“That, sir, is the only retraction I can write.”
“No it isn’t, sir, and if you so much as say so again you do it at your peril, for I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life, and, by ⸻, sir, I don’t pledge myself to spare you even that inch either. I want you to understand I have asked you for a very different paper, and that paper you’ve got to sign.”
“Mr. Winters, I assure you that I do not wish to irritate you, but, at the same time, it is utterly impossible for me to write any other paper than that which I have written. If you are resolved to compel me to sign something, Philip Lynch’s hand must write at your dictation, and if, when written, I can sign it I will do so, but such a document as you say you must have from me, I never can sign. I mean what I say.”
“Well, sir, what’s to be done must be done quickly, for I’ve been here long enough already. I’ll put the thing in another shape (and then pointing to the paper); don’t you know those charges to be false?”
“I do not.”
“Do you know them to be true?”
“Of my own personal knowledge I do not.”
“Why then did you print them?”
“Because rightly considered in their connection they are not charges, but pertinent and useful suggestions in answer to the queries of a correspondent who stated facts which are inexplicable.”
“Don’t you know that I know they are false?”
“If you do, the proper course is simply to deny them and court an investigation.”
“And do you claim the right to make me come out and deny anything you may choose to write and print?”
To that question I think I made no reply, and he then further said:
“Come, now, we’ve talked about the matter long enough. I want your final answer—did you write that article or not?”
“I cannot in honor tell you who wrote it.”
“Did you not see it before it was printed?”
“Most certainly, sir.”
“And did you deem it a fit thing to publish?”
“Most assuredly, sir, or I would never have consented to its appearance. Of its authorship I can say nothing whatever, but for its publication I assume full, sole and personal responsibility.”
“And do you then retract it or not?”
“Mr. Winters, if my refusal to sign such a paper as you have demanded must entail upon me all that your language in this room fairly implies, then I ask a few minutes for prayer.”
“Prayer! ⸻ ⸻ you, this is not your hour for prayer—your time to pray was when you were writing those ⸻ lying charges. Will you sign or not?”
“You already have my answer.”
“What! do you still refuse?”
“I do, sir.”
“Take that, then,” and to my amazement and inexpressible relief he drew only a rawhide instead of what I expected—a bludgeon or pistol. With it, as he spoke, he struck at my left ear downwards, as if to tear it off, and afterwards on the side of the head. As he moved away to get a better chance for a more effective shot, for the first time I gained a chance under peril to rise, and I did so pitying him from the very bottom of my soul, to think that one so naturally capable of true dignity, power and nobility could, by the temptations of this State, and by unfortunate associations and aspirations, be so deeply debased as to find in such brutality anything which he could call satisfaction—but the great hope for us all is in progress and growth, and John B. Winters, I trust, will yet be able to comprehend my feelings.
He continued to beat me with all his great force, until absolutely weary, exhausted and panting for breath. I still adhered to my purpose of nonaggressive defence, and made no other use of my arms than to defend my head and face from further disfigurement. The mere pain arising from the blows he inflicted upon my person was of course transient, and my clothing to some extent deadened its severity, as it now hides all remaining traces.
When I supposed he was through, taking the butt end of his weapon and shaking it in my face, he warned me, if I correctly understood him, of more yet to come, and furthermore said, if ever I again dared introduce his name to print, in either my own or any other public journal, he would cut off my left ear (and I do not think he was jesting) and send me home to my family a visibly mutilated man, to be a standing warning to all low-lived puppies who seek to blackmail gentlemen and to injure their good names. And when he did so operate, he informed me that his implement would not be a whip but a knife.
When he had said this, unaccompanied by Mr. Lynch, as I remember it, he left the room, for I sat down by Mr. Lynch, exclaiming: “The man is mad—he is utterly mad—this step is his ruin—it is a mistake—it would be ungenerous in me, despite of all the ill usage I have here received, to expose him, at least until he has had an opportunity to reflect upon the matter. I shall be in no haste.”
“Winters is very mad just now,” replied Mr. Lynch, “but when he is himself he is one of the finest men I ever met. In fact, he told me the reason he did not meet you upstairs was to spare you the humiliation of a beating in the sight of others.”
I submit that that unguarded remark of Philip Lynch convicts him of having been privy in advance to Mr. Winters’ intentions whatever they may have been, or at least to his meaning to make an assault upon me, but I leave to others to determine how much censure an editor deserves for inveigling a weak, noncombatant man, also a publisher, to a pen of his own to be horsewhipped, if no worse, for the simple printing of
