sir, and if you so much as say so again you do it at your
peril, for I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life, and, by—,
sir, I don’t pledge myself to spare you even that inch either. I want
you to understand I have asked you for a very different paper, and that
paper you’ve got to sign.”
“Mr. Winters, I assure you that I do not wish to irritate you, but, at
the same time, it is utterly impossible for me to write any other paper
than that which I have written. If you are resolved to compel me to sign
something, Philip Lynch’s hand must write at your dictation, and if,
when written, I can sign it I will do so, but such a document as you say
you must have from me, I never can sign. I mean what I say.”
“Well, sir, what’s to be done must be done quickly, for I’ve been here
long enough already. I’ll put the thing in another shape (and then
pointing to the paper); don’t you know those charges to be false?”
“I do not.”
“Do you know them to be true?”
“Of my own personal knowledge I do not.”
“Why then did you print them?”
“Because rightly considered in their connection they are not charges,
but pertinent and useful suggestions in answer to the queries of a
correspondent who stated facts which are inexplicable.”
“Don’t you know that I know they are false?”
“If you do, the proper course is simply to deny them and court an
investigation.”
“And do YOU claim the right to make ME come out and deny anything you
may choose to write and print?”
To that question I think I made no reply, and he then further said:
“Come, now, we’ve talked about the matter long enough. I want your final
answer—did you write that article or not?”
“I cannot in honor tell you who wrote it.”
“Did you not see it before it was printed?”
“Most certainly, sir.”
“And did you deem it a fit thing to publish?”
“Most assuredly, sir, or I would never have consented to its appearance.
Of its authorship I can say nothing whatever, but for its publication I
assume full, sole and personal responsibility.”
“And do you then retract it or not?”
“Mr. Winters, if my refusal to sign such a paper as you have demanded
must entail upon me all that your language in this room fairly implies,
then I ask a few minutes for prayer.”
“Prayer!—you, this is not your hour for prayer—your time to pray was
when you were writing those—lying charges. Will you sign or not?”
“You already have my answer.”
“What! do you still refuse?”
“I do, sir.”
“Take that, then,” and to my amazement and inexpressible relief he drew
only a rawhide instead of what I expected—a bludgeon or pistol. With it,
as he spoke, he struck at my left ear downwards, as if to tear it off,
and afterwards on the side of the head. As he moved away to get a better
chance for a more effective shot, for the first time I gained a chance
under peril to rise, and I did so pitying him from the very bottom of my
soul, to think that one so naturally capable of true dignity, power and
nobility could, by the temptations of this State, and by unfortunate
associations and aspirations, be so deeply debased as to find in such
brutality anything which he could call satisfaction—but the great hope
for us all is in progress and growth, and John B. Winters, I trust, will
yet be able to comprehend my feelings.
He continued to beat me with all his great force, until absolutely
weary, exhausted and panting for breath. I still adhered to my purpose
of non-aggressive defence, and made no other use of my arms than to
defend my head and face from further disfigurement. The mere pain
arising from the blows he inflicted upon my person was of course
transient, and my clothing to some extent deadened its severity, as it
now hides all remaining traces.
When I supposed he was through, taking the butt end of his weapon and
shaking it in my face, he warned me, if I correctly understood him, of
more yet to come, and furthermore said, if ever I again dared introduce
his name to print, in either my own or any other public journal, he
would cut off my left ear (and I do not think he was jesting) and send
me home to my family a visibly mutilated man, to be a standing warning
to all low-lived puppies who seek to blackmail gentlemen and to injure
their good names. And when he did so operate, he informed me that his
implement would not be a whip but a knife.
When he had said this, unaccompanied by Mr. Lynch, as I remember it, he
left the room, for I sat down by Mr. Lynch, exclaiming: “The man is
mad—he is utterly mad—this step is his ruin—it is a mistake—it would be
ungenerous in me, despite of all the ill usage I have here received, to
expose him, at least until he has had an opportunity to reflect upon the
matter. I shall be in no haste.”
“Winters is very mad just now,” replied Mr. Lynch, “but when he is
himself he is one of the finest men I ever met. In fact, he told me the