The Story of a Strange Career: Being the Autobiography of a Convict An Authentic Document — Context and Discussion

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In Category - Memoirs

Authors: Waterloo, Stanley, 1846-1913 [Editor] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2010 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal narratives Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 73,647

Reading time 321 min

Text sections 7

The source record for The Story of a Strange Career: Being the Autobiography of a Convict An Authentic Document — Context and Discussion measures this digital text at 73,647 words, 5 hr 21 min estimated reading time, and 7 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 16.6 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal narratives,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #33631

Editor Stanley Waterloo frames this 1902 autobiography of a habitual criminal as a startlingly frank, cheerful document. The convict-narrator recounts his early naval service, a fire-fighting episode, and his decision to desert the British ship Excellent for the U.S. Navy during the Civil War, revealing a detached, unrepentant voice.

Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg33631

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Henry was in one watch and I in the other.

One night, at twelve o'clock, Henry came below and I was to go on watch. It was then we had the fight. There being only a thin partition between our place and the cabin, the noise woke the captain. The next morning the captain tied Henry to a dry-goods box and gave him a severe flogging with a rope's end. Henry afterward told some of the crew that he would be revenged for that flogging; that was the evidence against him.

Now for myself: All the boys would tell Henry all kinds of nonsense and he would believe it. I at one time proposed to him that we should kill everybody on board the ship; that we two should sail the ship to the coast of Africa, take the fifty thousand dollars in silver (weighing over four thousand pounds) and go home with it. Much to my surprise, he was willing to do so. Two or three times afterwards I amused myself with that yarn. That story, with some additions of his own, was the evidence against me. Some of his schoolmates afterwards stated under oath that it was impossible for him to tell the truth. A tugboat was sent to Charleston, and the ship was towed to that port. The United States Marshal came on board, and Henry and I were taken up to the city in the revenue cutter and put in the police station until the inquest was held. In a couple of days after our arrival the inquest was held on board the ship. Leroy and I were present. The captain's body was laid on deck and we were made to stand near it and look at the terrible sight while some of the jurors felt of our pulses, to see if we were unusually excited. Leroy testified that I had confessed to the murder at twelve o'clock the night it occurred, and that I had told him of it when the watches were changed. At my trial it was proved that I had not spoken to him from the evening before the murder until we were on the revenue cutter.

The coroner's jury ordered that we three be held for trial. So the mate was handcuffed and the three of us were taken to the Charleston jail, where we remained for about six months. As soon as the news reached New York, my father and Leroy's brother got letters of introduction to the most prominent men in Charleston and started for that city. In the meantime we had our examination before the United States Court Commissioner and were held over to the Federal grand jury without bail. The ship's crew were detained in jail as witnesses. It was a picnic for them, as they were each to receive one dollar and a half a day, comfortable quarters, the freedom of a large yard for exercise, and their food, with no work. On the ship it was hard labour with only twelve dollars a month for the voyage.

When my father and Mr. Leroy arrived they were welcomed by some of the leading citizens, and in a short time made many friends. They at once retained the four best lawyers in the city. We three prisoners were kept separate, but, as Henry and myself boarded with the jailer's family, we were together at meal hours. I made many friends, while Henry seemed to be disliked by everybody. The mate was kept in a cell by himself all the time. A leading Freemason came from New York to Charleston and retained a competent law firm for his defence. The Freemasons were the only friends he had, and they stood by him well.

No indictment was found against Leroy by the grand jury. He was released and put under bonds as a witness.

My trial came first. It lasted nearly a month and created much excitement North and South. Leroy's testimony was all there was against me. In the cross-examination he was badly rattled, and told so many lies that everybody got disgusted with him. He was proved to be a liar by some of his old schoolmates. The jury acquitted me without leaving their seats. They all shook hands with me, and I was congratulated by everybody. I was put under bonds as a witness.

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The editor's introduction immediately establishes an unusual frame: the author, a habitual criminal who died in prison, wrote this account in 1897–1898 while free, yet omitted “certain hard details of the later part of his criminal career.” Waterloo insists the manuscript is “literally true” and compares its “frank unconsciousness” favorably to Rousseau’s Confessions. The narrator’s voice, as seen in the fire-fighting scene, is matter-of-fact and humorous—he describes sailors wrecking a building with a battering ram and a man falling through a ceiling without drama. This tone, coupled with the editor’s claim that the writer was “as free from remorse … as a wild animal or a tree,” primes the reader for a document that is more sociological curiosity than penitent confession.

The Editor’s Frame and the Narrator’s Voice

Waterloo’s introduction does more than authenticate; it shapes expectations. He notes the author’s “cheerful reminiscent vein” and “sense of humour,” which the fire-fighting excerpt confirms. When a sailor ruins his trousers, the narrator dryly observes that his ten-shilling reward “was considered quite small.” The editor also reveals that the author omitted later criminal details, a choice Waterloo calls “the one incident which shows that the man realized … the truth as to his own character.” This framing invites readers to watch for gaps between what is told and what is withheld.

Naval Life and the Mechanics of Duty

The narrator’s account of fire-fighting in a foreign port is rich with procedural detail: leather buckets with thirty-foot ropes, a dam made in the gutter, a lieutenant directing bucket throws with his sword. The plan fails because “men about twenty feet in height” would be needed. The episode reveals a world where sailors improvise, insurance agents growl, and the narrator himself becomes “a good gunner” through “hard study and strict attention to duty.” This competence contrasts with the later criminal career, suggesting a man who could apply himself but chose otherwise.

The Decision to Desert

In April 1861, news of the “Rebellion in the United States” reaches the narrator. He and Jennie—his wife, apparently—conclude he should join the U.S. Navy for better pay and promotion. Deserting the Excellent is risky: “neither labour nor expense was spared in capturing a deserter,” with a penalty of at least a year in prison. The narrator prepares a canvas bag filled with old dresses and two grape-shot from the ship. The matter-of-fact tone—listing the items as if packing for a trip—underscores his detachment from the gravity of the act.

Gaps and the Unwritten Later Years

The editor states that the manuscript “appears almost as it left the hands of its author,” with only “necessary technical corrections” and name changes. Yet the narrator omitted “hard details of the later part of his criminal career.” Readers must infer what is missing. The excerpts provided end before the Civil War service and subsequent crimes. The editor’s claim that the author was “not conscious” of tragedy suggests the narrative may continue in the same unrepentant, anecdotal style, leaving the reader to piece together how a skilled gunner became a habitual burglar.

Approach this autobiography as a document filtered through two sensibilities: the narrator’s cheerful, unapologetic recollections and the editor’s sociological framing. The early naval episodes offer a baseline of competence and adventure; the later omissions are as telling as what is included. Readers should attend to what the narrator chooses to tell—and what he leaves out—as the story moves toward the criminal career that the editor hints at but the excerpts do not yet reveal.

I’ve often pondered that convict’s cheerful, unrepentant voice—how a life can be told without apology. It reminds me of another memoir, quieter yet equally frank, where brotherly love is recounted with the same plain honesty. Both possess that rare quality of simply stating what happened. I found myself thinking of Hugh: Memoirs of a Brother — Key Ideas to Explore while shelving them, as if they shared a hushed, knowing glance across the decades.