New York always was noted for its crack marksmen. Captain J. T. Murphy and Thomas Phelan, who settled in New York years ago, were men who could do almost anything in the way of shootin’. They used to hit, four times out of five, a shoe-tack at twenty-five paces. Murphy hit a half dollar placed on the rim of a knife and laid on a man’s head at forty feet distance. Phelan once shot a half-dollar out of a man’s fingers at twenty yards, and lots of ‘em hit, every time, a brass button at the distance of one hundred yards.
Then there was George Hamilton, G. W. Hamilton, who hit, two hundred times out of two hundred and four, the bullseye in a three-inch target. Hamilton was a very nervous chap about everythin’ but shootin’. He used to ring the bell one hundred and twenty times one after the other at a distance of seventy-five feet, while he had a splendid record at paper target-shootin’, as it is called.
Bill Hayes was one of the very best of “out-of-door shots.” He used to be considered the best shot at two hundred yards in the city. Then there was Wilson McDonald, the sculptor—a Southwestern man, who has been living in New York for twenty years. He don’t do much shootin’ now, but he used to be the “quickest shot” in town. He took aim in a second, and never missed but twice in his life.
Tom Warner, too, the pet of Jim Fisk, was, when he was in that line of business, the best pistol shot in New York city, except, perhaps, a Mr. Collins, a lawyer.
Remsen, the amateur oarsman, who died some years ago, was as good with his pistol as with his oars.
George Crouch, who made his mark in “Erie,” was a crack shot. He used to talk a good deal about his shootin’, but then he could shoot. Crouch once thought about writin’ a book on shootin’, but Jim Fisk didn’t give him any time to think about books.
Old Herrick, the tea man, was a first class shootist, and used to be more proud of his aim than his tea. A young Mr. Redfield of Brooklyn used to have a big name for what was called “pipe shootin’,” that is shootin’ at and breaking a clay pipe bein’ sometimes held in somebody’s mouth. A rich New York chap called Bliss used to spend all his time pipe-shootin’.
Everybody knows what a famous shot Recorder Hackett used to be, and the present James Gordon Bennett was almost as clever in this line. “Larry” Jerome a few years ago used to think himself a big shootist too, a sort of rival to Bogardus and Ira Paine.
Years ago the ladies used to practice with their pistols, and some of ‘em were as smart with their shootin’ irons as they were with their eyes.
There was a Mrs. Miller in New York who once at a pistol gallery hit nine out of twelve bells at the distance of one hundred and twenty-five feet. She had a friend, a Mrs. Dakin of Brooklyn, who at the same time and place struck seventeen Bells out of twenty-two. Then there were four sisters named Scott who were very good shots, and a little girl called Annie Wing, who though only eight years old could ring seven Bells in eleven shots. She is married and settled now, but they say she hasn’t quite given up pistol-practice yet.
And speakin’ of the ladies reminds me of a shootin’ story I have heard concerning Major G. W. Collamer and a Mr. Ingram, the latter a well-known New Yorker, who was staying in the country one Summer.
Collamer was a married man with a large family out on a farm; Ingram was a young bachelor, but was supposed to be courtin’ the pretty daughter of the farmer at whose place they were stayin’. Collamer was a slow, steady, easygoin’ sort of a man, while Ingram was a restless, nervous, fidgety chap. Though so different in dispositions, the two men had a sort of Damon and Pythias likin’ for each other, and got along together splendidly.
They were both very fond of goin’ gunnin’, and were both very lucky in their shootin’. They were considered capital marksmen, and quite an animated rivalry had sprung up between ‘em about their shootin’. The men, however, didn’t care so much about the matter, but their women folks took it up for ‘em in quite a lively way.
Collamer’s wife was perfectly certain that, of the two, Mr. Ingram was a splendid shot, but her husband was a better one, and the farmer’s pretty daughter was perfectly sure that, although the major was a fine shot, Mr. Ingram was a finer, and the matter caused no end of discussion over the corn and potatoes, and milk and eggs at the farmhouse.
The farmhouse party got discussin’ the William Tell shootin’, and the women contended that if the two men chose, both the major and Mr. Ingram could have done just as well as Tell.
“Well, let us choose,” said the major to Ingram.
“How do you mean?” asked Ingram.
“Why, let us see whether after all we can come up to this Tell business. I’ll shoot an apple off your head, and you’ll shoot an apple off mine.”
“Agreed,” said Ingram. “Let us do it now; one time’s as good as another.”
This was makin’ matters practical, and bringin’ ‘em to a fine point, with a vengeance. Then the women folks began to scare. It was one thing to say what their men folks could do, but it was another thing to see ‘em do it, and take the risk of doin’ it.
Still, neither the major’s wife nor the farmer’s pretty daughter liked to be the first to show the white feather.
So all the preparations for this shootin’ match were made. There wasn’t much to do to get ready. Two apples, two guns and two men were all that were necessary. The women got the apples, and the men got the guns.
Then the major and Ingram pitched up pennies to see who should have the first shot at the apple on the other’s head, and the major won the first shot. He was to be William Tell, No. 1. He was to have the first chance to shoot, and Ingram had to stand the first chance of bein’ shot at.
This wasn’t at all pleasant to the farmer’s pretty daughter, but she was a girl of a good deal of grit, and she saw Ingram was perfectly cool and content, so she put on a good face on the matter, and pretended to be as satisfied as Mrs. Collamer herself.
The major took his gun, Ingram took his position under a tree, at the distance of twenty-seven yards from the major, an apple was put on his bare head, and there he stood quietly waitin’ to be shot at, while the farmer and the farmer’s men and the women folks all stood around, rather nervous and anxious, but tryin’ to keep as good faces as they could. Takin’ careful aim, in his easy-goin’, slow, methodical way, the major fired.
Whizz went the bullet and hit the apple plump in the centre, leavin’ some of the juice and pomace on Ingram’s head.
Everybody set up a shout at this, and everybody shook hands with the major and Ingram.
Then it came the turn for the major to be shot at by Ingram, and the major’s wife got terribly nervous, in fact she lost her grit altogether and begged her husband and Mr. Ingram not to go on with the matter any further. But the major wouldn’t think of backin’ out, and he went and stood under the tree with an apple on his head and Ingram stood with his rifle just where the major had done his shooting. The major’s wife covered her eyes with her hands and fell on her knees, in fact, she made such a fuss with the best intentions, that she did all she could to make Ingram nervous, and thereby did her very best to have him shoot her husband.
But Ingram, though restless and fidgety in his manner, was full of nerve and self-confidence at the bottom, and besides he was a magnificent shot.
So there was a moment’s pause, and then a report, a whizz, and all was over. Ingram’s bullet hit the apple, didn’t hit the major, and all breathed freely again. William Tell had been duplicated and outdone.
But the women folks at the farm never talked anymore about shootin’.
[Editor’s notes: This hodge-podge of anecdotes is not a very accurate look at the most notable shootists (rifle and pistol) that resided in New York. John T. Murphy and Thomas Phelan were residents of Kansas City who toured the country (including New York City) in 1873 with their shooting act.
Thomas Phelan was mentioned in another Harry Hill’s Gotham column, in 1885, when he was stabbed in O’Donovan Rossa’s offices as a suspected traitor to Rossa’s Irish dynamiting campaign. Phelan was an amazing adventurer: expert marksman, expert swordsman, veteran of numerous duels, U.S. Union Army scout, officer in Fenian invasion of Canada, suspected assassin, defender of Nicaraguan government, Alfred Dreyfus, etc.
The incident with Major Collamer and Henry Ingram took place in Vermont in 1828. All the embellishment added to the account by the Harry Hill column writer involving the “women folk” was fiction, inserted to enliven the story with gender stereotypes.]
