Tennessee's Partner

I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1857 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of "Dungaree Jack"; or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in "Saleratus Bill," so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The Iron Pirate," a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites." Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that it was because a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. "Call yourself Clifford, Sharp, and Company," said the Judge to an unfortunate witness in a mining claim case, "and Clifford, Sharp, and Company you will be until the next mail from the States, and then you'll be anything else that the prosecuting attorney chooses to call you." But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew by any other than this relative title; that he had ever existed as a separate and distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a young person who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his meals. One morning he said something to her which caused her to smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over his head, and to bid him go on with his nonsense. He obeyed, and so charmed her with his madness that the next day they were married. She was a good-looking girl, and proud of her conquest. Tennessee's Partner was equally proud of his. He was simple, trusting, and loved her with a devotion that was touching. He brought her to Sandy Bar, where the devoted couple were looked upon as a novelty. They lived happily together for about a year. Then Tennessee arrived. He was a reckless, handsome, and popular fellow. And it was rumored that he had a history which would not bear investigation. He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In person he was tall, muscular, and agile, with a face rather intellectual than sensual, a forehead broad and low, and a mouth which was singularly pleasant in repose, but which, when he smiled, disclosed a solitary tooth, whose isolation was rendered more conspicuous by the general perfection of the others. He was always well dressed, and exhibited a taste for rich colors and startling effects. The friendship between Tennessee and his partner, which was historic, dated from the time when Tennessee, arriving at Sandy Bar, had relieved his partner of the burden of his wife by taking her away with him. This he did without undue ostentation. Noticing that she was apparently fond of him, by a parity of reasoning, Tennessee took her away. Another man might have waited until the woman had signified her preference, but Tennessee was the stronger man, and he held that they were man and wife, and that she belonged to him. He sent word to his partner that he had gone down the river on a prospecting trip, and took her with him. After an absence of two years he returned alone. He and his partner met without effusion. Tennessee's Partner took the loss of his wife with the same philosophical calmness that he had displayed in acquiring her. He referred to the circumstance, when questioned, as "Tennessee's luck." It was after the failure of the banking-house of Page, Bacon & Co. that Tennessee ventured upon his first real stroke of business. He had been lucky enough to win a considerable sum from the owners of the "Red Dog" claim, and, with this capital, he started a Faro bank. It was characteristic of the man that he never alluded to the past in any way. "Give Tennessee a start," said a Sandy Bar wag, "and he'll play you for your boots, and win 'em." Perhaps the remark was prophetic. For, after a week's run, Tennessee's bank was broken, and a committee of citizens waited upon him, and suggested that he should leave Sandy Bar. He did so, taking with him his partner, who had been his sole confederate and cashier. "It's hard," said Tennessee's Partner, looking back regretfully upon the scene of their recent disaster. "It's hard for me to leave all my friends, and Tennessee here." For he had acquired a new title. He was now known as Tennessee's Partner. As Tennessee's Partner he had followed Tennessee's fortunes. He had shared his perils and his pleasures; his successes and his defeats. He had stood by him when he was flush, and when he was stony broke. He had never complained. He had never reproached him. He had never deserted him. And now, when Tennessee was in trouble, he was still by his side. It was one of those swift, fierce, passionate episodes of Californian life that invest it with a singular picturesqueness. Tennessee had been involved in a quarrel, in which he had shot his antagonist. The man was not dangerously wounded, but Tennessee was arrested. The affair took place in the neighboring town of Red Dog, and Tennessee was confined in the jail of that city. Tennessee's Partner was in despair. He wandered about the streets of Red Dog, a prey to the deepest dejection. He was utterly at a loss what to do. He had no money; he had no friends. He was alone in the world with his sorrow. One day he met the Judge. The Judge was a kind-hearted man, and he was touched by the grief of Tennessee's Partner. He spoke to him kindly, and asked him what he could do for him. Tennessee's Partner told him his story. The Judge listened patiently, and then he said: "My poor fellow, I am afraid that I can do nothing for you. Tennessee is in the hands of the law, and the law must take its course. But I will tell you what I will do. I will go and see Tennessee, and I will talk to him. Perhaps I can persuade him to plead guilty, and throw himself upon the mercy of the court. If he does that, I think I can promise you that his sentence will not be a severe one." Tennessee's Partner thanked the Judge, and went away with a lighter heart. The Judge kept his word. He went to the jail, and he saw Tennessee. He talked to him long and earnestly. He pointed out to him the folly of his conduct, and the certainty of his conviction if he stood his trial. He urged him to plead guilty, and to trust to the mercy of the court.

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Tennessee listened patiently. When the Judge had finished, he said: "Judge, you are a good man, and I thank you for your kindness. But I cannot do what you ask me. I cannot plead guilty, for I am not guilty. I shot the man in self-defense. He attacked me, and I had to defend myself. I am sorry that I shot him, but I could not help it. I will stand my trial, and I will take my chances." The Judge argued with him, but it was in vain. Tennessee was firm. He would not plead guilty. The Judge went away, sorrowful and disappointed. He knew that Tennessee's case was hopeless. He knew that he would be convicted, and that he would be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. The trial came on. Tennessee was defended by a young lawyer, who did his best for him, but the evidence was too strong. The jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and Tennessee was sentenced to be hanged. When the sentence was pronounced, Tennessee's Partner, who had been present in the court-room, uttered a cry of despair, and fell fainting to the floor. He was carried out, and taken to his lodgings. For several days he was very ill. He lay in a sort of stupor, indifferent to everything that was passing around him. He did not seem to know or care that Tennessee was to be hanged. But one morning he awoke, as if from a dream. He seemed to have suddenly recovered his senses. He rose from his bed, dressed himself, and went out. He walked straight to the jail, and asked to see Tennessee. He was admitted to the cell. Tennessee was sitting on his bed, with his head in his hands. He looked up as his partner entered. "Well, old man," he said, "you've come to see the last of me, have you?" "Tennessee," said his partner, "I've come to ask you a favor."

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"A favor?" said Tennessee. "What can I do for you, old man?" "Tennessee," said his partner, "I want you to let me take your place." Tennessee stared at him in amazement. "Take my place?" he said. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said his partner, "that I want you to let me be hanged instead of you." Tennessee looked at him for a moment, and then he burst into a loud laugh. "Well, old man," he said, "you're a trump, you are! But it can't be done. It's impossible." "It's not impossible," said his partner. "I've thought it all out. I'll go to the Judge, and I'll tell him that I'm the man who shot Bill Robbins. I'll tell him that you're innocent, and that I'm the guilty one. He'll believe me, for he knows that I'm your partner, and that I'd do anything for you. And then they'll hang me, and you'll go free." Tennessee looked at him again, and this time there were tears in his eyes. "Partner," he said, "you're the best friend a man ever had. But it can't be done. It's too late. The thing's settled. I'm to be hanged to-morrow morning." "To-morrow morning?" said his partner. "Oh, Tennessee, is there no hope?" "None, old man," said Tennessee. "It's all over with me. But don't you fret. It's not so bad as it seems. I'm not afraid to die. And I'll die like a man." He held out his hand. His partner took it, and pressed it warmly.

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"Good-by, Tennessee," he said. "Good-by, old man," said Tennessee. "And God bless you." The next morning, Tennessee was hanged. His partner was present at the execution. He stood at the foot of the gallows, and watched with tearless eyes the last terrible scene. When it was all over, he turned away, and walked slowly back to his lodgings. He did not speak to any one. He did not seem to see any one. He walked like a man in a dream. He reached his cabin, and entered it. He sat down on the side of his bunk, and buried his face in his hands. He sat there for a long time, motionless and silent. At last he rose, and went to a corner of the cabin, where he kept his pick and shovel. He took them up, and went out. He walked to the little graveyard, on the hillside, where Tennessee was buried. He found the grave, and began to dig. He dug for several hours, until he had made a grave deep enough to hold a coffin. Then he went back to his cabin, and got a rough pine box, which he had made himself. He carried it to the graveyard, and placed it beside the grave. Then he went back to the jail, and asked for the body of Tennessee. It was given to him. He took it in his arms, and carried it to the graveyard. He laid it gently in the coffin, and nailed down the lid. Then he lowered the coffin into the grave, and filled up the grave with earth. When he had finished, he stood for a moment looking at the grave. Then he turned away, and walked slowly back to his cabin. He never spoke of Tennessee again. He never mentioned his name. He seemed to have forgotten him. But he was changed. He was no longer the same man. He was quiet and reserved. He avoided his old companions. He lived alone, and worked hard. He saved his money, and in a few years he had accumulated a considerable sum.

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One day he sold his claim, and went away. No one knew where he went. He was never heard of again. But the people of Sandy Bar did not forget him. They often spoke of him, and of his strange devotion to Tennessee. And they always called him "Tennessee's Partner."