Gamblers have their ups and downs like other people, not only each particular gambler as an individual, but gamblers as a class. At present, for example, gamblin’ is rather under a cloud; durin’ the war it was the biggest thing in New York, and so on; but there was a time many years ago when it was a really dangerous thing in this country to be a gambler, and when men were lynched just for bein’ gamblers.
An old sport, a friend of mine, who is livin’ still and who has been a gambler for nearly fifty years, remembers those terrible times yet, and was talkin’ to me about ‘em the other day.
A smart fellow, with more brains than principle, like a good many other smart fellows, named Stewart, was “hard up,” and he got up a little book which had a big sale and caused a great excitement. In this book he wrote a full account of a secret society which, accordin’ to him, was called “The League of Secret Brotherhood.” Now, I don’t believe there ever existed such a society, except in Stewart’s head, and more than the Ku-Klux ever existed; but the book was so well written and hit the nail so well on the head at the time that just as people believed during the war in the Ku-Klux, so at this time they all believed in the League of Secret Brotherhood.
According to Stewart, this League of Secret Brotherhood embraced thousands of people, scattered all over the country. Some hundreds of ‘em were thieves, some gamblers, some highwaymen, some counterfeiters. But they were all linked together by oaths, and passwords, and grips, and they were all bound to help each other when they needed help, and all had to obey one chief or head centre. This head centre was a man called Murril, a big thief who had been sentenced to the penitentiary, and against whom this man Stewart was the principal witness. Murril had caused the assassination of several men who had disobeyed his orders, and altogether he was a mighty dangerous person, and the League of Secret Brotherhood was a mighty dangerous institution. The largest number of its members were the gamblers, every one of whom was a “secret brother.”
This book of Stewart’s made quite a stir, especially through the South and Southwest, particularly because towards the end of the book Stewart said that it was one of the great designs of the “League of Secret Brotherhood” to get up a negro insurrection, so as to have a chance for big pickin’s during the insurrection. One of the favorite resorts of this League of Secret Brotherhood, it was stated, was the city of New York, where they could meet and talk over their plans without any trouble.
A book of this kind was naturally calculated to make people generally hate gamblers, and in some places its effects were seen right off. One man was taken from his bed early one mornin’, and without havin’ any time given him to say his prayers, or to bid good-bye to his family, was hung to a tree, for bein’ suspected of bein’, not proved to be, a gambler.
Two men at another time and place where seized by a mob, stripped naked, tied each to a post and whipped by a lot of men with rawhides and beaten with sticks of wood till they were nearly dead, and then turned out into the woods, where one of ‘em afterwards died from exposure and starvation, just for bein’ gamblers.
At a third place, near Memphis, a whole family, a man, wife and two children, were tarred and feathered, and then drummed out of town, because the head of the family had hinted to one of the citizens one day that it would be good idea to start a faro bank in the place.
All this was bad enough, but it was nothin’ to what followed.
One day there was a big pow-wow, political meetin’ and dinner at Vicksburg, Mississippi, and a large number of people were in town. Among others, my friend the old sport I have just mentioned–then a very young sport, just of age–was at Vicksburg, enjoyin’ himself and dealin’ faro.
While the dinner was goin’ on a loafer and bully of the place, who had no more to do with regular gamblin’ than a rat has to do with the family whose provisions it eats up when they are asleep, happened to make a disturbance and create a small sort of a free fight. Instantly some people–full of Stewart’s confounded book and the League of Secret Brotherhood nonsense–got up a hue and cry against the gamblers; though, as I have just said, the man who caused the fuss wasn’t a gambler. A public meetin’ of the citizens was called at once, and was largely attended. It was determined at the meetin’ to drive every gambler out of the town at once–by violence if necessary–and the citizens of the place resolved ‘emselves into a vigilance committee against the fraternity.
Now, vigilance committees are, like powder, terrible things to handle, and likely to do more harm than good. But there is no more reasonin’ with ‘em than there is with powder. So my young friend, the sport, made his preparations to leave town in short metre. But before he left a fearful thing happened.
Near the steamboat landin’ there was a low drinkin’ place, where there was a low gamblin’ den–not a regular faro bank, but a place where they played cards on dirty tables and got cheated out of their money, and where the only real gamblin’ implement was a roulette wheel. This den was kept by a gambler of the lowest kind, a regular sharper, called Dick Truffitt, who was a brave cuss, though; too brave by half for his own good.
The vigilance committee commenced its work on him, and told him to leave the town in twenty-four hours, and to close up his den at once. He, like a fool, cursed the vigilance committee, and defied ‘em, and refused either to leave or close.
Then he and two of his sharper friends got together, barricaded the den, got drinkin’ whisky, and waited for whatever might happen, just as if three men could defy an excited community of thirty thousand.
In about an hour or so some forty or fifty men, armed with knives, and guns, and pistols, and whatever they could get hold of–members of the vigilance committee–marched down to his den, determined to close it up ‘emselves, and to drive the gamblers out of it.
They didn’t expect any real trouble with the gamblers–just wanted to frighten ‘em–and kind of made a show of ‘emselves, with a big American flag and a fife and a drum.
But the three gamblers were so drunk by this time that they had completely lost their heads, and fired on the vigilance committee, killin’ the leader of the party and woundin’ seriously two other men.
When they saw what they had done they knew that nothin’ could save them from the mob now, and so they sobered up and determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
They barricaded the doors and windows still tighter, and got all the guns and pistols and knives there were round the shanty, loaded the pistols and guns, sharpened the knives, and resolved to die game, for that was all that was left ‘em to do.
Suddenly a yell was heard–one of those yells that make even a brave man’s blood curdle, because they mean mischief–and peepin’ through the chinks of the old shanty of a den, the three sharpers saw the mob comin’.
At first the three sharpers in the den thought they might possibly have a show for their lives, because all they could see was a pack of yelling boys and loafers, and men throwin’ their arms about wildly; and three desperate men, behind a barricade, might hold their own for a while against these.
But they looked a minute longer, and then they saw that their last hope was gone, for behind these yelling, wild, half-grown boys and men came some of the militia of the place with a cannon.
The cannon was an old one, and the militia were only volunteer soldiers, but there were about one hundred of the militia, all well-armed and led by a man in uniform, who evidently understood his business, and one cannon is as good as a hundred against an old wooden, tumble-down shanty, barricaded only by a few tables and chairs.
The boys and yellers came as near as they dared (which wasn’t very near, as they had distinct recollections of how the gamblers had fired on ‘em before, and didn’t intend to give ‘em a second chance), and then made way for the militia, who planted the cannon, got ready, and fired.
The ball was well directed, and down tumbled the shanty. The mob yelled again, and the militia marched toward the spot where the gamblin’ den had been, but where there was only a heap of pieces of board now.
The three gamblers stood at bay in the ruins of their gamblin’ den, and looked about ‘em. They were hemmed in on every side, for the mob had gradually surrounded ‘em at a safe distance and now was closin’ in upon ‘em.
It was a terrible fight, that of the three against the three thousand; but was mighty soon brought to an end by the three thousand, who captured the three, put ropes round their necks and dragged ‘em up the hill to a clump of trees. There they strung ‘em up, one after the other. Dick Truffitt, the keeper of the gamblin’ den, was hung first. He cursed the mob and defied ‘em, and shook his head at ‘em (his hands were tied or he would have shook ‘em, too) as he went up. The roulette dealer was hung up next, and he died cursin’, too. Then the mob seized the third gambler, who had been on his knees tryin’ to say a prayer while his two dyin’ friends had been cussin’ and swearin’, and hung him alongside of the other two sharpers.
While the bodies were danglin’ from the trees a boy came along who had gotten hold of the roulette wheel that belonged to the gamblin’ den that had just been destroyed. Somebody in the crowd round the gallows-trees saw this wheel and proposed to hang the wheel along with the gamblers. Everybody shouted yes, and so they got a rope and run up the roulette wheel, and suspended it right by the side of the roulette dealer.
Then the wife of the roulette dealer came along and begged that she might have his body to give it a decent burial. He hadn’t lived with her for some time. He had been unkind to her–differin’ in that way from most gamblers, who are generally very good to their family. But she couldn’t forget that he had been her husband and the father of her dead child. Ad so she got down on her knees and plead for his body.
But the leader of the lynchin’ party, of the executioners or hangin’ party, who was a brother of the man who had been fired on and killed by the gamblers, refused to give her the body. She begged, she cried for it, but the more she cried the more the leader of the lynchers refused her, and at last had her driven away from the spot.
The three bodies were left hangin’ on the trees for two days. They were still danglin’ when my friend, the sport, took French leave of the place and hurried away towards New York as quickly as possible.
To his dying day he will never forget the terrible scenes he saw in the great raid on the gamblers.
[Editor’s notes: The above column was written as if events were being retold by the eyewitness “old sport,” but that is doubtful. The gist of the story is true: In 1835, Virgil A. Stewart, a one-time assiciate of John A. Murrell, wrote an expose of Murrell’s crimes, A history of the detection, conviction, life and designs of John A. Murel, the great western land pirate.
Stewart asserted that Murrell was the head of a large secret society, which he called the “Mystic Clan.” This fraternity included slave robbers, counterfeiters, and gamblers. The “Southwest” of the country at that time was the Lower Mississippi Valley: Tennessee, Arkansas, Missisippi, Louisiana–territory acquired via the Louisiana Purchase, where law was often established locally and enforced by militias.
Stewart’s book struck a chord with the American public (even in New York), which already had a passion (pro and con) for secret societies and conspiracy theories concerning their influence. The most famous of these, of course, being the Freemasons. Stewart’s tale was especially significant in the South, where any rumor of a slave insurrection was taken seriously
Crooked gamblers often did work in small gangs; and likely did try to recognize each other, if only to avoid interference. But it’s a stretch to suggest they had fraternal bonds that would cause them to come to the aid of each other.
Gambler’s were lynched in Vicksburg on July 6th, 1835; and Stewart’s claims inspired some of the mob mentality; but the specifics may have originated in a more ordinary dispute between one man and a member of the local militia. As a result of that dispute, a vigilance committee advised all gamblers to leave town. Five men decided to hole up instead, and fired on a mob of citizens as it approached. That triggered the local militia to attack their den. According to the Vicksburg Register, the names of the gamblers who perished were: North, Hullams, Dutch Bill, Smith and McCall. Where the name “Dick Truffitt” that appears in the column is a mystery.
The idea that gamblers subscribed to a vast secret organization was revived in the 1850s by reformed gambler Jonathan Harrington Green, who wrote his own book, SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS: A FULL AND TRUE EXPOSITION OF ALL THE VARIOUS Crimes, Villanies, and Misdeeds OF THIS POWERFUL ORGANIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES. Green’s book had more influence in New York City, and inspired a short-lived crackdown on gambling.
