Billy Simpson (1872-1911): Gunfire, Divorce Drama & Funeral Spectacle: Alameda’s City Attorney Drowns in a Sea of Scandal!

Images from Oakland Tribune pictures

Plot 43 Lot 108

Milton William “Billy” Simpson was one of Alameda’s most prominent early civic figures—a gifted attorney, state legislator, California National Guardsman, and well-known local personality whose life blended public service with private turmoil. His dramatic drowning, the chaotic scenes at his funeral, and the bitter litigation over his estate made him one of the most talked-about men in the East Bay during the spring of 1911.

Born in California in 1870, Simpson displayed an early aptitude for civic affairs and the law. He first entered statewide politics as a member of the California State Assembly, representing Alameda with a reputation for intelligence, vigor, and meticulous preparation. His political ascent continued in 1904 when he won a special election to the California State Senate, filling the seat vacated by Senator William Knowland, who had resigned after being appointed Clerk of the California Supreme Court—a prestigious statewide post conferred by the governor. Simpson served the remainder of Knowland’s unexpired term and established himself as a steady, independent voice in Sacramento. 

Following his legislative years, Simpson became City Attorney of Alameda, a position he held for nearly a decade. He also maintained a long affiliation with the California National Guard, rising to the rank of major in the First Battalion, Fifth Regiment. To many in Alameda, he embodied the mix of civic duty and personal ambition characteristic of early 20th-century California public life.

Simpson’s promising career took a sharp and very public turn in early 1911 with the emergence of Isabella (or Isabelle) Davis, a young Alameda stenographer who accused him of seducing her under promise of marriage. Davis pursued him relentlessly through official channels, demanding recognition, marriage, or legal redress. Accompanied by her mother, she confronted Simpson repeatedly at the City Attorney’s office, insisting he had a duty—moral and financial—to her and to the child she said was his. 

Oakland Tribune, May 2, 1911

Her anger soon escalated into one of the most sensational incidents in local memory. On May 31, 1911, Davis entered Simpson’s office with a revolver and fired a shot at him at close range. “My only regret is that I missed him,” she told the press afterward. Simpson reacted instantly, seizing her wrist and forcing the gun downward so the bullet buried itself harmlessly in the floor. She was arrested, though the scandal only deepened. Under intense pressure, Simpson married her soon after—widely seen as an attempt to prevent prosecution rather than a declaration of love. The marriage quickly disintegrated, and the pair divorced, with Davis receiving temporary alimony and support for their infant son. This episode clung to Simpson’s reputation like a shadow, and newspapers covered every detail as if it were a serialized drama.

On April 30, 1911, Simpson joined his closest friend, Judge Robert B. Tappan, for an afternoon sail aboard the sloop Carrie L. near the Alameda Yacht Club. Both men were familiar with the vessel and the waters, and the outing was expected to be routine. But as the boat came about in a strong gust, the boom swung violently and struck Simpson, knocking him overboard. Simpson, an excellent swimmer, appeared either stunned by the blow or caught in the rigging. Judge Tappan desperately tried to pull him back aboard, but he was physically incapable. Years earlier, Tappan had lost his left arm in a railroad accident, a disability that now rendered him unable to rescue his friend. “I could not save him,” he told reporters through tears. “My God, I had only one arm.” Simpson drowned before help could arrive. His body washed ashore later that day, and Alameda was plunged into shock and mourning.

Oakland Tribune, May 3, 1911

Simpson’s funeral at the Masonic Temple drew hundreds of mourners—National Guard officers, City Hall officials, fellow legislators, and longtime friends. But the most explosive scene occurred outside. Isabella Davis, styling herself “Mrs. Simpson,” arrived in a state of agitation, demanding entrance and thrusting her toddler son forward for all to see. Police barred her from entering the main hall, but her shouting and accusations could be heard inside as the service proceeded. Judge Tappan, shaken by the circumstances of Simpson’s death, delivered an emotional statement insisting that Simpson had been the victim of unfounded persecution. Even more remarkable was the address of Judge John Ellsworth, who spoke later in his courtroom. Ellsworth declared openly that he believed Simpson had been unjustly maligned and that the accusations against him were not substantiated. It was an extraordinary act—an official defense of a man whose private life had become public spectacle—and newspapers across the state printed Ellsworth’s words in full.

Simpson’s will, executed in December 1910, stunned much of Alameda. He left $25 to his young son with Davis; nearly all remaining assets, including insurance totaling about $7,900, to his sister Edna Simpson; and appointed Judge Tappan executor. Davis immediately announced she would contest the will, claiming Simpson had promised to provide far more for their child. The dispute played out in the press with characteristic volatility. Although she fought vigorously, there is no surviving record that the will was overturned; Simpson’s estate appears to have remained with his family.

Milton William “Billy” Simpson’s life encompassed the best and worst of public life in the Progressive Era: political ambition, civic duty, scandal, violence, tragic accident, public mourning, and contested memory. His dramatic demise and the chaotic aftermath left an enduring imprint on Alameda’s civic history. Today he's remembered for both his accomplishments and the extraordinary turmoil that surrounded his final year.

Sources: Oakland Tribune (May 1–4, 1911); Sacramento Union (1911); Associated Press dispatches (1910–1911); Find a Grave Memorial 284571468; California State Archives legislative records.

Prince Lasha (1929–2008): Pioneering Jazz Musician

Prince Lasha in Rolling Stone magazine

Prince Lasha—born William B. Lawsha on September 10, 1929, in Fort Worth, Texas—was one of jazz’s great sonic explorers, a restless genius of the alto saxophone, flute, and clarinet whose work bridged Texas blues, bebop, free jazz, and the avant-garde revolutions of the 1960s. His musical lineage ran deep: his grandfather played clarinet and his uncle performed with Count Basie’s orchestra. 

Lasha bought his first saxophone as a teenager with his friend Ornette Coleman—both boys working as waiters at the Texas Hotel, saving their paychecks until they could afford the instruments that would change the course of their lives. At Terrell High School he studied under the influential band director William A. Fowler and performed in the school orchestra. He also co-founded a student combo, the Tympani Five, with classmates Coleman and Charles Moffett, a group that foreshadowed the free-jazz movement they would later help shape.

Early on, Lasha’s talent was unmistakable. He became a versatile multi-instrumentalist, jamming around Fort Worth with a young David “Fathead” Newman, James Clay, and Leroy Cooper. He gave saxophone lessons to a teenage King Curtis and absorbed advanced harmonic ideas as an understudy to the legendary Buster Smith. After touring the South, he headed to New York in the mid-1950s, performing in clubs and sitting in with major jazz figures. A brief return to Texas was followed by a move to California, where he met the brilliant and equally fiery saxophonist Sonny Simmons. Their first album, The Cry! (1962), announced them as bold new voices in jazz.

Lasha soon entered the orbit of jazz royalty. In 1963 he played on Elvin Jones’s Illumination! and contributed to Eric Dolphy’s celebrated recording Iron Man, all while leading his own group at Birdland. His circle widened to include McCoy Tyner, with whom he collaborated during his fertile New York years. Lasha’s sound—light, airy, rhythmically elastic—made him one of the distinctive flute voices of the era, and his alto work had the sharp, angular phrasing associated with Coleman, though unmistakably his own.

In the mid-1960s Lasha moved to London, setting up shop in Kensington and recording the avant-garde landmark Firebirds (1967) with Charles Moffett, Bobby Hutcherson, and Simmons. Returning to the U.S., he remained fiercely independent, releasing live recordings from the Monterey and Berkeley jazz festivals on his own Birdseye label in the 1970s. His collaborative spirit continued into the 1980s, when he enlisted Herbie Hancock for the album Inside Story, further cementing his ties with jazz’s modern masters.

By the 1990s, Prince Lasha had settled in Oakland, where he quietly built a successful real-estate business but never strayed far from his musical roots. He performed at select concerts, including an annual tribute to Eric Dolphy at Yoshi’s, and in 2005 recorded The Mystery of Prince Lasha with the Odean Pope Trio. He died in Oakland on December 12, 2008 and is buried in a city that had embraced his creativity and where he left his last artistic mark.

Prince Lasha’s career defies easy categorization. He stood at the crossroads of multiple jazz revolutions, played alongside some of the greatest musicians of the 20th century, and insisted on artistic independence long before it became common. 

Sources: Texas State Historical Association; princelawsha.com; Iron Man and Illumination! album documentation; interviews and public discographies; Wikipedia; Rolling Stone magazine; Oakland Tribune

Pauline Powell Burns (1877–1912): First Black Woman Artist to Exhibit in California

Pauline Powell Burns

Plot 45, Grave 844

Pauline Powell Burns occupies a landmark place in California cultural history as the first known African American woman to exhibit artwork in the state, emerging as both a gifted painter and a professional pianist at a time when opportunities for Black artists—especially women—were profoundly limited.

Born in Oakland in 1872, Burns came from a family whose American story stretches back to Monticello and Thomas Jefferson’s Hemings–Fossett family line. Her great-grandparents Joseph Fossett, a blacksmith, and Edith Fossett, a domestic worker, were emancipated upon Jefferson’s death in 1826. Other family members were not so fortunate: her grandmother Isabella was sold to satisfy Jefferson’s debts, a trauma that fractured generations. Members of the family eventually relocated to Boston, and later branches made their way to California, where Pauline was born into a household grounded in education and self-determination—her mother a schoolteacher and domestic worker, her father a railroad porter.

Burns demonstrated remarkable musical and artistic talent from a young age. By the age of 14, she was performing publicly as a pianist. But it was her visual art that placed her in the historical record: in 1890, she exhibited her paintings at the California State Fair, becoming the first Black woman known to do so. Her surviving works—including still lifes such as Fruits and Flowers—show a sophisticated hand, a command of color, and technical refinement unusual for someone with no access to formal art academies, which largely excluded African Americans at the time.

Violets by Pauline Powell Burns

She married Edward E. Burns in 1893 and continued to perform music locally, though her artistic output diminished as illness—likely tuberculosis—took hold. Burns died in 1912, her promise largely unfulfilled but her achievements quietly trailblazing.

Although Burns remains lesser-known today, she was part of a growing cohort of Black visual artists who challenged the boundaries of the Gilded Age art world. Among her contemporaries and artistic predecessors were major figures of the early African American art tradition, including Edward Mitchell Bannister, Henry Ossawa Tanner, and Grafton Tyler Brown, as well as Robert S. Duncanson—whose pioneering landscape work helped shape the generation of Black painters who followed. Together, they formed an early lineage of Black American painters whose work insisted on dignity, beauty, and cultural presence at a time when such visibility was radical.

Her work, though rare, is a reminder that the history of California art is far richer and more diverse than previously acknowledged.

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Sources: Wikipedia; BlackPast.org biography “Pauline Powell Burns (1872–1912)”; California State Fair historical records; articles on Bannister, Duncanson, Tanner, Brown, and 19th-century African American painters.

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Jefferson Shannon (1831-1902): Key Figure in Founding of Fresno; Connected to Big Four Railroad Titans

Grave of Jefferson Shannon and Headshot

Plot 32 

Jefferson Milam Shannon was one of early California’s great straddlers of worlds—a frontier lawman, railroad agent, community builder, and businessman whose life paralleled the state’s rapid transformation. Born in Missouri in 1832, Shannon arrived in California in 1850 amid the Gold Rush, eventually settling in Millerton, the first county seat of Fresno County. In 1855, at the age of only 23, he was elected the first sheriff of Fresno County, a position that placed him at the center of a rough-and-tumble frontier community.

Shannon’s early years also reflect the multicultural complexity of the San Joaquin Valley. During his time in Millerton he entered into a business partnership with Ah Kitt, the pioneering Chinese merchant who would become one of the most important early commercial figures of Fresno County. Their store supplied miners, settlers, and Native communities at a time when cross-racial business partnerships between white officials and Chinese entrepreneurs were extraordinarily rare. Shannon’s partnership with Ah Kitt—who would later help establish Fresno’s Chinatown—highlights his practical approach to frontier life and his willingness to work across cultural lines at a time when anti-Chinese sentiment, including the Chinese Exclusion Act, dominated California politics.

Ah Kitt and 19th century Fresno Chinatown

As California shifted from mining camps to rail lines, Shannon shifted with it. He joined the Southern Pacific Railroad as a right-of-way man and later served in its land department as the rail network swept across the San Joaquin Valley. This work placed him squarely under the shadow of the Big Four—Leland Stanford, Collis P. Huntington, Charles Crocker, and Mark Hopkins—the railroad magnates who built the Central Pacific, dominated the Southern Pacific system, and controlled the political and economic life of the West. Shannon became one of the men who implemented their empire on the ground, helping survey lands, secure parcels, and establish new communities along the expanding rail lines. He played a key role in the founding of Fresno itself, selling the first lots in what would become downtown Fresno and shaping the layout of the emerging city.

Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland contains several figures tied closely to the Big Four’s world of rail power. David D. Colton, Huntington’s chief lieutenant and later the center of the “Colton Letters” scandal, rests in one of the cemetery’s grandest mausoleums. Stephen Gage, a high-ranking Southern Pacific executive; Horace Seaton, a capitalist involved in cases touching railroad interests; and numerous members of Charles Crocker's family are also interred there.

Shannon spent his later years as the Southern Pacific station agent in Alameda, where he continued working for the railroad until the day he died. He passed away on June 8, 1902, leaving behind his wife Rebecca and four children, including noted auditor Sidney F. Shannon of Miller & Lux, as well as valuable vineyards in Fresno County. His life—stretching from the crude mining towns of the 1850s to the structured corporate world of the Southern Pacific—captures the sweeping story of California’s transition from frontier to powerhouse.

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Sources: Alameda Times-Star (June 9, 1902); Fresno Morning Republican (June 10, 1902); Fresno City & County Historical Society (“Ah Kitt”); Biographical files on Jefferson M. Shannon; Southern Pacific historical records; Find-a-Grave memorials for Shannon, Colton, Gage, Seaton, and Crocker family; Ancestry.com

Isaac Milton Kalloch (1852–1930): Avenger, Attorney, and the Son at the Center of San Francisco’s Most Infamous Feud

Kalloch & de Young front page murder story

Isaac Milton Kalloch was born in 1852 into a family whose name became synonymous with some of the most dramatic political and journalistic battles in 19th-century San Francisco. His father, Rev. Isaac S. Kalloch, was a firebrand Baptist minister whose entry into politics during the tumultuous 1879 mayoral race set off a public war of words with the powerful de Young family, founders of The San Francisco Chronicle.

The feud escalated with stunning speed. During the campaign, Charles de Young, the Chronicle’s young and combative editor, accused Rev. Kalloch of moral improprieties in print. Kalloch retaliated from the pulpit with barbed insults of his own—including remarks aimed at the de Youngs’ late mother. On August 23, 1879, ten days before the election, de Young answered the feud with violence: lying in wait outside Metropolitan Baptist Church, he shot Rev. Kalloch twice at point-blank range as the minister stepped from a carriage. Miraculously, Kalloch survived and went on to win the mayoralty while still recovering.

Charles de Young, arrested and released on bail, eventually left town for several months. Local authorities delayed formal charges, frustrating Kalloch supporters. When he returned to San Francisco, de Young re-ignited the controversy by publishing a 60-page “biography” of Mayor Kalloch—part political attack, part personal smear.

Chronicle building where de Young was shot

When Isaac Milton Kalloch, then 28, obtained an advance copy of the pamphlet, he saw it as the final assault on his father’s character. On April 23, 1880, he armed himself, entered the Chronicle Building at Kearny and Bush Streets, and shot Charles de Young dead in the lobby. The killing stunned California and drew national attention. During his sensational trial, the younger Kalloch claimed self-defense, and in one of the most controversial verdicts in San Francisco history, a jury acquitted him.

After the trial, Kalloch retreated from public life and eventually built a quiet career as an attorney. Conflicting historical accounts arose regarding his later years. A 1910 newspaper reported that he shot himself accidentally while cleaning a revolver in preparation for a hunting trip—an incident that indeed left him seriously wounded. But despite the grave tone of early reports, he survived the mishap.

The definitive record comes from his burial information: Isaac Milton Kalloch died on May 1, 1930, decades after the newspaper feud and murder trial that made his name known throughout California. He rests far from the political storms that once swirled around him, a figure whose life embodies San Francisco’s turbulent Gilded Age—an era when newspapers wielded extraordinary power, public feuds turned deadly, and a son’s loyalty changed the course of the city’s history.

Sources: San Francisco Chronicle Vault; Los Angeles Herald (Sept. 29, 1910); The Silver State (Unionville, NV, Mar. 25, 1881); San Mateo Times (Apr. 23, 1926); NewspaperArchive.com; Find-a-Grave memorial for Isaac Milton Kalloch; Guardians of the City - San Francisco Sheriff's Office; Metropolitan Baptist Church historical accounts; The Wasp, May 8, 1880 Cover

Effie Newcomb (1872-1892): 19th Century Child Actress Who Died Young

 

Effie Newcomb Goldsmith death notice

Plot 19, Grave 2603

Effie Newcomb was a notable child actress in the 1880s, frequently performing under the stage name "Little Effie Newcomb" and sometimes billed as Effie Newcomb Hughes. She came from a family of performers, with sisters Gussie (Augusta) and Blanche Newcomb, and was the daughter of well-known minstrel and songwriter Robert Hughes Newcomb and Mary Blake, an actress and ballet dancer. 

​Effie Newcomb was part of the Newcomb family troupe, which included her sisters and parents, and was active on the American theatrical circuit in the 1880s. The Newcomb family was associated with Bobby Newcomb’s Comedy Alliance and performed productions like "Teddy the Tiger" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin," often hitting major cities and theater circuits.

Newspaper ad featuring Newcomb troupe

Effie was most famous for her role as Little Eva in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," a play that traveled extensively and was a staple of 19th-century American theater. Newspaper clippings describe her as "The Wonderful Child Actress" and note her appearances with a specially trained pet pony, Prince, which became one of her stage trademarks. She was often praised in newspaper accounts for her emotional portrayal of Eva, a role requiring both pathos and charm.

Ad for Effie in Uncle Tom's Cabin

While this play was immensely popular in the 19th century and helped spread anti-slavery sentiment, it is controversial today for its use of racial stereotypes, blackface, and its portrayal of African American characters by white actors. Minstrel shows, which the Newcomb family also participated in, are now widely recognized as perpetuating racist caricatures and contributing to harmful stereotypes. 

Effie appears consistently in period programs, advertisements, and news write-ups from 1882 through the mid-1880s, particularly alongside her sisters and under her father's management. 

Her marriage is recorded as Effie Newcomb Hughes marrying Walter John Goldsmith in April 1891, under her full legal name.

Effie died at age 20, but a cause of death is not available in existing records (many San Francisco death records were destroyed in a fire). Her sister Gussie survived her, and various sources note the family's significant role in 19th-century American theater and minstrelsy.

 

Sources: Napa Valley Register, Grand Rapids Telegram-Herald, Cheyenne Daily Leader, San Francisco Chronicle

Carrie Northey aka Caro Roma (1866-1937): Operatic Diva and Prolific Song Writer

Plot 2, Lot 1

Carrie Northey—known to the musical world as Caro Roma—was among the most accomplished American women composers and performers of her generation. Born in East Oakland, California, in 1866, she was the daughter of a local blacksmith. From these humble beginnings, she rose to become a prima donna who sang before royalty and a composer whose melodies echoed from music halls to parlor pianos across the United States.

Northey Family Plot (photo Michael Colbruno)

Northey’s prodigious talent appeared early. At just three years old, she made her first public appearance at Platt’s Hall in San Francisco, performing one of her own compositions. Her family later sent her east to study at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, where she developed into both a pianist and vocalist of remarkable ability.

She began her stage career under her own name, but by the 1890s she adopted the gender-neutral pseudonym Caro Roma, likely inspired by Verdi’s celebrated aria “Caro nome” (“Dear Name”) from Rigoletto. The name conveyed both affection and continental sophistication, qualities that matched her growing international reputation.

As Caro Roma, she became a prima donna with the Castle Square Opera Company in Boston and later performed at the Tivoli Opera House in San Francisco. Her voice carried her to the concert stages of Europe and North America, and she was even honored with a command performance before Queen Victoria—a rare distinction for an American singer of the era.

Her career soon expanded beyond the stage. Roma composed songs that merged Victorian sentiment with the melodic accessibility of the Tin Pan Alley era, working with such noted collaborators as Ernest R. Ball, Jules Eckert Goodman, and William H. Gardner. Her best-known work, “Can’t You Hear Me Calling, Caroline,” became an enduring favorite. Other popular titles included “Ave Maria,” “Garden of My Heart,” “Resignation,” and “Lullaby.”

Her compositions were admired for their memorable tunes and emotional appeal, though some—particularly “Can’t Yo’ Heah Me Calling”—reflected the racial caricatures of their time. Like many songs of the early 1900s, it employed exaggerated dialects and stereotypes that audiences of the day found amusing but which are now recognized as demeaning and racist. Such works reveal the contradictory nature of the Tin Pan Alley period, when the same culture that nurtured female composers like Roma also trafficked in racially offensive tropes.

In addition to popular music, Roma wrote sacred and poetic works, including “Some Idle Moments” (1900) and “I Come to Thee,” a devotional song set to words by George Graff Jr. She frequently set her own verse to music, bridging the worlds of parlor song and art song.

Returning to her native Oakland in her later years, she remained admired for her artistry and quiet dignity. She died there on September 23, 1937, at the age of 72, leaving what the Oakland Tribune called “a legacy of everlasting beauty.”

Though some of her music bears the prejudices of its time, her accomplishments as a woman composer and performer helped shape the early sound of American popular song.

Sources: The Oakland Tribune (Sep. 23, 1937); The New York Times (Sep. 24, 1937); Wikipedia; California State Library; University of Toronto Music Archives; Find a Grave

James Madison “Old Pard” Bassett (1830–1903): Battled the "Big 4" Railroad Monopolies

Bassett family gravestone and headshot

Plot 12 Lot 38 (headstone reads "Ella: Wife of JM Bassett)

James “Old Pard” Bassett was one of the most colorful and combative figures in early Oakland politics, remembered for his bitter feud with railroad magnate Collis P. Huntington and his role in the long-running battles over control of the city’s waterfront. A former Oakland City Council member, entrepreneur, and prolific letter writer, Bassett spent decades railing against the influence of the railroads and the corruption he believed they brought to California’s civic life.

The nickname “Old Pard”—short for “Old Partner”—was a common term of camaraderie among pioneers and soldiers in the West. To be someone’s “pard” was to be their trusted comrade. Bassett adopted it as both a badge of familiarity and a populist calling card, signing his many published diatribes against political and corporate power as “Old Pard.” His letters, filled with humor, sarcasm, and righteous indignation, appeared regularly in Bay Area newspapers, attacking monopolies and celebrating the common man.

At the center of Bassett’s crusades stood Collis Potter Huntington, one of California’s “Big Four” railroad barons, along with Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, and Charles Crocker. These men built the Central Pacific Railroad and controlled much of the West’s transportation infrastructure. To Bassett, Huntington represented everything wrong with unchecked corporate power—political manipulation, land grabs, and disregard for public rights. Their feud, waged in both courtrooms and newspapers, became legendary.

Oyster Beds on Oakland/San Leandro waterfront

The dispute centered on valuable property at First and Webster Streets on Oakland’s waterfront, where the Southern Pacific Railroad sought to monopolize shipping and ferry access. The land had been first occupied by James M. Dameron, a squatter who, along with Willard C. Doane, fought to protect it against railroad-backed interests. Dameron and Doane, joined at times by Bassett and former Mayor John L. Davie, even armed themselves to defend the property. The litigation over the site dragged on for nearly twenty years, with dozens of competing claims filed. When the courts finally settled the matter, the title went to San Francisco businessman Charles H. Holbrook Jr., ending one of the Bay Area’s most tangled property disputes.

Bassett relished every moment of his opposition to Huntington. In one widely circulated letter headlined “Bassett Even on Huntington,” he declared victory over his “ancient enemy” after a favorable court ruling, proclaiming that “this decision is more on the side of the people than I anticipated.” To Bassett, the fight was always about more than land—it was about the people’s right to resist monopoly and corruption. His fiery language and tireless agitation made him both admired and despised, a gadfly whose words echoed the populist sentiment of the age.

Beyond his waterfront battles, Bassett served a single term on the Oakland City Council, where his plainspoken style and independent streak set him apart. He clashed frequently with colleagues and business interests, championing causes that others found impractical but which he believed served the public good. Even after leaving office, he continued to insert himself into civic debates, often through letters published under his “Old Pard” signature.

San Francisco Call obituary

By the turn of the century, Bassett’s health and fortunes had declined, but his pen remained sharp. His last years were spent largely in Oakland, where he was remembered as a familiar figure—eccentric, outspoken, and unbowed. When he died in 1903 at the age of 73, the San Francisco Call wrote that he had been “for many years prominent in the public affairs of Oakland” and that “his fearless pen and ready tongue made him both friends and enemies.” Other papers noted that, for all his bluster, his crusades against corporate greed had earned him a certain grudging respect, even among his opponents.

James “Old Pard” Bassett’s life reflected the restless, defiant character of early Oakland—a city torn between rapid industrialization and its frontier spirit. His feud with Huntington was more than a personal vendetta; it symbolized the struggle between public access and private control, between the small reformer and the industrial titan. In an age dominated by the Big Four and their iron rails, Old Pard Bassett stood on the shore at Oakland, railing back at empire.

Sources: San Francisco Call (Apr. 25, 1903, p.4); The Searchlight (Redding, Apr. 25, 1903, p.1); San Francisco Call (Aug. 4, 1903); San Francisco Call (Sept. 17, 1890s, “Bassett Even on Huntington”); San Francisco Report (“Old Pard Bassett”); California State Library Newspaper Archive; San Leandro Historical Society; Ancestry.com; Find a Grave

Captain Edgar “Ned” Wakeman (1812 – 1886) The Sea Captain Who Inspired Mark Twain

Wakeman grave marker (photo Michael Colbruno) and Headshot

Plot 1, Lot 25, Grave 3

Captain Edgar “Ned” Wakeman was one of those larger-than-life 19th-century mariners whose exploits blurred the line between truth and legend. Described by Mark Twain as “a great, burly, handsome, weather-beaten, symmetrically built and powerful creature, with coal-black hair and whiskers and the kind of eye which men obey without talking back,” Wakeman’s tales of the sea thrilled and influenced one of America’s greatest writers.

Wakeman’s career was filled with escapades that Twain later immortalized in fiction. One of the most famous stories—likely told to Twain firsthand—involved the steamboat New World, which Wakeman “borrowed” from authorities after it was impounded for debt. Pretending to “warm up” the ship’s engines, Wakeman invited the sheriff and his deputies below deck for refreshments, only to raise full steam and cast off into the open sea. When confronted at gunpoint, Wakeman coolly declared, “I’m sorry, but we’re at sea now, and I am the law.” He eventually set his captives ashore unharmed and went on to live out a pirate’s adventure that took him to Brazil, Trinidad, and beyond. 

Wakeman with wife and advertisement for adventure

His resourcefulness was legendary. When he arrived in Rio de Janeiro without papers to prove command of the New World, he staged a theatrical “accident,” toppling into the harbor with a tin box supposedly containing his documents. The sympathetic American consul quickly provided replacements—allowing Wakeman to sail on to Peru and Panama, always one step ahead of the law. 

Mark Twain met Captain Wakeman in 1866 aboard the steamship America, sailing from San Francisco to New York. The two formed a deep, if unlikely, friendship. Twain was captivated by the captain’s mix of bluster, humor, and humanity, and he later drew on Wakeman for several of his most memorable sea-going characters—Captain Blakely in Roughing It, Captain Hurricane Jones in Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion, and most notably, Captain Stormfield in Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven. Through these portraits, Twain preserved the spirit of his old shipmate: part philosopher, part pirate, and entirely unforgettable.  

Books about and inspired by Captain Wakeman

Wakeman’s later years were less romantic. By the early 1870s, he was paralyzed and living in poverty near San Francisco. Twain, then living in Hartford, Connecticut, learned of his old friend’s condition and wrote an impassioned open letter, “Appeal for Capt. Ned Wakeman,” published in the Alta California. He urged San Franciscans to come to the captain’s aid:

“I have made voyages with the old man when fortune was a friend to him... and now that twenty years of rough toil on the watery highways of the far West find him wrecked and in distress, I am sure that the splendid generosity which has made the name of California to be honored in all lands will come to him in such a shape that he shall confess that the seeds sowed in better days did not fall upon unfruitful soil.”

The letter is among the most tender and human of Twain’s public writings, a reminder that behind the humorist’s wit was deep loyalty and compassion. According to the blog "Books Tell You Why," it appears that Wakeman received little help from the appeal. 

Both Twain and Wakeman were drawn to San Francisco, then the rough-and-ready gateway to the Pacific. Twain had come west as a journalist during the 1860s, finding work at the Morning Call and later the Alta California, where he honed his distinctive voice. Wakeman, for his part, made the port city his home base after decades of global voyages. The two men—one a restless sailor, the other a restless writer—found in San Francisco a community of dreamers, schemers, and storytellers who thrived at the edge of the known world.  

Oakland home of Capt. Wakeman (Oakland Tribune)

Captain Edgar “Ned” Wakeman died in 1886 and was buried in Plot 1 with many of Oakland's early pioneers. Unfortunately, he did not live to see the publication of his memoir. "Log of an Ancient Mariner," which was published three years after he passed away.

His epitaph might well have been borrowed from Twain’s Captain Stormfield: “He never meant any harm, but he was built for adventure.” Through Twain’s pen, Wakeman’s boldness, wit, and humanity have sailed on far longer than any of his ships.

Sources: Look and Learn (May 24, 2013); Alta California (Dec. 14, 1872); Mark Twain’s Appeal for Capt. Ned Wakeman; Library of Congress; California State Library; Find a Grave.com (link); Oakland Tribune; ebay.com; Bancroft Library

Louise Eddy Taber (1884–1946): Chronicler of California’s Past

Louise Taber (California State Library)

Plot 14B, Lot 116, Grave 4

Louise Eddy Taber was born in Oakland in 1884, the daughter of famed photographer Isaiah West Taber and Annie Taber. Her father’s San Francisco studio was among the most renowned on the West Coast in the late 19th century, producing some of the finest portraits and landscape images of early California. (You can read more about her father on the Lives of the Dead blog here.)

While Isaiah captured California through the camera lens, Louise chronicled it through words and voice. Beginning in 1915, she worked as a writer for the San Francisco Examiner and later the San Francisco Chronicle, where she produced vivid sketches and nostalgic essays about early San Francisco life. Her pieces combined careful historical detail with the warmth of personal memory, preserving a vanishing city that had been forever changed by the 1906 earthquake and fire.

The Taber Family

By the 1930s, Taber had brought her gift for storytelling to the airwaves. She began producing and hosting a popular series of radio programs, including California Memories and Gold Rush Days, which aired throughout Northern California. These programs brought listeners back to the pioneer era, reanimating the voices and adventures of California’s early settlers. Her skillful blend of historical narrative and dramatization made her one of the few women of her time to find success as both a historian and a broadcaster.

Two Louise Taber books

A 1936 Oakland Tribune profile described her as a “historian of California who brings the old days vividly before her audiences,” noting that she often drew from her own family’s deep roots in the state and her father’s visual archive to enrich her storytelling. She also appeared at civic clubs and museums, where she lectured on Gold Rush lore and the evolution of San Francisco’s cultural scene.

Louise Eddy Taber’s work bridged eras and mediums, linking California’s frontier past to its modern identity through the power of story. She died in 1946, leaving behind a body of work that helped preserve the memory of early San Francisco for generations who would never know it firsthand.

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Sources: Oakland Tribune, November 28, 1911, p. 4; Oakland Tribune, January 20, 1936, p. 16; Berkeley Daily Gazette, September 22, 1941, p. 4; California State Library archives; Bancroft Library