Excerpt from Read Dead: The Van der Linde Gang's Real Story, by Dr. John (Jack) Marston II
Published September 24, 1946
Beecher's Hope, Blackwater County, Commonwealth of West Elizabeth
Chapter 2: Promise and Peril in the West: The Key Quartet
Before delving more deeply into the Van der Linde Gang's, shall we say, mischief, I would first like to situate them in the world. Though Texas and New Austin are arguably where most of the Old West's excitement occurred, outlaws, bandits, and desperados wandered around every inch of untamed land. Even Saint Denis, which had a population of 447,193 souls as of the 1900 census, was subject to a catastrophic Van der Linde raid the year before (I, myself, was taken in by the city's nascent Italian mafia. Spaghetti is still my favorite food.). That said, "civilization," as Van der Linde dismissed it, was ever on the march.
What had once been concentrated in a few cities on the east coast — New York, Albany, Philadelphia, Boston — was now spreading westward, to states like Ohio, North Elizabeth, and Lemoyne. The railroads were critical in this expansion. In 1845, the western half of the United States had roughly 7,100 miles of track. By the end of the Civil War, this number had grown to 23,000 miles. And by the Van der Linde gang's downfall in 1899, more than 47,000 miles of railroad criss-crossed that part of the country.
The development now reached West Elizabeth and New Hanover. Ambarino and New Austin would follow a decade and a half later, particularly after the invention of climate control. Although the railroads brought the development that Van der Linde so hated, they also brought what he needed most — wealth, which would allegedly be used to buy land out west, if not Tahiti.
That wealth, however, was not for everyone. Despite the rapidly-improving technology and living standards, the west was still a harsh place. California notwithstanding, Saint Denis was the only city west of the Lannahechee River with a population greater than 150,000 until Blackwater surpassed that mark in 1910. Today, Armadillo, Dallas, Houston, San Antonio, Fort Worth, McFarlane City, Rio Bravo City, and Valentine have joined it. But at that time, most of the population lived on small, subsistence farms with few neighbors, and life in general was rather precarious.
The aforementioned outlaws, bandits, and desperados roamed and raided with little regard for life, law, or property. Some, like Colm O'Driscoll, were at least honest — they took because they could. Others, like Van der Linde, were of a more nefarious sort — they deluded themselves into believing they were Robin Hood. Many of the poor bought into the narrative, and suffered a loss of a life and limb as a result. Either way, outlaws pillaged their way across the countryside, destroying whatever institutions and lives the west's small communities had managed to build for themselves. It is a miracle that Blackwater recovered so quickly after the 1899 massacre.
But outlaws were not the only threat to farmers and communities in the west. Diseases like tuberculosis, diphtheria, typhoid fever, cholera, and yellow fever were constant specters. Our generation has nearly, and thankfully, eliminated these illnesses from our shores, but, as much as our youth wish to forget them, the scars still remain. Remember, Arthur Morgan, who was Van der Linde's enforcer from approximately 1880 to mid 1899, died of tuberculosis (not by the Pinkertons as they claimed until the agency was dissolved). I knew him. He taught me how to fish (though according to my mother, I was more interested in the flowers along the riverbank). I am in my early 50s. That's how recent these epidemics were.
An August 7, 1886 diary entry from Emma Bradshaw, a mother of five who lived just outside of Strawberry, West Elizabeth, provides an excellent illustration of the West's fragility and brutality. "Bobby [her husband] died last night. The fever finally got 'em. He'd been sufferin' for weeks, but I guess I always assumed that he would recover. After Mark [her twin brother] was robbed and killed last year, and now this, I dunno how I'm goin' to go on. I can't feed five children by myself. I'm worried. I'm real worried."
Only two of Bradshaw's five children would survive into adulthood. One of those two would be killed in an altercation with Van der Linde outlaw Micah Bell in 1899. Emma herself passed away in 1914. Her remaining son, Kyle, now an older gentleman, was kind enough to assist with this segment of the book.
As much as I attack outlaws in the above paragraphs, they were not, however, utterly irredeemable. In an era in which most communities lacked efficient or effective law enforcement, outlaws occasionally enacted classic vigilante justice. Many rapists and murderers met their ends at an outlaw's hands. For example, the Lemoyne Raiders, who had terrorized the state since the end of the Civil War, killing thousands and causing more than $30 million in damage in 1899 dollars, finally fell to the Van der Lindes in 1899. Isolated patrols were active throughout Lemoyne until the early 1920s, but it was the outlaws who heard their death rattle.
In a way, the rise of the Van der Linde gang closely mirrors cultural depictions of the West more broadly — initially violent and idealistic, but eventually suppressed by the civilization's greedy and avaricious forces. I will go into more detail about each of the gang's "lesser" members later on, but for now, I will highlight each of the original four gunslingers: Dutch van der Linde himself, Hosea Matthews, Arthur Morgan, and my father, John Marston. It is impossible to understand the gang's early years without them.
Dutch van der Linde (his name was slightly on the nose) was born in Abington, Pennsylvania on January 3, 1855 to Saar van der Linde, a carpenter who had immigrated from Rotterdam as a child, and Greta van der Linde nee Summerfield, a homemaker. Saar was killed at the Battle of the Crater in 1864 (Dutch thought it was Gettysburg) — something that left the young Dutch without income or male guidance at a crucial time in his life. Greta, in a letter to her sister, described the boy as "missin' his father terribly," and noted that he "was actin' out at God."
Dutch and his mother never got along, and the boy's misbehavior only intensified. It didn't take long for young Dutch to start making headlines. An article in the June 23, 1867 edition of the Abington Journal reported that "Young Dutch van der Linde stole seven of Mr. John Cook's eggs on Saturday. When questioned why he would commit such a despicable act, the boy responded that Mr. Cook was a 'flapdoodle' who was hoarding food from everyone else. The community hopes that Mrs. Van der Linde will teach her son proper behavior."
Eventually, matters came to a head after Dutch stabbed another boy for disrespecting him. The boy was Milner Higginson, who would eventually become a congressman representing Pennsylvania's 3rd District, and a vocal supporter of the Pinkertons. In any case, the young Van der Linde left Abington for good in 1870. Though the boy was violent, he was far from stupid. The young Van der Linde was well-read for his age, and could quote Hobbes, Locke, and Emerson with ease. Evelyn Miller became Dutch's favorite philosopher (though Dutch arguably misinterpreted Miller), and up until his death, Van der Linde could often be found with a Miller work in hand.
These works instilled in Van der Linde a desire for freedom, autonomy, and financial independence — and he felt that the nation's elite, who greedily hoarded all the wealth, should pay his tab. By force if necessary. It would be safe, and reasonably accurate, to refer to Van der Linde as an anarcho-capitalist. To that end, Van der Linde began his long and destructive criminal career. At first, his criminal activity was generally harmless — pickpocketing, extortion schemes, and petty theft — nothing that would point to his murderous rampages between 1899 and 1911.
Of course, those of you reading this probably knew all that already. Previous histories tell you all about the deeds and exploits of Dutch van der Linde. Here's what they don't say: Dutch had charisma rivaling anyone, and in another life, he would have made a successful preacher. Dutch had a complicated relationship with love, but when he loved, he did so fiercely. During the failed bank robbery in Saint Denis in 1899, Dutch likely sustained a severe concussion, which greatly impaired his later judgment. He was fond of music and dancing, and his camp tents often included the newest phonograph. His favorite food, if his private letters are any indication, was rabbit stew.
I do not include this information to excuse Van der Linde's actions (I have previously been criticized for failing to hide my detest for the man in my writing, and even in the above paragraphs, I do not shy away from it), but to illustrate that he was not a mythical figure. Dutch was a man — an extremely flawed, angry, and violent man, but a man nonetheless. He had likes, dislikes, hobbies, interests, loves, hatreds, and more. Perhaps, under the right circumstances, he would have led a very different life. Perhaps, under the right circumstances, there is a vile outlaw in all of us.
And it was in a strange circumstance — a campfire just outside of Chicago in 1875 — that Dutch met Hosea Matthews for the first time. Much less is known about Matthews' early years, though they certainly seem colorful. We know that Hosea was born in what is now Mountain City, Tennessee on April 30, 1844. He only saw his father, Sebastian Matthews, three times in his life, but was raised in a tough, shrewd, and proud community of mountain men. His mother, Clarissa Matthews, doted on the boy, though her devotion was interpreted by the young Hosea as suppression. A death certificate was filed for her on July 5, 1855, listing tuberculosis as the cause.
At this stage, Hosea disappears from the historical record for a few years. He reappears at the center of an urban legend in the fall of 1858. Local legends say that Matthews was caught stealing a neighbor's chickens (what is it with the Van der Lindes and chickens anyway, Javier Escuella was involved with that too) by Leonard Travis-Douglas, the local county sheriff. Travis-Douglas took an unkind approach to even the littlest crimes, and sentenced Hosea to death without a trial. Just as Matthews was to hang for his dastardly deed, the townsfolk revolted and hung Travis-Douglas instead.
Although this story would certainly be darkly amusing if true, it appears to be fiction. Leonard Travis-Douglas is recorded to have died in 1863 — not 1858, as Matthews would've had you believe — and he was killed by a falling tree rather than an angry mob. This discrepancy, however, should not be surprising. Despite (or perhaps even because of) a failed stint in Shakespearean theater, Hosea was a talented actor and conman who thrived on making up stories. These talents translated to an effective career as a thief and a pickpocket.
As referenced previously, it was at this crossroads where Matthews met Van der Linde in 1875. They each tried to rob one another, and upon discovery of this fact, the two men elected to become friends and comrades instead. Together, the two men traveled around the country, thieving and robbing the unsuspecting wealthy. Their crimes, however, began to escalate. On March 9, 1877, the two men were caught participating in an investment fraud scheme in Kettering, Ohio. The local sheriff imprisoned them, but not for long — somehow, the two men escaped, and the sheriff was left tied up in his own jail cell, relieved of his valuables. Both would refer to this incident as "a hell of a thing" going forward.
In terms of personality, Matthews was everything Van der Linde was not — patient, unassuming, soft-spoken, and thrifty. Those qualities, however, did not make him any less dangerous. He and Van der Linde complemented one another perfectly, which factored into the relative success of their schemes.
It would not be long before the partnership would become a triumvirate. Late in 1877, Matthews and Van der Linde met Arthur Morgan near Minneapolis, Minnesota. Morgan had been born in the area on July 27, 1863. His mother, Ethel Morgan (she went by her middle name, Beatrice), was by all accounts a gentle and doting woman. She passed away from tuberculosis sometime in 1871, and was buried in St. Paul's Oakland Cemetery. Morgan's father, Lyle, was quite the unsavory sort. He was not only an outlaw, but would frequently beat and intimidate his wife and son, leaving emotional scars that never really healed.
In 1874, Lyle Morgan was hanged on a larceny charge, Arthur commented that his father was a "no good bastard" and that his death "weren't soon enough." Nevertheless, Morgan carried a photo of his father, as well as his father's hat, until his own death in 1899. In any case, Arthur would wander around as a wild sort of petty criminal until he was found by Matthews and Van der Linde. The two men took Morgan in, raised him, and taught him how to read, write, ride a horse, and fire a gun. They cultivated a brash, burly, and harsh enforcer — a gunman in every sense of the word, who made the gang's later deeds possible.
Arthur tried desperately to maintain this image, and feared being considered soft, but his journal reveals a very different person. Morgan was a talented sketch artist (samples of his artwork are included in this book's appendix), felt very deeply for his loved ones, had a bitter but witty sense of humor, and found great joy in the outdoors' natural calmness. In one entry, he wrote about how much he valued my mother's [Abigail Marston nee Roberts] friendship, even quipping that he should have married her himself. If Morgan felt a person was worth the effort, he would do everything in his power to save them. He was loved by his friends and hated by his enemies. All, however, even those who hated Morgan the most, respected him.
Before long, Morgan was firmly in on Van der Linde and Matthews' criminal enterprise. Van der Linde began to inculcate the boy in his Robin Hood, anarcho-capitalist ideology (which will be explained in greater detail in Chapter 6), leading Morgan to become fervently devoted to Dutch, considering him (along with Matthews) to be a father figure. Van der Linde would later use this loyalty to his advantage.
Before long, the triumvirate encountered John Marston, my father, for the first time. Pa had never really experienced parental love. My grandmother was a prostitute named Clarissa Rutledge, who appears to have been born and raised in Nova Scotia before moving to New Hanover and then Illinois later in life. She died giving birth to Pa in 1873. My grandfather, Cameron Marston, was a fierce Scots nationalist who was born on the boat to America. He raised Pa for the first several years of his life, though his attention was divided between his son and the bottle. He was stabbed to death in a bar fight outside Edwardsville, Illinois in 1881. Needless to say, my current age of 51 is a rare sight in my family.
With few other options, Pa turned to a life of crime rather quickly. And it was in that state that Van der Linde, Matthews, and Morgan found him in 1885. Pa had already shot a man by that point (he claimed until the day he died that it wasn't his fault — I'm skeptical), but this was the first time he had gotten into real trouble. A few homesteaders in central Illinois had caught him stealing some — you guessed it — chickens, and they planned to hang him. Van der Linde intervened, saved Pa's life, and raised him to be another devoted gunman thereafter.
I have written a lot about my Pa over the years. I'm sure I'll write a lot more going forward. But I'll say this here — my Pa was a barely-literate blockhead who never understood what I liked about books and quiet. He was vain, angry, rarely thought through his choices before (or after) making them, and had an irresistible urge for revenge that indirectly cost him his life. His general inclination was to shoot first and ask questions later, and, though I never told him this, the ease with which he killed people always made me uncomfortable.
But he also had a sharp wit, loved fiercely once he realized that he loved at all, and when he set his mind to something, he approached it with a stubborn ferocity that few could match. Ranching also gave my Pa a new way with words — I never really figured out how that happened, though I think honest business helped him greatly. He was also capable of showing great compassion, though he never truly understood his innate desire to help people, and his positive emotions often confused him. Once he got his act together, he treated my mother (and Christopher Colter [Uncle]) like a princess.
As I said in the case of Dutch van der Linde himself, I include these details not to justify the gang's actions, which were morally repugnant and indefensible, but to illustrate their humanity. We Americans have a tendency to lump everything and everyone into "hero" or "villain," "honorable" or "dishonorable." Such dichotomies detract from the human experience and the moral gray. We may all be greedy, self-interested…shall we say, sons of the fine women of the night, but we are all capable of great good and great evil. The most important things are to understand ourselves and to understand what truly matters.
But enough of that philosophy-talk. You're here for cowboys and plunder. Now that we've established the Van der Linde Gang's key quartet, I will now address their transition from a handful of conmen and petty criminals to a gang in the word's traditional sense.