The Mysterious Disappearance of Granville Garth

On October 13, 1855, the first train arrived at Huntsville’s Eastern Division headquarters of the Memphis & Charleston Railroad. Folks lined the streets to celebrate and watch as the General Garth chugged triumphantly into town. A spectator was quoted as saying that it was “the greatest day in the history of Huntsville since John Hunt!” The train was named for William Willis Garth, who served in the Confederate army as a colonel on Longstreet’s staff. After the Civil War, he became an Alabama politician and Huntsville attorney. Members of his extended family lived at the fabulous Monte Sano Hotel and led the local social scene for many decades. But one member of the Garth family who did not live in Huntsville made more headlines than all others combined when he mysteriously disappeared one cold, dark Christmas night, never to be heard from again.

Granville Garth was born in Memphis, Tennessee, on August 11, 1863, to Kentucky natives Horace and Alice Jones Garth. His sister, Lena, was three when the family welcomed their only son, and when Granville was sixteen, the family moved to New York. Granville was a member of the graduating class of 1886 at Columbia University, where he excelled in baseball and academics.

Founded originally in New York as King’s College in 1754 under a royal charter granted by King George II of England, Columbia University was affiliated with the Anglican Church. Among the more famous graduates were Alexander Hamilton, first secretary of the treasury, and several men who drafted the Declaration of Independence. After America’s war with England, the name was changed to Columbia.

After his graduation, Granville went to work on Wall Street and found his place at the Mechanics National Bank of New York, where his father, Horace, served as bank president. On April 26, 1893, Granville married Lilly McComb at her parents’ home at 180 West Fifty-ninth Street in New York. The New York Times wrote the following day that it was a small wedding, featuring a ten-foot arbor of white roses and a bank of roses on the fireplace mantel in the drawing room, where the ceremony took place. Among those in attendance were Granville’s college friends, members of the ’86 Bachelor Club.

Though visits were few and far between, Granville occasionally spent time with his sister, whose last name remained the same after she married a distant cousin, William Willis Garth Jr., and made her home at the Piedmont Estate on Whitesburg Drive in Huntsville. Lena, a graduate of Vassar College, was described as a stately blonde and a perfect hostess. She was active in the Twickenham Town Chapter, Daughters of the American Revolution, and founded several local garden clubs. She was known for her command of the English language and proper grammar, and she was demanding of her servants and children when it came to etiquette, always setting a good example herself.

Lena employed a maid named Rosetta, who had worked in the cotton fields before Lena hired her to work inside her Piedmont home. One night, Lena and her husband were entertaining dinner guests, and soon after Rosetta served the salad, Lena informed her that she had forgotten to bring the salad oil. After a conspicuous fifteen-minute absence, Rosetta reappeared with a rusty coal oilcan, which she had retrieved from the cellar and carried into the dining room on a silver platter. Fortunately, Lena also possessed graciousness and a good sense of humor.

Lena’s husband was a Civil War veteran, a graduate of Sewanee College in Tennessee and owned a trotting horse farm. His horses won many races, though, ironically, William never bet on any races himself.

But while wealth eases some of life’s transitions and passages, it doesn’t necessarily buy health and long-lasting happiness. Horace Garth, father of Lena and Granville, suffered a stroke that partially paralyzed him. He was no longer able to fulfill his duties as president of the Mechanics National Bank of New York, and with the approval of the bank’s board, his son Granville succeeded him as the president. It seemed like a sound decision. After all, since graduating from college, Granville continued to prosper in the business world, and with a little help from his father, his tenure on Wall Street had blossomed. In 1903, he took over the reins as president of the oldest bank in New York (founded in 1810), serving as the youngest president in the bank’s history. By now, he and Lilly were the parents of two young daughters, and at age forty, his future looked solid and bright.

Within a few months, however, cracks appeared in Granville Garth’s persona. Perhaps it was the stress of his demanding job or, if rumors were correct, the result of a crumbling marriage. Whatever the cause, it seemed that he was on the verge of, if not in the throes of, a nervous breakdown. On December 14, 1903, the directors of the bank, which included his father, met and wrote a proclamation encouraging Granville to take a leave of absence for at least four months to rest. Dr. Francis Delafield prescribed rest and a voyage at sea.

Granville Garth agreed to take the sage advice of the doctor and his business associates and left New York on December 19, without his family by his side, to make his way by sea to Galveston, Texas. Perhaps he was unaware that at the beginning of his voyage, a man named Thomas Lawson, a confidential representative for Blair and Company of New York, was assigned to watch him closely. Lawson had known Garth’s family well, though he did not know Granville.

The following details were taken from several articles that appeared in the New York Times within days of the launching of the Denver. Captain Evans was concerned about Granville Garth from the moment he boarded the ship. His behavior was strange, and Evans was unsure about taking him on as a passenger. Garth’s friends, who went with him to give him a hearty send-off, assured the captain that he and his crew would not have to look after Garth; he was in good hands with Thomas Lawson, and his trip south was for a few weeks of rest. Garth himself told the captain that he was ill, so he apparently knew he needed help.

Soon after the voyage began, Thomas Lawson’s watchful eye was not accepted kindly or graciously by Granville Garth. Garth did not like Lawson and did not appreciate his continual presence everywhere he went. The passengers also noted Garth’s “mental aberration,” a polite term for mental illness, and he further drew attention to himself by tipping the waiters and crewmen outrageously, as much as several hundred dollars in the first few days. He rambled incoherently at times, called out for his invalid father and talked about being ruined. He would not eat food and only occasionally sipped tea. He paced the deck at all hours and in all kinds of weather. He was paranoid as well, and when he heard the sound of chains being dragged across the deck, Garth cried out, “My God, they are going to put me in irons!”

On Christmas morning, Garth appeared better. Perhaps it was the calming effect of the sea, the rolling waves or the fresh air that seemed to reach him. Maybe it was the spirit of Christmas that cheered him somewhat. The other passengers and crew of the Denver seemed relieved, but his improvement was short-lived.

Early that evening, Garth appeared restless, according to witnesses. The ship’s purser was engaged in a conversation about him and was cautioned to keep an eye on him. Unbeknownst to them, Garth overheard this dialogue, and whatever was said upset him. At 8:30 p.m., he was seen on deck. One hour later, an alarm was given to crew members that Garth was missing.

While searchlights scanned the darkened waters for any sign of Granville Garth, others combed the entire ship hoping to find him safe and sound. No one had seen him jump or fall overboard. After three hours of careful, but frantic searching, the Denver continued on to cover the three hundred miles between it and the shore of Galveston, Texas.

Soon after the Denver docked at Galveston, reporters arrived to get the scoop. Granville Garth was missing, and everyone began to point fingers at everyone else. Lawson blamed the captain for his disappearance, and of course the captain blamed Lawson, saying that Lawson was the party responsible for Garth’s behavior and safety. No doubt, neither one of them wanted the wrath of Granville’s father upon them. Lawson refused to speak to reporters, but he did retrieve Garth’s luggage.

Just after midnight, a telegram was sent to A.A. Knowles, the New York cashier of Mechanics National Bank. Other bank representatives were notified soon after, and the news was broken to Horace Garth as carefully as possible for fear that his precarious health would be worsened by this traumatic turn of events.

The bank’s spin doctors got to work denying rumors of Garth’s marital troubles and improprieties at the bank. He was wealthy in his own right, and the bank had never been on more solid grounds. His friends spoke to reporters about their concern for his health in recent weeks. Mentally, he seemed to be exhausted, unable to control his emotions, and his thoughts didn’t seem to connect. His brother-in-law was quoted as saying, “The public does not yet know what his trouble was. He was a disappointed man and he played a game of chess and lost.”

Whatever his personal troubles were, they were apparently well known in society and at the bank but were never reported in the papers, and those reasons are now lost to the past. Newspaper reports in Galveston, Texas, as well as in New York, speculated that he had either thrown himself overboard or had accidentally fallen off the ship. Whatever the cause, it was reported that he had drowned.

Within days, Granville’s father announced a reward of $10,000 for anyone who could find his son’s body or any piece of clothing containing certain papers. Granville’s wife of nearly twelve years, along with daughters, Helen and Florence, remained in seclusion in their New York City apartment at 160 West Fifty-ninth Street. His mother’s brother went to New Orleans to supervise search operations for his body. Advertisements were placed in newspapers, and search teams were sent out along the coastline. It was ultimately assumed that strong currents carried his body farther out into the ocean. No trace of Granville Garth was ever found.

Granville and Lilly Garth’s daughters eventually moved to England and married. An enormous obelisk now stands tall in a cemetery in Memphis, Tennessee’s Elmwood Cemetery. It announces that Granville was lost at sea on December 25, 1903.

In the meantime, Granville’s sister, Huntsville resident Lena Garth, became the caregiver for her aging parents. In 1909, she purchased the empty Monte Sano Resort Hotel, the health resort named for the mountain it sat atop, for the sum of $20,000. The 233-room hotel became the new home for her parents. It was their hope that Horace Garth’s health would improve, but it wasn’t to be. Within two years after moving in, on July 31, 1911, he died at age seventy-two. He was buried in Memphis.

The Monte Sano Resort Hotel did not survive, in spite of its once glorious reputation. It was built eighteen hundred feet above sea level, and the nearby Cold Spring provided pure, fresh water to the guests who began arriving on June 1, 1887, for the grand opening. Several grand balls were held that first season. When over four hundred guests arrived in early July to dance, canvas was laid out to protect the Brussels carpets. Many partygoers danced out on the porches for lack of floor space inside the ballroom. Over three hundred soldiers were stationed on the mountain due to a yellow fever epidemic at Fort Barancas in Florida, adding significantly to the festivities and excitement that year.

Monte Sano Resort Hotel. Photo courtesy Huntsville–Madison County Public Library.

No expense was spared to entertain and pamper the wealthy who came to visit. The first season, which ended in October, was so successful that a two-story house was built, which contained thirty-six rooms to accommodate the overflow from the resort. It was named Memphis Row in honor of the city that provided the most guests.

The biggest problem, however, was transportation up and down the mountain. A carriage pulled by six horses, known as a tallyho, was used the first year, but it was too expensive and, all around, unsatisfactory. Ruins of the old trains on the mountain indicate that it was quite rocky and therefore a most uncomfortable ride. By August 7 of the next year, a railroad had been completed to the top. A train wreck occurred soon after the service started. Although no one was seriously injured, it caused many people to avoid the trip and, unfortunately, a visit to the Monte Sano Resort Hotel. By 1896, the steel rails had been pulled up.

The hotel suffered terribly from poor decisions made at the top. Although the resort boasted many famous guests from around the world, it did not open one year at all because of quarreling among the stockholders. In 1898, electricity was brought to the mountain resort, but sadly, the 1899 season would be the last for the Monte Sano Resort Hotel.

The hotel remained furnished but vacant for another ten years, until Horace and Alice Garth came to Huntsville. Mr. Garth died in the summer of 1911.

On May 28, 1917, a surprising story appeared in the Huntsville Mercury. A plan to reopen the hotel was announced if $25,000 could be raised for improvements. In the next few months, advertisements were published inviting guests to the resort, and there was even a story about the new style of dress adopted by visitors. The resurrection of the great hotel was apparently short-lived.

For the next twenty-seven years, the vacant mansion saw no visitor but the occasional winter fog that rolled in. A caretaker stayed near the mansion to watch over it as it sat, fully furnished, decaying in total abandonment. In 1944, the executors of the Garth estate sold the once beautiful old hotel for only $9,000. It was torn down and sold for scrap.

The old railroad bed, now a rocky footpath for nature lovers, still snakes its way to the top of Monte San Mountain. Although one can imagine the scenic beauty enjoyed by the visitors as they made the train trip, the remnants of harrowing hairpin turns indicate the danger as well.

Today, the only evidence that remains of the gathering place of some of the most famous people of that time is a lone three-story chimney, lovingly tended and preserved.