Mark Twain's Highway Robbery as told by Steve Gillis
The Twainian Volume 15 Number 1 (1956)
Albert Bigelow Paine in his “Mark Twain, a Biography”, published in 1912, gives an account on pages 297-303 inclusive, stating as Paine does that, “In Roughing It” Mark Twain has given a version of this mock robbery which is correct enough as far as it goes; but important details are lacking. Only a few years ago (it was April, 1907), in his cabin on Jackass Hill, with Joseph Goodman and the writer of this history present, Steve Gillis made his “death-bed” confession as is here set down:” Paine then has in quotation marks, the story in detail, as it was supposed to have come from the dying man’s lips, yet the recent acquisition by your Foundation of the valuable Paine letters shows things differently. Historians and writers generally do take considerable liberty in “revising” and editing reported interviews and accounts of events, yet to us members of the Mark Twain Research Foundation and to historians generally, we want the facts as they were, certainly so-called “death bed” confessions. To some the discrepancies are of no great importance, to others, well they are highly indignant that Paine left out what they consider valuable background and “color”. This is how Steve Gillis gave it to Paine, in the long-hand writing of Steve Gillis on some 16 pages of yellowed writing paper signed by Steve himself:
“The story of the hold-up and robbery of Mark Twain in 1868 (here Steve has a note “Not certain about date-ask Mark-S.E.G.) on the divide between Virginia City and Gold Hill has been told many times, but never correctly. The so-called robbery was not committed merely as a senseless practical joke on the famous humorist, but for the purpose of his great personal benefit. His best friends were in the plot— friends who, if they would not have actually died for him, would have at least taken desperate chances to rescue him from any great danger. That is the kind of friends Mark had in Nevada. If he had any enemies (I never heard of even one) they kept their opinions to themselves.
Mark Twain had come back to Virginia from San Francisco not alone to deliver his lecture on “The Sandwich Islands”, but also to see his old friends before departure for the East.
The lecture was delivered in Piper’s Opera House. The house was jammed to its doors, and many unfortunates had to be turned away for lack of room. Every man in the audience considered himself Mark’s personal friend, and when he appeared on the platform he was greeted with a hurricane of applause. The lecture was a perfect success. It was a combination of the serious and the humorous. Mark would have his hearers on the verge of tears at times, and then abruptly he would say something so absurdly funny, that they would be convulsed with laughter. That’s Mark’s style—he can’t help it.
The people of Virginia had listened to many famous lecturers before but they were merely sideshows compared with Mark—he was the big circus. That lecture could have been run to crowded houses for a week, and Mark’s refusal to redeliver it was the “first cause” of his being held-up on the Divide. Numbers of his friends entreated him to give the “common people” another chance, but he steadfastly refused, saying that he would not repeat himself in the same town, that he was tired of the old lecture, and that he had neither time nor material to prepare a new one.
Mark was billed to deliver his lecture in Gold Hill the next night. The towns of Virginia and Gold Hill are about one mile apart. They are separated by a lonesome wind-swept road called “The Divide” an ideal place for robberies, frequently taken advantage of by “gentlemen of the road.”
The fact that Mark was to lecture in Gold Hill and his stated reasons for not favoring Virginia again, inspired me an idea, which I hastened to communicate to Mr. Dennis E. McCarthy, Mark’s agent, (formerly one of the proprietors of the Virginia “Enterprise”). The idea was to “hold-up” Mark on the Divide when he should be returning from Gold Hill and rob him of every cent, that the robbery would create a tremendous sensation, and that if we could keep the secret from Mark and persuade him to give his version of the outrage, we could pack the Opera House at $2 a head. McCarthy jumped at the plan like a hungry trout at a fly, “and just think what an advertisement it will be for Mark”, he said. We further planned to raise a big purse among Mark’s friends, to be presented to him with the proceeds of the robbery after the lectures, hoping thereby to escape his wrath.
Being just a little afraid that the law would not look kindly on our project for Mark’s benefit, especially if the “beneficiary” should kick, we sought “legal advice,” and revealed the project to a few lawyers (all Mark’s sincere friends), among whom was U. S. Federal Judge, Sandy Baldwin. They laughingly told us to go ahead —that it would be all right. We then called on the City Marshal George Birdsall (chief of police) and took him into the secret. The marshal declared he was one of Mark’s devoted friends, and that, to insure the proper performance of the hold-up, he himself would act as one of the robbers.
Two of Mark’s most intimate friends we did not take. into our confidence-- Mr. Mr. Joseph G. Goodman proprietor of the “Enterprise”, and Dan de Quille, reporter on the same. Mark was the guest of Mr. Goodman and we felt sure he would put his foot down on the project, and besides he was no lover of practical jokes unless they were of a very mild character. We excluded Dan de Quille because we wanted him to write a realistic account of the robbery, which he could not have done had he known it to be a bogus.
The preliminaries being arranged with the assistance of Marshal Birdsall, the band of robbers was selected. Among its members were “Jimmy” Edington, Leslie Blackburn, Pat Holland, George Birdsall, and one or two others whose names I cannot recall at this distant day.
A little before it was thought Mark would have finished his lecture, the robbers marched out onto the Divide, all wearing black masks. But we had started too early, and as it was a very cold night some fear was felt that if Mark didn’t show up pretty soon the band would freeze. After waiting about an hour I was sent on ahead to Gold Hill armed with a policeman’s whistle, with instructions to sound it when our victim should get within 100 yards of the ambush.
I caught Mark and his agent (the latter carrying a carpetsack containing Mark’s dress suit) just as they were emerging from the lecture hall and followed them up a “cut off” to the Divide. When the proper distance was reached I loudly blew the whistle, which caused Mark to observe to his agent, “well, I am glad they have a policeman on the Divide, they never had one in my time”.
When Mark reached the ambuscade the robbers rushed out from behind a lonesome little cabin, where they had been sheltering themselves from the biting cold, and surrounded him and his agent.
Eddington, who had been appointed Captain of the band, then approached Mark, presented a big six-shooter at his head and sternly ordered “Hands up”.
Mark’s hands went up. “Now give me your watch and money—quick” demanded Edington.
Mark lowered his hands to comply, when Edington fiercely exclaimed: “What! Going for your gun, are you? Do you want your head blown off? Throw up your hands!”
Mark’s hands again pointed skywards and Edington repeated: “Now give me your money”.
But it was plain Mark’s temper was rising for he angrily replied: “How in Hell can I give you my money when my hands are up?”
“Well”, said Edington, in a somewhat gentle tone, “Keep ’em up and I’ll go through you myself”.
“All right” said Mark, “but keep that pistol out of my face”.
After robbing Mark, Edington ordered two of his men, whom he designated Beauregard and Stonewall Jackson—to “get behind that cabin, and if these men attempt to leave in less than fifteen minutes, “shoot ’em full of holes”.
As the robbers receded in the darkness, Mark, who had entirely recovered his nerve, shouted: “Say, you have forgotten something”. “What is it” shouted back Edington. “Why, this carpetsack” loudly replied Mark.
After waiting about the time the robbers had ordered, McCarthy, whose chattering teeth told of his suffering, said: “The time is up, Mark. Let’s go on”. Mark to McCarthy in tense disgust, calmly replied: “I know it is, but you heard what that villain said, and to make sure we will just wait another fifteen minutes.”
When the band reached Virginia City, the plunder was turned over to me by Edington, who regretfully remarked as he did so: “He didn’t scare worth a cent”.
I then went to the first big saloon on C street Mark and his agent would have to pass, knowing that their half-frozen condition would drive them into it to get warm. Sure enough, in they came. Mark appeared as unruffled as a mountain lake and told of his robbery as if it were an everyday and rather monotonous experience. Before leaving the saloon Mark asked if I had any money. I said I had lots of it and pulling out of my pocket $100 in $20 pieces of his own money, asked him how much he wanted. He said he would take $80, as he might have to run around a little with the boys that night.
We then adjourned to the Enterprise office and reported the robbery to Dan de Quille, who wrote it up in his best style. Then the news was given to the Associated Press and it was telegraphed all over the United States. Indeed it was a tremendous advertisement for Mark Twain.
After writing an advertisement offering a reward and no questions asked for the return of the watch, Mark suggested that we go out and “see some of the boys”. It was considered a great disgrace in those wild days to “take a run with the boys” and not spend your last cent and have to borrow breakfast money. Mark knew this fact, and that night he nobly conformed to the usages of Virginia’s best society.
Then everything went on prosperously. Piper’s Opera House was engaged; Mark prepared his lecture; the tickets were printed, and front seats and boxes were at a premium. But disaster was lurking where we least suspected. The evening before the proposed lecture Judge Baldwin invited Mark to a private dinner. At that dinner the Judge grew confidential and, thinking perhaps he was doing Mark a favor, told him that the robbery was a huge practical joke. Of course that knocked the lecture. That dinner cost Mark at least $2,500 and he could have truthfully prayed, “Lord, deliver me from my friends”.
The night of that disastrous disclosure Dennis McCarthy and I were at the house of Mr. Goodman, whose guest Mark was, waiting for Mark. When he arrived it was easily to be seen by his manner that something had gone wrong. On entering he took a seat but spoke to no one, looking as black as a thunder cloud. We did not wait for the explosion, but quickly took our leave.
Mr. Goodman sat up the balance of that night persuading Mark not to prosecute the members of that friendly conspiracy, and finally prevailed. But he could not cool Mark’s burning anger and Mark announced his intention of taking the next stage for San Francisco.
The dejected robbers were all at the stage station to see Mark off and, if possible, to placate him. But all attempts in that direction were received by Mark with cold disdain. Instead, he denounced that sorrowful gang in wittering words of hostility. He told them that he now knew who had committed the numerous robberies in and around Virginia City; that they might claim that his robbery was a joke, but from the professional manner in which they performed it he was certain that they were guilty of many others which were not jokes, and predicted that all of them would finally land in the penitentiary.
The band took that lecture in gloomy silence it was not the kind of “lecture” they had so disinterestedly worked for. But, friendly to the last, as the stage started Mark was presented with a package containing the masks they had worn as a memento of the robbery”. “S. E. Gillis”
“Dear Mr. Paine:
The above account of the Mark Twain robbery is a prosy but TRUE one. The scene on the Divide and the conversation between Mark and Edington is given just as it occurred, for I stood close to them and noted every word and action of each. McCarthy told me of Mark’s refusal to go on when the fifteen minutes were up. Do as you please with the account—blue-pencil it, rewrite it, or throw it into the waste basket, where perhaps it properly belongs. S. E. G.”