"...we should pass over all biographies of 'the good and the great,' while we search carefully the slight records of wretches who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the gallows." ~Edgar Allan Poe
On the morning of October 30, 1928, a worker at the police station of Lake Bluff, Illinois went into the basement to light the furnace. He found a naked woman propped up against the furnace, covered in deep, gruesome burns. She was Elfrieda Knaak, a twenty-nine year old book salesperson and Sunday School teacher.
In the hospital, she insisted “It was all my fault,” and “I did it myself.” Her sense of “faith,” and “purity and love,” inspired her to thrust her arms and legs into the flames to “prove her faith in the spiritual” and make herself worthy of her “astral sweetheart.” She wanted to “commit myself right in the eyes of God.” It was, in short, one of the worst purification rites on record. She said that as she began to feed herself to the flames, she heard voices, and saw hands beckoning to her from inside the fire, which gave her the will to go on with her deed. When asked how she had been able to unlock the door leading to the furnace room, and then lock it from the outside, she replied it was “A mystic hand.” However, just before her death, she suddenly admitted that there had been someone else in the furnace room with her. She had made a suicide pact with another woman, who had instead run away after Knaak had been burned. She then changed her story yet again, stating that “Frank threw me down,” and “They did this.” She told her brother Alvin yet another version of the tragedy, saying “I made a mistake. It was I alone that did it. I went alone.” She disclosed that someone had given her the key to the furnace room, but she did not say who that might have been. She tried to say the name of a woman who would, she said, “explain all,” but unfortunately, she died before she could make the name intelligible to her questioners.
The coroner’s jury shrugged and ruled her death as suicide. The police, however, were much less ready to dismiss the possibility of foul play. They reasoned that the door of the furnace was too high and too small for her to have burned her own legs and feet so severely. Also, a bloody handprint was found on the door, along with blood-soaked footprints leading up the furnace room stairs and back. And, of course, there was that locked door. Adding to the mystery is the fact that the autopsy found that the dead woman had not only been burned, but struck over the head and electrocuted.
Found in Knaak’s purse was a letter she had received from a new-found friend, a woman who signed her name “B. E. Lock.” Evidently, they had a shared interest in what was described as “religious discussion.” It soon transpired that Knaak’s interest in religion had taken some unorthodox turns. She followed the “New Thought” movement, a somewhat amorphous "mind-cure" belief system with links to Theosophy and Christian Science. It preached the importance of astral projection and “spiritual purification.” It suggests that either Knaak or someone close to her took the concept of “purification by fire” many, many steps too far. ("B.E. Lock" was later discovered to be a Luella Roeh. She told police that Knaak had a fascination amounting "almost to hypnotism" for her, but was unable--or unwilling--to give any details that might have explained the young woman's death.)
On the day of the burning, Knaak had journeyed to Chicago on a business meeting. She left work and, around six in the evening, was seen at the Highland Park depot. She made two phone calls: one unanswered, and one where she spoke in guarded whispers. She bought a round-trip ticket to Lake Bluff and was seen arriving there later that night. This is the last known sighting of her until she was found in the City Hall. Knaak had been involved with a married actor/policeman/elocution teacher named Charles W. Hitchcock, with whom—so she said—she shared a “pure,” “astral” love. She told her doctor that “Hitchy got me out of hell about three months ago,” but gave no further details. Before her death, she told investigators that she had gone to Lake Bluff that night in order to see him.
Hitchcock, on the other hand, insisted to authorities that he had not been romantically involved with the dead woman. This has an “Of course, he’d say that,” ring to it, except that at the time of Knaak’s death, he had a badly broken leg which left him house-bound. Unless Mrs. Hitchcock was a remarkably tolerant sort, it seems unlikely that he’d have any lovers, astral or not, dropping over for a visit.
A month after Knaak’s death, a Texas man who described himself as a “student of occult mysticism” wrote to the police declaring that he had helped her burn herself to death. He claimed that she had asked him to place her into the furnace. The man was quickly ruled insane and sent to an asylum, but he doesn’t seem any crazier than anything else about this story.
So, which of Knaak’s deathbed confessions was the truth? Was it murder, suicide, or some bizarre combination of the two? Or were all her statements the product of a dying woman’s delirium, inspired by the heavy doses of narcotics she received in the hospital? The only “Frank” who had any known link with Knaak was a violin teacher named Frank P. Mandy, who shared a studio with Charles Hitchcock. However, it was uncertain that he and Knaak had ever even met, and he does not seem to have been regarded with any real suspicion.
Knaak’s death remains as creepily mysterious now as it was on that curiously-close-to-Halloween day in 1928.
[Footnote: Illinois saw an odd epilogue to this case. Several months after Knaak’s death, a young Evanston woman named Helen Friedrich tried to kill herself by shoving herself into the family home furnace. Although she severely burned herself, she later sobbed that she had been “too much of a coward” to go through with it. Also cf. the equally disturbing furnace death of Addie Sheatsley four years earlier.]
Uh, this may be the point when we all should look to the skies and shout, "WE'RE SORRY AND WE'LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN!"
Indonesia will see your Gobekli Tepe and raise you one Gunung Padang. There really are few things I enjoy more than watching archaeologists get the vapors.
Port Washington, Wis., (AP) —Sheriff Ben F. Runkel Friday continued a search tor Capt. George Doner, who disappeared from the steamship O. S. McFarland while steaming to this port from Sheboygan Wednesday night.
The sheriff sent deputies to the lake shore north of here to hunt for the captain's body and asked commercial fishermen to be on the lookout. Coast guardsmen also cruised over Lake Michigan.
Runkel said ship's officers told him the captain had worried throughout a cruise from Erie, Pa., because the vessel's compasses were not functioning properly.
The disappearance of Captain George Doner is perhaps the most famous example of the many strange phenomena recorded in what is unofficially known as the "Lake Michigan Triangle." In April of 1937, the “O.S. McFarland” left Erie with a load of coal, bound for Port Washington,Wisconsin. On the evening of the 28th, Doner retired to his cabin, telling the crew to inform him when they were nearing their destination. It was a calm, dark night. The following day was his 58th birthday, and he had been sailing the Great Lakes for a quarter-century.
On arriving at the harbor of Port Washington, the captain was signaled to bring the boat between the piers, so it could be tied to the docks. After receiving no response, a search was immediately done of every inch of the ship, with no sign whatsoever of its captain. Other boats soon joined in the hunt, combing all the nearby waters, but to no avail. Captain Doner was never seen again.
It is of some interest that the "McFarland's" compasses had not been working normally during the voyage. Travelers through the more famous "Bermuda Triangle" have often reported the same problem, leading to theories that the area is plagued with some sort of periodic magnetic disturbance.
The crew said that the day before, the captain was "almost in a trance" and in "a highly nervous state" from sleeplessness and his concern over the compasses, leading them to speculate that in his dazed condition, he had accidentally fallen overboard. (They all discounted the idea of suicide, saying that Doner "was not that kind of man.")
Incidentally, when looking into this story, I discovered that the "O.S. McFarland" was previously named the "M.A. Reeb," and before that, the "Kensington." Such name-changing is, as most of you probably know, believed to bring bad luck to a ship.
It certainly brought bad luck to this particular ship's captain.
[Note: Virtually all modern-day retellings of this tale give the captain's name as "Donner." However, contemporary newspaper stories, as well as the gravestone put up in his memory, spell his surname as "Doner."]
Ailurophobes may wish to skip this post. Today, we are paying tribute to the felines who for many centuries--at least as far back as the ancient Egyptians--have shared and brightened the often hard lives of the men and women who make the seas their home. Here's to you, Sailor Cats!
From the "Sydney Morning Herald," for June 21, 1941:
Often in a big ship there are seven or eight cats, but rarely are they seen together. Each keeps to his own part of the ship. This is a never-varying habit. It is in tramp steamers that one sees the sturdiest vagrants, cats from every country under the sun, which stay for a voyage and join another vessel at the next port!
These international ocean rovers seem to steer clear of passenger liners. No doubt they prefer the easy-going ways of cargo vessels. You see, in a tramp, the galley usually opens on to the deck. The stowaway makes friends with the cook first, and is not put to the trouble of searching the ship for him.
The interloper generally appears on the second day at sea. The sailors see a strange face peering at them and the cook finds he has a new friend. At meal times the newcomer calls on members of the crew, and, in plaintive tones, asks to be remembered. Soon the stowaway is accepted and finds himself a bed in a snug corner.
A chief officer in a tramp steamer told me of one of these vagrants that came on board at a South American port. The animal took a liking to him and he adopted it. For 12 months "Alf" (as they called him) lived in the vessel. He seemed as permanent a member of the crew as "Doodles," who "stuck to the ship" till the demolition gangs started work. But in Vancouver the call of the unknown proved to be too strong for Alf. He disappeared one night and the ship sailed early the next morning. He must have had an exciting walk ashore. Half a mile of floating logs separated the ship from the mainland!
This story reminded me of Thomas, a cat from revolutionary Spain. Thomas was powerful and muscular. He could leap with ease to the top of a six-foot partition from a standing jump. His home was a British cargo vessel that traded to Spain during the civil war. He was first seen three days out from Valencia.
"Roaming the 'tween decks he was, sir, looking more like a small tiger than a cat," said the old weather-beaten carpenter when I asked for details. "He chased several members of the crew, and was branded as an outcast. One night I spotted him amidships and got near enough to scratch his ear after bribing him with a piece of meat. I still bear marks of bites and scratches of the times I tried to get friendly in too much of a hurry. Now we're the best of pals."
The cat was rubbing himself against the leg of the carpenter. He looked at me suspiciously and drew away when I put out my hand to stroke him.
"Don't touch him, sir," warned the carpenter.
"Thomas is still filled with the revolutionary spirit and fears neither man nor beast."
The next time the ship came into port I asked about Thomas. "Sir," said the aged carpenter sadly, "Thomas left us at Adelaide. He eloped with Kit, a little grey tabby who had been in the ship for eight voyages. They were both missing a day before we sailed and didn't
return."
When the White Star liner Cedric was broken up in 1932, the owners made a presentation, not to the captain or the chief engineer, but to the ship's cat, "Doodles," a regular old salt. "I am Doodles," read the inscription of his gift collar. "I was born in 1927 in the White Star liner Cedric in which I have travelled over 360,000 miles."
I recall this recognition of merit on the high seas because the cry has gone forth for more cats to deal with the rats that have sought refuge in vessels after being bombed out of their waterfront homes. Any captain will tell you that "Thomas" or "Mousy," the two standard names for cats at sea, are as important for the well-being of a ship as a good quarter- master or an efficient cook. Rats and mice are the natural enemies of seamen, and so a stout rodent hunter is worth his weight in gold.
War risks mean nothing to seafaring cats. A sinking is all in the day's work. There are many cats sailing the seas to-day which have been in vessels sent to the bottom through enemy action.
Ships' cats are divided into two categories. There are the "permanents," who stay in a ship for voyage after voyage, and there are the "vagrants," who join and desert without warning. But whatever his class, a cat is sure of a welcome. No cat has ever regretted the walk up the gangplank.
Doodles, briefly mentioned in the above article, received a longer notice in the "New York Sun" for January 19, 1933:
It's a year since we've heard of Doodles, mascot of the Cedric. The last time we saw her she was strolling through the main saloon of her vessel, her tail held high in the tradition of the feline whose social position is secure. It was the last sailing of the Cedric from New York. Upon the ship's arrival at the other side she was sent up to Scotland and turned over to the ship breakers.
Doodles was as much an institution during the last days of the Cedric as was the purser or the chief steward. Her right to stroll any deck or companionway was never questioned. It was her duty to maintain an iron-paw discipline over the ship's rats, to react in an amenable manner to the friendly advances of the members of the crew and to mix in a dignified way with those passengers whose social position demanded some recognition. To our knowledge, she never fell down in any department. Any cat who was fortunate to be able to scurry off the Cedric was conspicuously scarred and tooth-marked.
When the Cedric arrived on the other side the crew left the ship and Doodles, following the habit of her five years at sea, hurried down the gangplank and made of to the curious waterfront haunts where she spent her leave ashore. When the ship prepared to leave for Scotland, Doodles obeyed the sixth sense which brings animals back to their vessels at sailing time. She climbed the deserted gangway and disappeared inside the lifeless ship.
In Scotland, at the shipyards, the few remaining members of the crew who were on board made every effort to locate Doodles. They searched for an entire day, combing every part of the vessel she used to survey during her daily rounds. But it was to no avail. Doodles, they reasoned, had either committed suicide or failed to board the ship before it left Liverpool.
Several days later, when the workmen were busy tearing down the Cedric's superstructure, a bystander spotted a small cat of questionable antecedents watching the proceedings from the quay with tear-dimmed eyes. The bystander, being at the same time a gentle bystander, picked up the cat and took it home. Some warm milk and raw liver restored, in time, the glitter which had been missing from the cat's eyes and within a fortnight the first faint notes of a purr escaped the pale lips.
Some days later the gentle bystander encountered a former member of the Cedric crew. Some mention was made of the sad demise of Doodles, which led to her identification in the gentle bystander's home. [The story went on to describe the silver and leather collar given to Doodles by the White Star Line.]
Doodles spent the rest of what I hope was her long and happy life with Mr. H. Hutton at his home in Derbyshire.
Blondie and Seven-Up on the Samkeg. Launceton Examiner, July 26, 1946
Cats at sea, alas, have not always been as law-abiding as the ones described above. The "New York Times" for March 30, 1930, told the harrowing tale of the Attack of the Pirate Cats. It seems that before the White Star liner Arabic left its port in Liverpool, Tumtum and Cheechee, described as "the toughest among the pirate cats along the Chelsea pier," managed to sneak aboard. The ship's watchman, Ben Fidd, complained to the "Times" that the two fierce stowaways stole two herrings which had been reserved for breakfast. When he reported the theft to the pier superintendent, he received the unsympathetic response that "If you go putting Bismarck herrings down where hungry cats are around it's like asking for it."
Probably the most renowned Sailor Cat was Simon, the pride of the British Royal Navy, whose bravery and industriousness made him a beloved national figure during World War II.
Simon, via Wikipedia
Simon was was born into a hardscrabble existence on the Hong Kong wharves circa 1947. The following year, he was found by a crew member of the HMS Amethyst--accounts differ about which man it was--and the gangly, personable little black-and-white kitten was given a home on the ship as rat-catcher and general good-luck mascot.
He quickly made himself at home on the Amethyst. When he wasn't hard at work clearing the ship of vermin, he relaxed by sleeping in the captain's cap, perfecting his favorite parlor trick of fishing ice cubes out of water jugs, and using his playful, intelligent personality to keep up morale among the sailors. Everyone on board came to love him.
Then, on April 20, 1949, the frigate was attacked by the Chinese, coming under heavy fire. By the time the battle was over, seventeen men from the Amethyst had died, including the captain, and twenty-five more were seriously wounded.
Among the injured was Simon. A shell had made a direct hit on the captain's cabin where the cat was taking a nap. He was thrown into the air, and landed with a sickening thud on the deck, unconscious and gravely injured by shrapnel wounds and burns. His tiny body was taken below decks, and he was cared for as well as possible under the hectic circumstances.
No one expected him to survive, but true Sailor Cats are a tough lot. Amazingly, he soon made what seemed to be nearly a full recovery. This was very fortunate for the survivors on the Amethyst, because they badly needed him. The Amethyst was surrounded by Communist forces, and unable to escape. The battle had brought forth hordes of rats who were making dangerous inroads on the ship's quickly-decreasing supplies of food. They even began invading the sleeping quarters.
The now battle-hardened Simon sprang into action. This one-cat army made devastating daily raids on the rodent enemy, presenting his fellow crewmen with a plethora of corpses. He fearlessly entered into single combat with the largest, fiercest rat on the ship--a terrifying beast whom the crew had named "Mao Tse-Tung"--and won. His pluck and determination during this dangerous and difficult time proved to be an inspiration for the surviving crew members. He also acted as a nurse-companion for the men on board who were suffering from what we would today call PTSD. He would lie next to the traumatized men, purring and kneading the bedclothes, reminding them all that, as ugly as life was at the moment, there was still love and goodness in the world.
It was not until July 30 that the Amethyst was able to slip through the blockade. Their daring escape made headlines around the world. When they reached safety, the crew made sure that Simon was given his due credit for his invaluable role as rat-catcher and morale-booster, and this former homeless wharf cat became a national idol, known as the "Able Seacat."
Simon's crewmates wasted no time nominating him for the Dickin Medal, given by the People's Dispensary for Sick Animals for acts of bravery shown by animals serving in the armed forces. "Throughout the Incident," said the letter of recommendation, "Simon's behaviour was of the highest order."
Simon was granted the award--the first, and so far the only, cat to receive this honor. By this point, he was receiving so many gifts and fan mail that a special Cat Officer had to be appointed to manage it all.
Simon's life as a celebrity proved tragically brief. On November 1, the Amethyst arrived in England, and their mascot, as the law required, was put into quarantine in Surrey. Three weeks later, he contracted a sudden, devastating virus. Despite all the best efforts to save him, Britain's feline war hero died on November 28, to be mourned by everyone who had known him during his short life.. It was assumed that his constitution had been fatally weakened from his wounds, but his comrades from the Amethyst suspected that the stress of the enforced separation from them was the real cause of his death. Hundreds of his fans, including the entire crew of the Amethyst, attended his funeral at the PDSA's pet cemetery in Ilford, Essex. He was buried with full Naval honors.
An even more well-traveled Sailor Cat was navigator and explorer Matthew Flinders' Trim. Born at sea in 1799, the feline soon stood out for his unusual intelligence and winning personality--not to mention his remarkable ability at rescuing himself whenever he fell overboard. As a kitten, he learned to swim, and whenever he fell into the water, he would swiftly and effortlessly climb up a rope to get back on board. Trim, Flinders wrote, was one of the finest-looking animals he had ever seen, the model of the ideal cat. He was jet-black, with snow-white feet and under-lip. He also had a white blaze on his chest. Trim was a strong and courageous character, unruffled by the dangers of the sea. Flinders praised the cat's gentleness and goodness of heart, but noted that he had one flaw--vanity. Trim was in the habit of planting himself in a Sphinx-like position front of Flinders and his other shipmates, forcing them to stop whatever they were doing and admire him. His favorite sport was leaping over people's hands, and he also became an expert at "playing dead." This remarkable feline also took a sagacious interest in nautical astronomy and practical seamanship. Trim was not just a born sailor, but a natural scholar.
Statue of Trim in Matthew Flinders' birthplace of Donington. Via Wikipedia
Trim was part of the crew of the HMS Investigator when it circumnavigated Australia, making him the first cat to do so. On the return voyage, in December 1803 Flinders was imprisoned by the French in Mauritius on suspicion of being a spy. During his captivity, Trim unaccountably vanished. Although a reward was offered for information about the cat, Flinders never knew what happened to his beloved companion. He glumly made the appalling suggestion that Trim had been abducted and eaten by some of the local slaves.
Flinders was released from prison in 1810 and returned to England, but he never forgot Trim. Before his death in 1814, he wrote an elegy for his lost friend that is among the most touching animal biographies. (It can be read here.)
There are statues of Trim in both Flinders' birthplace in England and at the Mitchell Library in Sydney, Australia. The Library also has a plaque:
To the memory of Trim
The best and most illustrious of his race
The most affectionate of friends,
faithful of servants,
and best of creatures.
He made the tour of the globe, and a voyage to
Australia,
which he circumnavigated, and was ever the
delight and pleasure of his fellow voyagers.
Written by Matthew Flinders in memory of his cat.
Another valiant Sailor Cat who paid the ultimate price for his bravery was Mrs. Chippy, the (male) companion of carpenter Harry McNeish.
Mrs. Chippy and friend, via Wikipedia
When McNeish joined Ernest Shackleton's doomed Endurance expedition to the Antarctic, the "full of character" tabby came along as mascot. After the Endurance was crushed by ice, leaving the crew stranded 350 miles from the nearest land, Shackleton gave orders that the sledging dogs be shot, as he decided it would be difficult enough for the men to save themselves without having the additional burden of what he dismissed as "weaklings." He passed a death sentence on Mrs. Chippy as well.
The crew eventually sailed to safety, on a boat McNeish had built. Many believe his expertise in building this literal life raft was the only thing which enabled the men to survive. During their journey home, however, McNeish continually quarreled with Shackleton, and was found guilty of insubordination, which led to him being denied the Polar Medal, an award given to most of the rest of the crew. It has been suggested his rebellious behavior at least partly stemmed from his anger over Mrs. Chippy's murder.
It is certain he never forgave Shackleton. Someone who visited McNeish many years later, when he was a old, ailing man, recorded that all he remembered the carpenter saying was that "Shackleton had shot his cat." He died in 1930.
In 2004, the New Zealand Antarctic Society raised funds to put a statue of Mrs. Chippy over McNeish's grave. His grandson thought it was the most fitting tribute McNeish could possibly have. "I think the cat was more important to him than the Polar Medal."
Decorated WWII veteran Pooli of the U.S. Navy, via Wikipedia
In recent years, one famed Sailor Cat was "Colin's Cat," the mascot of Port Taranaki, New Zealand, whose inquisitive spirit got her rather more adventure than she had bargained for. In 2001, she boarded the methanol tanker Tomiwaka to get a free meal from a friendly crewman, and make a general inspection of the ship. ("She thinks she runs the place," commented one of the port's watch-house staff.) Before she could leave, however, the tanker left for its destination of South Korea, turning the handsome tortoiseshell into an inadvertent stowaway. The efforts to bring her home turned into a complicated international rescue mission which made news all over the world. The Whiskas pet food company--knowing a golden PR opportunity when they saw it--volunteered to foot the bill for returning her to Port Taranaki. They arranged for a Taranaki staff member to fly to Korea and collect the wanderer. After two weeks at sea (she was a bit seasick at first, but soon became a "real sailor") she was flown back to New Zealand to receive an epic welcome-home party--and a stern warning to never talk to strangers again.
Colin's Cat subsequently helped raise money for the medical treatment of a local four-year-old girl with cancer. Described as "older and wiser" since her unplanned travels, she no longer boarded ships, but continued to carefully monitor life at the Port. She died in May 2007, at the age of about fourteen. The Port put up a memorial stone to her outside the tanker terminal, which still receives a steady stream of visitors wishing to pay their respects to her memory.
Sailor Cats have introduced themselves to Winston Churchill...circumnavigated the globe...appeared in ticker tape parades in New York...served in post-war research stations in the Antarctic...survived multiple sinkings...and some, sadly, have given their lives in service to their country. Although the Royal Navy banned cats in 1975 on "hygienic" grounds (further proof our civilization is in serious decline,) as long as there are ships on the sea, there will, somewhere, be cats to captain them.
One Sailor Cat has even become part of Titanic lore. Many years after the ship sank, a reporter for the "Irish News" interviewed a retired journalist named Paddy Scott. Scott recalled that he once met a man named Jim Mulholland, who had been a stoker on the doomed liner. Mulholland had cared for the ship's cat, Mouser, and her four kittens during the voyage. When the Titanic stopped in Southampton, Mouser took her babies off the ship and was never seen again. Mulholland decided, "That cat knows something," and wisely left the ship himself.
Unfortunately, most historians see this story as mere legend, based on Titanic survivor Violet Jessup's account of the ship's cat "Jenny," who was among those who perished when the ship sank. (However, the story is not impossible: cf. this well-documented tale.) Whatever the truth may be, some anonymous poet paid a charming tribute to this "Titanicat." Let it stand as a fitting memorial to the uncanny wisdom of all the great cats:
When men go down to the sea in ships,
As they do, to this very day,
They carry along a good ship's cat,
To keep the rats at bay.
One such cat, at the Belfast yard,
Had kittens while on board.
The date was April 1912,
Anno Domini, year of our Lord.
Now the ship was new, and the crew was, too,
So a trial run was deemed fair.
And the scullion lad, whose name was Jim,
Wound up with the tabby's care.
In the F Deck galley Jim scoured and scrubbed,
His job was to bow and bend,
But he saved the scraps from every meal
For the cat that he now called a friend.
They circled the coast 'till their anchor dropped
At the port of the White Star Line,
Where the ship was loaded with lobster and steak,
And silver and crystal and wine.
The cat seemed troubled when the trials were done,
Though she loved her life on the ship.
With kittens in tow, she disembarked,
Refusing to make this trip.
She carried her babies, one by one,
Down the gangplank to the quay,
Two thousand passengers clambered aboard,
But the cat went the other way.
Jim followed his friend and he left that ship
About to sail the Atlantic.
He bid farewell to the maiden voyage
Of the RMS Titanic.
When Jim tells the tale of that wise old cat,
He gets naught but a sneer and a scoff.
Over one thousand drowned when that ship went down,
But Jim and the cat got off.
Down with the ship that fateful night,
Went fathers and sons and wives.
But the cat saved Jim by lending him,
One of her own nine lives.
Meet Peter Freuchen, just your typical 6' 7" peg-legged Nazi-fighting game-show winning arctic explorer who, in his spare time, hung out with Mae West.
"Beware the folly of hurrying straight to the dissecting room without taking any breakfast," and other examples of why nobody, but nobody, knew how to do Weird Death like the Victorians.
Hell, those photos are almost enough to make me want to have kids.
Uh, I said almost. And there you have it! See you on Monday, when I will be taking a look at the long, colorful history of seafaring cats. In the meantime, meet a seafaring pig.
This account of a mental patient's wandering ways appeared in the “Newburgh [Indiana] Democrat" for April 17, 1855. It is reprinting an account from the "Indiana State Sentinel" of unknown date:
Our readers may rely on the perfect accuracy of the following narrative, as it comes from an unquestionable source:
A few days before the adjournment of the Legislature, two members from the South-western part of the State, one hundred and sixty miles distant from Indianapolis, inquired of the Superintendent of the Insane Hospital his reasons for the discharge of Alexander F., a patient from R_____ County.
Dr. Athon assured them that Mr. F. was still at the hospital, and had not been sent home, nor was his early discharge probable.
They stated that they had received letters from different persons, mentioning the fact that Mr. Alex F. was wandering at large in the neighborhoods near his old home; that the citizens were afraid of him and were anxious that he should be returned to the institution without delay.
The next day Dr. Athon received a letter from the guardian of Alex, making inquiry with regard to his escape—how long since he left the hospital and what was his mental condition when he eloped—if elopement it was. I am allowed to copy Dr. Athon’s reply:
Indiana Hospital for the Insane
Indianapolis, March 2nd, 1855
H. C. C____, Esq.
Dear Sir:
I am just in receipt of your letter of the 28th; and am somewhat surprised to learn that Alex F. is now to be seen in your region. I am not a believer in modern spiritualism, but if Alex is there, his spirit is here; or if his spirit is there, his corporal substance is here, and if both positions can be substantiated, then there is something in spiritualism. But I think we have the veritable, laughing Alex here, so that the people need not be alarmed at his elongated shadow.
Very respectfully, etc.
A few days since the following letter, in answer to the above, arrived. I give it verbatim, with the omission of names of persons and places. It is from a gentleman who is entitled to the fullest confidence:
N____ H____, Indiana, March 19, 1855.
Dear Sir:
Yours of the 2nd, in regard to Alex F. came to hand. There is something very mysterious about this affair of said Alex’s being here and at the Insane Hospital, both at one and the same time. I have delayed answering on account of taking time to investigate the mystery. These are the facts which eight or ten persons who are well acquainted with Alex will swear to. About Tuesday, the 27th of February last, Alex F. was seen approaching the O___ Mills and distillery. He stopped at the house of a woman by the name of Mrs. W., and asked for water and a basin to wash his hands, and it was given him and he washed. He then approached the O____ Mills, with a staff in hand, but halted for a short time at another place or two. One of the hands at the mill by the name of Russell J., saw him coming, and knowing that he had better be watched, met him and went with him in all his journey through the mills and hog-pens. Alex went up to the garret loft of the mill, observing to Russell J. that he wanted to see the machinery.
After which he went in the distillery, and the distiller, J. B. said to him, “You must not do that, Alex,” at which Alex turned round and said, “What?” He then passed down into the hog house, followed by E. V., (one of the owners of the mills,) and Russell J., who watched him. He came out of the hog house, and they said to him, “Alex, your brother A. and the S.’s are after you.” On which Alex said, “they have no business with me.” He then passed on out of the gate, and picked up his walking stick, which he had left on coming in. He then went on west toward N___ H___, about one-fourth of a mile distant, with a quick walk, and that is the last that has been seen or heard of him.
They all agreed that he looked bad and thin—visage rather pale and sickly. He was not inclined to talk, and said but very little.
Old and young saw him, and he was nowhere else but at the O___ Mills. Those who saw him have been well acquainted with him for years, and they are willing to swear that it was Alex F., and nobody else, for they saw, heard, and, I believe, felt him, and examined his looks closely. He warmed by the fire during the time. The names of a part of the persons who saw him, and are willing to give their affadavits to that effect, are J. B., R. J., R. V., O. B., J. T., and others. Are you certain he was at the Hospital the 29th February.
Very respectfully,
H. C. C___
The answer of Alex, on being asked when he was home last, makes this “confusion worse confounded,” and the mystery more inexplicable. He at once said: “About three weeks ago I flew down there to whip Russell J., and make honorable proposals to widow ____.” He was reminded that he had not been absent from the Hospital since his admission, on the 19th of June.
“I’ll bite your ear off," he replied, with some indignation. “I tell you that I did go. My spirit flew down there quick, and left this pair of clothes, and the rest of me that you see here in the ward, to take care of Anti-Christ, and keep the devil out of the bath room. I saw Russell J., and threw off my coat to flog him, when he wanted to treat. So I thought I would wait—went with him into the distillery, saw it standing there, and asked, ‘Is this poison?’ and drank a jug of whisky; blowed up R. V. for following me round; didn’t have time to marry the widow, or wring brother A.’s nose—they wouldn’t let me alone enough; went down to the village, got some ale, and then came right home.
“I did not see any body on the road—I was so high up; came with the pigeons; they were a-cheering me—ha! ha! ha!---and didn’t make no time at all; I got home first; I’m going back again to-morrow. The whisky was rotgut; will knock that distiller’s face all to blazes!—it made my head swim—run against the lightning, which singed my whiskers—colored ‘em red. The truth is, Docs, they are all crazy.”
To sum up, we have the positive testimony of ten or more reliable men, who had known him for years, that Alex was in R. county on or about 27th February, and the slightly unconnected, but corroborating narrative of Alex himself, who is yearning to substantiate, at any time, by an unlimited number of oaths, some of them not altogether free from profanity.
On the other hand, the officers of the Hospital, and at least twenty others connected with the institution, will solemnly affirm that they have seen and conversed with Alex two or three times every day for nine months. If this is a case of mistaken identity, it is singular that so many persons should be deceived, and at the same time have such an entire conviction that they are not mistaken. Many a man has been hung on evidence as to his person, much less conclusive. If it is a case of spiritualism, it is somewhat in advance of even modern psychology. If it is an instance of rapid locomotion, the last improvement in transit of passengers has not got round much.
Drawing the hint from Alex’s closing remark, as quoted above, I would suggest that it is a case of morbid mental manifestation—that there is a floating delusion, contagious in its nature, which effects one and the other of the parties alternately; flying from Alex to his county, and from the county to Alex in an uncommonly short space of time.
-Col. Muzze
So. What are we to make of this? As I have mentioned before, 19th century papers were lousy with wild pieces of fiction presented as legitimate news, and that damnable habit of veiling identities with initials makes it impossible to tell if most of the people in this story even existed. (For what it's worth, James S. Athon was indeed the superintendent of the Indiana Hospital For the Insane from 1853-64.) On the other hand, there have been surprisingly well-documented cases of people "appearing" in two places at once, which suggests this story is not entirely impossible.
A genuine doppelganger case? A newspaper hoax? It's your call.
On January 8, 1902, a man who gave his name as “C. B. Hawkins” leased an empty house on San Francisco’s Sutter Street. He paid a month’s rent in advance. He then visited a furniture store, where he bought just enough to temporarily furnish one room. He had an odd demand: his purchases had to be delivered that very night, or the deal was off. The store owner was surprised, and not terribly pleased, by these terms, but not wanting to lose the sale, he agreed. The next day, Hawkins went to another establishment, purchasing a second-hand bed and a cheap chair. He had the furniture arranged in a small room in the back of his new home’s second story, leaving the rest of the house empty.
Everything was ready.
On January 10, a fifteen year old girl named Eleanor "Nora" Fuller answered a job advertisement she found in the “San Francisco Chronicle”: “Young girl to take care of baby; good home and good wages.” The next day, she received a postcard from the man who placed the ad, who gave his name as “John Bennett.” He asked her to meet him at a local restaurant at either one or six o’clock that day. At five, Fuller left her home to meet her new employer. An hour later, she phoned home to say that she was at Bennett’s residence at 1500 Geary Street, and he wanted her to start work immediately. Mrs. Fuller told her to come home; she could begin her job on Monday. The girl agreed.
That was the last her mother—or anyone else—ever heard from Nora Fuller.
Ad answered by Nora Fuller. Via Newspapers.com
For reasons unknown to us, Mrs. Fuller waited an entire week to tell the police her daughter had disappeared. Perhaps she would have gone to them sooner had she known what Nora herself must have realized by the time she phoned—1500 Geary Street was a vacant lot.
The proprietor of a local eatery called the Popular Restaurant later recalled that at five-thirty on the evening Nora disappeared, a man who had frequented the establishment for many years—known to him only as “Tenderloin” because that was all this customer ever ate—told him that a young girl was on her way there, and could the proprietor send her to his table when she arrived? “Tenderloin” waited with visible impatience for about half-an-hour, then finally went outside where he presumably met her. That was the last time he had been seen at the restaurant.
Fuller’s disappearance remained a mystery for a month, until the lease expired on the home “C. B. Hawkins” had rented. On February 8, an inspector for the real estate brokers who owned the house came by to make sure it was in shape for new residents. It all looked quite in order until he looked into the small room on the second floor. On the second-hand bed “Hawkins” had purchased was the naked body of a dead young woman. She had been raped, strangled, and “frightfully mutilated.”
Nora Fuller had finally been found.
It did not take the police long to establish that the man who rented the house, the man who placed the babysitting ad, and “Tenderloin” must have been one and the same. The question is, who was he?
A search of the room where the girl was killed was fruitless. All they found other than the victim’s clothes and purse were a cigar butt, a half-empty bottle of whisky, (the autopsy showed that Fuller drank alcohol soon before her death,) and some junk mail addressed to “Mrs. C. B. Hawkins.” The postcard Nora received from her murderer was never found.
The inquest into her death was equally inconclusive. The most interesting testimony was offered by one of Fuller’s friends, a Madge Graham. She startled everyone by declaring that Fuller had a secret boyfriend, a much older man named Bennett. She believed the newspaper ad Fuller answered was just a ruse to fool the girl’s mother. Graham said that on one occasion, Nora had asked her to tell Mrs. Fuller that the two of them were going to the theater together, when in reality she was seeing “Bennett.” Corroboration of her claims was offered by a local grocer, who said that Fuller had often come into his store to phone someone at a hotel. Another friend of Fuller’s recollected seeing her in a local park with a man who matched the descriptions given of "C.B. Hawkins." Nora was stage-struck, and dreamed of becoming an actress. There were some suggestions that the mysterious “Bennett” had presented himself to the girl as someone who could help launch her theatrical career. No one at the time appeared to take Graham's story very seriously, which is surprising, because it would explain much about this peculiar case—most notably, Nora’s otherwise inexplicable unconcern when she inevitably discovered that “John Bennett’s” home address did not exist.
The closest thing to a lead the police ever got in Fuller’s murder came when it reached their attention that a bookkeeper named Charles B. Hadley had stolen money from his firm and disappeared. His girlfriend, Ollie Blasier, told investigators that his handwriting resembled a facsimile of the signature of “C. B. Hawkins” that had appeared in newspapers.
Hadley and Blasier had clearly not parted on the best of terms. She went on to eagerly tell investigators—not to mention the press—that before he vanished, Hadley had intently read articles about Fuller’s disappearance, which “greatly disturbed” him. She had found some garments of his that had blood on them, he was very partial to tenderloin, and, in short, she was convinced he was a murderer. The police became even more interested when they learned that Hadley was wanted for embezzlement in Minneapolis, under the name of “Charles Start.”
Blasier’s revelations—whether they were true or examples of a disgruntled ex-girlfriend seeking revenge—proved to be…absolutely no help whatsoever. A hunt was made for Hadley, but the errant clerk had vanished, never to be found. Even if the authorities had tracked him down, it is very uncertain whether they would have found a murderer.
As an aside, I doubt this was "Bennett's" first--or last--homicide. Fuller's death was so obviously, chillingly, pre-planned, with an almost ritualistic air, that I find myself wondering if the poor girl fell into the hands of some unknown early serial killer. Just some food for grim thought.
In any case, the dreadful death of Nora Fuller remains one of San Francisco’s most haunting mysteries.
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