AXIS OF EGO - The American Conquest of California

I urge those who still adhere to the “Great Man” theory of history, to consider what historian T.H. Watkins has called the “low comedy…” of the American conquest of California. There wasn’t a “Great” man in the entire cast, despite having three chances at one. In fact, the second act was almost reduced to slapstick, thanks largely to Marine Lieutenant Archibald Gillespie.

The curtain on Act One of our little farce came down grandly on 11 August, 1847, when the United States captured Los Angeles with little more than a band playing “Yankee Doodle”. Sacramento, Monterey and San Diego had already succumbed to the Americans. After decades of intermittent and ineffective government from Mexico, the 3,000 citizens of the pueblo of Angles were optimistic about joining the “Norteamericanos”.  But after just three weeks they had to abandon command of the largest town in California to the oversight of Lt. Gillespie and his forty volunteers, whereupon “Archie” proved to be a far better Lieutenant than he was an Alcalde - or Mayor.

Gillespie was arrogant and not very bright, and had never had an independent command before. Instead of trying to bond with the community leaders, this popinjay bullied and blustered and placed the town under martial law.  His curfew starved the stores and cantinas surrounding the plaza until their cash flow resembled the usually anemic L.A. River.   Homes were searched and personal belongings were confiscated.  Anyone who tried to reason with Gillespie was arrested. Finally, on the night of 23 September, 1847, when a group of drunken Angelinos got into a fight with some drunken soldiers, the Lieutenant panicked and retreated to a hill top fort overlooking the town.

Unfortunately the fort had no water supply. And this combination of American arrogance and stupidity swelled the ranks of the Californian rebels’ with self confidence. Their numbers rose to 400. On 8 October, 1847 Gillespie was forced to quit the waterless “Fort Monroe”.  End of Act II. Gillespie and his 40 men retreated to San Pedro, where he recruited seamen and marines from a naval sloop.  But when they advanced on L.A., 150 picadors drove them off again. (The “greasers” were short on guns and powder, but not brains or courage.) Towns all across southern California now staged their own revolts, and suddenly the American conquest of California, an accomplished fact in mid-August, was in doubt all over again.

Two men rode to Gillespie’s rescue. One was a dull, journeyman soldier with a real talent for carrying a grudge, Brigadier General Stephen Kearny (pronounced 'Karney'),  known as the Father of American Cavalry. He was marching west with 300 dragons after having conquered New Mexico. The other man was Colonel John C. Fremont, who had an actor’s sense of direction and a soldier’s sense of subtly, and would prove to be one of the luckiest idiots in American history. Fremont was currently in Monterey, commanding the 500 barflies of the “California Battalion”, right now the single largest land force West of the Colorado River.  Informed of Gillespie’s retreat, Fremont immediately set off for Los Angeles with about 150 of his more sober warriors.

Meanwhile out in the parched, wind swept California high desert, the exhausted General Kearny had run into Kit Carson, who informed him that California was already conquered. Relieved, Kearny sent 200 of his dragoons back to Santa Fe, and resumed his march west with just 100 men. But then he ran into Gillespie, with the story of the uprising in Los Angeles.

Gillespie assured Kearny that the Californians had almost no guns, were disorganized and could be easily bullied by real soldiers. What followed was the battle of San Pasqual, which ended with a half dozen American dead and both Kearny and Gillespie wounded, (Kearny losing an arm) and the Americans trapped atop a waterless Mesa. I suspect the site was chosen by Gillespie.  They were rescued only when Kit Carson made a daring escape under fire and returned with navy reinforcements from San Diego. Needless to say, after that everybody stopped taking any advice from Gillespie.

Meanwhile Fremont had been marching down the coast, reasserting American dominance like an avenging angel, sort of. There was no fighting. There was no shooting. There were no flaming haciendas.

And most important of all, after peacefully occupying San Luis Obispo on 14 December, 1847, Fremont was met not by an opposing army but by the lovely Dona Ruiz, married to the cousin of Andres Pico, the last Mexican commander of the Californians. She was the perfect weapon for the operation.  Lovely, smart and sophisticated, she seduced Fremont into considering the possibility of a peace treaty with the rebellious natives who had just violated an earlier treaty.

Three weeks later Kearney was approaching the San Gabriel River, marching northward towards Los Angeles. He was now leading a force of 550 sailors and his surviving dragoons. He found his route blocked by about 300 Californian picadors. Kearney had just ordered his cannon to unlimber, when he as countermanded by Commodore Stockton, who had just arrived on the scene and commanded the U.S. Navy in these parts. Technically, Kearney was in command of all land forces while Stockton was just as an observer. But all the gunners were sailors, and rather than argue the point Kearney decided to ignore the troublesome Stockton and waded his infantry across the knee deep river.  After Kearney's men fired off a few rounds, the Californians retreated.

Two days later, on 9 January, 1848 came the real fighting at the battle of La Mesa. All day the Californians rode around the Americans, looking for an opening, and finding none. They suffered 15 dead and 25 wounded, to 1 dead and 5 wounded Americans. The Californians abandoned Los Angeles and retreated to Pasadena.

On 10 January,  1848 American forces entered Los Angeles for the second time.  Gillespie was allowed to raise the flag over the post he had squandered, after which he was quietly kept out of sight because, as another Lieutenant recorded, “The streets were full of desperate and drunken fellows, who…saluted us with every item of reproach.”  And I think we can all imagine just what kind of salute that was.  Commodore Stockton immediately sent a rider north to find Fremont with the good news. The Pathfinder was easy to find, just over the Cahuenga Pass, in the San Fernando Valley.

And it was there that Dona Ruiz had reappeared. Dona arranged a meeting between her uncle-in-law, Californian commander Andres Pico, and General Fremont, at a humble six room adobe with the ostentatious title of Campo de Cahuenga. As Fremont explained, “The next morning (13 January, 1848) …in a conference with Don Andreas, the important features of a treaty of capitulation were agreed upon…”

The treaty, signed at a kitchen table, was what might be called “generous”.  After turning over all their “artillery and public arms”, of which they had almost none, the Californians could either go home, or they could go south to fight the Americans again, in Mexico. They would not be required to take an oath of allegiance to the United States until a peace treaty was officially signed with Mexico, at some time in the future. The Californians were so pleased with the treaty they threw a 3 day fiesta for Fremont and his men. Appropriately enough, the reconstructed Campo de Cahuenga sits on Lankershim Boulevard, in North Hollywood, at the foot of Universal Studios Amusement Park. And on the bottom of a drawer in that kitchen table, amongst a list of far more important signatures, is my own humble name. But I am getting ahead of myself…

General Kearney was not pleased with the treaty. As the ranking field commander he should have been the one to negotiate and sign it. His men had done all the fighting. He had lost an arm to the Californians. That had left him a little grumpy. Nor was he happy to hear that Commodore Stockton now took it upon himself to appoint Fremont as the new governor of California; especially since he, Kearny, carried a Presidential appointment making himself the governor. There was a lot of ego in the air over the next few weeks, until Kearney finally forced Fremont to acknowledge that legally Kearney was the governor.

He wasn’t governor for long, though. Kearney was ordered to return to Washington to explain what the hell had happened. And not having much trust in the United States Navy - for some reason - he made his return overland. But remember what I said about the General knowing how to carry a grudge? He now unloaded it. One of Kearney’s last acts as governor was to order Fremont to return with him, overland. That would take a couple of months.  And as soon as “The Pathfinder” reached Kansas, General Kearney had him arrested and court-martialed for insubordination. Fremont was convicted and discharged from the army before Kearney even got to Washington.

Kearney was promoted and sent south to take part in the conquest of Mexico. Unfortunately, before he could reach the “Halls of Montezuma”, the general contracted Yellow Fever, He returned to his home in St. Louis where he died in October of 1848 at the age of 54. It had been a very busy year for the General.

And now I have to remind you about Fremont being a lucky idiot. Forced out of the army, Fremont moved with his wife to California where, later in 1848 he bought some land. And guess what; in 1849 about $10 million worth of gold was found on his property.  Not by him, if course. But that is not yet the lucky part. Fremont became rich enough that in 1856 he could afford to be the first Republican candidate for President. He lost. And then in 1860 the second Republican candidate for president was Abraham Lincoln. And he won. and thus Fremont did not want to deal the civil war. So you see how lucky he was.

Oh, and Gillespie? After driving Los Angeles into rebellion, history pretty much dumped him like a hot potato. He retired a Captain before the civil war. And nobody wanted him to contribute to that hot bag of manure. He became a businessman and died in San Francisco in August of 1873.

He was almost forgotten entirely, but during World War II, the U.S. navy built so many ships they decided to name one of them, a destroyer, after Lt. Gillespie. The DD-609 performed heroic service through out the war, earned nine battle stars and was then mothballed until 1971. Two years later she became a target hulk.  I think it would be a good idea for all future candidates for the title "Great Man" to keep in mind the ultimate fate of the U.S.S. Gillespie - sunk by her own navy.

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THE AMERICAN TALE The Constant Ponzi Scheme

I am certain you have heard of that great criminal partnership, The James-Younger gang, which stole $209,000.00 over the decade between 1866 and 1876- a little over twenty million  in 2020 dollars.  But they were amatures compared to the Wall Street hustler William Miller.  But although he stole far more money, he would have remained another anonymous thief if he had never fallen under the influence of the professional, Robert Ammon.

William F. Miller was living proof of the ancient maxim that upon finding yourself in a hole, you should stop digging. In the late winter of 1898 he was a twenty-six year old, a “small, pale young man” working out of space rented in a grocery on the corner of Marcy and Park Avenues in the then wealthy Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. Every night William took the elevated train north along Marcy Avenue and then walked to his apartment at 144 Floyd Street, a three story tenement house in the Williamsburg working class slums.  Around him, wedged between factories and breweries, lived some 200,000 second generation German-Americans, each of them, like William, sharing what Thoreau described as “lives of quiet desperation”.

William attended church regularly. He was the father of two 14 year old boys, John and Louis. He was a dreamer. He was a failure.  His wife was ill. And if she had known the truth of William's business acumen, she would have been sicker. William had lost the family nest egg buying and selling stocks in an illegal “bucket” shop, where the profits were made by separating the original “day traders” from their cash. To maintain the image he had of himself, William told his friends that, in fact, he had recently made valuable business connections on Wall Street, and now had the inside “dope”and would soon be rich. The owner of the grocery William rented space from must have felt sorry for the lad, because on Wednesday, 20 April, 1898, he invested $10 in William's dreams. William even wrote him the following receipt; “Received from Mr. Gus. Brandt; the sum of ten dollars ($10.00) for a one share interest in the “Franklin Syndicate”. Principal guarantied against loss, and may be withdrawn at any time. Dividends to be paid weekly in sums of one dollar and upwards per share until principal is withdrawn. Signed, William F. Miller.”

On Friday, Mr. Brandt handed him another “investment” of $10. Brandt must have expected, William invested the money in food and rent for his family. And he might have. But on Monday morning William was careful to pay Mr. Brandt $2, which he called a “dividend”. After this apparent success was made known to his fellow employees, and his neighborhood friends, William found himself suddenly afloat in small “investments”.  And each Monday William would personally deliver the “dividends” to his “customers”. By June, even the practical, pragmatic businessman Mr. Brandt was convinced. He invested $100 in William’s “Franklyn Syndicate”.  In Brooklyn the boy was earning a reputation as a financial wizard. . He was overheard on the grocery store’s "pay" telephone arguing with J.P. Morgan, and other Wall Street magicians. Of course, these were imaginary conversations, play acting. But they hint that William was desperate to convince his peers of his success. Rather than making money, that seems to have been William's real goal.

With growing confidence, and desperate to bring in enough money to meet his weekly dividend requirements, William began to make the rounds of the brokerage houses on “The Street” trying to sell his new investment plan to the professional thieves. He found no takers until, eventually, his rounds led him to the offices of Robert “Bob” Ammon, a Wall Street lawyer with a reputation as advisor to swindlers and confidence men, of which there were on the Wall Street of 1898, no fewer than there are today. Bob Ammon towered over the shallow youth, physically as well as intellectually. He perceived instantly what William was actually selling. He had sold it himself a number of times. But Williams’s “Franklyn Syndicate” had one distinct advantage over all ones Bob had executed; it had William himself as the front man.

Taking the boy in hand, Bob Ammon agreed to act as the lawyer and agent for his “Franklyn Syndicate”. He began by making up a list of 1,488 of his previous victims, er, customers, and sent each one the following telegram, collect; "To my Depositors: Owing to the enormous success of the Franklin Syndicate, and to the urgent request of a large majority of my depositors, I have decided to incorporate the Franklin Syndicate on December 2nd next, with a capital of $1,000,000….As all depositors are entitled to stock certificates in the corporation, it will be necessary to compare the receipts you now hold with my books, and just as soon as I receive your receipts I will immediately send you your stock certificate to which you are entitled…It is my belief that the Franklin Syndicate shares will be selling at $400 to $500 a share before March 1st next. (But) after December 2nd…I shall open no new accounts for less than $50. All accounts which I now have of less than $50, will have to deposit sufficient to make their account $50…Yours very truly, William F. Miller.
P. S. …it is the intention of the Franklin Syndicate (Incorporated) to continue paying 10% a week.”

Now, none of those receiving this telegram had ever heard of the Franklyn Syndicate, nor of William Miller, before. Most who were suckered into paying for the honor of being offered the scam, either laughed at the impertinence, or cursed their own folly and crumpled the telegram into a ball and threw it away. But several hundred were intrigued enough to wonder who was this man Miller, who claimed to be able to pay 10% interest in a week – 520% interest in a year. Some were so intrigued they immediately sent cash by return post to the offices of the Franklyn Syndicate. A few even  felt the need to deliver their money directly to 144 Floyd Street, Brooklyn.

Under Bob Ammon’s guidance, William had taken over the entire third floor of the building , and hired a staff of twenty-two to open the cash bearing envelopes, and greet the mobs of optimistic investors eager to hand over their meager savings. The staff spent their time making bank deposits and writing dividend checks. Mr. Brandt was encouraged to write a letter detailing his previous profits from the Syndicate. Articles, were placed in 700 newspapers nationwide, under the headline, “Wall Street Astonished. Franklin Syndicate a Big Winner.”

In the accompanying article William Miller was referred to as “the Napoleon of Finance”. There was no mention of Bob Ammon anywhere, of course.  In a follow up letter to investors, William explained, “"…you know there must be a way where one can double their money in a short time, or else there would be no Jay Gould, Vanderbilt…and other millionaires and syndicates who have made their fortune in Wall street starting with almost nothing….The equilibrata of Wall Street is maintained by the fluctuations between the vast army of losers and the privileged few who win…Our 'inside tips' are from the fountain head of speculative interests, and never fail us. This advantage we not only possess here, but over the Washington wire as well.” Of course William had merely signed the letter. It had been written by Bob Ammon.

By the end of October the Franklyn Syndicate was taking in something between $80,000 and $160,000 (today’s equivalent would be $1.5 million to $3.7 million) per week. But the business practises of the Syndicate were unusual enough that two banks closed their accounts, and most others simply refused to do business with them. The press were beginning to get suspicious, as well, correctly identifying the entire project as a pyramid scheme. Bob Ammon could sense that after a few brief weeks the scam had just about run its course. So one more telegram was issued over William’s name; “We have inside information of a big transaction, to begin Saturday or Monday morning. Big profits. Remit at once so as to receive the profits.” All that week cash poured in to the offices.

The machinations and sudden growth of the syndicate had reduced William to a nervous wreck. Racked by guilt, followed by private detectives (who may have been real or in the employ of the lawyer Ammon), William was ready when, in late November, Bob suggested, “Billy, I think you'll have to make a run for it. The best thing for you is to go to Canada.”

With William’s help, Bob saw that all the funds in the Syndicate’s accounts were now transferred to Bob's private bank account, "to protect them". The total amount was some $250,000 ($25 million today). Then William boarded a train for Canada under an assumed name, and disappeared.

To the investors, and to those outside the scheme, the collapse of the Franklyn Syndicate was sudden and precipitous. It resulted in injury to thousands of lives, Miller’s wife and children being just three more victims. William had left his family protected only by the promised kindness of Bob Ammon. Bob's kindness extended to only $5 a week, and he assured William’s wife that this pittance was all that he could afford.

In fact the syndicate’s funds were safely hidden under Bob’s various nom-de—corporate disguises. And that is the way the story would have ended, except, in December,  the Montreal police arrested William F. Miller.

He was placed on trial in the spring, and convicted of grand larceny. And on 30 April, 1900 William was sentenced to ten years in Sing Sing. And still Miller refused to believe that Bob had betrayed him. To maintain the fraud, Ammon had paid for William’s lawyers, had acted as one himself, and during the trial had increased payments to William’s wife to all of $40 a month. Once the trial was complete and William locked behind the granite walls of Sing Sing, the veil began to slip from poor Miller’s eyes; an infection of tuberculosis helped remove that fantasy.

In 1903 William Miller shuffled his way to the witness stand one more time. He was skeletal. He suffered from a hacking cough. He seemed to be dying. And when he pointed his finger at Bob, the jury believed him.  It helped that William willingly confessed his own crimes, and had helped prosecutors locate $60,000 of the stolen cash that had somehow had slipped through Bob's hands. And it helped that Bob was only charged with receiving $35,000, which was all that could be conclusively proven. Convicted, Bob Ammon got five years in Sing Sing. In exchange for his testimony, William Miller had his sentence commuted to time served.

William Miller did not die of tuberculosis, not right away, anyway. . He never got rich, but he stopped trying to. He got a regular job, as a store clerk. And he dropped out of history. The Miller's became just another average American family, struggling to survive in a world that makes heroes of the wealthy few, who are more than often, the biggest liars and cheaters in America.

Bob Ammon served his time in Sing Sing, and then he too dropped out of history. He became just another average millionaire, living in nation that considers it impolite to inquire how its citizens attained their wealth, but are endlessly curious as to just how much they have.

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BATTLE OF THE BUNNIES- And Napoleon Loses

I believe the legend that the first time French Major-General Louis Berthier met Napoleon Bonaparte, in March of 1786, he confided to a fireside comrade, "I don't know why, but that little bastard scares me."   

He was called "Berthier the Ugly" because his head seemed three times too large for his short squat body.  It also featured a large hook nose that thrust from between his cheeks like a prehistoric parrot's beak.  In addition he was clumsy and given to chewing his fingernails.  Add in a dose of social ineptness, and you had Berthier, the man. But he was also a genius of detail.  He spent his entire adult life in the military, rising through the ranks under the “Old Regime”.   He had fought with distinction under Rochambeau at Yorktown, Virginia in 1781 helping America win their revolution. And then he met his doppelganger - Napoleon Bonaparte.

The young Napoleon was  handsome,. almost pretty. He was of average height, and a firebrand of energy.  At 26 years of age he was already a blazing comet on the French political scene, the fresh faced new man of action.

Meanwhile  42 year old “ugly, little” Berthier,  had survived the revolution by keeping his huge head so low it could not be conveniently guillotined.  But perhaps Berthier sensed impending disaster on that blistery March morning when they first met.  Perhaps on some level he understood that the “Little Corsican” who stood before him would use him over the next 20 years to slaughter a million Frenchmen and three million who would die opposing Napoleon.  I wonder if he also sensed the sacrifice of all those bunnies, as well?  It is a legendary tale, and thus worthy of doubt. But if it ain't true, it ought to be.

Napoleon’s amazing string of victories  began at Montenotte, in Piedmont on 12 April and continued at the bridge at Lodi on 10 May 1796.  Berthier was there beside Napoleon,  sharing the hardships and basking in the reflected glory as Napoleon’s Chief of Staff and then a Marshal of France, organizing the now Emperor Napoleon’s complete victory, at "Austerlitz" in 1805.

By July of 1807 Napoleon was the master of the continent, referred to by his implacable English foes as "The Beast of Europe".  And "Bonney" would not have been half so accomplished if it were not for the efforts of ugly, efficient little Berthier.

And so it was obvious that when the Emperor sought an afternoon’s diversion, a summer picnic and a hunt to celebrate his victory over the Russians and Prussians, it would be short little, ugly little Berthier who would organize the entire event.  Surely the man who had planned  the conquest of nations could arrange a simple afternoon’s hunt.

The humans arrived en mass, like an attack column swarming a defensive position. The Emperor went nowhere alone anymore. A regiment of cavalry stood guard. Messengers arrived and were dispatched forth all day long -  for an Empire run by one man cannot survive long without assurance that the master is always watching, and always watching everything.There were ambassadors and royalty and a dozen Marshals covered in glittering gold braid. There were Generals to carry the Marshals' eyeglasses and purses and fans. There were servants to serve the lunch and keep the Champagne glasses bubbling over. There were chiefs to cook the lamb and fish and chicken Marengo. There were dozens of carriages and wagons to carry them all from their palaces and mansions and back home again. And there were 3,000 caged rabbits hidden in the high grass, wondering when lunch was going to be served.

Once the open air repast was digested the Emperor and his guests put away their knives and Champagne glasses and took up their weapons. Berthier had prepared this too, down to the smallest detail.  Marshal Berthier had attempted to obtain wild rabbits captured locally, but the peasant farmers had been taxed so heavily to pay for all that gold braid, all those cannon and horses and muskets  that they had stripped the local woods and fields of wild rabbits and deer and boar to feed their families.

So the ever resourceful Berthier (That's him in an 'official' painting above, with the reality edited out of him), had ordered every domesticated rabbit in the Paris market bought and transported to be slaughtered.  The fuzzy furry harmless beasts had been fattened in pens and cages all their lives. They were released the afternoon before the hunt, in the chosen field.  And there they waited. There were beaters, to drive the bunnies to the guns, for an Emperor does not have all day to spend stalking his prey. So as the Emperor Napoleon advanced into the field with his musket held at the ready, Berthier gave the signal, and the beaters advanced.  And such was the sight then seen, the likes of which had never been seen before in all of history. And never would be seen again, either.  As one writer described it, the rabbits "...swarmed the emperor’s legs and started climbing up his jacket. Napoleon tried shooing them with his riding crop, as his men grabbed sticks and tried chasing them. The coachmen cracked their bullwhips to scare the siege. But it kept coming. Napoleon retreated...to his carriage." There, according to historian David Chandler, “with a finer understanding of Napoleonic strategy than most of his generals, the rabbit horde divided into two wings and poured around the flanks of the party and headed for the imperial coach.” The flood of bunnies continued—some reportedly leapt into the carriage."
Three thousand Leporidae Oryctolagus cuniculus (European bunny rabbits) charged desperately toward the first human they had seen in 24 hours - humans being the source of all food and warmth in their entire sheltered lives.  The man in the cocked hat must have seemed the answer to a domesticated rabbit’s hopes and prayers after a cold night in the strange, forbidding emptiness of a field. And the mother figure out front was the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.It was a harebrained stampede! If they could have spoken they would have cried out in unison in their little bunny voices, “Take me home, take me home, get me out of here!” But they could not cry out. They could not speak. Bunnies don't talk.

And so what Napoleon saw as he entered the field with “rodenticide” in his heart, were three  thousand bunnies stampeding remorselessly toward him, perhaps with regicide in their hearts.

Where they afflicted with a pestilence? Where they part of a devilish English plot to murder him?  Napoleon had no way of knowing, and little time to decide. But even if the Emperor had suspected the actual cause behind the stamped of cottontails, hunting is not much of a sport when the prey rush you and demand to be butchered en mass.

The servants thrashed at the rabbits with whips.  The ambassadors and royalty snickered behind their lace cuffs. And the loyal Generals and Marshals of France threw their gold braid between the homesick bunnies and their Emperor.  All sacrifice was futile. For the first time in his life (but not the last) the Emperor of Europe, Napoleon I, was forced to retreat to his royal coach, and then to withdraw back within the walls of his palace, tossing stray bunnies out the windows of his carriage as he escaped, his afternoon sport spoiled.It was prescience of the the snowy road home from Moscow, of the night after Waterloo, of the voyage to exile on Elba and then St. Helena. At a time when no human force could stand up to the 'Beast of Europe', Napoleon Bonaparte had been defeated by an army of bunny rabbits.  Vive la Peter Cottontail!  Or so goes the legend.

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