to bypass the rest of this chapter and go to the next. I intend to spare no detail, nor shall I embellish beyond what was told to me. There are lessons to be learned in the most tragic of lives, and none could be more tragic than that of poor Sallie White.
Death of a Chambermaid:
The Sad Fate of Sallie White
Sallie White arrived in San Antonio a free woman. Independent. Alone. A mixed blessing to be sure, as there has never been a time when such was advantageous for a woman. Her place of birth, her origins, her people—none of it is known, nor is there a path-print to tell us how she happened upon the bustling streets of this city. She comes to historical life established as a chambermaid at the Menger Hotel.
By all accounts, Sallie White loved her job and took great pride in performing it well. She was always fastidious in her appearance—dark hair tucked neatly into her cap, her face and hands always scrubbed clean. Guests said she moved in and out of rooms like a whisper, leaving everything neat and tidy with no disturbance to their presence. She fielded requests with a soft-spoken “Yes, ma’am,” or “Certainly, sir,” and then tended to the matter with all required discretion.
If history could rewrite itself, Sallie might have fallen in love and settled down with a man well-matched to her work ethic and good nature. No doubt there were shopkeepers and livery drivers and carpenters who would welcome a woman with her heart to share their own. Instead, she fell into the arms of Henry Wheeler, and later would die at his hands.
Little is known of Henry Wheeler either, other than he had a jealous nature and a violent temper. Of course, that could be because he is known only as the man who murdered Sallie White. Before that, he must have had some quality to attract her to his side. Perhaps a sweet tongue or a slick charm, a gaiety that promised respite from long hours of hard work. After a time, she moved herself into his house. Theirs was a common-law marriage; such arrangements are more common among the poor. Nobody cares to scrutinize the morality of the powerless. She loved him enough to entrust him with her life, but there is always a precariousness to a union without marriage. After a matter of years, the balance of trust tipped—and not in Sallie’s favor.
The Menger Hotel continued to grow in reputation, attracting an increasingly wealthy clientele who knew no boundaries to their privilege. Men of business, high-ranking officials, wealthy tourists—all were frequent guests, and while most were probably perfect gentlemen, there were the occasional few who thought her services should extend beyond turning down sheets. Wise enough to understand the importance of their favor, Sallie laughed off their advances, and if the occasional tussle occurred—a door closed behind her, a strong hand gripping her arm—rest assured Sallie would emerge unsullied and victorious.
Through the gossip chains of kitchens and streets and taverns, word of Sallie’s popularity reached Henry Wheeler, and his rage enflamed. At first he seemed ready to confront Sallie’s would-be molesters himself, but like most bullies, Henry had a sense for finding a suitable victim and soon turned his violence on Sallie herself.
“I don’ want you goin’ back to work at that place no more,” he’d say. To this Sallie would argue that her wages were good, the work steady. She was given two meals with each shift, and she often brought home covered plates for Henry too. She’d pet him and kiss him to ease his fears, reassuring him of her devotion to him, and him alone. This worked for a while, until the stories continued, his fellows laughing at his expense, and the quarrels between Henry and Sallie rang in the streets.
Soon evidence of Henry’s anger began to show on Sallie’s face. She often had deep shadows, which she attributed to fitful sleep, but then came the day her left eye was swollen shut—the bruise lasting for more than a week. She took to a particular way of carrying stacks of folded towels, balancing them on a swollen wrist. The light faded from her countenance, her smile all but disappeared, showing itself only when politeness demanded. She aged twenty years over the course of her time with Henry Wheeler, and why she did not take advantage of the freedom she so desperately prized and walk away from him is a question for the ages.