by Carrie Hagen
“You must believe there is a sympathy exists between you and your child. I propose to use that to bring him back,” she said. “Do you believe I can do what I say?”
“No, but I would like to ask you some questions,” Christian replied.
They talked until Christian was satisfied that she couldn’t offer any new information. When he went home, he wrote a note thanking her for her concern.
Of the letters from spiritualists, Christian and Sarah separated the serious from the bizarre, one of which offered a German witchcraft recipe for finding Charley. Christian decided against killing a chicken, piercing it in several places while chanting, and burning it in the name of God. He also realized that most writers who alleged to offer “new information” had simply restated theories offered in newspapers.
What he couldn’t understand was why public opinion began to turn against his wife and his son Walter.
Christian had tried to shield five-year-old Walter from reporters, gossip, and nosy inquisitors, but throughout the summer, he allowed private detectives and police investigators to continue probing his son’s memory of July 1. Gradually, their suggestive questions confused details in the boy’s mind, and his answers began to conflict. The New York Herald suggested Walter had been repeating versions of a story he was told to memorize and turned its suspicions more fully on to the activities and relationship of Christian and Sarah Ross.
The paper wondered whether Christian kept the ransom letters from Sarah because they accused her of immoral behavior or because they revealed a detail incriminating Christian as an accomplice—his business could, after all, certainly benefit from a $20,000 ransom payment. So could the Ross family. Had the press or the kidnappers spent time researching Christian’s family finances, they could have easily learned that the net worth of Catherine Ross, Christian’s mother, was only half of the ransom fee.
The New York Herald attacked Sarah more directly. “The parties who actually made away with the infant have written long and vituperative letters to the parent, abusing the mother to such a shameful extent that the father is unwilling that the abuse should appear in print,” the reporter alleged. “To my mind,” he continued, “this fact conclusively proves that the parties who stole the child have a personal enmity towards Mrs. Ross, and that they effected their diabolical purpose solely to gratify a personal revenge against her.”
Philadelphia’s Evening Bulletin continued to rebut the theories offered in New York newspapers. “We have not heard of anything being accomplished by the Vidocqs of Gotham. The truth is that the criticisms of the New York papers on the management of this distressing case are mere idle and spiteful words, fed by correspondents either sent or hired here to feed the New York gossip market with anything and everything.” For the most part, Philadelphia papers withheld attacks on Christian’s personal integrity yet blamed him for setting the pace of a slow investigation. Had Christian immediately released his son’s name, the Bulletin said, he would have expedited reconnaissance efforts. What it failed to realize, though, was that the police were at fault for the slow initial progress. For the first twenty-four hours after Charley’s disappearance, they had dismissed Christian’s fears; it was he who had convinced them that a search was necessary.
Libel laws did govern newspapers: publishers averted them by having reporters insert phrases like “it is said” or “some believe” when writing stories that read as editorials. Writers at the time did not have bylines, so it wasn’t possible for readers to know who wrote what; readers knew the names of publishers, and newspapers were defined by political affiliation. It was not difficult, then, for writers to insert their opinions within their prose. In 1874, new Pennsylvania legislature redefined libel law, giving reporters even more room to stretch the truth. Papers were allowed to publish any information designated “matter proper for public information, provided that the article, if libelous, was not maliciously or negligently published.” The Ross case tested the apparent contradiction within this statute: how could “libelous” information not be “maliciously” or “negligently” printed?
The challenge to this law appeared to come from one of Germantown’s own. In September, a man identifying himself as “G” and a neighbor of Christian’s, published a letter entitled “Ross Case A Humbug” through the Reading Eagle, a paper located west of Philadelphia, closer to Christian’s hometown of Harrisburg.
The following is the theory of those who knew the family, and who are acquainted with Ross personally: Some months before the kidnapping Mr. Ross received letters from his first and only wife, asking and demanding the children. It will be recollected that even up to this time he has refused to show any of the letters he received, with the exception of the blackmailing note, and it will also be borne in mind the attempt was made to steal both children. It was not until three days after kidnapping that the fact was made public, and until that time the child was safely in the hands of its mother or her friends in the West. We think Mr. Ross knows now and always did know, where his child is, but refrained from making it public, for family matters. As regards the advertisements, the blackmailing note, &c, we think they are all forgeries, written either by Ross himself or his friends, intended to divert public attention from the facts.”
Signed G.
The following day, the Inquirer and the Evening Bulletin reprinted the letter, and by the end of the week, newspapers across the nation carried it.
Christian called these allegations “of a character to injure me in my said business and to blacken my reputation.”
James V. Lambert, Christian’s colleague and a well-known lawyer, came to his defense. “Were [the kidnapping] a humbug, would the Commercial Exchange of this city at one of its largest meetings have unanimously requested the Mayor to offer a large reward, which, however, under present laws could not be done?” He encouraged Christian to bring libel charges against the publisher of the Reading Eagle.
When he did, he learned that the article had not been generated from a neighbor, or one familiar with his family, or even from Germantown. The writer “G” was really named Milford N. Ritter. His father, William, one of the publishers of the Eagle, would be one of the two defendants on trial. According to Milford, he had learned about the Rosses’ marital problems from his mother, who had heard them from a neighbor at a tea party, who had said the story was “the common talk of Mr. Ross’s neighbors” and told “in a store on Columbia Avenue, where women were passing in and out all the time.” After writing down the gossip, Ritter gave it to an editor authorized to publish the paper’s articles. Had the editor insisted Ritter change the format, and publish the tale as speculation, there wouldn’t have been a problem; but by publishing it as a letter written by a Ross neighbor, an authority on the matter, the paper had incriminated itself.
All parties involved testified at the fall hearings. Except for Christian. From the witness stand, his doctor explained the absence. “He is in a very prostrate condition. He is unable to leave his bed. He has been in this condition since Sunday; the prostration is such that he is unable to concentrate his thoughts or express himself; his brain is affected to that extent. He has no recognized disease. He is very thin. He doesn’t sleep naturally.”
John C. Bullitt, a member of the city advisers, represented the Ross family. He questioned the neighbor who had spread the gossip at a tea party. She said she had only given her opinion of the Ross case when asked by a friend.
“I said I hardly knew what to say about it,” the woman continued, “and then I said that it was reported in the city here that the present wife of C. K. Ross was his second wife, and that they had supposed here that the friends of the first wife had taken the child and sent it out to his wife and friends out West.”
The bailiff swore in Sarah Ross.
“We have had seven children,” Sarah said, noting the appearance of all but Charley in the courtroom. “I have no knowledge of any relation my husband could have with any other female which could account for
the abduction of my child; he has been a very domestic man.”
One of Sarah’s brothers spoke as a character witness on Christian’s behalf. “I have known Mr. Ross for thirty years or more,” Henry Lewis said. “He was never married until he married my sister.” Henry attributed only one flaw to Christian’s character. “He is poor.”
Milford N. Ritter admitted to authoring the slanderous letter and signing it anonymously as “G.” The publishers of the Reading Eagle said that they had not known the article was untrue prior to publication. The prosecutor disagreed. In his closing testimony, he argued that the defense had failed to absolve their clients of “malicious intent,” the only grounds on which they could be acquitted under Pennsylvania’s state constitution.
The judge charged the jury to base its decision on the answer to one question: “Can an article containing the foulest aspersion upon the character of a citizen be considered proper for public information?” After deliberating for only a few minutes, the jury found the defendants guilty. The defense filed an appeal, but when the matter was closed, the publishers paid a $1,000 fine.
A guilty verdict did not keep America’s newspapers from reprinting the slanderous letter. Papers did carry small summaries of the libel trial, but even the writer’s confession failed to efface Ritter’s salacious story from their minds. Americans joined the New York Herald in questioning why the kidnappers, whose actions were obviously premeditated, had selected this particular family. New rumors attempting to connect the kidnapping with Christian’s failing business surfaced.
A guilty verdict also did not help Christian’s mental health. The doctor told Sarah to keep him confined to bed until his condition improved. Sarah’s brothers tried to calm Christian’s anxiety over his reputation, but the daily interviews, vigorous denials, and constant disappointments had sapped him of his physical and mental energies. Powerless and feeble, he retreated to his mother’s house. Christian would remain bedridden in central Pennsylvania for the next two months.
Sarah believed her husband would not fully regain his sanity until Charley returned to them. She asked her brothers to pay the full ransom amount.
New York Herald. October 7.
“John, the money is ready; state clearly and fully mode of payment and manner of delivery.”
NEWBURG, N.Y. October 11.— Mr. Ros: You say the money is ready how is it then we can’t come to a speedy compromise if yu was anxious to get yu child and wiling to pay yu money then there is no troble about it we are anxious to give him up but only on the conditions we have before told yu you ask again how we are to deliver him to yu we told yu in our last letter plainly how we would return him to yu is not that way satisfactory yu don’t want us surely to turn him loose on the road at the ded our of night we wil never bring him to you personaly nor wil we ever take him to any one you appoint but we will take him to a strange family where it is least expected and where you will be sure to get him if the way of delivering him is not satisfactory to yu then we cannot come to terms for we are determined in delivering him to yu that no person shal see our face.
keep faith with us
SARAH ROSS’S ANXIETY, COMBINED WITH CHRISTIAN’S RAPIDLY declining health, worried Captain Heins. The kidnappers were closing in on a $20,000 deal, and if he didn’t make an arrest soon, he probably never would. Although he didn’t completely trust Walling, Heins’s working relationship with the superintendent had strengthened throughout the fall months; Walling respected the captain’s discretion in keeping the believed kidnappers’ names from the press, and he regarded him as the head of Philadelphia’s search efforts. Heins’s quiet demeanor allowed him to communicate directly with Walling without updating the city leaders, but their determination to micromanage the case had temporarily weakened anyway.
Slow progress in the investigation had turned the advisers’ attention back to Centennial preparations. To the dismay of the city council, local merchants appeared uninterested in financing the exposition. The national government had not yet released a promised check to help cover construction expenses, and the planning commission needed investors to help defray the hundreds of thousands of dollars in costs. The New-York Advertiser gave one explanation for the lack of support: “profound and prevailing apathy has discouraged all attempts to procure money or sympathy here.” So far, Philadelphia had diagnosed New York’s “apathy” as jealousy, an opinion which had certainly not helped them solicit funds. The western states had pledged quick support through exhibitions, but if the city was going to keep from going into greater debt, then it needed to stop worrying about its pride and humbly ask other eastern cities for money. New York papers said the burden was on New England to show more Centennial support. “What is most desirable now is that Massachusetts and her sister States should enter into the spirit of the enterprise, and help, as they can without hardship, to make it creditable in the eyes of the world.” Like New York City, Boston had felt the sting of the honor bestowed upon Philadelphia. “It is time now that the doubt will be settled,” the New-York Advertiser wrote. “We earnestly hope it will be settled as Massachusetts would have wished to have it if Boston had been selected instead of Philadelphia for the grand commemoration.”
Trying to handle the problem internally, the Centennial Commission targeted local business support through regional celebrations, including one for the fiftieth anniversary of the Franklin Institute. Fifty years after two mechanics proposed the idea at a town meeting, the “Institute” had presented twenty-six showcases of the mechanical arts, but it had no building of its own. The anniversary event, lasting six weeks from mid-October through mid-November, featured displays of light fixtures, textile fabrics, cabinetry, tools, instruments, and the soda fountain of Robert M. Green, the man who presented America with its first ice-cream soda on one particularly busy day. The exhibition earned the Franklin Institute almost $60,000, enough for a committee to begin scouting properties for a year-round exhibition building in Center City.
The press praised the police for maintaining peace during the showcase. They had patrolled corridors, watched out for pickpockets, accommodated weary visitors by setting up benches, and established order in the lines of those waiting outside to purchase tickets. In fact, the authorities were so busy keeping the peace that they may not have been as vigilant in criminal profiling as they had been over the past few months. Bill Mosher was a criminal, but he was also a professional artisan. He and Joseph Douglas could have very well been two of the thousands who had strolled through the main hall, perusing displays, tools, and inventions that celebrated craftsmanship. If Westervelt was to be believed, and William Mosher had successfully traveled back and forth to Philadelphia unrecognized in the aftermath of Charley’s kidnapping, a popular festival commemorating the mechanical trades would have been hard for him to ignore.
* * *
As Heins continued pursuing the clues offered by William Westervelt and Superintendent Walling, the advisers turned their attention to transforming Philadelphia’s image from a violent, industrial metropolis into a clean, cultural haven. The Evening Bulletin wrote, “The condition of the streets will be marked by everyone, and comparisons will be made with other cities in this country and abroad. Nothing will tend more to make the city inviting and create a favorable impression among visitors than a neat and tidy condition of the public highways.” The city planners authorized funds for street cleaning machines, solicited bids for repairing roads and installing streetlamps, and encouraged citizens to remove garbage from the streets. Police spread circulars with “No Refuse Allowed” throughout town and worked to contain street violence.
Nevertheless, throughout the fall months, brawls spilled from saloons onto sidewalks. A group of men in one corner bar beat a bartender when he ordered them to stop smashing full-pint glasses with empty bottles. Street thugs fought one another with blackjacks and brass knuckles. They beat a seventy-five-year-old man to death, nearly kicked a “feminine-looking” man to death, attacked women, shot one ma
n in the eye, another in the throat, and assaulted officers for arresting their friends for rape. Police locked up twelve-year-olds who threw stones at windows, a fireman who threw a cat into a furnace, an angry drunk who stabbed a fellow drinker in the head, and the proprietresses of three brothels, their female employees, and their gentlemen guests.
As updates on Charley Ross’s disappearance slipped from the papers, the story of Mary Elizabeth Carton, another abandoned child, enraged the public. In Kensington, the neighborhood where Walter had been abandoned by the kidnappers, Mary’s father, Francis Carton, had stumbled home drunk one night and beat his wife to death in front of two of their six children—ten-year-old Mary and a ten-month-old infant. By the time Mary was called to testify at the murder trial, her father’s family and two of her own brothers claimed that neighbors and police had misinterpreted the crime scene. Police had, in fact, kept Mary under close supervision at a neighbor’s house, fearing that her family members would kidnap her before her testimony. While Mary waited for the trial, her father sent Mary and the neighbors threatening letters.
The district attorney angered the public when he charged Francis Carton with second-degree murder. He said the state could not ask for more because Carton did not use a weapon. The Evening Bulletin said, “It is true that the use of a deadly weapon presumes the deliberate intent to commit murder. But is it equally true that the absence of a deadly weapon presumes that there was no such intent?” It warned of the consequences should the judge agree with the prosecutor’s decision. “If so, it will be quite an inducement to murderers to practice the art of manual and pedal murder, and so keep themselves safe from the gallows.” The judge supported the district attorney’s decision; he attributed the charge not to the absence of a weapon, though, but to Carton’s intoxicated state at the time of the murder. After Mary’s testimony, the jury found Francis Carton guilty and the judge sentenced him to eleven years and six months in prison.