Joe Silvers and His Caged Bird

Around the first of November 1872, 28-year-old Joseph Silvers of Sedalia learned that a young woman was being held in the Missouri State Penitentiary and that the only way she would be released any time soon was if she were to become married. Strange as this might seem, it was apparently true, and Silvers, actuated primarily by concern for the young woman's welfare, promptly wrote a letter to the warden of the prison asking for the woman's name and that of her father's. 

On November 5, a representative of the warden, in the warden's absence, responded that there was indeed a young woman in the state penitentiary, serving a life sentence, with the exception that she could be released upon marriage. The respondent enclosed a picture of the woman and described her as "handsome and intelligent." He said the woman was well educated, and the thought she would make a good wife. He didn't know who her relatives were, although she told him she had a stepmother who was caused her to commit the crime that got her incarcerated. 

A week or so later, Silvers appeared unannounced at the Jefferson City prison and asked to see the lady in question. He said he'd come all the way from Sedalia with plans to marry the woman and that he did not intend to leave until the thing was arranged. 

The woman, who was allowed to receive Silver's in the matron's room, was described by a newspaper reporter at the time as "very pretty" with hair done up in "gorgeous style." Silver agreed, later describing her as "handsome as any woman he ever saw." 

Silvers proposed marriage, and the woman agreed and promised to be a good wife, with the stipulation that he never "throw up" to her the fact that she had been in prison. Stating that he was not wealthy but that his love was strong, Silvers promised never to use her imprisonment as a cudgel.

The only thing left to do to consummate Silver's matrimonial plans was to get Governor Benjamin Gratz Brown to pardon the young woman. Thus, he wrote to the governor from Jefferson City on November 13, asking for said pardon. He said he had seen the young woman and that he "loved her on sight." Silvers said he thought he would "go crazy without her love," if Brown refused his request. 

Silvers planned to stay in Jeff City until he had an answer, but knowledge of his strange request soon leaked out, and he quickly became an object of ridicule, among friends and strangers alike. All the publicity surrounding his effort to marry the imprisoned woman so disgusted Silvers that, without waiting for an answer, he returned to Sedalia, where he was met with "taunts and jeers." 

So unbearable did the teasing become that Silvers gave up his plans to marry the woman and left Sedalia to become a "wanderer upon the face of the land." 

On a personal note, I recently started building an author website. I've never had one before, because I was never convinced that it would really do me all that much good, but I decided to give it a try. It's still very much a work in progress, but I went ahead and went live with it, with the idea of tweaking it as I go along. For the curious, the link is www.larrywoodauthor.com.

Fake News, 1874 Style

In mid-November 1874, a report reached Springfield (MO) concerning a fatal affray involving two prominent Taney County residents, J. C. Johnson and Kenneth Burdett. Johnson, who was Taney's current sheriff and had recently been elected to the state legislature, and Burdett, who was a prominent doctor in the community, had allegedly gotten into a shooting affray at Forsyth that left Johnson dead and Burdett mortally wounded. "No particulars of the difficulty" were received, however. 

The reason no particulars of the affray were received is because it didn't happen. But that didn't keep several newspapers across Missouri from reprinting the report that Johnson and Burdett had killed each other in a gun battle. After all, it made a good story. It's even questionable whether such a report actually reached Springfield, since the Springfield papers were not among those that reprinted it.

In fact, both men lived a long time after 1874. J. C. Johnson went on to serve three terms in the state legislature. During this time, he also studied medicine and received a diploma from a St. Louis medical school. Returning to Taney County, he practiced medicine for many years and also continued his public service, being elected Clerk of the Circuit Court and Recorder of Deeds in 1894. He died in 1906.

Meanwhile, Dr. Burdett continuing practicing medicine after his supposed 1874 affray with Johnson. In 1890, he moved to Douglas County and lived on a farm east of Ava. He practiced medicine until shortly before his death in 1903. 

Fatal Affray Near Summersville

A baseball game was in progress at Summersville, Missouri, on Saturday, September 4, 1886, when two players from opposing sides, 20-year-old Jerry Orchard and 24-year-old Riley Martin, got into a heated dispute. Friends had to intervene to prevent "a serious termination of the quarrel," according to a Texas County correspondent.

The following Thursday, September 9, a corn-cutting, to be followed that evening by a dance to celebrate the harvest, was held at a farm near Summersville. Most of the members of the rival ball clubs were present, and "the little brown jug" passed freely among the workers throughout the day.

After the work was done, the womenfolk served a big feast for supper, and then the music and dancing got underway. The dance was "in full blast" when "brawling cries" came from the front yard, and dance-goers discovered that the week-old feud had been revived. Riley Martin was about to come to blows with 18-year-old Zem McCaskill when Jerry Orchard showed up and took McCaskill's side in the dispute. Angry that his old foe from the baseball diamond was trying to interfere, Martin drew his pistol and snapped it at Orchard three times on an empty cartridge.

Orchard took off running, but Martin gave chase. Suddenly, Orchard drew his pistol, wheeled around, and fired three shots in quick succession at his pursuer. Two of the shots shattered Martin's right arm, while the third struck him below the left shoulder, passed transversely through his body, and exited out the right breast.

At this point, 30-year-old James Stogsdale, a friend of Martin's, came up behind Orchard, leveled his pistol at him, and fired. The ball ranged through Orchard's body and came out the right breast.

A crowd gathered around the wounded men, who lay on the ground seriously wounded, and in the confusion, Stogsdale fired another shot, this one at Zem McCaskill. The ball grazed McCaskill on the left side of his chest, cutting a six-inch-long gash in the flesh above his heart about the depth of the bullet.

At this juncture, 24-year-old Lewis Raider, a Summersville druggist, shoved his way through the crowd to where Orchard lay on the ground in an effort to try to prevent more violence. Stogsdale, though, would have none of it. "Goddamn you," he yelled, "I'll give you the benefit of a shot." The gunman then fired a shot that made "a terrible wound" in Raider's right thigh.

The would-be murderer then "broke away from the crowd, leaped the fence and disappeared in the darkness."

The wildest confusion ensued. Men yelled, women screamed, and people from miles around hurried to the scene. The wounded men were taken to nearby residences, and doctors were summoned. The wounds of Martin and Orchard were thought to be fatal, while Raider and McCaskill were less seriously wounded. Martin did, indeed, die from his wounds a few days later, while the other three men, including Orchard, quickly recovered.

It was thought that Stogsdale had escaped to Texas, but this supposition is called into question by later records. At any rate, little effort was apparently made to capture him. As far as I have been able to determine, no one was ever prosecuted for their part in this deadly melee.

Joplin Nightlife Gives a Springfield Fellow More Excitement Than He Can Stand

Joplin began as a wild, lawless mining camp in the late 19th century, and it still had a reputation as a wide-open town where almost anything went even as late as the Depression era and beyond. A Springfield newspaperman, Franklin Rhoades, ventured to Joplin one evening in January 1934 to visit some of the town's raucous nightspots and report on them. Prohibition had put a bit of a damper on the revelry in Joplin for a few years, but the ban on alcohol had recently been lifted, and Joplin was once again Joplin, according to the reporter.

All seven of the spots Rhoades visited were on the outskirts of town rather than in Joplin proper, and the first place he stopped was the Oriole Terrace between Joplin and Redings Mill. It was "free beer night," which meant that for a 25 cents admission charge, you could have all the beer you could drink throughout the evening. There was a big crowd in attendance, a thick haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and lots of dancing was going on, with a small jazz band playing popular dance music. "The large pavillion was jammed," and "a spirit of maudlin merriment was everywhere." While men of all ages and walks of life were in attendance, most of the women present were under 30 years old, and scantily dressed girls in their teens, wearing heavy makeup, "flitted from lap to lap." A woman from Joplin who accompanied the reporter pointed out a few of the men present and identified them for Rhoades. A man who was trying to drink from the same glass as a tall, red-headed girl managed a department store, and a young man who had his arms around a blonde girl was a holdup man just back from the penitentiary. 

At 8:30, the pavilion was cleared for a floor show. "Out tripped a big peroxide blonde in black brassiere and bloomers," said the Springfield reporter. "The crowd went wild, and in answer to their applause, the 'dancer' jerked off the brassiere" and then quickly fled to the dressing room. Even the women joined in the "thunderous applause," and the stripper soon reappeared wearing a yellow evening dress that had the "transparency of cellophane." The blonde's underwear was "an imitation fig leaf" which "remained until the end of her act, but the dress stayed only a few minutes during a ten-minute performance." 

The next act was a boy of about 15 who started singing a song, "which lasted about two-thirds of a verse before the guests booed him off the floor." Then "everyone went back to their free beer and wrestling."  

The next place the Springfield writer visited was the Korean Club two miles south of the Oriole Terrace, and he found it to be a "poor night" at the Korean, which was decorated in Oriental patterns. The admission was 25 cents, the same as the Oriole Terrace, but there was no floor show and no free beer, only dancing that featured "a 12-piece negro orchestra." Only eight couples were in attendance, all of whom had come out in a group for the chicken dinner served earlier. 

Since it was a slow night at the Korean, Rhoades soon moved on to the next place on his list, the Tavern, located in a stucco building on West Seventh Street. While there, he saw several women whom he, being a police reporter, recognized as "Springfield's missing ladies of the evening." If the Springfield police still wanted them, said the reporter, they could find a dozen of them at the Tavern, but in the meantime the women seemed to be "doing right well at entertaining 'lonely bachelors.'"

The Tavern hostess joined Rhoades and his companion at their booth and seemed eager to have him give her place a good write-up. A floor show started shortly after the reporter's arrival: "Two small brunets in evening frocks sang and tap danced the first set. Next was a violin solo by a comely blue-eyed girl." 

After the violin solo, the hostess told the reporter to "wait and see what's comin' next." Directly, "a small, shapely young woman skipped out on the floor, wearing high-heeled pumps, and wielding two small fans." Soon she stood erect and dropped the fans, and everyone "clapped, stomped, yelled and whistled." As soon as the fan dancer finished her act, the hostess nudged Rhoades and told him, "Put that in yer paper, Sugarfoot." She added that, when he wrote the place up, he should say that the Tavern had only the best people because she ran an orderly club. "They's men comin' out here what have got nice money to spend--and we see that they has a good time."

The hostess then told the reporter that drinking, dancing, and a floor show weren't the only attractions the Tavern had to offer. Escorting him to an adjoining room, she showed him what he called "the biggest gambling hall I have seen in years." A gaggle of women swarmed around a big roulette wheel, while most of the men were playing faro. Others were playing poker or tossing dice. "Ten grand a week turns over here," the hostess bragged.

Before leaving the Tavern, Rhoades noted that so many drunks were collapsed on tables that a newcomer would have thought all the liquor had already been sold. The clubs Rhoades visited could not legally sell hard liquor, but he said that it was readily available from bootleggers if a person wanted to pay a premium price and that plenty of people seemed eager to pay it.

Farther west on Seventh, the Springfield man stopped at the Cotton Club, Joplin's newest and swankiest nightspot. However, the place was experiencing the same problem as the Korean--very little business. There were about a dozen couples dancing to a 14-piece band, but the manager told Rhoades he was losing up to $250 a week. He said his patrons had spent so much on Christmas that they couldn't afford nightclubs. 

Rhoades went to a few other places, like the Sturgeons and the Trading Post, but they mainly featured food instead of entertainment. 

Back in Springfield, Rhoades wrote his story up under the headline "Joplin Gives Night-Lifers Plenty to Do." A subhead added, "There's Almost More Excitement Than a Simple Springfield Fellow Can Stand." 

The year 1934, of course, did not mark the end of Joplin's lively nightlife. The town was still widely known as a raucous town throughout the World War II era. Toward the end of the war, General Eisenhower, in a radio address announcing that the ban on fraternization between American troops and German women had been lifted, is reported to have said, "Now, Berlin will be like Joplin, Missouri, on a Saturday night."  

Indeed, I still occasionally heard older folks remark on Joplin's rowdy reputation ten to fifteen years after the war when I was growing up in the Springfield area.