Shabaikai

Bill E. Clarkson

Text © 2014 Bill E. Clarkson

First Edition

Published by BillyBearBooks

San Ramon, California 94582

Billytbear@aol.com

ISBN #’s

978-0-9913109-0-6 hardcover

978-0-9913109-1-3 softcover

978-0-9913109-2-0 ebook

All rights reserved

Editing Mike Valentino

Layout and design Delaney-Designs

This novel is a work based on many historical events and is loosely based on real people. Many of the events, characters and dialoque are STRICTLY the product of the author’s imagination. Such depictions are intended for the entertainment value they might provide the reader.

Acknowledgements

It was during a father/daughter adventure to Russian River with Karen Jessica Clarkson Clay more than six years ago where the seeds of inspiration for this historical novel took root. Her support and encouragement kept the fires burning.

Susie, my darling little wife, and awesome sales executive, allowed me great latitude in performing my honey dos to complete this effort. I owe my heart-felt thanks to her for plot consultations, proof reading and encouragement. Also to my dear friend Carol Bradbrook Anderson for her proof reading and valuable feedback leading to the first printing. She was a little blond girl who sat next to me in Kindergarten. We shared our first adventures in reading at that diminutive oak table. Sally Gene Hanson is also to be commended for her efforts proof reader and researcher.

For the brilliant cover design and formatting of book pages, I am grateful to Pamela of Delaney-Designs who delivered her magic all the way from New Hampshire.

Mike Valentino’s efforts were from Massachusetts. His editing and consultations may have complicated my life, but he assisted me greatly in bringing cohesion to a complicated plot with multiple characters living over a span of seventy years.

To my friends, and longtime members of the Bohemian Club, who have given me a high degree of appreciation for their great institution. I envy their good times and extraordinary friendships.

Dedication

To Guerneville

_______

During my youth, this Township was the epicenter of summer enchantment for all branches of my family.

Preface

Overlooking San Diego Harbor stands the Cabrillo National Monument, established in 1913, to commemorate the first expedition to explore the West Coast of the United States.

On June 27, 1542, Captain Juan Rodriquez Cabrillo left the port of Navidad, Mexico, with his two sailing vessels, each of which he personally designed and built, and set forth on a journey to explore the Terrestrial Paradise then said to be the home of passionate black women and wild animals in harnesses of gold. He provisioned each vessel for a two-year journey.

Though lesser known, Captain Cabrillo’s adventures and accomplishments rival those of Christopher Columbus, Leif Ericson, Ferdinand Magellan, Vasco de Balboa and of course, Sir Francis Drake among others.

The stories about a Terrestrial Paradise would most likely be chalked up to the folklore of bottled spirits. Such tall tales were a source of amusement that, after several retellings over a pint of ale, took on the aspects of truth telling. However, pursuing these tales was not the primary objective of Captain Cabrillo, an expert crossbowman who had fought with Conquistador Hernan Cortez and his invading Armada. His calling was of a higher purpose.

Ten years before Cabrillo had established himself as a leading citizen of Guatemala’s primary town, Santiago, and he married that year. He earned his living importing and exporting to Spain and Portugal. His young wife was nursing their second son when an earthquake all but destroyed Santiago and a good deal of Guatemala. His comfortable and prosperous way of life ended in the chaos that followed.

Needing new sources of trading revenue, the Governor, Pedro de Alvarado, dispatched Cabrillo to do exploration and develop trade between Guatemala and the Spice Islands. Cabrillo left as soon as his skilled laborers completed the two vessels under construction in his shipyard and set sail for Navidad, Mexico on the first leg of the trip. There he was to pick up additional crew and provisions. It would be recorded that it was from this port that his historical journey would begin.

To reach his destination he set sail in a northerly direction in what was then known as the Straits of Anian. He arrived in what is now San Diego Bay on September 28, three months later in a land called The Island of California, Cabrillo’s explorations and adventures were later described in a Spanish manuscript entitled Christofel Colonus published in 1671.

It was not known at the time of that publication that during Cabrillo’s cruise up the coast of California that he would pass right by the San Francisco Bay due to foggy weather that would hide the entrance. However, Cabrillo’s log would record that the two vessels would anchor at the mouth of a river that they came very close to passing . An alert watchman serving lookout duty in the barrel that was lashed to the top of the mast shouted out that they had just passed what seemed to be a river running into the ocean. The last quarter of a mile of this river was flowing south to north into the Pacific Ocean and could not be seen until the vessel was well past the entrance.

Cabrillo ordered the ships to turn around and set anchor. Here they would spend a few days exploring the shores of the crooked river they had discovered. They would also replenish their fresh water supplies and trade with local natives who called themselves Pomo. His journal would record that these short, dark skinned natives were friendly and anxious to show off their beautifully woven baskets. He also recorded that these Pomo Indians called the river Shabaikai (Sha-bike-ah), which means snake because it was crooked.

What he would not be able to record was that his crew had walked right by the never-to-be-credited, and totally unknown Ninth Wonder of the World and the grove of trees that would exceed 350 feet in height and would grow so closely together that, for many centuries, sunlight could not reach the floor of this forest except in tiny beams, and only at high noon.

This freak of nature occurred in an area of approximately eight square miles and had the highest concentration of vegetation in the history of the world, called biosphere density. This grove of redwoods was growing in what had once been the bottom of the crooked river until an earthquake caused an upheaval and shoved the water in a different direction, which it had done many thousands of years previously.

This time, as the river water drained away and assumed another course, it left exposed this mostly flat, highly nutrient rich surface of eight square miles. The wind blew seeds from the redwood trees from the surrounding hills that landed on this uniquely fertile plain and was left undisturbed while the vegetation became denser than anywhere else on earth. The forest bed was made up of deep and mossy decomposed vegetation and fallen trees piling up over the centuries. Other than the giant redwoods, almost nothing could grow in this environment except for an occasional dogwood, creeping poison oak and a few varieties of fern. No bears, deer or birds would be found in this area for there was nothing to sustain animal life. It was a perpetual eerie emerald twilight during the day.

At night, there was total blackness for the moon and stars did not exist here. No sounds will be heard from before the time of Christ until axes and saws come creeping toward their majestic reach to the heavens. That will be 330 years later after Cabrillo’s discovery.

The Pomo called it Ciole, (See-oh-lay) meaning Shady Place. The white men, who would come to cut down every single tree, would call it Big Bottom to describe where the 110-mile long river had once flowed before the Ming Dynasty came into being.

A few miles from Big Bottom, now devoid of all these magnificent trees, some of the most powerful men in the world convene for two weeks every year to preserve what is left of the towering redwoods across the river, and to celebrate their friendships. During their annual encampment they also pay homage to the death of their worldly cares during their stay in what is now the Bohemian Grove.

Much of this story takes place in Stump City, which today is known as Guerneville, the gateway to the Bohemian Grove, which provides sanctuary to the group of men who influence events around the world.

Cabrillo and his band of seamen would never know how close they were to discovering the Ninth Wonder of the World. It was truly a case of not seeing the forest for the trees.

Prologue

Lawrence, Kansas 1860

History will record that the roots of the Civil War took seed along the Kansas/ Missouri border where civility broke down giving way to bloody violence long before Fort Sumter was ever fired upon. At issue was the right to own slaves versus the right for all men to be free. When George Washington was President, the discussions on this topic took place at the level of gentlemanly debate. As each successive President took office, the debates became more cantankerous until the election of Abraham Lincoln when any semblance of civility regarding the matter dissolved.

When heinous acts take place among human beings, there should be outrage from the observers. There should be a chorus of disapproval from the community, and appropriate action taken to stem violence.

When do citizens treat outrageous criminal behavior like a mere annoyance? When do people become so impervious, so numb, so immune to murders, rape and violence so outrageous it almost defies an accurate accounting?

The phenomenon seems to take place incrementally until it reaches an apex. This lack of wrath can become contagious, a disease that spreads like wildfire. Where there is lack of exasperation with violence, and failure of appropriate response, the community is sending a message that there is a lack of will to punish. The lack of response becomes a silent acquiescence and emboldens perpetrators.

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis Dante Alighieri 1265 – 1319

Prior to the start of the Civil War, the epicenter of civil unrest lay along the banks of the Missouri River. The Kansas Territory, named after the Kansa Indians, had plantation owners, mostly on the eastern shore, who needed slave labor to maintain their economic security, and Freemen, mostly on the western shore who believed passionately in the anti-slavery cause. The two groups were called Pro-slavers and Jayhawkers. The western bank of the Missouri River would become Kansas City, Kansas and would be populated by predominantly Jayhawker Freemen, the other side Kansas City, Missouri predominately pro-slavers. What had begun as a respectful exchange of opposing views of slave ownership, many years before, had slowly escalated into increasingly violent retaliations for violent attempts to change minds.

This was the essential political and social environment when William Quantrill was born on July 31, 1837 in Dover, Ohio. He was raised by a doting mother and a father with a violent temper prone to harsh beatings inflicted on the boyish antics of young William who would be the oldest of eight children. Only four of the offspring would survive infancy. As a young boy, he liked to nail snakes to a tree and watch them squirm and shoot pigs between the ears to hear them squeal. Despite these gruesome propensities, he was a bright student, which his father begrudgingly acknowledged, his studious ways obviously nurtured by his mother.

He matured into a slight man at five feet nine with sandy colored hair. Below his long Roman nose, he sometimes sported a handlebar mustache that was so sparse that he finally gave up trying to look older.

His first off-the-farm attempt at making a living was teaching school, first in Ohio then Illinois. This proved to be a dissatisfying experience because of the poor compensation and dealing with complaints from parents about his harsh treatment of non-conforming students. He quit teaching, stole a horse, headed to Salt Lake City, Utah, and tried gambling for a living, unsuccessfully. He used an alias of Charlie Hart during his gambling days. To escape his debts he headed to Missouri.

At age 22, he joined a group of Jayhawkers who conducted a raid in Missouri to free some slaves. He later led a group of Confederate pro-slavers to recapture the same slaves, and was paid a bounty from the ‘rightful’ owner. He would repeat versions of this same scam for many months until he joined the Confederate Army when the war broke out. He soon left the army in grey because they didn’t fight ferocious enough.

He formed his own ‘army’ from among malcontents who held grudges against authority and Union sympathizers. His initial band consisted of fifteen men and he held them together by seeing to it that they were well paid, well fed and sexually content. This was accomplished by conducting raids in vulnerable communities in Jayhawker territory, leaving behind murdered men, raped women and burned buildings. His raids were horrific and many areas of the Jayhawker territory lived in terror

His antics were not officially condoned by General Robert E Lee, but were appreciated because the distractions Quantrill’s men caused proved useful to the Confederate cause. Lee’s army also occasionally benefited when Quantrill sent surplus cash and supplies, those his own men did not need at the moment. The Southern forces admired him for these sporadic acts of Confederate support.

Quantrill did not conduct his raids with his entire band of raiders, which by 1860 numbered about 300. He formed small groups, in strike forces, headed by carefully chosen men he trusted. One of these was Bloody Bill Anderson. Both men had recently married; Quantrill, at age 26, to a fifteen year old daughter of an unhappy Confederate father, Anderson to a daughter of a pro-slaver.

While both men were out conducting raids in separate areas with their small guerilla groups, several influential Jayhawker Freemen from Lawrence, Kansas, determining to rein in the terror of the Quantrill Raiders, rounded up some of the known wives of the raiders to try to intimidate them into less violent attacks on their settlements. The dozen women that were rounded up and arrested, Bloody Bill would say, kidnapped, were being held in secret in a hastily constructed building on 14th Avenue and Grand Boulevard in Kansas City, Missouri. Somehow, the roof collapsed and killed four of the women, including Bloody Bill’s wife. Word got out and within days, there would be hell to pay for this.

William Quantrill sat on his horse on Mount Oread overlooking Lawrence, Kansas with 400 men mounted behind him who had been assembling over the last two days. He was quietly contemplating his preparations for the sequence of actions to come. He had reviewed them the previous evening with his seasoned veterans of previous raids. Carefully selected men in the raiding party would take possession of the cash and valuables in the banks. Others were assigned to round up livestock and hold them in an area he had selected east of town. Another group was assigned to take captive black people to be securely tied together by the neck. Rounding up food, supplies and sundry valuables from the townsfolk would be left to the rest of the men. He made it clear to everyone that the banks were off- limits to all but his selected group of men. His preparations for a raid, such as this, did not usually include such specific instructions for their assault on the banks. However, today he had a sound reason for the admonition and highly specific orders.

Quantrill had led his group of men on many raids against Union forces and sympathizers on both sides of the Missouri River for many months. His Raiders had become infamous for their guerilla warfare tactics and their fierce determination to assist the Confederate cause. The standard tactic was to steal all the cash, livestock, valuables and black people from small communities under the pretext of supporting General Lee’s troops. However, they generally kept the lion’s share for themselves.

Not all the men behind him on this infamous day were from his personally hand selected group. Approximately 100 of them had crossed the Missouri River with a different mission in mind. They were comprised mostly of Missouri farmers who were seeking revenge for the deaths of four women killed when the roof of their temporary prison collapsed. This rag tag group had been forming during the previous two days on the outskirts of town. Their mission was an act of retribution against certain people in Lawrence they felt were responsible for the deaths of the captive women. When Quantrill’s Raiders moved through Kansas City on their way to Lawrence, to loot the town’s banks, the rag-tag group just joined up at their rear. Quantrill was not happy, but decided that there was little he could do. He certainly did not want them entering the town before his own men cleaned out the banks.

On August 21, 1863, the sun was just starting to make its appearance and the town of Lawrence was still in deep early morning shadows as its inhabitants began stirring. Quantrill could see faint flickers from oil lamps being lighted.

Quantrill had his sandy colored hair stuffed under a drab, slouched hat and there was nothing remarkable about the rest of his clothing, or high-heeled boots, to distinguish him from the rest of his men. As he sat there, intensely focused on the scene below, there was not a man among them who did not instantly recognize the figure astride the gray dapple horse.

He started moving forward, keeping his mount carefully in check to make as little sound as possible. The others followed. When they came within a hundred yards, Quantrill heard a distant shout coming from the town ahead and knew that they had been seen. That warning cry of discovery was the signal for all to gallop to their appointed tasks at top speed, and the hoops and yells of the charging men immediately alerted the townspeople to arm themselves. The two sides exchanged fire, with the horsemen gaining initial advances.

While the planned attacks commenced on the three banks, and the livestock were being rounded up by that assigned group, the vengeful group of late joiners were taking captives for their own motives. Some of the townsmen were killed outright because of the frantic fight they were putting up to save their families and property from destruction. Those who did not put up resistance, or who fought ineffectively, were to suffer at the hands of the undisciplined raiders.

The men were dragged from their homes and humiliated in front of their families. Some wives were stripped naked, tied to either side their own gateposts, and sexually assaulted from the front and rear while their husbands and children were forced to watch on their hands and knees at gunpoint. Some young girls were forced into oral copulation with their fathers while being raped from the rear. Other variations of unspeakable acts were taking place while Quantrill’s men were in the process of the carefully planned killing of resisters and emptying banks and storm cellars of provisions.

The carnage, perpetrated by the last-to-join group of Raiders, became a challenge to see who could think of the most despicable atrocities for the pathologically aroused onlookers anxious to take their turns at the heinous acts.

One of Quantrill’s men, himself horrified with what his eyes beheld, located him in the house of a wealthy merchant. He was in the process of threatening to cut off his wife’s exposed nipples with his knife if the merchant did not immediately tell him where his valuables were hidden. These threats were seldom carried out because of the stark terror that laid open the most carefully guarded secrets. As his men began loading the man’s valued possessions in burlap sacks, Quantrill was told of the ungodly crimes being carried out in the surrounding streets. He ran out of the house to see for himself what was going on. He was appalled as he saw the aftermath of the assaults against every member of the neighboring families. He ran to the fence of the nearest house and yelled a command to stop the mutilation of a man’s genitals being attempted before a screaming woman held on either side by men who seemed to be having the time of their lives. A man holding a rifle enjoying the scene pointed it at Quantrill’s head.

I wouldn’t interfere, Mr. Quantrill. These boys will get mighty upset if you spoilt their fun.

Quantrill hesitated, then turned and walked away greatly upset by the combined screaming of the husband and wife mixed with the gales of laughter from the men surrounding the horrible scene.

He hustled down the streets and recognized some of his own men in enthusiastic participation in the brutal acts. He was also aware of sporadic gunfire as the attackers tired of their sex torture and shot people through their heads, vaginas, mouths or bellies to watch them die in agony. Quantrill had personally killed over 20 men in his short lifetime, and he had witnessed many deaths during his raids, but even his stomach was retching at the carnage.

He mounted his horse and slowly rode away as the fires were started, which would destroy the town. He had lost control of his men. Reports of the massacre would be spread, and repeated so often, that Quantrill and his Raiders would lose the aura of being Robin Hoods of the South. Instead they would become known as among the bloodiest of sadists. Quantrill’s Raiders began disbanding in the deepening shadow of disgrace. His Raiders would never again be the same effective fighting force.

The Union hired one Edwin Terrell, a guerilla and killer himself, and his force of men to track down Quantrill and the 15 or so men still left in his group. They found them in Taylorsville, Kentucky. Quantrill was shot in the back trying to escape and all his followers put to death in June 1865. Quantrill was age 27.

His death did not end the gruesome violence inside America. Neither did the ending of the Civil War. Some hot spots of violence and corruption would remain in localized areas depending entirely on how much outrage the community was willing to muster. Perhaps the most violent and corrupt area remained along the Missouri River where it all started.

Chapter One

The largest steel plant in the world was built by Andrew Carnegie on the Monongahela River in Homestead, Pennsylvania two miles southeast of Pittsburgh in the late 19th century. It was in full operation, producing record setting amounts of high grade steel when a sixteen-year-old Italian immigrant named Guido Fazzari, sponsored into the Country by his uncle, hired on at the plant as a stoker. When he took his place beside the loading door of the huge blast furnace, he was only one of 3,400 members of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers

Barely five foot eight, he weighed close to 180 pounds and had a neck so thick it was almost impossible to tell where his face ended and his shoulders began. His large hands were callused and hardened by countless hours stoking at the blast furnace. His legs were like tree trunks, conditioned by 12 hours of hard labor six days a week without sitting for rest. He was already married to Estella when he hired on at the plant.

Guido was highly regarded by his union brothers because he never lost a fight and often challenged two or more men to fisticuffs at the local pub after work. One of his friends from work boasted Guido was Tough enough to tackle a buzz saw and give it first bite.

After the plant whistle blew, Guido usually went for a pint of stout beer with his steelworker friends at the nearby Irish pub. Tonight they were laughing loudly; exchanging shoptalk at one side of the long, dark mahogany bar, when Guido heard a commotion from the other end, picked up his glass, and made his way through the crowd to see what was going on. Fights were a regular part of his enjoyment at the Pub and Guido did not want to miss any of the action.

Pushing between two taller men blocking his view, Guido saw a burly man slapping around a smaller man whom Guido recognized as Toby, one of the coke loaders who sometimes worked at his side. The larger man was laughing at the awkward and feeble attempts Toby was offering in self-defense. The bigger man appeared to be enjoying himself greatly. Guido guessed the small group of men cheering him on were Irish because of the similar caps they were wearing.

Guido had seen enough. Stepping between Toby and the bully, he grabbed the wrist of the larger man holding his captive against the bar and twisted him off.

OK, asshole, you have had enough fun with this here guy. Find somebody yer own size to fuck with.

Grimacing with rage, the large man started a roundhouse haymaker toward his head, which Guido easily ducked. At the same time, he swung his own left hook into the ribcage of the wide-open target. The bully let out a loud ooshingsound and slumped to the floor.

Then Guido found himself staggered by a punch on the side of his head. When another blow from hard object bounced off his shoulder. He was under attack by two of the bully’s friends. Guido fell to one knee. Another blow from a fist hit him on the ear and it felt as if the ear was torn.

From his crouching position, Guido could make out the stance of a man in front of him wearing thick leather pants with feet spread well apart for attempting to gain more advantage for his next blow. Seeing a fleeting opportunity for retaliation, Guido balled his huge hand into a tight fist, started an uppercut from floor level, and delivered it directly into the crotch of leather pants. The man made no sound as total paralysis consumed his body and he slumped to the floor.

Guido was now almost standing erect as he started his other fist in the direction of the first attacker and was able to take advantage of a half turn of his body in the process. With the full weight behind his arcing fist, he caught that man full in the face and Guido felt a satisfying shock go up his arm as his knuckles met the softer bone and tissue of the man’s straight, Irish nose. The sound of that blow landing stifled the noise along the bar for a moment as the man’s feet left the floor and he landed flat on his back, driving the air out of him. He rolled over and spat out a tooth driven through his lip. Blood was gushing all over the floor. No one else had moved a muscle because it had all happened so fast. There were three men on the floor and Guido standing erect with blood trickling down from his ear, and a gash on the side of his head.

He grinned and said. Hey, are there any more of yous Irish assholes who wants to join the party?

No one moved or offered resistance. Grinning with satisfaction, he made his way back to his end of the bar, followed by a shaking Toby. Guido’s friends greeted him, pounding his thick arms and shoulders with their calloused hands, and ordered a round of drinks for the house. After the bartender delivered all the drinks, Toby, who was standing on the outskirts of the celebratory group, and thus far had not made a sound, said.Can I please pay for your drinks? he asked with tears of gratitude welled up in his eyes.

Sure you can, Kiddo. Guido said with a grin.

Thanks for helping me out. I have to work with that big jerk every day. He ain’t such a bad guy when he’s sober, but when he drinks he can get a little mean.

Well the next time he gives ya any shit, you tell him to take it up with your friend Guido Fazzari.

They all burst out laughing. Toby made up his mind that his Italian friend needed thanking in a special way, and he had limited resources.

A fcw nights later at the pub, Toby handed Guido a bottle of beer and a gift wrapped in a reddish-brown handkerchief to celebrate the birth of Guido’s first son, Joseph. It was a large belt buckle of cast iron, which his friend had crafted for him personally. It depicted a man with a long stoking handle poking into a furnace. On the back of the buckle, a short iron peg fit into the holes in his thick leather belt. Once Guido attached the buckle to the belt, the method of attachment was invisible from the front. It was the biggest, heaviest belt buckle Guido had ever seen. That belt buckle became Guido’s proudest personal possession, and he would wear it all his life.

Like all of his union Brothers, Guido was incensed when, close to the expiration of their labor contract, the members were asked to suffer an 18% wage cut. Clearly, management wanted to break the union, which they would finally succeed in doing the following year, but not without a fight.

Several days before the contract expiration deadline, the workers staged a wildcat strike. Management responded by putting up a 12-foot high fence around the plant and locked out the union members. Thousands of unionists blocked the gates to keep out scab labor being recruited from as far away as New York. The bloody riots that followed saw beatings and killings on both sides. After several attempts to break through the union barricade, it became apparent that the strikebreakers, professional tough men imported from all over the country, were doomed to failure.

The Governor of Pennsylvania, entrenched in an election year battle, refused to take action to disperse the workers or to escort non-union workers through the gates. The Governor remained neutral, careful to offend neither the workers nor the capitalistic interests in his state. The company, determined to break the union, decided on an even more violent strategy. They turned to the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

This company, which employed private police gathered 316 men and armed them with .30 caliber, lever action rifles, loaded them on barges and ferried them across the river in the middle of the night. Their intention was to break through the union blockade from the inside out with a pre-dawn attack, and from there escort the non-union workers into the plant. If their plan had succeeded, the ensuing slaughter of unionists would have been horrendous. However, the Pinkerton detectives were not able to land on the other side of the river as planned.

Union members had somehow gotten wind of the plan and stationed their own armed men ready to greet them. Guido was among the welcoming committee. He had a borrowed a Springfield lever action rifle and several boxes of ammunition. He stood ready to do his part.

As the Pinkerton barges approached within 50 yards of the plant docks the unionists opened fire. Besieged by such a hail of bullets the men on the barges had little chance of returning fire because they had to take cover.The barge was caught in a back eddy of the river and was out of the current that could have pushed it to safety. The Pinkerton’s were trapped.

The battle raged for three days with no possible rescue allowed. The Pinkertons were a bloody, hungry, smelly mass of humanity when at last they were permitted to throw their guns overboard. They were forced to walk the gauntlet through a pathway formed by union members, which provided the only avenue of escape. Management officials watched helplessly from the rooftop of a nearby building, seething that yet another attempt to rid themselves of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers had failed miserably.

There would be two more attempts to break through the picket lines. Each time the strikebreakers, in growing numbers, would attack with brass knuckles, clubs, pieces of pipe with taped handles and myriad other weapons. The hired hoodlum toughies were under strict orders from management not to kill, but they were to inflict sufficient pain and suffering to drive the picket line away from the gates of the plant.

As the strikebreakers started their approach against the pickets, Guido slipped the belt out of the loops of his pants and wrapped the leather strap around his hand until he had about eighteen inches of belt and the iron buckle swinging freely in his right hand. As many of those toughies were to discover, that belt buckle would prove to be a more fearsome weapon than the brass knuckles, lead pipes and ax handles favored by the strikebreakers. Guido had placed himself at the front of the line and at the last moment, he lunged toward the attackers taking well-aimed short swings with his iron buckle.

Defending against the short, high velocity arcs was impossible. Every compact swing brought screams of pain and blood spattering in all directions. Guido took some blows too, but he savored the taste of his own blood as he accepted strikes on his head that were only partially deflected. However, he was delivering much more pain and mayhem than he was taking.

The attackers soon began to tire; their physical conditioning nowhere near a match for the labor hardened steel workers. After less than two minutes, the attackers started to fall back. Guido was barely breathing hard as he slashed back and forth with the awesome weapon. The attackers were witnessing the frightening havoc the fireplug of a man was able to unleash with little retaliation. There was no defense for that flailing piece of iron that broke arms raised in defense; that sliced through bone and tissue like a knife through warm butter. So many of the attackers were trying to avoid the ferocious swings of Guido’s belt buckle they made themselves vulnerable to the strikers at Guido’s side. The steelmen broke through the line and the Pinkertons began to scatter. Guido could easily outrun most men on his piston-like legs. He pursued those who ran, their backs becoming easy targets. His terrible weapon sliced open head after head until the main body of attackers had fled the scene in terror.

Guido stopped and looked up at the roofs of adjoining buildings and saw men in suits, wearing overcoats and hats, leaning over the edge observing the carnage. He raised his bloody belt over his head and shouted at the top of his lungs, You cowardly bastards, you chicken shit mother fuckers, send us some more of your fuckin scabs and we’ll beat them to a bloody pulp! He raised his right fist. You bastards, you cowardly fuckin bastards, you can’t beat us!

All the time the blood and sweat was stinging his eyes, but his face was a fearsome mask of bloody defiance. The men looking down saw his face, heard his words and silently moved back out of sight.

Four months later, after the Governor had won his bid for re-election, he sent five thousand State Troopers to the steel plant to restore order and get the plant back into operation. Guido was without a job. Many of his union brothers were allowed to return to work, at significantly lower hourly pay, after the union was left bankrupt and so disorganized that it ceased to function.

Guido, and a few others, were arrested and held in a makeshift prison, and were among those facing prosecution for killing and maiming scores of Pinkertons. Guido had not made matters easier for himself because he openly bragged about his marksmanship, and claimed three of the outright killings. He was also among those identified as bashing heads and severely injuring the first wave of strikebreakers during the first few days after the lockout. It appeared Guido was headed for either the death penalty or a long prison term.

However, the plant employed Pinkertons and strikebreakers were guilty of similar acts. Finally, because there were so many incidents of violence and killing on both sides, all prosecutions were dropped in a compromise to put the matter to rest all around. After several weeks of high tension, attempts to restore normal relations the plant finally resumed full production. Guido was never allowed inside the gates again. After many months of struggling to support his family doing casual labor, and with no chance of returning to the steel plant, Guido, his wife Estella, and two-year-old son, Joseph, boarded a train for Kansas City, Missouri. There, Guido was assured, he would find good paying work for which he was well suited.

Chapter Two

Alameda, California

Jesse Wallace, a 25-year-old man enjoying enormous business success, is slightly built and stands almost six feet tall. His sandy brown hair, parted on the right side had a pompadour on the other. His grey-blue eyes always seemed to be twinkling, even though a smile might not be evident. His father, Ernest, had always predicted a successful career for his son. Ernest had said that Jesse had a salesman’s face and pleasant features. Not so good looking that other men might become envious, but striking enough to get second glances from the ladies on occasion. His mother had been a handsome woman according to those who knew her in the days when she was healthy. She passed away when Jesse was nine years old. His father had mentioned pleurisy as the cause of death. All Jesse remembered was his mother coughing and growing incredibly thin. She did not wake up one morning.

His early financial success in life is no accident and is traced to his father, his fraternity, the Pi Lambda Phi and the Bohemian Club. His father had seen to it that he received an education at the University of California and graduated with a degree in mechanical arts, and a membership in the exclusive fraternity and men’s club. Without both he would not have had the opportunities that paved his way in the sale of plumbing supplies, real estate speculation or the automobile business.

Jesse had no idea that he would be in the automobile business when he entered the University of California in 1893. In fact, the word automobile was a word with which Jesse had no familiarity; it did not exist. Employed part-time at Tay-Holbrook, a wholesale plumbing firm in Oakland, while working towards his degree, he had made quite a name for himself even before he graduated.

Jesse’s father had been the General Manager at the Oakland Times-Sun newspaper for over 10 years. Before that, he had worked as a reporter at a San Francisco newspaper. Ernest Wallace had been one of the early journalists who founded the Bohemian Club and started bringing Jesse along to the annual all-male encampments on the outskirts of Guerneville when he was in his second year at Cal. During the informal gatherings, and memorable imbibing sessions, Jesse had made numerous contacts that helped him enormously with his plumbing materials sales career. There, among the oldest redwood trees in the world, Jesse met three major home developers who were putting up new homes in Oakland and Alameda. They had significant plumbing material needs and who best to fill them? The well liked son of one of the original founders of the club.

Having those kinds of contacts gave Jesse a decided edge in becoming the highest producer for his firm, even though he was only part time. Acting on his father’s advice, he had made a commission compensation arrangement with the firm. There were weeks when his paycheck was higher than the managing partner. There was no envy of his results, only praise.

With the knowledge obtained from his developer clients, and the pooling of his own savings, and loans from his father, Jesse began buying residential lots and building Victorian cottages on parcels of land located along the two railroad lines running on Encinal and Lincoln Avenues. He avoided any building sites more than one block from the rail lines. The transportation system in Alameda was considered the best in Northern California and provided fast and inexpensive commuting between his homes and San Francisco, Oakland and Hayward. A new owner of one of his homes could walk to a train in three or four minutes, catch a train, transfer to the Ferry and arrive in San Francisco at the Ferry Building in just under 40 minutes. Alameda was fast becoming the bedroom community of choice for some of the most important families in the Bay Area.

In order to develop homes on pure speculation, he needed to obtain financing from the date he purchased the land until the house was built and sold. This arrangement, called gap financing was obtained from another of his father’s friends he knew from the Bohemian Grove, a prominent San Francisco banker. Having friends with whom you could sit around a campfire and enjoy a few drinks had many advantages.

The Bohemians, or Bohos as they sometimes called themselves, had rules about not doing business during the camping retreats, but there were no restrictions on renewing friendships after the campfires were doused. His friend and his father’s campmate, Joseph Leonard, designed and built so many homes using this same formula that this area of Alameda where Jesse was buying land became known as Leonardsville. Jesse was quite content selling plumbing supplies and spec building modest residential homes while completing his education. He left the work of doing the designing and building to those who were the best at their trade.

Anna Fee was earning her Music degree at Mills College in Oakland when Jesse first laid eyes on her. She was a niece of Joseph Leonard, who was Jesse’s biggest customer. He fell in love with her at first sight at her eighteenth birthday garden party.

Arriving at the Leonard home at the foot of Union Street for the party, Jesse took in the lines of the C. H. Russell design in silent reverence. The home was absolutely magnificent. Jesse was particularly fond of Russell’s work and had him design two of his spec homes to occupy the very desirable lots he had acquired the year before. The three story Queen Ann design for Leonard’s home had majestic spires on three corners of the roof with a dormer window peeking from the highest point of the home facing the Bay, which was lapping at the sand of Leonard’s private beach. The order for the plumbing supplies for this one home alone comprised the largest single order Jesse had submitted to his firm.

The main salon on the first floor facing the Bay had a room length, sparkling white, 30 foot awning which, when fully extended, would provide shade from the afternoon sun. The home was built over a half basement, which was all the water table would allow. The shingles, which covered the entire home, had been custom cut at the Heald and Guerne Mill located right at the end of Stumptown on the shores of Russian River where the railroad flatbeds took on their freight.

Jesse had accompanied Mr. Leonard to place the order on their way into the Bohemian Grove two years earlier. Leonard had causally scribbled out his check paying for the entire order six months before the shipment would arrive by barge in Alameda. Leonard was riding high because he and his partner were completing two homes a month at that point. He confided that the total cost of his new home would exceed $20,000. That was almost unbelievable compared to the average price of $1,500 Jesse charged for the homes he was having built on speculation.

The birthday party for Anna Fee was being held in the elaborate garden, alongside the Bay and in the rear of the home, where he was ushered almost immediately upon arrival. His father, Ernest was already there exchanging pleasantries with the Joe Knowlands; he was the publisher of the rival Oakland Tribune.

Jesse counted over 100 people who came to enjoy the first social event of the season and pay their respects to the attractive young woman standing in the middle of the reception line. Many of those guests had taken the train to the event. Some had driven their buggies and the street in front of the mansion, which ended at the edge of San Francisco Bay, was crowded with handsome, well-groomed horses.

Anna Fee was enchantingly dainty; just over five feet tall and weighing a little over 100 pounds. Her auburn hair, piled attractively on top of her head, was held in place with two pearl incrusted combs. That day she looked far more sophisticated than he would have expected from a college student. But then, students of the prestigious Mills College for Women were highly regarded. There were four other people in front of him as he shuffled along in the line of guests anxious to shake hands with the host and petite guest of honor in her ankle length, white and blue linen and lace gown.

As he approached he felt flushed as she extended her partially gloved hand, the lace of which made her fingers look that much lovelier. She had the artistic hand of a piano player, which Jesse would soon learn she was. After a slight bow of his head, he mumbled something about his pleasure in meeting her and congratulations on her birthday. He never would remember exactly what he had said. She smiled and nodded back. Then he joined his father who had been watching him with interest.

Good afternoon, Jesse. You remember Mr. Knowland don’t you?

Yes, of course. Good afternoon sir, Mrs. Knowland.

Joseph R. Knowland was also a member of the Bohemian Club, but belonged to a camp located some distance from his father’s. The original members were all affiliated with the newspaper industry, although they were now taking in members from the private business sector as well. They had even started accepting exceptionally talented entertainers on an associate member basis. He supposed that this policy was intended to enliven the annual party even more.

Jesse exchanged a few pleasantries with the Knowlands and his father before excusing himself to get a drink. Both men could understand a man’s need for libation since both were Herculean imbibers when relaxing at the Grove. Before he could walk away, his father smiled at him.

Looks like she made quite the impression on you. If you weren’t so busy all the time, I would have been able to tell you about her so you could have acted more like a man than a schoolboy. He teased.

His father had seen the hesitance and awkwardness in his greeting. He had to admit to himself he had misplaced his self-confidence while her beautiful little fingers were touching his hand. Ernest had not missed any of that moment. He had observed that his usually brash and cocky son acted as though he had walked into an invisible wall. The effect had amused him.

Yeah, she made an impression alright. I think I am in love. He grinned as he let his father return to his conversation with Joe Knowland.

He drifted toward the white linen covered refreshment table, behind which three white jacketed servers stood in front of tubs of iced bottles of champagne and large pitchers of what he assumed was lemonade. He found himself standing next to the widow Cohen and nodded his greeting to her. She smiled back and offered her brown-gloved hand. Even though it was quite warm, she wore a dark brown taffeta jacket over a beige blouse and full-length matching taffeta skirt. She looked quite elegant, but then she should.

So nice to see you, Jesse. I understand that you are quite the real estate entrepreneur these days. She smiled.

Jesse accepted the tips of her fingers and smiled warmly. This was quite a woman. She had suffered two tragedies in recent years. Her husband A.A. Cohen, as he preferred to be called, was the developer of one of the two railroads serving the island. His rail tracks had been laid along Lincoln Avenue, which were referred to as the ‘Wide Gage’ rail road. His commuter cars traveled from the private station at his 1095 acre Fernside estate, which was the largest in Alameda, and went the length of the Island to Webster street and then over the bridge to the Alice Street Station in Oakland

His venture was so successful that he was able to sell to the Southern Pacific Railroad Company and then went to work for them as a lawyer with many millions in the bank from the proceeds of sale. He built a new 50-room mansion on his 190 acre estate just a short distance from his original home. That structure was five stories high and had the most modern features, and most stylish furnishing available. Reputedly, it was the largest private residence in the Far West.

He had left for work one morning riding on the Narrow Gage Encinal train enroute to San Francisco and the Southern Pacific Building a short walk from the Ferry Building. He was sitting in the car seat, reading the morning San Francisco Chronicle, when he died of a heart attack.

The second big tragedy occurred 13 years later when their fabulous mansion burned to the ground. Mrs. Cohen continued to live in the original home on Fernside Avenue with one of her sons. She was one of the pillars of Alameda society.

Well, you must have been speaking with father if you have that impression of me. He has made some money investing with me. I think he says things like that to encourage me to try harder. Jesse replied with a modest smile.

Mrs. Cohen lifted her champagne flute to her mouth and smiled over the rim Well, I’m sure that he is very proud of your successes. Isn’t Anna Fee just the most scrumptious looking young thing? I predict that she is going to break a lot of hearts before she settles down. And with that, she took a sip of her Champagne and excused herself to circulate among the other guests.

Jesse turned to look back towards Anna Fee. He was able to get brief glimpses of her smiling face between the gaps of people as they moved about the garden. She was indeed going to break some hearts. At that very moment he committed himself to pursue her seriously.

Over the next several months, he would call on her as often as possible. And, with her family’s full and enthusiastic blessings, would win her heart and marry her the following year.

Chapter Three

By any reasonable measure, the Wallace-Fee wedding was the smash of the Bay Area social agenda. Every daily newspaper in Northern California covered the event, as did several weekly publications from the surrounding towns. The Alameda Times Star estimated that the nuptials at Christ Episcopal Church were attended by over 300 invited guests and perhaps as many more uninvited hoping to be in the proximity of the gathering of societies’ best know people. The cavalcade of rigs headed toward the corner of Grand and Santa Clara Avenues was spectacular, and the gawkers were making the congestion of horses and carriages a challenge for guests navigating towards Christ Church.

The father of the bride-to-be, Clarence Fee, had no comments when he attended the bachelor party Ernest Wallace arranged for his son. He did not even attempt to estimate the throngs attending the boisterous gathering at the Elks Club. He was introduced to many whose names he recognized as being prominent Bay Area businessmen. The elder Wallace included many of his friends from the Bohemian Club and people associated with the newsprint industry. Since no member of the Elks Club was left off the invitation list, the open bar was four deep. Clarence shuddered at the cost of a reception for his only daughter’s wedding.

The birth of daughter Naomi followed a year after their honeymoon spent at the summer cottage owned by the family of one of Ernest’s Bohemian Club friends.

Ernest made no effort to hide Jesse’s deliriously happy home life. He took great delight in suggesting that their enthusiasm for each other seemed to intensify after their daughter was born.

Ernest and Jesse attended frequent weeknight social events at the Bohemian Club where wives were welcome, and they often took Anna along to the Post and Taylor streets building in San Francisco. Jesse took note of the surprisingly warm smiles that went their way. It must have been because of the way they looked at each other and were always holding hands. Ernest took great pleasure in noting the way members greeted his son and lovely wife. It was obvious that they adored each other. Watching them brought back feelings that were a painful reminder of how lonely his life had become since Jesse’s mother died. He wished that circumstances would conspire so that he could meet a new and exciting female companion.

The next twelve years would prove to be idyllic for the much admired couple. Jesse’s business interests in real estate speculation were flourishing while he continued to sell plumbing supplies for Tay-Holbrook.