Mary said she planned to rejoin Letterman in October where he “is still hard at work boring for Petroleum. I shall be glad to get to my journey’s end & to be with my husband, whom I have only been able to see once a fortnight, since I came to Cala. For by necessity (we live) five miles apart. The Ranch on which we are going to live was the first place from which gold was exported, & is still rich in metal, tho’ there are not the necessary facilities for washing the ore. The oil is there in great quantities in surface springs, but the boring for a well, is very tedious. It is such a remote spot, they often have to wait a long time for the proper machinery, tools & pipes & the latter have caved in time so that there is full trial of one’s faith and patience.”20
Mary’s letters to her brother in Rome revealed Mary had domestic help in her husband’s absence, although at times it developed into a source of frustration. She complained of servants who left without notice, noting “one must have some troubles, & while I have a good kind husband, who does every thing on earth to try to make me happy, I am grateful for my blessings.” In Letterman’s absence, she also took great joy in her daughter. She wrote: “Your little god child grows & thrives, she is a blended likeness of both Parents, but most like her Father in her silent but warm temprament (sic).” She missed her brother, telling him: “I know if anything prevents this (seeing her brother again), you will always take an interest in my little child and pray for her Father’s conversion. . . . Cassie sends much love to her Uncle; so would Dr. L if he were here.”21 Although Mary found the summers to be uncomfortably hot and had been disappointed in the roughshod aspects of San Francisco upon arrival in California, she had grown to admire “this wonderful interesting country” surrounding Santa Barbara.22
But when she rejoined Letterman inland in late 1865, the prospect of striking oil had dimmed substantially. Letterman’s eight-month career as a wildcatter had resulted in little more than 700 feet of dry holes. Peckham’s attempts on the Ojai Rancho were similarly unproductive. The proximity of oil seeps did not become a harbinger of riches within reach of primitive drilling equipment. “If we strike it, I shall consider it very much in the same light as I presume the ancient Hebrews regarded the water which flowed at the touch of Moses’ rod,” he wrote a friend.”23 It appeared increasingly likely that Whitney and Brewer, far more familiar with California geology than any group of speculators and their experts from the East, were correct in their pessimistic assessment of California’s oil future.
Letterman was not yet ready to quit, however. With his family now living a few miles away, he decided to try new locations. He drilled a well in Tapo Canyon south of the Santa Clara River, a flat expanse of barren ground along a seasonal creek bed, surrounded by ridges. This time he found a very modest flow of oil at twenty feet. He tried again at the mouth of Eureka Canyon, less than five miles to the west. Letterman drilled more than 400 feet. The well produced at most fifteen gallons of poor-quality oil. Letterman distilled some of it and sold the kerosene to a Los Angeles merchant. It burned a dim reddish color, clogged lamp wicks, and produced a sulfur odor. It, too, bore no resemblance to the oil samples Silliman said he had collected in 1864.
By this point, Peckham had given up on finding oil on Ojai Rancho after a number of dry holes. Just one well produced fifteen to twenty barrels a day and became California’s first commercially productive well. He resigned and joined Whitney’s geological survey, collecting samples from a number of ranchos in the area. When he met with Letterman in March 1866, Letterman confirmed he had found no oil that had approached the Silliman sample quality. Peckham characterized Letterman’s attempts as futile, producing mostly gas and in some cases water high in salt content. He summarized Letterman’s conclusion “that if a depth of one thousand feet failed to reach oil, it was of very little use to expect to obtain oil by boring.”24
Criticism of Silliman’s overly enthusiastic view of California petroleum reserves became more widespread. When state geologist Whitney published Geology, Report of Progress and Synopsis of Field Work, 1860–1864, he harshly criticized what he considered dishonest speculators who had duped naïve stockholders with false claims of oil quality and quantity. He stopped short of naming names but referred to companies in New York and Philadelphia.
As he concluded what had proved to be a disastrous oil venture, Letterman remained emotionally connected with his previous army life. In 1866, he published Medical Recollections of the Army of the Potomac. Like Letterman, the frank, concise, and analytical treatise offered little in terms of his personal feelings. It read more as a post-battle report than a personal diary or memoir that revealed the private man. His preface set the tone.
The following account of the Medical Department of the Army of the Potomac, has been prepared amidst pressing engagements, in the hope that the labors of the Medical Officers of that Army may be known to an intelligent people, with whom to know is to appreciate; and as an affectionate tribute to the many—long my zealous and efficient colleagues—who, in the days of trial and danger, which have passed, let us hope never to return, evinced their devotion to their country and to the cause of humanity, without hope or promotion, or expectation of reward.
Near San Buenaventura, Cal.
February 1st, 186625
A few passages, however, revealed insights into Letterman’s character and values. His basis for praising the Army of Potomac’s assistant medical director, Bennett Augustine Clements, was typical of what he often wrote when lauding other surgeons: “In all my duties I received most valuable assistance from Assistant-Medical Director Clements; his unwearied industry, and unfailing devotion to duty, and his ability, called forth my admiration, while his kindness of heart and refinement of feeling awakened a friendship that can never be broken.”26
Letterman, in fact, formed some close relationships during his military career. One was with Colonel Benjamin Franklin Davis, who had served with him in California. As the post surgeon and a second lieutenant at the time, respectively, they had accompanied Major James Carleton on his search for restive Indians in the Mojave Desert in 1860. Letterman had treated two of Davis’s men who had been shot with arrows. They spent several months together in the desert before returning to Camp Tejon. A year later, they were stationed at Camp Fitzgerald near Los Angeles. Friendships between soldiers stationed together in remote outposts for months at a time grew strong and deep. Their common experience became the foundation for mutual admiration and respect that lasted a lifetime.
In an unusual twist of assignments, the Mississippi-born Davis joined the 8th New York that fought at Antietam and had remained part of the Army of the Potomac. On June 9, 1863, now a colonel and brigade commander, Davis died in fighting at Brandy Station. Three years later, Letterman’s recollection of Davis remained painful. “This officer, who so successfully extricated his regiment from Harper’s Ferry when that post was surrendered by General Miles—who fought so gallantly on our march through Virginia in the autumn of 1862—had been my companion in more than one campaign among the Indians; my mess-mate at stations far beyond the haunts of civilized men. This long, familiar intercourse produced the warmest admiration for his noble character, which made him sacrifice friends and relatives to uphold the flag under which he was born, and defend the Constitution of his country.”27
Periodically, Letterman’s frustration surfaced in his Recollections. On two occasions he noted General Joseph Hooker had kept much of his medical supplies and ambulances away from the battlefield at Chancellorsville. Without offering a personal perspective, his summation of that battle noted, “I have seen no battle in which the wounded were so well cared for; and had not military necessity deprived us of the use of our ambulance train on the south side of the river, nearly every wounded man could have been comfortably placed in our corps hospitals . . . within twenty-four hours after receipt of his wounds.”28 Later in his Recollections, he took direct issue with Hooker on the march toward Gettysburg, when the general reduced medical supplies ove
r Letterman’s repeated objections. He called the result “a source of embarrassment and suffering, which might have been avoided.”29
In three succinct passages, Letterman laid out the core tenets of his military medicine philosophy. Together they formed the foundation that led to the radical overhaul of combat hygiene, diet, battlefield evacuation, and hospital care.
A corps of Medical officers was not established solely for the purpose of attending the wounded and sick. . . . The leading idea, which should be constantly kept in view, is to strengthen the hands of the Commanding General by keeping his army in the most vigorous health, thus rendering it, in the highest degree, efficient for enduring fatigue and privation, and for fighting.30
Without proper means, the Medical Department can no more take care of the wounded than an army can fight a battle without ammunition.31
Even should an army be defeated, it is better to have the supplies for proper care and comfort of the wounded upon the field, and run the risk of their capture, than that the wounded should suffer for want of them. Lost supplies can be replenished, but lives lost are gone forever.32
Dry and almost pedantic, Letterman’s publication attracted little notice. Those familiar with Letterman’s accomplishments almost sounded disappointed in the brevity of his memoirs. “By reason of native modesty, Dr. Letterman has made his narrative too unassuming; but of one thing he may be assured . . . his claims will never be forgotten by the thousands of sick and wounded who experienced the benefits of the provision inaugurated by him for their care and comfort . . . nor by that large body of civilians who, visiting the army at various times and for different purposes, saw for themselves what he was doing for the welfare of those so unfortunate as to need medical or surgical attention. . . . We regret, however, that the book is no more forcible and striking, as well as more extended, for the material was certainly at hand, and could have been incorporated into the work to make it a standard of authority in all matters pertaining to the care of the sick and wounded,” wrote reviewers for the New York Medical Journal in September 1866.33
Praise for Letterman continued. “From personal observation . . . we unhesitatingly assert to Dr. Letterman . . . more than to any other man, is the army indebted to those radical improvements which brought up the medical department to that thoroughly organized and perfected condition which won so many well deserved encomiums from the military and medical authorities . . . and which enables us to say that never in the whole history of warfare were the sick and wounded so admirably and abundantly provided for as in the armies of the United States during the later years of the war of the rebellion.”34
Letterman probably did not know these reviews would be published in the fall when he met with the principals of Philadelphia & California Petroleum after they had arrived from Philadelphia in spring 1866. They had spent nearly $100,000 in exploratory wells that had not produced commercially viable oil. Highly qualified geologists personally familiar with California natural resources criticized the Silliman samples in scientific journals as possibly fraudulent. It had become clear their investment would not immediately produce a gusher of riches. With limited resources and mounting criticism that diminished stock sales, exploration efforts would have to be reduced.
Letterman’s bold dreams had faded to crushing despair. He resigned for the second time in less than two years. A year spent exploring for oil had been a failure. His wife, seven months’ pregnant with their second child, and young daughter had endured difficult living conditions and often spent extended periods of time away from him. The Letterman family now lived thousands of miles away from friends and family in Pennsylvania and Maryland. The first documented stock investment in his life had become worthless. His assistant, James DeBarth Shorb, took over the failing operation and wrote that “Letterman . . . trusts we may be successful in obtaining all the damning proofs vs. Sprague.”35
Meanwhile, Peckham wrote a sobering analysis of his drilling experience on Ojai Rancho. His analysis of the oil seeps marked by desiccated tar-like surface strata revealed “from ten to ninety per cent of grass, leaves, driftwood, and disintegrated soil and rock. . . . I have examined this property with great care, and have been unable to discover petroleum of any description upon it; and all attempts to develop it have thus far failed.” Peckham never found the square mile asphaltum that Silliman had described in his evaluation. His largest find was a surface layer a few hundred acres in size at no more than two feet thick.
In July, Peckham quit and booked passage for Providence, Rhode Island, convinced he had become a victim of a scandalous fraud. Letterman abandoned all hope for a career in petroleum and moved his family to San Francisco, the cosmopolitan hub of the West Coast at the time. On July 22, 1866, Ann Madeline was born in San Francisco. Letterman now had a wife who suffered from mysterious ailments and two daughters, an infant and two-year-old, to support. It seemed natural he would return to medicine by establishing his first private medical practice.
As the Lettermans started a new life in San Francisco in the fall, Peckham tested the samples he had collected in California prior to his departure. He was confident the analysis would prove that Silliman’s samples had been a fifty-fifty blend of California crude and refined Pennsylvania oil. He spent several months assembling evidence before he felt ready to pit his reputation as a relative newcomer to the oil industry against the national prestige held by Silliman.
Although Peckham had concluded that California oil speculators’ “expectations of extraordinary results, that will admit of comparison with those that have been produced in Pennsylvania, must be set aside without the shadow of a hope to rest upon,” he did not write off California’s oil future. “The expectation of a fair return and a permanently profitable investment may be reasonably entertained; and the application of capital upon this basis to the development of this interest will make it of great importance to the State, and of unequalled importance to that particular section in which the bituminous outcrops occur.”36 That belief was based partially on his laboratory analyses, which had produced a commercially viable kerosene content of 18 percent, compared with Silliman’s samples that were 46 percent pure.37
In early 1867, Peckham felt ready to publicly contradict Silliman’s claim of enormous reserves of California oil waiting to be plumbed. He wrote an article for the American Journal of Science and Arts, a preeminent periodical of the American scientific community at the time. Peckham planned an objective analysis of California oil and informed Silliman of his plan, telling him that his article would not amount to an attack against him. Peckham had concluded one or more Californians had tampered with Silliman’s samples and that Philadelphia & California Petroleum and California Petroleum stock promoters had either been duped or were parties to the fraud.
His painstaking analysis appeared in the May issue of the Journal. It systematically assessed Silliman’s samples and conclusions and compared them with the independent analyses of the samples Peckham had collected two years later. It concluded Silliman’s samples were not legitimate, but stopped short of naming who he suspected to be the tampering perpetrators. It vindicated California state geologist Whitney’s longstanding skepticism and outright criticism of Silliman. The detailed analysis also provided new evidence for a number of disgruntled stockholders, who had already filed lawsuits against Philadelphia & California Petroleum and California Petroleum.
The stockholders had begun filing lawsuits in Philadelphia and New York City three months earlier, seeking damages from what they considered a fraudulent stock offering. Peckham’s clinical review not only supported their claim to some degree, it also dealt a new blow to the California oil industry. The oil found to date had been sporadic and of marginal quality. The confirmed reserves fell far short of earlier speculator claims. And that came at a time when increased Pennsylvania production had driven a decline in oil prices of more than 70 percent between 1864 and 1867.38
It also spelled the end of Thomas Scott’s oil venture
s in California. Philadelphia & California Petroleum ceased operations in November 1867, almost a year and a half after California Petroleum had stopped exploration. Scott’s wager on California oil had produced almost no income, national ridicule of his trusted oil consultant, and stockholder lawsuits from coast to coast.
Letterman joined the cast of angry stockholders by filing a lawsuit against Philadelphia & California Petroleum. Of the possible tampering suspects, he believed that Silliman’s guide, Thomas Sprague, was the most likely culprit. Sprague was of dubious character and had been desperate to join the California oil bonanza when Silliman visited California. He had finessed his way into a minor partnership position in the Ojai Rancho purchase, probably a welcome relief due to his persistent financial problems. Others, including Scott’s California partners and Silliman’s laboratory, could have had a hand in the fraud but appear to have had little incentive to do so.39
Letterman’s role in the venture remained above reproach as the controversy dragged on for years. Whitney and others maintained their public attacks on Silliman’s credibility, forcing Silliman to resign one of his Yale professorships, though he remained a medical school professor. They also mounted a campaign to expel Silliman from the National Academy of Sciences, but failed.
Despite his tarnished national reputation, Silliman continued to attract corporate mining speculators. His fees were sometimes based on the amount of minerals he believed a mining claim held, a potential inducement to overestimate reserves, and he continued to overstate various mining propositions. In one case, Senator William Stewart and fellow promoters hired Silliman to write an assessment of the Emma Silver Mine in Alta, Utah. Silliman vastly overstated the ore reserves for a mine that already had played out. His report, along with the endorsement of U.S. ambassador Robert Schenck, induced unsuspecting British investors to buy stock that was nearly worthless.40
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