\u201cTake the pistol, Lane.\u201d Frost nudged an old-fashioned brass single barrel across the desk at his sharp-jawed friend. \u201cOne of those blacklegs is going to start shooting. Then what\u2019ll you do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSame as last time.\u201d Lane squint-smiled with his one good eye.<\/p>\n
\u201cRun.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sam\u2019l Lane was not a man to accept a fight unless it was worth it; and along the lower Cuyahoga in the 1830s, a fight could be for keeps. Specifically, he saw no gain in a physical fight. Unfortunately, his character, principles, and devil-take manner stirred up enemies in his wake like dry leaves after a fast horse. The Cuyahoga valley echoed with the damning of Sam\u2019l Lane.<\/p>\n
The damners wanted action, not debate. And Sam\u2019l Lane\u2019s only weapon was his pen. He became the first biographer of the Cuyahoga.<\/p>\n
To fill in the profile of Brownhead\u2019s life, one needs to use what he wrote of himself, what others wrote of him, and assume the language that must have been used between Brownhead and his loyal friend, Henry Frost — which follows.<\/p>\n
Scarce 19-years-old when he came to Akron in 1834, Lane was already well-traveled. Therefore, the finely attired strangers who inhabited the canal taverns did not impress his worldly eye as they did the local settlers. He\u2019d seen them before in every big town from his home in Connecticut to New Orleans, which pumped these blacklegs up the Mississippi river arteries. To Sam\u2019l Lane, the ruffle shirts, plug hats, kid gloves, and bejeweled fingers were the plumage of gamblers, counterfeiters, and thieves.<\/p>\n
Four years in canal-bustling Akron grew Lane\u2019s first fringe of chin whiskers and his first head of real anger. While still practicing his trade of sign and house painter, he took up the pen to write a little semiweekly newspaper that voiced his opinions of blackleg activity and life in general.<\/p>\n
While Lane\u2019s pen flushed out coveys of blacklegs, it was a poor defense against their bullets, bludgeons, and bare knuckles.<\/p>\n
\u201cDammit, Lane, you were lucky to get off with only one buttoned-up eye!\u201d exploded Frost. \u201cYou\u2019re tweaking the nose of every gambler, saloonkeeper, counterfeiter b\u2019hoy, thief, pickpocket, and. . .<\/p>\n
\u201c. . . con man,\u201d added Lane.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd to top it off,\u201d bellowed Frost, \u201cyou even dig at law-abiding citizens.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNow, Henry,\u201d Lane rasped in the harsh Connecticut dialect that characterized his articles in the Buzzard. \u201cUncle Jed sez that a real jolly, nothin\u2019-tu-du-with-polyticks, anti-blackleg, respectable paper will du well here, an\u2019 that\u2019s jist what I\u2019m goin\u2019 tu print.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLane, that phony accent and the false name, Jedediah Brownhead, Esquire, won\u2019t protect you. They know who writes it. Half the town calls you \u2018Jed\u2019 already.\u201d<\/p>\n
This time Frost picked up the heavy little cannon and held it out to his friend. \u201cCareful. It\u2019s loaded.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane squinted down the sights, lining them up through the window at a stem-legged stranger across the street who was ushering an awkward giant farmer into the saloon.<\/p>\n
\u201cBang!\u201d he said. \u201cThere goes another blackleg, compliments of Sam\u2019l Lane.\u201d<\/p>\n
A smile crinkled the wide mouth. With the fringe of whiskers framing the smooth-shaven upper lip, the mouth and jutting cone of a nose, Sam\u2019l Lane came closer to being the clownish Jedediah Brownhead, Esq., than the sophisticated editor of Akron\u2019s much talked about newspaper. Lane gently laid the pistol on the desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cHenry,\u201d he drawled, \u201cI was raised to the occupashun of teechin\u2019 the young idear how to shute. But seein\u2019 as how that\u2019s rather poor bizness in this secshun, I\u2019ve concluded to try my hand at editerin\u2019 awhile.\u201d<\/p>\n
Frost sat as stone faced as the blacklegs did when they read Lane\u2019s humor.<\/p>\n
In booming Akron, blacklegs made no attempts to front their professions, or purpose. It was every man for himself, and while all communities had their reform groups, the general attitude toward transients, upon whom the blacklegs preyed, was that \u201che who gets fleeced should have kept his coat buttoned.\u201d<\/p>\n
The traffic through Akron was heavy. Inland farmers from as far south as the big bend in the canal at Newark shipped north to Akron. They accompanied their farm produce that far north, where it was transferred to boats bound for the mouth of the Cuyahoga. The farmers stayed in Akron to make purchases of goods imported from New York via Cleveland. Very often these men had with them most of their savings. Sometimes they brought with them their land payment money.<\/p>\n
Now these were lonely men who had licked a hundred acres of hardwood and supported with their bare hands life amid nature. For some, it had been several years since they had been among strangers or seen a woman wearing new cloth and bracelets. The big U turn on the Cuyahoga was a bright new world to them, and they were not expecting it to be peopled by predatory blacklegs. They fell easy prey to the friendly smiles of the handsomely clothed people.<\/p>\n
When the witty pen of Jedediah Brownhead, Esq., went after them in his strictly reform paper, the Buzzard, it made good reading. And when people read, they sometimes acted. So with half the state\u2019s blacklegs concentrated right here in the new canal city like gaudy green horseflies on slow-melting sugar, a man could stir up a lot of trouble with hardly tossing a name.<\/p>\n
Along with their dazzling display of high fashion finery, the blacklegs presented an elegant friendliness which bored travelers on the canal packets found overpoweringly attractive. Boston and Peninsula were already favorite haunts during the blackleg working hours. There the boats began the laborious stair-step through the locks to the summit.<\/p>\n
To eat, the passengers often had to disembark and cook their own meals over open fires. This, along with the practice most canalboats had of carrying their spare horses on board, led many passengers to accept the hospitality of the well-dressed strangers, ride with them into Akron for a friendly glass or two to wait until their boat caught up with them on the summit . . . \u201cAnd perhaps a hand of cards or two.\u201d<\/p>\n
This was part of what Sam Lane was determined to clean up. This was what moved the pen of Jedediah Brownhead, Esq., and kept the brickbats flying at Lane\u2019s head. Plain, hard-headed luck kept them from doing damage.<\/p>\n
\u201cSum folks may think, perhaps, that I\u2019ve got a curious name for my paper,\u201d Jed quipped in one issue of the Buzzard. \u201cYou see, a buzzard is a kind of hawk, an\u2019 my Buzzard is near of kin tu the turkey buzzard that I\u2019ve hern tell on way down South where it\u2019s a fine tu kill \u2019em, cause, you see, they remove all the filth and carin from the streets. Now, you see, I calkulate to make my paper prodigous handy in this way. If there\u2019s enny thing wrong goin on, I calkulate to tell on\u2019t, an expose, an endevor to remove newsances and so forth from the city.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Buzzard\u2019s sweeping forages on blacklegs were extremely successful. But Lane had many close squeaks. Pelting with rotten eggs was common. Once he was cowhided for his commentary on a local drunkard and cohort of the blacklegs; but the whip wielder was relatively easy to outrun. She was the drunkard\u2019s wife.<\/p>\n
The buttoned-up eye Lane now displayed to his friend Henry Frost was still tender from the fist of a notorious Negro pugilist and dancer named John Kelley who had attempted to obtain possession of a hall for a \u201cdistreputable exhibition\u201d and had been severely criticized by the Buzzard. Having been knocked to the ground on this occasion, Lane had been saved from a lethal stomping by his own agility at pivoting on his back while keeping his feet toward his attacker — and the timely intervention of bystanders.<\/p>\n
Lane was constantly being lured by invitations into dark alleys, secluded back rooms, and lonely woods by irate blacklegs. It wasn\u2019t common sense that saved him. This was why Henry Frost now pushed the pistol toward Lane, more insistently.<\/p>\n
\u201cLane, you\u2019ve proved you don\u2019t show the white feather. But you\u2019ve also proved wit and words aren\u2019t going to help. Take the pistol.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane stared at the miniature cannon, fingering his beard.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was a barkeep once,\u201d he said. \u201cOnly way I could earn a living.\u201d His right hand reached for the dull gleaming pistol. \u201cThe meanest of all occupations,\u201d he continued, \u201cis that which requires a man to dole out whiskey at three cents a glass when he knows perhaps a whole family is suffering for the bread which should have been bought with the coppers.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane was idly checking the primer. Suddenly he leaned forward, roughly clattering the pistol to the desktop. \u201cSay,\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cThat\u2019d make a good temperance item. \u2018Man\u2019s most miserable occupation.\u2019” He reached for his pen.<\/p>\n
Henry Frost started for the door. \u201cPromise me you\u2019ll carry the pistol?\u201d<\/p>\n
The scratching of his pen on paper drowned out Lane\u2019s soft answer. \u201cLike the barkeep, Henry, a man\u2019s got to live.\u201d<\/p>\n
Only a few days later, with the brass pistol pulling at the skirt pocket of his overcoat, Sam\u2019l Lane called at the Hall Hotel, on business with the landlord\u2019s brother. There were no threats to his person this day — no rotten eggs, no horsewhips, no fist-swinging pugilists.<\/p>\n
Just Dwight Spooner.<\/p>\n
Through drink-puffed eyes, Spooner, a leader, watched the editor bustle through the taproom. Dwight Spooner rubbed the stubble on his face and nodded to other men.<\/p>\n
Half a dozen lounging blacklegs caught the look, and waited with him.<\/p>\n
Lane didn\u2019t keep them waiting long. As he picked his way through the taproom toward the door, Spooner\u2019s hulk rose and blotted out the light. A fist like a hand of bananas knotted around Lane\u2019s collar and he was yanked into mid-air by a yard of beef. Sam\u2019s hand instinctively flew to his hat, keeping it squared on his head. The other dipped into the coat pocket.<\/p>\n
A well-manicured hand, trimmed with starched cuff, fell on his elbow, a hand decorated brightly with several razor-sharp diamonds that can slash a man\u2019s face. A voice hissed in Lane\u2019s ear, \u201cDon\u2019t pull the pistol, Jed, or it\u2019s the end of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane managed to roll his eyes enough to make out the town\u2019s most notorious blackleg. He could also see Spooner\u2019s other fist suspended.<\/p>\n
\u201cLandlord!\u201d choked Lane, quietly withdrawing an empty hand from the pistol pocket. \u201cGive me protection!\u201d<\/p>\n
The landlord smiled, pushed open the front door and turned to Lane who still dangled limply from Spooner\u2019s grip. \u201cIf you are going to fight, gentlemen, do it outside.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane was dragged out.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo ahead, Spooner — mash the polecat!\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane\u2019s right hand sneaked into the coat pocket again.<\/p>\n
Spooner\u2019s eyes glistened. \u201cHow \u2019bout it Jed Brownhead,\u201d he taunted, \u201cshall I strike you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Lane\u2019s hand came out of the pocket, the pistol cocked.<\/p>\n
\u201cShall I mash yer face for you?\u201d<\/p>\n
The pistol was against Spooner\u2019s belt buckle.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can do as you please about it, Dwight,\u201d Lane gasped as calmly as he could. \u201cBut you may feel bad about it afterwards. Real bad.\u201d<\/p>\n
Another hand linked into the crook of Spooner\u2019s arm. \u201cNow hold on, Dwight,\u201d drawled a friendly voice. \u201cYou could get into serious trouble mashin\u2019 up a prominent citizen like J. Brownhead, Esquire, here.\u201d Spooner\u2019s fist wavered. A howl went up from the blacklegs.<\/p>\n
Another friendly voice drifted into Lane\u2019s now pounding eardrums. \u201cLay off, Dwight. There\u2019s nothing to gain by mashing our friend.\u201d The emphasis was threatening. Spooner\u2019s fist dropped a little and his eyes circled the ring of bystanders. The circle was complete — blacklegs on one side, friends of Jed on the other.<\/p>\n
The clamp that bunched Lane\u2019s collar relaxed and, slowly, the pistol was uncocked and slipped into the pocket again. Apparently no one had even seen it.<\/p>\n
But Sam\u2019l Lane had only half an hour to recuperate from big Dwight Spooner. He returned to his office, taking care to place the pistol on a convenient shelf above the editorial table.<\/p>\n
Dwight Spooner was herded into the tavern by the blacklegs. There he filled up with more corn courage and a few proddings.<\/p>\n
Jedediah Brownhead looked up from his editorial as the stumbling thumps scuffed up the stairs to his office. He laid the pen down and took the pistol from its shelf just as the door banged open.<\/p>\n
Spooner swung on the doorframe eyes glistening, \u201cLane! You gonna buzzard me any more?\u201d<\/p>\n
The pistol cocked. Spooner saw it this time.<\/p>\n
\u201cGet out of my office, Spooner, or I\u2019ll buzzard you so you\u2019ll stay buzzarded!\u201d<\/p>\n
Spooner got. Lane stood at the office window, watching the giant disappear down the mud street.<\/p>\n
He chuckled. So, Sam\u2019l Lane — the pen can start a fight, but it takes a pistol to finish it. You might even run for sheriff one day and put some of these pen-scratched principles into action.<\/p>\n
Lane looked hard at the pistol. No need to keep it primed now that danger\u2019s over. With his pen, he pried the wadding from the barrel and shook the charge onto the desk. Out tumbled four large shot, three slugs of lead, and a pile of powder which even to an unpracticed eye was a large mouthful for any pistol, not to mention this one with its old-fashioned brass barrel.<\/p>\n
Sam\u2019l Lane shuddered. In his great concern, Henry Frost had tried to double the protection for his friend. But if the trigger had been pulled, it would have backfired Lane off the earth.<\/p>\n
Sam\u2019l Lane had been carrying a bomb.<\/p>\n
If the experience of very nearly blowing himself from the lives of the blacklegs was any lesson to Sam\u2019l Lane, he never showed it by future caution. His long and varied career was a continual oscillation between the pistol and the pen.<\/p>\n
He served as editor of several publications alternately with terms as sheriff, probate judge, and finally mayor of Akron.<\/p>\n
The same bravado characterized both his pen and his pistols. But he never actually fired. He just used it to protect his pen . . . and this was what people remembered.<\/p>\n
In later years, Lane helped Akron\u2019s Beacon-Journal make a name for itself that continues today; and he wrote perhaps the most detailed book on the embattled Cuyahoga — to which most subsequent regional books are indebted, including this one.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"menu_order":14,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-50","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/50","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/50\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/50\/revisions\/140"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/50\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=50"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=50"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=50"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/the-cuyahoga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=50"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}