15 Dr. John Steinhaeuser, MD, formerly Civil Surgeon stationed at the Port of Aden, Arabia. It was Steinhaeuser who nursed Burton after he was wounded in Somaliland in April of 1855 when a native warrior thrust a spear through Burton’s face. The blow carried-away four back teeth and part of his palate before emerging on the other side and scarred him for life. Burton and Steinhaeuser became life-long friends, often drinking and travelling together. Steinhaeuser will play a significant role in these journal pages. —Ed.
16 A clipping Burton collected from The Times dated March 21, 1860. —Ed.
IV
ARRIVAL IN AMERICA AND ORDERS FROM HER MAJESTY’S FOREIGN OFFICE
May 2, 1860
Empire State Hotel
Manhattan Island
LABBAYK17, AMERICA! And the hunt is on. After a rather uneventful week aboard the SS Canada and amidst its dreary passengers (I confess to appearing in drag one evening in order to liven things) yrs truly has landed at Manhattan Island, the so-called civilized jewel of the so-called New World. After three days here at the prearranged meeting place I have finally managed to connect with John S. His delinquency was due, as usual, to overindulgence in spirits and he arrived looking and acting as one might expect after a weekend long bottle spree. His clothing was a fright from sleeping rough and he positively reeked of alcohol. As always, and even while detoxifying, Steinhaeuser was the perfect gentleman and delightfully friendly. Ours was a warm reunion that began with an over-animated, “Welcome to America, Dick,” as soon as he burst through the door. I suspect there was still a goodly amount of alcohol surging through his system.
We chatted for an hour or more about old friends in the orient and I thought he was about to cry when I told him that Atkins Hamerton had died. “Was it the drinking?” he asked, as if he might be the next victim. I told him, “No, I believe it was Zanzibar that did him in.” He forced a hopeful laugh and his gaze drifted toward the window.
He turned back to me after a moment and said, “Well, Captain Burton, I am afraid there is some business we have to attend to.”
I told him that I thought our business was to holiday through the Republic. I reminded him of his letter talking about brandy-smashes, mint-juleps, whisky-skies and polygamy. I said that business was Speke, Africa, Oliphant, and Isabel Arundell, and that I was here to get away from all that. I expressed my wish to pursue some pleasure travel with an old friend, and told him about Laibon Mbatiany and my quest for the human condition.
Steinhaeuser wrinkled his nose at the African story (the fool) and informed me that there will be plenty of travel, but it would be at the pleasure of Lord Palmerston and the Foreign Office. He pulled a sealed packet of papers from his bag and slid them to me across the table. “You can read these for the details whenever you wish,” he said, “but I know the general contents and would prefer that an old friend break the news.” I settled into my chair and motioned for him to begin.
“Dick, the Foreign Office feels certain that the sectional controversy between the industrial Northern States and the plantation Southern States is about to erupt into violence. Tempers have been mounting, basically over the slavery issue, and Palmerston believes the execution of this John Brown fellow in December may well have lit the fuse. The F.O. recalled me from Aden in early March and as much as ordered me to lure my friend Burton to America, employing any means I thought may work. Once you arrived, I was instructed to deliver the directives that are contained in the packet.
“I admit to being a party to something of a backhander’s trick, but I am away from Aden, we have a purse from the British government, and we are off on quite an adventure.”
I opened the packet and discovered I was indeed back in the spying business. My instructions are to attend the Democratic Convention in Charleston, located in a place known as North Carolina, as well as the Republican Convention in Chicago which is situated mid-continent in a Franco-phonic sounding land called Illinois. At both locations I am to gather information regarding the country’s political climate on what Lord Palmerston considers the eve of an all-American war. In addition, I am to wander about the States, both North and South, gathering information concerning relative strengths and weaknesses, preparedness of armies and militias, natural and man-made resources, etc., etc.
At the conclusion of these activities, I am to cross the Missouri frontier and enter the Territories of the West, my assignment there being to assess the intentions and loyalties, if any, of the various Indian tribes who have recently been displaced there.
If, for example, they were to unite against the Union, the secessionist efforts in the South would be greatly enhanced. My orders are to move about as Richard Burton, private citizen and travel writer, on my way to investigate still another holy city, this time the City of the Saints—the Mormon capital at the Great Salt Lake in the land of the Utes. I sent a silent prayer back to Africa and thanked the laibon for his comprehensive wisdom.
Most importantly, the Foreign Office would also like to know how the Mormon “Nauvoo Legion” might figure into any impending hostilities. It is rumoured that the Legion is six thousand to eight thousand men strong throughout the Territories and may be able to call on the assistance of thirty to forty thousand Red Indians in the event of war. I was told that all Mormon men between the ages of sixteen and fifty were drilled and armed and reminded that there were an additional thirty thousand followers of Brigham Young residing on British soil.
Steinhaeuser had to lie in bed as he heard me relate the details of my assignment. After a bit he sat up and asked for a drink to help with the vertigo. I poured some brandy from my pocket pistol and placed it in his trembling hands. John took the glass in a single gulp and regained a measure of composure before he spoke. “We have already missed the Democratic Convention in Charleston, Burton. You were a damn hard man to track down in London. It concluded two weeks ago in a victory for the diminutive Mr. Stephen A. Douglas. According to the press accounts here in New York, Charleston was not a very good host to the Northern delegates and was in no mood to participate in any Federal event. Just from what I’ve seen and read, Dick, I believe the Foreign Office is correct—war’s alarm is in the air.
“The Republican convention in Chicago is just a week away, so we do not have much time to conclude affairs here in the East. I was told that you could easily obtain some powerful letters of introduction as a result of what’s in the packet and that these would prove to be of considerable help in the months ahead.” I rummaged through the papers and found a letter of introduction addressed to the Hon. John B. Floyd, Secretary of War in Washington, and another to Colonel Pierre G. T. Beauregard, Superintendent of the U.S. Army Military Academy at West Point, New York.
Palmerston left little doubt concerning his selection of these two men. I was informed that both were said to be admirers of my past exploits and writings and would gladly assist me in any efforts to reach the State of Deseret and investigate the Saints. In addition, Floyd was said to be an ardent Unionist, while Beauregard, a native Creole Louisianan, had a deep and chivalrous attachment to the South. Both men were very well connected in their spheres and both would likely speak freely to someone like me.
Steinhaeuser had fallen into a drunken sleep and was snoring loudly. He was best left undisturbed and I took the opportunity to stroll about the streets of New York for some preliminary flavourings.
My initial impression of the New World is that there is really nothing new as far as the characters in the streets are concerned. All Irish and German it seemed, with the brogue as common as Yankeeisms and the stench of garlicky schnitzel belching from a dozen eateries in the first city block. The number of establishments purveying bad beer and crude corn whiskey along the same route were uncountable. While there is a general air of industry, one cannot help but notice the number of barroom loafers spilling out from the many grog houses and gathered in happy but idle teams along the broad streets. The working class despair of grimy London is invisible, although I
do not see how the glow of prosperity can shine in the faces of these leisurely and obviously unemployed immigrants.
It came upon me that perhaps this was a provincial holiday and I queried a passerby.
“No sir, no it is not.”
He saw me gazing at the men in front of the bar and said, “If you are in need of a reason for a drink, sir, a Wednesday afternoon in New York is reason enough. You’ll not be bound by London society rules on this side of the ocean.”
May 4, 1860
U.S. Military Academy
West Point on the Hudson
John and I arrived yesterday and straightaway had our cards delivered to Superintendent Beauregard’s office. A few hours later we were located by messenger in the lobby of our hotel and told that the Colonel would be pleased to host us for tea in his office at 4pm. We dressed accordingly and proceeded to the Academy at the appointed hour.
Col. Beauregard was a smallish man with a robust and oiled moustache, and as advertised, I was well received. “Why Captain Burton, surh, Ah am honoured. And, this must be Dr. Steinhmusher of Arabia. Gentlemen, please do come in and allow me to afford y’all some refreshments.”
Beauregard was the very personification of etiquette and propriety and his English was in an accent unlike any I had heard before. His drawl, as it is called, was excessively polished, soft and slow, tended mightily towards the prolongation of vowels, and he often concluded phrases in the interrogative mode. I cannot resist a phonetic spelling of what he had to say.
A fine tea service was presented by a snappy cadet, who Beauregard acknowledged by saying, “Thank you Rawlins, that will be awl for now.” We settled in comfortable chairs that had been arranged around an ornate cherry wood table. The Colonel spoke first.
“Ah welcome you both to this country and I trust yore junny here was a very pleasant one?”
I thanked the Colonel and told him that my journey was pleasant enough. Playing up my role a bit, I told him that I was bothered by neither lance nor spear.
“Well, that is fine, sur, very fiiine indeed. Ah know that you have been subjected to such inconveniences in the past and Ah am in debt to the forces that delivered a man of your fine accomplishments to this room. You see, Captain Burton, Ah have had the honour of reading your books concerning India and the junny to the Arab’s Meccah and am a great admirer of these works. You are a man of great spirit and courage, fiiine qualities for a gentleman, sur, powerfully fiiiine qualities, indeed.” Colonel Beauregard touched the corners of his mouth with a linen kerchief and continued. “Ah have a sense that you have come to America in pursuit of still another adventure, Captain, and Ah wonder how Ah may be of survice?”
I stood and handed him the letter of introduction. I also had the good mind to execute a little bow and a “If you please, sir,” which he seemed to appreciate a great deal. The Colonel opened the letter immediately and began reading.
“My, my, how impressive, Captain. Ah see hea a note from Lord Palmerston himself with a request that Ah assist you in your quest to another holy city and to facilitate your movements through the country, so that Captain Burton may avail himself of true samplings of the American charactah.”
Beauregard looked straight into my eyes and said, “Captain, unfortunately, Ah must attend to some affairs heah which will prevent me from enjoying the pleasure of your cumpany for the next week or so. Normally, Ah would insist that you join with my wife and Ah for a social round heah in New York.” He gave a sly look and added, “However, Ah have a much more agreeable suggestion.”
The Colonel rose to attention and addressed me in a most formal tone. “Sur, would you grant me the personal pleasure and great honour of attending to you in mah native state of Louisiana? You see, mah sista is hosting a three day event for her daughter’s debutante arrival in the city of N’Orleans. This will take place a few weeks from now and you would be a most welcome addition. Here, sur, Ah assure you, will be an opportunity, as your Lord Palmerston said to observe a sampling of the American charactah. In fact, Captain Burton, Ah must say that the very best of the American charactah has its roots in the South, and that no trip to this country could be complete without an exposure to some genuine Suthen hospitality.”
As an afterthought he added, “Oh and please, Dr. Stienfeltza, won’t you be mah guest as well?” Steinhaeuser grimaced after once again hearing a mispronunciation of his name.
Colonel Beauregard promised a general letter of introduction and another giving travel instruction to his sister’s home in New Orleans. “They will be delivered to your hotel, Captain Burton. Now Ah am afraid you must excuse me. Allow me to arrange for Lt. Rawlins to escort you on a tour of our grounds, and Ah shall instruct him to answer any questions you may have. As a military man, Captain, Ah appreciate your interest. We shall meet again in N’Orleans, and a good day to you suh.” For effect, he snapped his heels together after the Prussian style. I would later learn that Americans were often given over to such foolish pretensions.
John was in an agitated state as we left the grounds of the Academy. Since childhood Steinhaeuser has displayed an almost pathological obsession with the correct pronunciation of his name. Even simple misspellings could lead to bad results—and mispronunciations worse. Something to do with his family history would be my suspicion. There was virtually no chance that Beauregard’s gaffe would go unnoticed. “God, Burton, that vainglorious little twig all but snubbed me the entire time. All that affected charm and courtesy. Why, I’ll wager you’d see another little Napoleon with his guard down. He has the pomposity of a slave holder, Burton, and I do not like it.”
But this was a simple preliminary for John’s greatest objection. His face distorted into that of a pit dog and flushed with anger. “Did you hear what he called me? He called me Steinfeltzer. STEINFELTZER and STEINMUSCHER! Is he crazy, Burton?” He attempted to compose himself by changing the subject. “I’ll say one thing, Palmerston was dead-on about Beauregard liking you and offering assistance. Wasn’t it kind of him to deliver us into the hands of the obliging Lt. Rawlins who gladly provided answers to questions we should not have asked?” I agreed and commented on how shocked I was to learn that the United States Army was comprised of just eighteen thousand men. I may inform Palmerston that America simply does not have enough soldiers to conduct a proper civil war.
Steinhaeuser called for a drink. He has done nothing else but drink since he arrived three weeks ago, and I have to regard him as a bit unsteady for the experience. He was drunk in Aden but his surgery occupied eight or nine hours a day and kept him away from the bottle for that time at least. Here there are few limits.
17 I am here. —Ed.
V
AN AMERICAN BASEBALL GAME IN HOBOKEN
May 7th, 1860
Hotel St. George
Manhattan Island
I would have to look as far back as Cairo to remember the last time I was asked to leave a hotel as a result of unfavourable circumstances. It was Rashid Pasha who orchestrated it back then, but who would wish to sully the mind with recollections of that foul dog? The past two days have been a series of swift embarrassments and as soon as Steinhaeuser is well enough to travel we will quit this town under the cover of darkness and keep moving.
Yesterday’s mortifications unfolded in the following way. Once reaching New York on our way back from West Point, John insisted that we stop for drinks to, “take in some local colour for the benefit of the Foreign Office.” His pretense was that our intelligence work was not done for the day. It was just after dark when we entered a saloon called The Bat and Ball. Steinhaeuser immediately went into action, using FO money to buy drinks for everyone who happened to be standing near him. I took a table near the wall and watched as he worked the crowd. Within an hour he had commanded the attention of a large group and was engaged in highly animated discussions. He was going at the rate of three or four drinks to every one of mine.
I should not have been surprised when he staggered to my table with his
arm over the shoulder of a man by the name of Frank Pidgeon. “Rounders, Burton, bloody rounders! Old Frank here is the captain of a rounders team. Isn’t that right, Frank?” Steinhaeuser’s arm was now hugging the back of Mr. Pidgeon’s neck and his grinning face was only inches away from his companion’s. “These British fellows love rounders, Frank, so have a how-do-you-do to my friend Dick Burton from London.”
Mr. Pidgeon was aglow from stiff drinking but nowhere near as drunk as John. He shook my hand with a very firm grip and introduced himself to me as Francis Pidgeon, dock builder and Captain of the Eckford Base Ball Club.
He informed me that the game isn’t called rounders in America but rather, base, one-old-cat, or stool ball. His team was comprised of mechanics and shipwrights from the Henry Eckford shipyards and I was quickly informed that on the morrow they would be engaged in, “the grand match of 1860” over in a place called Hoboken.
Steinhaeuser lifted his eyebrows, interrupted and offered, “We are invited, Burton, as honoured guests. Frank, tell Dick about the match. Go and tell him what it’s all about.”
“Wall, ya see, Mr. Burton, our boys have been playing the game for a while now and we fancy ourselves in a perfect state of practice. Our first nine has beat the Knickbockers, the Excelsiors, and every club they’ve sent up from Philadelphia and Washington City. Hell, our second nine has defeated the Columbia Club in Bordentown and even our muffin fraternity beat the Red Riders who came down from Boston. We were beginnin’ to believe there wasn’t a team left to offer a challenge. That was until last week Thursday.” He slapped me on the back and gave up an exaggerated wink. After Steinhaeuser ground his elbow into my ribs, I took the bait and asked Mr. Pidgeon what had taken place last Thursday to change matters.
“Wall, Mr. Burton, it’s about our short fielder, Baby Palta. The lad was insulted by a group of the Bowrey B’hoy’s from over in the Sixth Ward. They pushed him around pretty good, poured beer over his head, and challenged us to a high stakes game—two hogsheads of beer is the prize and there will be many side bets. Our first nine against theirs, for nine full innings—and may the best team win for all rewards.”
Ruffian Dick Page 6