These
murder
and
jury
statistics
remind
me
of
a
certain
very
extraordinary
trial
and
execution
of
twenty
years
ago;
it
is
a scrap
of
history
familiar
to
all
old
Californians,
and
worthy
to
be
known
by
other
peoples
of
the
earth
that
love
simple, straightforward
justice
unencumbered
with
nonsense. I
would
apologize
for
this
digression
but
for
the
fact
that
the
information
I
am
about
to
offer
is
apology
enough
in
itself.
And
since
I
digress
constantly anyhow,
perhaps
it
is
as
well
to
eschew
apologies
altogether
and
thus
prevent
their
growing
irksome. Capt. Ned Blakely—that
name
will
answer
as
well
as
any
other
fictitious
one
(for
he
was
still
with
the
living
at
last
accounts,
and
may
not
desire
to
be
famous)—sailed
ships
out
of
the
harbor
of
San Francisco
for
many
years.
He
was
a stalwart, warm-hearted, eagle-eyed veteran,
who
had been a
sailor
nearly
fifty
years—a
sailor
from
early
boyhood.
He
was
a rough,
honest
creature,
full
of
pluck,
and
just
as
full
of
hard-headed simplicity, too.
He
hated
trifling conventionalities—"business"
was
the
word,
with
him.
He
had
all
a sailor's vindictiveness against
the
quips
and
quirks
of
the
law,
and
steadfastly
believed
that
the
first
and
last
aim
and
object
of
the
law
and
lawyers
was
to
defeat justice.
He
sailed
for
the
Chincha
Islands
in
command
of
a
guano
ship.
He
had a
fine
crew,
but
his
negro
mate
was
his
pet—on
him
he
had
for
years
lavished
his
admiration
and
esteem.
It
was
Capt. Ned's
first
voyage
to
the
Chinchas,
but
his
fame
had gone
before
him—the
fame
of
being a
man
who
would
fight
at
the
dropping
of
a handkerchief,
when
imposed
upon,
and
would
stand
no
nonsense.
It
was
a
fame
well
earned.
Arrived
in
the
islands,
he
found
that
the
staple
of
conversation
was
the
exploits
of
one
Bill
Noakes, a bully,
the
mate
of
a
trading
ship.
This
man
had
created
a small
reign
of
terror
there.
At
nine
o'clock
at
night, Capt. Ned,
all
alone,
was
pacing
his
deck
in
the
starlight. A
form
ascended
the
side,
and
approached him. Capt. Ned said: "Who
goes
there?" "I'm
Bill
Noakes,
the
best
man
in
the
islands." "What
do
you
want
aboard
this
ship?" "I've
heard
of
Capt. Ned Blakely,
and
one
of
us
is
a
better
man
than
'tother—I'll
know
which,
before
I
go
ashore." "You've
come
to
the
right
shop—I'm
your
man. I'll
learn
you
to
come
aboard
this
ship
without
an
invite."
He
seized
Noakes,
backed
him
against
the
mainmast,
pounded
his
face
to
a pulp,
and
then
threw
him
overboard. Noakes
was
not
convinced.
He
returned
the
next
night, got
the
pulp renewed,
and
went
overboard
head
first,
as
before.
He
was
satisfied. A
week
after
this,
while
Noakes
was
carousing
with
a
sailor
crowd
on
shore,
at
noonday, Capt. Ned's colored mate came along,
and
Noakes tried
to
pick a
quarrel
with
him.
The
negro
evaded
the
trap,
and
tried
to
get
away. Noakes
followed
him
up;
the
negro
began
to
run; Noakes
fired
on
him
with
a revolver
and
killed
him.
Half
a
dozen
sea-captains witnessed
the
whole
affair. Noakes
retreated
to
the
small after-cabin
of
his
ship,
with
two
other
bullies,
and
gave
out
that
death
would
be
the
portion
of
any
man
that
intruded
there.
There
was
no
attempt
made
to
follow
the
villains;
there
was
no
disposition
to
do
it,
and
indeed
very
little
thought
of
such
an
enterprise.
There
were
no
courts
and
no
officers;
there
was
no
government;
the
islands
belonged
to
Peru,
and
Peru
was
far
away;
she
had
no
official
representative
on
the
ground;
and
neither
had
any
other
nation. However, Capt. Ned
was
not
perplexing
his
head
about
such
things.
They
concerned
him
not.
He
was
boiling
with
rage
and
furious
for
justice.
At
nine
o'clock
at
night
he
loaded a double-barreled
gun
with
slugs,
fished
out
a pair
of
handcuffs, got a ship's lantern,
summoned
his
quartermaster,
and
went ashore.
He
said: "Do
you
see
that
ship
there
at
the
dock?" "Ay-ay, sir." "It's
the
Venus." "Ay-ay, sir." "You—you
know
me." "Ay-ay, sir." "Very well, then.
Take
the
lantern. Carry
it
just
under
your
chin. I'll walk
behind
you
and
rest
this
gun-barrel
on
your
shoulder, p'inting forward—so.
Keep
your
lantern
well
up
so's I
can
see
things
ahead
of
you
good. I'm going
to
march
in
on
Noakes—and
take
him—and jug
the
other
chaps.
If
you
flinch—well,
you
know
me." "Ay-ay, sir."
In
this
order
they
filed
aboard
softly,
arrived
at
Noakes's den,
the
quartermaster
pushed
the
door
open,
and
the
lantern
revealed
the
three
desperadoes
sitting
on
the
floor. Capt. Ned said: "I'm Ned Blakely. I've got
you
under
fire. Don't
you
move
without
orders—any
of
you.
You
two
kneel
down
in
the
corner; faces
to
the
wall—now.
Bill
Noakes,
put
these
handcuffs
on;
now
come
up
close. Quartermaster,
fasten
'em.
All
right. Don't stir, sir. Quartermaster,
put
the
key
in
the
outside
of
the
door. Now, men, I'm going
to
lock
you
two
in;
and
if
you
try
to
burst
through
this
door—well, you've
heard
of
me.
Bill
Noakes,
fall
in
ahead,
and
march.
All
set. Quartermaster,
lock
the
door." Noakes spent
the
night
on
board
Blakely's ship, a
prisoner
under
strict
guard.
Early
in
the
morning
Capt. Ned
called
in
all
the
sea-captains
in
the
harbor
and
invited them,
with
nautical
ceremony,
to
be
present
on
board
his
ship
at
nine
o'clock
to
witness
the
hanging
of
Noakes
at
the
yard-arm! "What!
The
man
has
not
been tried." "Of
course
he
hasn't.
But
didn't
he
kill
the
nigger?" "Certainly
he
did;
but
you
are
not
thinking
of
hanging
him
without
a trial?" "Trial!
What
do
I
want
to
try
him
for,
if
he
killed
the
nigger?" "Oh, Capt. Ned,
this
will
never
do.
Think
how
it
will
sound." "Sound
be
hanged! Didn't
he
kill
the
nigger?" "Certainly, certainly, Capt. Ned,—nobody
denies
that,—but—" "Then I'm going
to
hang
him, that's all. Everybody I've talked
to
talks
just
the
same
way
you
do. Everybody says
he
killed
the
nigger, everybody
knows
he
killed
the
nigger,
and
yet
every
lubber
of
you
wants
him
tried
for
it. I don't
understand
such
bloody
foolishness
as
that. Tried!
Mind
you, I don't
object
to
trying him,
if
it's got
to
be
done
to
give
satisfaction;
and
I'll
be
there,
and
chip
in
and
help, too;
but
put
it
off
till
afternoon—put
it
off
till
afternoon,
for
I'll
have
my
hands
middling
full
till
after
the
burying—" "Why,
what
do
you
mean?
Are
you
going
to
hang
him
any
how—and
try
him
afterward?" "Didn't I
say
I
was
going
to
hang
him? I
never
saw
such
people
as
you. What's
the
difference?
You
ask
a favor,
and
then
you
ain't
satisfied
when
you
get
it.
Before
or
after's
all
one—you
know
how
the
trial
will
go.
He
killed
the
nigger. Say—I
must
be
going.
If
your
mate
would
like
to
come
to
the
hanging, fetch
him
along. I
like
him."
There
was
a
stir
in
the
camp.
The
captains came
in
a
body
and
pleaded
with
Capt. Ned
not
to
do
this
rash
thing.
They
promised
that
they
would
create
a court composed
of
captains
of
the
best
character;
they
would
empanel
a jury;
they
would
conduct
everything
in
a
way
becoming
the
serious
nature
of
the
business
in
hand,
and
give
the
case
an
impartial
hearing
and
the
accused a
fair
trial.
And
they
said
it
would
be
murder,
and
punishable
by
the
American courts
if
he
persisted
and
hung
the
accused
on
his
ship.
They
pleaded
hard. Capt. Ned said: "Gentlemen, I'm
not
stubborn
and
I'm
not
unreasonable. I'm
always
willing
to
do
just
as
near
right
as
I can.
How
long
will
it
take?" "Probably
only
a
little
while." "And
can
I
take
him
up
the
shore
and
hang
him
as
soon
as
you
are
done?" "If
he
is
proven
guilty
he
shall
be
hanged
without
unnecessary delay." "If he's proven guilty.
Great
Neptune,
ain't
he
guilty?
This
beats my time.
Why
you
all
know
he's guilty."
But
at
last
they
satisfied
him
that
they
were
projecting
nothing
underhanded.
Then
he
said: "Well,
all
right.
You
go
on
and
try
him
and
I'll
go
down
and
overhaul
his
conscience
and
prepare
him
to
go—like
enough
he
needs
it,
and
I don't
want
to
send
him
off
without
a
show
for
hereafter."
This
was
another
obstacle.
They
finally
convinced
him
that
it
was
necessary
to
have
the
accused
in
court.
Then
they
said
they
would
send
a
guard
to
bring
him. "No, sir, I
prefer
to
fetch
him
myself—he don't
get
out
of
my hands. Besides, I've got
to
go
to
the
ship
to
get
a rope, anyway."
The
court
assembled
with
due
ceremony,
empaneled
a jury,
and
presently Capt. Ned entered, leading
the
prisoner
with
one
hand
and
carrying a Bible
and
a rope
in
the
other.
He
seated
himself
by
the
side
of
his
captive
and
told
the
court
to
"up
anchor
and
make
sail."
Then
he
turned
a
searching
eye
on
the
jury,
and
detected
Noakes's friends,
the
two
bullies.
He
strode
over
and
said
to
them
confidentially: "You're
here
to
interfere,
you
see.
Now
you
vote right,
do
you
hear?—or
else
there'll
be
a double-barreled
inquest
here
when
this
trial's off,
and
your
remainders
will
go
home
in
a
couple
of
baskets."
The
caution
was
not
without
fruit.
The
jury
was
a unit—the verdict. "Guilty." Capt. Ned sprung
to
his
feet
and
said: "Come along—you're my
meat
now, my lad, anyway. Gentlemen you've
done
yourselves proud. I invite
you
all
to
come
and
see
that
I
do
it
all
straight.
Follow
me
to
the
canyon, a
mile
above
here."
The
court
informed
him
that
a
sheriff
had been appointed
to
do
the
hanging, and— Capt. Ned's
patience
was
at
an
end.
His
wrath
was
boundless.
The
subject
of
a
sheriff
was
judiciously
dropped.
When
the
crowd
arrived
at
the
canyon, Capt. Ned climbed a tree
and
arranged
the
halter,
then
came
down
and
noosed
his
man.
He
opened
his
Bible,
and
laid
aside
his
hat.
Selecting
a
chapter
at
random,
he
read
it
through,
in
a
deep
bass
voice
and
with
sincere
solemnity.
Then
he
said: "Lad,
you
are
about
to
go
aloft
and
give
an
account
of
yourself;
and
the
lighter a man's
manifest
is,
as
far
as
sin's concerned,
the
better
for
him.
Make
a clean breast, man,
and
carry a
log
with
you
that'll
bear
inspection.
You
killed
the
nigger?"
No
reply. A
long
pause.
The
captain read
another
chapter, pausing,
from
time
to
time,
to
impress
the
effect.
Then
he
talked
an
earnest,
persuasive
sermon
to
him,
and
ended
by
repeating
the
question: "Did
you
kill
the
nigger?"
No
reply—other
than
a
malignant
scowl.
The
captain
now
read
the
first
and
second
chapters
of
Genesis,
with
deep
feeling—paused a moment, closed
the
book
reverently,
and
said
with
a
perceptible
savor
of
satisfaction: "There.
Four
chapters. There's
few
that
would
have
took
the
pains
with
you
that
I have."
Then
he
swung
up
the
condemned,
and
made
the
rope fast; stood
by
and
timed
him
half
an
hour
with
his
watch,
and
then
delivered
the
body
to
the
court. A
little
after,
as
he
stood
contemplating
the
motionless figure, a
doubt
came
into
his
face; evidently
he
felt a
twinge
of
conscience—a misgiving—and
he
said
with
a sigh: "Well, p'raps I
ought
to
burnt him, maybe.
But
I
was
trying
to
do
for
the
best."
When
the
history
of
this
affair
reached
California
(it
was
in
the
"early days")
it
made
a
deal
of
talk,
but
did
not
diminish
the
captain's
popularity
in
any
degree.
It
increased it, indeed.
California
had a
population
then
that
"inflicted"
justice
after
a
fashion
that
was
simplicity
and
primitiveness itself,
and
could
therefore
admire
appreciatively
when
the
same
fashion
was
followed
elsewhere.