Chapter 1

My name's Jeremiah Bartholomew, and I am a gunfighter. The problem is, I hate being a gunfighter. I got into the trade sort of by accident and I can't figure a way to get back out, except by dying. I ain't ready to do that yet, but sometimes I do come close. Let me tell you how it happened.

I was born and raised in New York City by wealthy parents, so I went to school and learned to do scholarly things, such as reading and writing. I was even pretty good with arithmetic, though no whiz at it. I stayed in New York City and in school until I was 13 years old. My father expected, rightly, that I would join him in the family business—export/import of miscellaneous manufactured goods. The time was 1870 and the business world was just recovering from another one of those minor financial panics that seemed to come up every two years or so.

Unexpectedly, my father's firm, now called Bartholomew and Son, was handed a windfall opportunity to sell a large quantity of guns manufactured in Hartford, Connecticut, to an importer in Turkey. Specifically, this was an exact copy of the Colt cap-and-ball six-shooter; certain patents had run out and a number of manufacturers were jumping on the revolver bandwagon. My father was tied up with business activities, but the customer in Turkey had insisted that a representative of the Bartholomew firm accompany the weapons from the manufacturing plant to the delivery point in the port of New York City. Since my father was unavailable, I was selected to do the honors. I was quite large for my age and looked to be 18 or 19 years old, so my father thought that I could fill in for him as my first big task as a business partner. Of course, I was thrilled at the responsibility thrust at me.

You may ask why the importer in Turkey wanted a cap-and-ball weapon instead of the more modern cartridge weapon, but it seemed that the cost of the pistol and the ammunition was of paramount importance, so this weapon was chosen. By buying a copy of a Colt, he saved considerable money, and apparently his customers did not know the difference. Neither my father nor I knew it, but the pistols had even been stamped with the Colt trade mark logo.

Anyway, I arrived at the plant a few days early, so I was given the grand tour of the facility, especially the testing range. I was allowed to fire a number of weapons at the range, and found that I was an amazingly good shot. Since I had a few days to wait, I spent a lot of time at the range and was taught to shoot by a very knowledgeable expert. This gentleman presented me with a Smith&Wesson .44-40, top-break, six-shooter, complete with a custom fitted shoulder holster that I could wear under my suit coat. As a lark, he taught me to quick-draw and fire this excellent example of the gun maker's art. He and I both were amazed at how skilled I became with the weapon with only two days of practice.

Anyway, the shipment of guns was packed under my inspection and loaded on the train to be shipped to the dock. The train trip was uneventful and very boring. Here I was, not quite 14 years old, and on a very important errand for my father's company. When we arrived, I signed all of the pertinent papers and saw the guns loaded aboard ship. The captain of the ship must have been bored to death, because he asked me to stay for supper aboard his ship. This was quite an adventure for a youth such as I, so I readily agreed.

I left the ship rather late that evening, it must have been about 10:00 PM. It was very dark, since there were no street lights along that section of the water front and there was no moonlight to speak of. However, I felt safe as I walked from the ship to catch a cab back to my hotel, after all, I had my pistol for protection.

I don't know any of the details, but I assumed my attackers came from one of the numerous alleys and struck me behind the ear with a sock filled with sand. Whatever happened, when I woke up, I was lying on the floor, oops, deck, of a ship that was under way. I was down in the crews' quarters, the fo'c'sle, naked, and tied hand and foot. A bucket of water had been dumped on my face to bring me around. It was explained that I had been shanghaied, and I had a choice of two fates: I could join the crew as an apprentice seaman or I could be dumped overboard. The choice was mine, but the second option was always open.

Even at 13, I was not a complete fool, so I chose to join the crew. I was given some pants and a shirt to wear, neither very clean, untied, and told to report to the second mate after I had dressed. Well, I won't bore you with my training as a sailor aboard a sailing vessel, but I will say that it was not comfortable. However, ever mindful of that second option, I applied myself as best I could and had become a valuable member of the crew by the time we rounded Key West.

I wanted to return to my parents in New York City, but I knew that I would have to escape the ship before that could happen. The ship had a stop to make at Brownsville, Texas, before sailing south for rounding the cape. I knew that if I planned to escape any time soon, it had to be at Brownsville. Therefore, I made my plans for jumping ship at that port.

I had found out quite by accident that the First Mate had my prized pistol and holster, and I meant to get them before I left the ship. I had read all of the dime novels about life in the West, so I was certain that I would need that pistol as soon as I stepped on shore in Texas. I hated the First Mate with a overwhelming passion, for a very good reason. Whenever I had done something that he reckoned deserved punishment, he had not flogged me; instead, he had performed the most painful acts of sodomy on me, and I wished to revenge myself on him. The first time it happened, I had complained to the Captain, who responded with a laugh and, "Welcome to life at sea, kid." I admit to hating the Captain, but not as much as I hated the First Mate.

When we were in port, those of us who had been shanghaied were locked in a hold and not let out until we had left port. The hold they used had a passage way to another hold and the door was always locked. However, I had found out how to pick the lock, which I did when we were locked in for our stop in Brownsville.

Everybody ran from the hold as soon as I had the door open. Most scattered, but Jess Brown stayed with me as I made my way toward the First Mate's miserable "cabin." I was not going to leave without my pistol and holster. We got there without being spotted, so I picked that lock, too.

As soon as the door could be opened, we rushed in and closed the door. Jess pointed under the bunk, "There's his sea chest. I'll bet your stuff in stowed in there."

I was sure that he was right, so I picked that lock, too. I had become quite skillful at cracking locks in the past hour. We threw back the lid and rummaged around in the chest. I felt my gun and holster on the bottom of the chest and pulled it out. Along with it came a small purse which Jess opened while I donned the holster rig. I checked and found that the pistol was loaded just as I had left it the last time I checked the cylinder.

Jess said, "Look here. There's over $40 in gold here."

I said, "I'll bet that's all mine, since I had about that much when I was shanghaied." Jess tried to give it all to me, but I told him to take half, since he had earned it.

We were ready to leave, so we opened the door and sneaked out into the passage way. Jess asked, "Where do we go, now?" I heard a disturbance on deck, so I figured that the other escapees had been spotted. I figured that the best way out was through the Captain's cabin and out his fancy windows in the stern. Jess and I could both swim, that's why I had let him come with me.

As silently as we could, we ran to the Captain's cabin, and I threw open the door. The Captain and First Mate were sitting at a small table, drinking whiskey. I was not about to leave without taking my revenge on the First Mate, so I drew my pistol and shot him in the chest. The Captain drew a gun from I don't know where, but he pointed it at me. I didn't hesitate, I blew the bastard's head open.