Forgotten News

by Jack Finney

  On August 24 at noon, Surrogate Bradford announced a decision that could have surprised no one. In "54 closely written folio pages" he explained why "Emma Augusta Cunningham is not the widow of decedent…." The Times thought this long, reasoned decision—filling nine of its columns—"has many of the elements which make fiction so attractive. It would not be easy for the most ingenious novelist to invent a more strange and curious plot than that which the Surrogate's decision seems to unravel. A false marriage,—a real murder and a simulated birth are the three grand incidents of this singular drama." And the Times wondered "Whether a still more startling climax is still to come…."

  But none was; finally it had all ended. Charges against John Eckel had long since been dropped; no point in trying him after a jury let Emma Cunningham go. For a time bail was refused to Emma Cunningham, but when more time had passed she was allowed it; and she moved in with her daughters on Lexington Avenue. After still more time—she was always lucky—the case against Mrs. Cunningham was dropped. The reason, or excuse, was that no crime had quite been committed. No law against saying a baby was yours when it wasn't; and she'd never actually reached the point of formally claiming Harvey Burdell's estate for the baby. Well, maybe. It sounds a little thin to me, and I wonder if the truth isn't that the D.A. and New York City had finally just gotten tired of Emma Cunningham.

  Popular novels of the nineteenth century sometimes gave readers an afterword: the story over, you then learned what had finally happened to all the people you'd come to know. Who lived on to old age? Who died, and of what? Who married whom? Sometimes you were even told their children's names. I like this vanished practice because I always want to know. And I've advocated a return to the custom by today's novelists. With no luck so far. So I'm sorry I can't tell you what happened to these people. George Snodgrass would have been twenty-two when the Civil War began; and before it ended, the two Cunningham boys would have been just old enough to join it. Even John Eckel, at forty, could have been in it. But I've been unable to find anything to tell me they were.

  As for Emma Cunningham herself, she was only thirty-six or thirty-seven, free as a bird, still "well preserved," and still, I assume, hungry for money. So who was next? And what happened to him? I don't know. A famous New York cop, Inspector Byrnes, published a book in the nineties, and in it he says Mrs. Cunningham went to California. Maybe she did; somewhere near where I live now. And maybe I'll find her diary on a dusty top shelf of that old-book shop. I'll let you know if I do. Meanwhile, I don't know what happened to her, or to the girls or boys either.

  "Coroner Connery," the Times said, "smiles serenely … and says he will not have to wait for posterity [that's us] to do him justice…." And we get one last glimpse of Baby Anderson. On August 12 she and her mother left Bellevue far more comfortably than they'd entered it: in a carriage, the Times said, and they were driven to Barnum's Museum, where, I am happy to tell you, they had a fine and successful run, Barnurn's" ad here appearing several times a week until September 16, mother sitting with her celebrated daughter "on a raised platform, ready to answer (if able) all the curious questions that may be asked…."

  But not by us: even Baby Anderson would be well over 120 years old now. They're all gone: lost in vanished times. Except for one, of course. He lies today in the large, and still unmarked, family plot—four more Burdells following him, the last in 1933—here where they laid his murdered body to rest on a snowy February day of 1857.

  Intermission

  It's been a while since I last saw a magazine cartoon of a helmeted explorer standing in an iron pot suspended over a fire as spear-carrying natives cavorted around him. But I and all of us have seen endless variations of it published over funny captions; and it could be that we haven't yet seen the last one.

  I suspect that this overly familiar cartoon is a last flicker, a remote attenuated survivor, of certain real news stories that appeared regularly in the middle nineteenth century; often illustrated, as shown opposite. "Three Hundred Persons Butchered and Eaten by Cannibals" one such story was headlined. These were Chinese men, women, and children who sailed from Hong Kong for Sydney and the Australian gold fields. Unfortunately they were shipwrecked on the island of Rossel in the South Pacific, where cannibals ate them up a few at a time, except for the one survivor who told the story.

  "At night," he said, "we were placed in the center of a clear piece of ground, and fires lit in several places, the natives keeping a regular watch over us, and during the day they would select four or five Chinese, and, after killing them, roast the flesh, and eat it…. Their mode of proceeding was as follows," and he gave the recipe, adding: "the fingers, toes and brains being eagerly sought after…."

  And: "In a book recently published by Mr. Baker, in London, [he gives] an account of his expedition to the sources of the Nile, [and] relates the following story of the Makkarikas, an African tribe, on the authority of a black named Ibrahimawa, who had been in Paris and London, and had an almost intuitive knowledge of geography. He had visited them with a trading party …" and said, " 'They are remarkably good people, but possessing a peculiar taste for dogs and human flesh.' " He, too, gives details, including some about a young girl victim who "was remarkably fat, and from the wound"—received as she tried to escape a slave master —"a large lump of yellow fat extruded … the Makkarikas rushed upon her … and seizing the fat, they tore it from the wounds in handfuls, the girl being still alive, while the crowd were quarreling for the disgusting prize…." The paper that published that, and more, did add that: "We own to a lingering distrust" of the story.

  But these stories were wonderfully horrifying, and in one of the best "a Prussian named Louis Bauer, a New Yorker, H. Homer by name, and a native boy called Charley, had proceeded in a small sloop to Waga (in the Fijis) to purchase oil and some provisions, taking with them trinkets, iron and other merchandise to barter. After making several purchases in a satisfactory manner," trouble began. The natives insisted on selling Homer some oil which he refused as overpriced. "An angry discussion ensued, which led to a scuffle, in which the oil was upset, and lost upon the sands. The rascal [who owned it] then swore he would be paid for it all the same, and upon Homer, Bauer and Charley retreating to their sloop, they were intercepted. Homer and Bauer seeing it was a struggle for their lives, resolved to sell them as dearly as possible. Drawing their revolvers, and telling the boy to make his escape to the sloop, they faced the devils…." Who rushed them. Three of the natives were shot down, but Charley and Bauer were killed, and Homer captured.

  The savages "conveyed the murdered men to their village in the mountain … and the tribe assembled that evening to partake of their revolting banquet."

  They had at least two recipes. In one, "the body is disembowelled, and washed with salt and water, the head is taken off, and then [the body is] placed in their oven, which is composed of smooth stones on all sides except the top; this is then made hot by burning furze and wood till it has the required heat. The ashes are then swept out, and green leaves are then placed at the sides," and "a stone that fits pretty tightly is then placed over the top, and it is left to undergo the regular time for baking."

  They also used cooking pots and ate with forks, these illustrations seem to show.

  And they had a fast-food recipe, the bodies simply "trussed up like fowls and cooked over a roaring fire … which is their impromptu method. When it is sufficiently cooked a gong is sounded and the warrior masters who are invited hasten to their infernal meal." This is the method used with Bauer, Charley, and Homer. It is Homer—"a citizen of New York" says the caption—who is shown about to be dispatched in the illustration you've seen.

  News of their fate spread through the Pacific islands and ports, and a "gallant Captain Sinclair, who commanded the Vandalia … resolved to punish these cannibal devils…. The Vandalia was lying at Levukin, about one hundred and thirty miles from Waga, where the outrage was committed…." They reached the Fijis in three days; Lieutenant Caldw
ell selected forty seamen and ten marines for his landing party; and somewhere along the way they'd also picked up a volunteer. "… the appearance of these islands," he wrote after first seeing them, "is the most charming in the world. I hope to see the stars and stripes waving over them before long."

  At a small village near Waga, the lieutenant found an interpreter, a "grim old chief, named Ravata … and another native to act as guide." Then on to Waga, where: "The whole scene was one of the wildest and most romantic I have ever beheld."

  "Anchoring … Lieut. Caldwell despatched … Ravata to the village … demanding the murderers …. He also requested a visit from their chief, Dora Sivu." Ravata returned that afternoon with the chief, "who bore a mortal defiance … in these words:

  " 'Do you suppose we killed the white men for nothing? No, we killed them, and we have eaten them. We are great warriors, and we delight in war. We have heard of the Papiliangi; we wish to meet them in battle. We are glad to see the little man-of-war; why did you not bring the large one? Come Papiliangi, our fires are lighted, our ovens are hot….'

  "This insolent bearing was doubtless owing to their strongly fortified position" on "the summit of a mountain nearly two thousand feet high." And: "Owing also to their prowess, and their numerous victories over their own countrymen, the three hundred warriors of Lomati deemed themselves invincible."

  I don't know what happened to this chief; released, I suppose. Then Caldwell's party landed. They brought a mortar, which they tried, unsuccessfully, to drag up onto a hilltop, but had to abandon. They persevered, though. Dividing into two parties, "the Marines with Minie rifles in the advance," they climbed toward the mountain village, but "if these savages had practiced the tactics of our own Indians we never could have reached the town."

  They did reach it, though, because Caldwell passed up the obvious easy route to the top, and instead chose a heavily wooded, extremely steep, and very unlikely route. "Our flank movement … completely disconcerted them; they thought, as a matter of course, we would approach by the paths … where they were posted in large numbers…. After gaining a position near the top, we took a long rest, a number of the men being almost exhausted…. When ready for the attack the divisions were reformed, and to remove any erroneous impressions the natives may have received of our determination, owing to our long halt, the favorite song of the 'Red, White and Blue' was sung in full chorus, three hearty cheers given, and the whole force rushed [the mountaintop]."

  As they ran, the natives "To show their readiness to meet us and their contempt of death … were clothed in their funeral robes of white tappa cloth, with long scarfs sweeping over the ground, their hair combed to radiate from their heads, forming an immense bunch, or with wigs of enormous dimensions, some six feet in circumference, all enveloped in cloths of white tappa. However beautiful this adornment may have appeared in their own eyes, or however becoming to their notions of propriety the dress of the grave may have seemed to warriors preparing for battle … [it made them] conspicious objects to our marksmen as they glided among the thick foliage."

  It was Minie rifles against arrows, and: "We took immediate possession [of the village], planted the American ensign in front of the chief's house, posted sentinels, and enjoyed a most welcome rest and refreshing breeze under the shade of the large trees that adorned the town. We found it to contain one hundred and twenty houses, of all sizes," and "the natives and our men keeping up a constant skirmishing," they "prepare[d] themselves with combustibles, and, under the direction of [Master's Mate] Bartlett, supported by the marines," they "fire[d] the town, commencing to leeward, and coming up to windward. This was speedily done and the town in flames, sending up an immense column of smoke visible for many miles around, [which was] distinctly seen by the tribes on the Ba coast thirty miles distant."

  Now they headed back for the beach, and: "The 'tom-tom,' or native drum, commenced beating furiously, and the whole ravine through which we were obliged to pass appeared alive with warriors. Having concentrated in full force, they commenced a violent assault upon our front, flanks, and rear, with a tumult of yells and screams, a heavy discharge of fire-arms, stones thrown from slings, short heavy clubs hurled with great force, and a flight of arrows. They approached quite near us, moving with surprising agility, and making horrible grimaces, which their large mouths and white teeth enabled them to do after the most ferocious and disgusting manner. Our men returned the assault with a steady and rapid discharge of their rifles, and after a severe action of twenty or thirty minutes, repulsed them, with a heavy loss on their side in killed and wounded."

  Making sudden unexpected changes in their route, they continued on down, but the natives, "availing themselves of their local knowledge of the passes, and the superior advantages they afforded them to harass us … endeavor[ed] to secure at least one body for their horrible feast, an end we were assured they would leave no effort untried to attain. Had they succeeded, it would have removed a part of their disgrace in losing their town and suffering defeat, and impaired the full measure of our success in the eyes of the natives."

  Carrying their exhausted and wounded, the landing party reached the beach with no one killed. But in addition to the loss of their town, the cannibals "lost fourteen killed and sixteen … wounded. Doubtless others fell unobserved." The punitive expedition had been gone from the ship "ten and one-half [hours, and we] arrived on board, grateful to a merciful Providence for preserving us from all serious evil, 'though we walked through the valley of the shadow of death.' "

  In 1876 a bill was introduced in Congress by Senator John Sherman (brother of the Civil War general, and author of the Sherman Antitrust Act), proposing that these wonderful coins be minted. There would be a ten-dollar gold piece and a silver half-dollar, their faces ordinary enough, but their reverse sides allowing them to be spent most anywhere. Since the important world currencies were solidly based on gold and silver, their relationships remained constant; and ten dollars in gold would always be 20.70 gulden in Germany, 51 francs and 81 centimes in France, 37.31 kronen in Sweden, and so on. Same with the silver half-dollar. And if other countries followed suit with their coinages, we'd approach a universal currency, saving all sorts of trouble. Unfortunately his bill got about as far as Esperanto; and we all know what's happened to the dollar since.

  "The most interesting feature of the past week [in Washington]," the Times reported one morning during the administration of President Buchanan, "was the presentation, on Saturday last, of the Elk horn chair to the President by Mr. Seth Kinman, the California trapper. The ceremony took place … in the East room … where a large concourse of ladies and gentlemen had assembled to witness the ceremony…."

  The trapper walked in "dressed in his deer-skin hunting shirt and trowsers, with his rifle on his shoulder. He wore his hunting shirt open at the neck, exposing a red flannel waistcoat, and the legs of his boots outside his trowsers. He is about five feet eleven … spare but well made, and of great muscular power … sharp, keen blue eye, dark chestnut hair … full beard and mustache…."

  A little welcoming chatter, then: "The trapper … took his position … leaning upon his rifle" beside his creation, "made of the horns of the stag or elk … the antlers forming the back and arms," and James Buchanan came walking in.

  Quite a lot of talk between them then, with appreciative laughter from the concourse of ladies and gentlemen. "I left … for the West" in 1830, said Seth Kinman, and "I return to the States for the first time with the only purpose of presenting to you, Sir, this chair. I killed the elks myself…."

  The President accepted the chair "with great pleasure. It will serve to remind me of the … Californians. They are a stamp of men that can be coaxed, but cannot be driven…. What do you call your gun?"

  "Long Tom, and many a time has my life depended on her and a steady nerve…."

  The President tried the chair, liked it, and trapper Kinman pointed out "that one fork of the antlers at the foot of the chair will make a good
boot jack … (Great merriment)." Presently: "The audience being over, the people, and the trapper and his friends, dispersed highly gratified with the interview."

  So gratified, in fact, that eight years later trapper Kinman repeated the whole fine experience. This time he outdid himself, and Leslie's had the story.

  It seemed to me almost impossible that the chair could really have looked like that, but I should have known Leslie's artists can be trusted. Because—I learned from the Library of Congress—this time around trapper Seth Kinman, seated in what is surely his masterpiece, had his picture taken.

  I suppose that's "Long Tom" there beside him, and maybe those are the very knife and ax with which he battled those bears to the death, if Long Tom hadn't quite finished them off.

  I wish I knew what happened to that chair; and the White House, whom I asked about it, says it wished it did, too. For the chair was kept and used. All I'd ever known about Andrew Johnson was that he was the only one of our Presidents to be (apparently unfairly) impeached. But I felt I knew a lot more about him when I learned that he kept and used the bear chair; and in no less a place of honor than the President's Library, as it was called then—or as we call it now, the Oval Room.

  And I grew actually fond of Andrew Johnson when I learned, in addition, what he did with Jefferson Davis's coffee maker. This marvelous locomotive-shaped coffee maker and accompanying brass tender illustrated a brief news story of 1866. They'd been given to Jefferson Davis, it said, by friends in France (those are the Confederate battle flag and the ensign of France on the locomotive's front); then sold at an auction of some of Davis's possessions. They were bought by "a gentleman of taste" and given to President Johnson "as an ornament and not an article of use."