AN ESCAPE VIA THE GRAVE
By GEORGE ZPARDY
Did Justice Go Wrong in the Case of Luke Phipps?
Tale of a Long
Search, the Disap
pearance of a Crim
inal and the Hanging
of Man by Essex
County Authorities
—An Achievement
of That Master
Sleuth, John Wilson
Murray.
N March, 1884, a man by
the name of Luke Phipps
was the proprietor of a
billiard room in Detroit,
Mich. Phipps was about
34 years of age, of fair
complexion, with brown
hair and a sandy mus
tache. His family con
sisted of his wife and two
children, a boy and a girl.
Mrs. Phipps was a pretty
little woman, apparently
very fond of her husband.
But fate decreed that the serpent of
jealousy should creep into this Eden
of domestic bliss. Mrs. Phipps, with
out the knowledge of her husband, had
been in the habit of making secret
trips across the river to Windsor, and
it chanced that Luke Phipps received
information of this fact. Passionately
devoted to his wife, this discovery fill
ed him with madness. He watched
her carefully and shadowed her move
ments. One fateful night she left her
home and boarded the ferry boat for
Windsor. Close on her heels followed
the infuriated husband, armed, and
under the influence of strong liquor
in which he had been indulging freely
since he had been informed of his
wife’s supposed unfaithfulness.
Not until the boat was well out in
the river and approaching the Can
nadian shore did Phipps reveal him
self to the woman. Angry words
passed between them, the husband
accusing the wife of infidelity. Mrs
Phipps replied harshly and the words
had scarcely left her lips when the
man drew a revolver and fired point
blank at her. The bullet sped true
to the mark and Mrs. Phipps fell to the
deck dead. The murder was witnessed
by a score of passengers and Phipps
was instantly seized. He made no
resistance but meekly gave up the
weapon with which the deed was com
mitted, and when the boat landed at
Windsor was taken in charge by the
Canadian authorities. He was taken
at once to Sandwich jail, three miles
from Windsor, and committed for trial.
Into this ill-omened place of con
finement came Phipps sobered by the
realization of the awful tragedy of
which he had been the author. The
future looked black indeed, for Cana
dian justice frowns grimly upon the
destroyer of human life no matter
what her or his provocation may have
been, and the gloomy shadow of the
gallows loomed threateningly before
him. Among the inmates of Sandwich
jail was one “Bucky” Greenfield, a
professional thief, who like Phipps
was awaiting trial, but on a far less
serious charge. To this man Phipps
was assigned as cell-mate; and glad
to find someone in whom he could con
fide, the wife-slayer told him the story.
As a result of this conference a mys
terious female shortly afterwards paid
a visit to Greenfield and for ten days
following her call Bucky kept close in
his cell. During this interval Luke
Phipps became seized with a mania
for music. He whistled and sang con
tinually in a loud voice for hours at a
time. None of the warders offered
any objeciion. Life in Sandwich jail
was a monotonous existence at the
best, and if a prisoner found comfort
in the sound if his own voice they
saw no particular reason for silencing
him.
The truth of the matter was that
Phipps had resorted to the perform
ance of these nocturnal concerts for
’be purpose of stilling the sounds of
Greenfield’s labors in the coll.
At last the persistent gnawing of the
file conquered' the stubborn resist
ance of the steel bars. They were cut
through and the way of escape lay
open before the prisoners. 1 - the
dead of night the two men slipped out
into the darkness. Greenfield got
through the narrow opening with little
difficulty, but Phipps when half way
through stuck fast.. His comrade tar
r!: d for a few moments making des
perate efforts to extricate him, but
Phipps remained immovable, as
though gripped in a vice. Self preser
'ation being the first law of nature,
i'uoky Greenfield resolved to obey ita
dictates, and seized with sudden panic
1!pd swiftly into the night.
Despair seized the heart of Phipps
m its iCy clutch when his comrade
deserted him. A few seconds passed,
•ind he still lay in the narrow open
nE banting from his exertions. Then
Fell' heap ro^Eno^T into
A NEWLY DUG- GRAVE.
a wild fury filled his veins. He Strug- i
gled savagely, desperately, and finally
tore himself loose with a wrench so
powerful that the momentum hurled
him over the wall, and he fell heav
ily to the ground below. There he lay
for some time, severely bruised and
only half conscious. He was aroused
by hearing Voices in the jail, and stag
gering to his feet dragged himself
away in search of a hiding place.
He came to a graveyard, and as he
crawled along in the darkness, fell
head foremost into a newly dug grave.
Silent he lay without moving, with
fast-closed eyes and rigid body. He
heard a creaking and bumping and
faintly, as though far away, he heard
the harsh rattle of earth falling on
the casket. Yet no weight seemed to
press upon him, but this did not sur
prise him, for he was long past the
stage of astonishment. It was the end,
and nothing mattered now. He heard
the rumble of wheels as the carriages
departed and the footsteps of the
mourners died away.
His awakening came suddenly, ac
companied by a cold thrill of horror,
as his eyes opened upon the utter
darkness. He tried to move, but his
entire frame seemed to be paralyzed.
With a rush of recollection there
crossed his mind the memory of the
burial, the prayer and singing. He
moved his head feebly and through
the hay caught sight of the twinkling
stars. Slowly and with great pain he
managed to rise to a sitting posture.
Where was the coffin, where the sis
feet of earth underneath which it lay?
He staggered to his feet and saw that
the grave he occupied was empty. His
brain whirled madly in a maze of tor
turing conjectures. What did it all
mean? He tried to clamber out. but
fell back exhausted. He lay back on
the hay, rested and tried again. It
was the work of an hour for him to
drag his feeble limbs over the edge of
the pit, but at last he succeeded. Then
the mystery was solved. Close beside
the op?n grave from which he had
emerged a new-made mound stood
darkly in the moonlight. The burial
had indeed taken place, but in t lie
grave adjoining that in which he lay.
The escaped murderer stood up and
laughed hysterically as he looked
around and saw the distant outlines
of Sandwich jail looming black and
gigantic in the moonlight. Rallying his
failing strength he staggered away
from the grave that had been his place
of refuge. On the new-made mound
stood a vase of flowers, and bending
uown weakly, he plucked one and
tossed it into the empty grave.
Then painfully he turned and crept
out of the cemetery, across the road,
through the fields, traveling like an
injured dog, limping on ah fours.
His progress was very slow. His
destination was the river, which he
reached an hour after midnight, and
where he found an old boat, half full
of water. He discovered a piece of
board, crawled into the boat, shoved
off and began to paddle. When dawn
was breaking he reached the American
shore, below Detroit, nine miles down
stream, wet to the skin, wounded,
blood-stained and faint. But he knew
the country round about and made his
way into the city to the home of a
friend, knocked and was taken in,
clothed and fed. When his wounds
were healed and his strength returned,
he left Detroit resolved to enter upon
a new life.
But the Canadian authorities were
not disposed to tamely relinquish the
possession of a prisoner who had
broken their laws and set them at de
fiance. Orders were issued to capture
Phipps, wherever he might be, and
the task of hunting him down was as
signed to Detective John Wilson Mur
ray.
He sent out a description of Phipps
to police headquarters all over the
continent. The fugitive was a billiard
room keeper and Murray calculated
that it would be simply a question of
time until his money gave out and he
would be obliged to look for a job in
a billiard room. Every man to his
trade is a maxim that also holds good
in the case of a fugitive from justice,
and the detective's surmise proved cor
rect. Phipps was located in Pullman,
111., where he had obtained a position
in a billiard room. Murray prepared
extradition papers, went to Illinois and
took Phipps from Pullman to Chicago.
In the latter city the fugitive em
ployed Jesse Hall, an able lawyer, and
made a hard fight against extradition.
His counsel endeavored to show that
the shooting was done in American
waters, and there is no hanging in
Michigan. If the crime had been com
mitted in American waters, Phipps
would have been tried in Michigan,
and if convicted, he would not have
been hanged. Murray proved by the
captain of the boat and a number of
its passengers that the shooting was
done in Canada waters, on the Canada
side of the river. The legal fight lasted
a couple of days, both sides calling
witnesses, and Phipps lost. An appeal
was taken and a writ of habeas corpus
issued, but the proceeding was dis
missed and Murray and his prisoner
started for Canada.
At Ann Arbor two newspaper men,
after going through the car, stopped in
front of Phipps and asked him in a
whisper as they pointed towards a
well-known Detroit minister, who was
slumbering in a nearby seat, "Is that
Phipps, the murderer?”
Phipps merely smiled in reply, but
it was evident that the title of mur
derer used in conjunction with his
name made him flinch considerably,
and Murray was about to explain the
situation to the reporters when the
train started and the two seekers for
information left the car hurriedly. The
news of Phipps’ coming had gone be
fore him and when the train reached
Detroit there were nearly two hundred
of his former friends waiting at the
station to see him. The reception they
gave the prisoner testified strongly to
the high tide of popularity in his home
town and Murray felt still more fa
vorably inclined toward the man
whom duty compelled him to hand
over to the grim mercies of Canadian
law.
“I’ll see you fellows at the Michigan
exchange,” called out Phipps to his
friends as he followed Murray into a
cab that Chief llains of Windsor had
waiting for them. “I’d like to take a
farewell drink there,” added the pris
oner to Murray, and the latter nodded
assent and ordered the cabman to
drive to the barroom in question.
Phipps’ friends gathered there in full
force and crowded around him. shak
| ing hands and giving vent to loud ex
pressions of sympathy. Finally Mur
ray delivered himself of a short speech
to the crowd that was trenchant and
very much to the point.
"It's all very well to be sorry,
boys,” said the detective bluntly, "but
Phipps needs something more than
that. What he wants is money for his
defense and I'm ready to start a col
lection right now.” Murray backed up
his statement by making a handsome
donation and the crowd, growing en
thusiastic over the idea, followed suit,
with the result that a comfortably
large sum was scon subscribed and
given to the prisoner. That done Mur
ray asked him if there was any other
place in Detroit he wanted to visit be
fore crossing the river.
“I'd like to drive past my old home
on Jefferson street,” said the pris
oner, wistfully.
Many times in after life the detec
tice was glad that he acceded to this
last request of his unfortunate pris
oner. The cab drove along Jefferson
street and Phipps gazed with soul
hungry eyes upon the house wherein
he had once lived so happily. He
watched it out of the cab window and
then from the window in the back un
til it had faded from his view.
=
“I'm ready to go now,” he said, and
Murray took him across the river and
back to the jail from which he had
made such a daring escape.
There were several circumstances
that weighed heavily against Phipps’
chances of escaping death on the gal
lows. In the first place his jail-break
ing exploit in company with Bucky
Greenfield was against him. Green
field got away safely to Mexico, and
as there was no extradition treaty be
tween Canada and the former country
at that time covering his offense, he
was never brought back. Doubtless
Greenfield meant well by his cell-mate
when he planned their escape, but it
would have been far better for Phipps
had he not broken jail. Then there
was the episode of Billy Callaghan in
Sandwich jail which had much to do
with influencing public opinion in the
County of Essex at the time of the
Phipps trial.
Callaghan belonged to Detroit. He
came of a respectable family, and in
his younger days was a dry goods
clerk, but became a professional burg
lar and desperate crook. He and a
burglar named Kennedy were being
held in Sandwich jail and on March
16 they made a dash for liberty.
George O’Callghan Leech, the old
governor of the jail, tried to intercept
the escaping prisoners, and Billy Cal
laghan drew a revolver which had
been smuggled into his cell, shot and
killed the governor and escaped with
Kennedy. Callaghan got safely away
out of the country but Kennedy was
caught and sent to Kingston peniten
tiary for seven years.
While there Kennedy became pal3
with another convict named Blinky
Morgan who was serving five years
for manslaughter. Shortly after be
coming acquainted the pair broke out
of Kingston penitentiary. Morgan was
traced to Reno, Ohio, by a detective
named Hoolihan and in the fight that
occurred when they met the officer
was killed. Morgan escaped after
slaying Hoolihan but was run down
in Alpena, Mich., where he shot the
sheriff and wounded another man. He
was captured, taken to Cleveland and
hanged. Kennedy got away.
In the meantime Callaghan, after
killing Gov. Leech of Sandwich jail,
had disappeared completely. Murray
sent out circulars offering a reward
for his arrest and finally received’ a
telegram from the police of Hannibal,
Mo., which read:
come at once, tanagnan in jail,
acknowledges Identity.”
Murray wired back: “Will come, but
I do not believe it is Callaghan. Ha
would not acknowledge identity.”
He prepared the necessary extradi
tion papers and went to Hannibal, tak
ing with him Turnkey Smith of Sand
wich jail, who knew Callaghan well.
Arriving at their destination they were
informed by the police that two
crooks, known as Joe Rice and John
Carr, had burglarized Banker Patter
son's house in Barry, 111., making him
get out of bed, open up his safe and
turn over the contents, besides taking
his gold-mounted revolver. They had
been caught in Hannibal and Rice had
the stolen revolver. On the wray to
the jail Rice whispered with Carr, and
in the jail he had said to a fellow
prisoner:
“I wonder if these cops know who
1 am? They offer a reward for me in
Canada.” The prisoner reported the
conversation. Rice was questioned and
confessed he was Bill Callaghan. Then
Murray was sent for.
The detective was shown to the
cell occupied by the supposed Callag
han. It was a gloomy hole, but even
in the semi-darkness a single glance
at the inmate convinced Murray that
he was not the murderer of the Sand
wich jail governor. Turnkey Smith
also shared his opinion. The prisoner
was ordered to step into a better light
and Murray looked at him closely.
"No,” said the detective, "he is not
Callaghan. This is Jim Leavitt of
New York. Jim, 1 have seen you at
Billy Brown’s in Bleecker street, and
at 'The’ Allen’s.”
The prisoner laughed, and admitted
that Murray’s statement was correct.
Murray returned to Toronto without
Callaghan whom he next heard of in
Mexico. It was later reported that
Callaghan was drowned in South
America, but howe ver that may have
been, he was never captured.
Between Greenfield and Callaghan
the fate of Luke Phipps was sealed.
The murder of Gov. O’Callaghan Leech
enraged the people of Essex county,
and when Phipps, who had escaped
from the same jail, came up for trial
some months after the Leech killing,
public opinion was against him. He
was found guilty of murder, hanged in
Sandwich jail in November, 1884, and
buried near the grave where he had
once sought refuge and lav hidden
from the eyes cf his hunters for the
space of a night and a day.
(Copyright, 1909, by W. G. Chapman.)
(Copyright in Groat Britain.)
MONEY MADE IN LIVE STOCK
IN CENTRAL CANADA.
W. J. Henderson, visiting Seattle,
writes the Canadian Government
Agent at Spokane, Wash., and says:
“I have neighbors in Central Canada
raising wheat, barley and oats for the
past 20 years, and are now getting
from the same land 20 to 30 bushels of
wheat per acre, 40 to 60 bushels of
oats.
“It was the first week of May when I
got my tent pitched, but the farmera
all around had finished putting in
their crops, so I only got fifteen acrea
broke and seeded. They advised ma
as it was late not to put in much
wheat, so I put in five acres of wheat
and ten acres oats, one-half acre pota
toes and vegetables. All kinds of veg
etables grow well up there, sweet corn,
tomatoes, onions, carrots, peas, beans,
cabbage. My wheat yielded about 20
bushels per acre, for which I got 76
cents, others got 80 cents; oats
threshed 35 bushels per acre, for which
I got 35 cents per bushel. You see I
was three weeks late in getting them
in, still I was satisfied.
“From my observation, there is more
money made in stock, such as cattle,
horses and sheep, as prices are high
for such, and it costs nothing to raise
them, as horses live the year around
out on the grass. In fact, farmers turn
their work horses out for the winter,
and they come in fresh and fat in the
spring. Cattle live out seven or eight
months. They mow the prairie grass
and stack it for winter and give oat
straw. My neighbors sold steers at
$40 each, and any kind of a horse
that can plow, from $150.00 up. I raised
60 chickens and 5 pigs, as pork, chick
ens, butter and eggs pay well and al
ways a good market for anything a
man raises, so I have every reason to
be thankful, besides, at the end of
three years I get my patent for home
stead. I heard of no homestead sell
ing for less than $2,000, so where un
der the sun could an old man or
young man do better?”
UNPROFITABLE CUSTOMER.
Caterpillar—How much a shave,
barber?
Barber—Ten cents, but it will cost
you a dollar, the price of ten shaves,
If you want to be shaved all over.
Easy Come, Easy Go.
A passerby at Broad and Lombard
streets in Philadelphia once heard
the following dialogue between a la
borer who was digging in a sewer and
a stout, beaming lady wuth a capacious
market basket on her arm:
“Ah, good marnin’ to you, Pat,” said
she leaning over and looking into the
pit. "And what are you doin’?”
“Good marnin’, Bridget,” he replied,
looking up. “I'm a-earnin' alimony for
yees. And what are you doin’?”
“Sure, I’m a-spendin’ it,” replied
Bridget airily, as she trotted off.—•
Lippincott’s.
The Secret of Poverty.
Dr. Woods Hutchinson of New
York unlocked the secret of general
poverty in an address at the Ameri
can Museum of Natural History in
New York early this month, when he
said: “What is killing the people of
this city may be stated as overwork,
underfeeding and overcrowding; and
two of these may be included under
the one word ‘underpaid.’ The mes
sage of the church and of medicine
to-day to the community is not ‘Give
to the poor,' but Don't take so much
awray from them.’—The Public.
The Prince of Grumblers.
When Mr. Beeton asked if he did
not find many unreasonable people
among his summer boarders, Farmer
Joy quickly assented.
“Lots an’ lots are never satisfied
anyway,” he said. “No matter what’s
done for 'em, there’ll always be some
thing wrong somewheres.
“Now last summer,” he went on,
with a gleaming eye. “we had a man
here that was so fond of grumblin’
that one day he actually called for a
toothpick after he’d had a glass of
milk.”—Youth’s Companion.
GOOD CHANGE
Coffee to Postum.
The large army of persons who have
found relief from many chronic ail
ments by changing from coffee to
Postum as a daily beverage, is grow
ing each day.
It is only a simple question of trying
it for oneself in order to know the joy
of icturning health as realized by an
Ills, young lady. She writes:
“I had been a coffee drinker nearly
all my life and it affected my stomach
—caused insomnia and I was seldom
without a headache. I had heard about
Postum and how beneficial it was, so
concluded to quit coffee and try it.
‘ I was delighted with the change.
I can now sleep well and seldom ever
have headache. My stomach has gotten
strong and I can eat without suffering
afterwards, i think my whole system
greatly benefited by Postum.
“My brother also suffered from stom
ach trouble while he drank coffee, but
now, since using Postum he feels so
much better he would not go hack to
coffee for anything.”
Name given by Postum Co., Battle
Creek, Mich. Read “The Road to Well
vliie,” in pkgs. “There’s a Reason.”
TSvrr read Ihf aljf.ve let'rrt A now
owe appoHn from time to t!mo. Thty
•irt koidEso, tme, and full of Eiuiaxn
iitvrcat