Galveston, Texas, 1866

Journalist Benjamin Cummings Truman (1835-1916) filed this report with the New York Times in February, 1866:

This is the commercial capital of the Lone Star dominions, and the city where they shoot cross-eyed men and red-headed women at sight, where they used to draw and quarter Dutchmen, scheme for emigration, and eat pork until you can feel the bristles. The real old Galvestonians – that is, the F.F.G.s [1] – wear long hair like crazy poets, soap their greasy locks and the ends of their dismally thin moustaches, and look daggers at intellectual people. They drink whiskey that will kill at twelve paces, go home blind drunk every night and get ditto every morning. The full programme of a high-toned ranger is to get full of bad whiskey, lick some small boy, fire off his revolver three or four times, kill a Mexican, and beat his wife, and d—n the Yankees – this last being set to music. The war hasn’t improved this class much, and the best place for a stranger to keep is in his house. Not a night has passed for a month but some poor fellow has been found murdered the next morning. Three murderers took a poor hack-driver out on the beach a few nights ago and cut his throat for five dollars.

Before the war Galveston has about nine thousand inhabitants – now it has full fourteen thousand, of which are least two thousand are murderers, vagabonds and thieves. The state of society is most unhealthy I can assure you, and no person who has any knowledge of these things, and respect for his own life, ventures out after dark. There are a great many rough characters here from New York, Chicago, St. Louis and Cincinnati, a large number of whom are discharged government employees. A few days ago two fellows fought a prize-fight near the city, and, after ninety-two rounds, one of the party was declared the winner, when a free fight took place, in which three were killed and a number wounded. . . . .

There has never been a time when a man’s life was ever safe in Texas. Everybody – rogues and gentlemen – go armed and shoot and cut each other at the least provocation. And, as a general thing, these fellows’ weapons are not concealed – they carry Bowie knives and pistols in their belts, and carry what is called a Mexican cane, which is nothing more or less than a sword-cane, or foil, without any case or sheath. Last week a Texan from near Victoria was killed in a bar-room by being run through with one of these Mexican canes, but, while he was being run through with the cane, he shot his pistol through his pocket, discharging its contents into the stomach of his assailant, and both dropped dead upon the floor together. Last Monday morning a murderer was brought into court and a jury impaneled. The evidence on both sides was heard, the lawyers on both sides went through their accustomed harangues, the Judge had his say, and his smoke, too at the same time, the Jury went out, disagreed, came in, the prisoner was discharged – and all before dinner. How are you, Texas courts? 

From Dead Confederates. The picture is from an 1871 map of the city.