by Roy Lewis
‘Sir?’
‘Canada.’
I leaned back in my chair, confused.
‘We are a growing nation, suffering from growing pains,’ Stanton mused. ‘Take Chicago, for instance. In 1829 there were no more than fifty inhabitants in that city; now there are in the region of three hundred thousand. Canals, the meat trade, the railway depots . . . progress has been explosive. Explosive. . . . Do you know, Mr James, that this surge has been much supported by an influx of Irish immigrants?’
‘The agrarian problems have led to the depopulation of Ireland,’ I agreed.
‘And they have come to the land of the free with an ingrained hatred of England,’ Stanton affirmed. ‘Which is where you could come in, Mr James.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Have you heard of the secret society known as Clan na Gael?’
I shrugged. ‘Ireland has always been a hotbed of secret societies. The Fenians in England are under constant watch by the Government, while their political allies demand Home Rule for Ireland—’
‘Chicago houses an active branch – under a man called Sullivan – of Clan na Gael, which is devoted to the achievement of Home Rule by violent, not political means. We have our agents who keep us informed of their meetings, we have infiltrated their organization, and we have information that they have been gathering arms with a view to striking at England – not on England’s home soil, but at its colonial possessions. They believe that if they cross into Canada with an army of Irish patriots, there will be a popular uprising, the English will be thrown out of Canada and the first step to Irish independence will have been achieved.’
‘Pie in the sky,’ I observed.
‘That is probably an accurate assessment,’ Stanton murmured, ‘but you must appreciate the problem such an invasion – if it ever comes off – would contribute to the embarrassment of our government.’
‘Because the invasion would necessarily have to come from American soil.’ I nodded thoughtfully.
‘Involving Irishmen who have lived and worked and schemed and armed themselves in America. Such an event could damage our relationships with the British government, it could escalate, it could even draw the English into our own civil conflict. On the wrong side.’
‘I can see that,’ I replied, nodding. ‘But where do I come into this?’
Stanton scratched at his beard. ‘You are an Englishman of reputation. You are known to be a Radical. You have supported political assassination,’ he held up a restraining hand as I began to protest, ‘and you have declared yourself against oppression, aristocratic prejudice, even to the extent of seeking a new life here in America. Like so many immigrants. I feel it would not be overly difficult for you to persuade these renegade Irishmen that your heart is in the right place.’
I stared at him in astonishment. ‘Are you suggesting I should become an agent – a spy?’
Stanton smiled wolfishly. ‘Nothing so dramatic. But I think you could act as a political adviser to our own Intelligence Service. And living in New York and being – as I understand from your history – a sporting man who enjoys the manly arts, horse racing, pugilism, clubbing and gambling, in our terms a ‘jolly fellow’ – you would in New York be in contact with the teeming Irish fraternity. From whom you could obtain information to our advantage.’
I shook my head. I stood up. ‘I am sorry, Mr Stanton. This proposal is a complete surprise to me, and one I must decline. I have come to the United States to promote my profession as a lawyer. Working for your . . . Intelligence Service, did you call it? I fear this is not at all what I feel to be appropriate for my future success in America.’
Stanton held up a hand. ‘I think you should take time to consider this matter. I will contact Colonel Lafayette Baker and arrange for you to meet him in New York. The fact is, Mr James, you are green in American ways. You will find great difficulty in achieving your ambitions: a judicial appointment, a seat in the Supreme Court, perhaps? These prizes will never be within your grasp unless you have political support of the most effective kind. Let me put it like this, Mr James. With my support, and that of the Cabinet, and of the president himself, your future could be assured. Without it . . . in a corrupt Democratic stronghold such as New York. . . .’ He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘But with such support, from a grateful government, who knows what you might achieve?’
Two days later, returning to New York, I was still turning over in my mind the implications that lay behind his offer. And the more I dwelt on the matter, the less outlandish seemed to be his reasoning.
I had opened my office on Broadway and entered into partnership with a law clerk, Thomas Dunphy, who was preparing himself for a career at the New York City Bar as my associate. But Marianne insisted that we investigate all that New York had to offer, and during the next few weeks we toured the city, taking in all the sights as though we were mere tourists. And to my surprise, Marianne wished to experience all the sights, including the notorious Five Points area. We joined what were popularly known as ‘slumming parties’, small groups of ladies and gentlemen who wished to see the notorious slums and rookeries of Charlotte Street and Cherry Street, where we were regaled by our guide with hair-raising stories of the river pirates and the crimps who robbed sailors on the waterfront and shanghaied drunken, drugged saloon inhabitants to service at sea. We were shown the Fourth Ward Hotel, where sailors were enticed inside by waterfront whores, then drugged, murdered, and dropped through trapdoors into the sewers that led to the docks. We learned that nearly every house in the Five Points had a cellar serving as a groggery with a bordello on the first floor, usually family-run businesses, with mother and daughters providing the required services above, while the husband kept order in the saloon. The riots of the 1840s had driven most of the blacks out of the neighbourhood, but the Irish were everywhere, some successful like Barney McGuire, who had begun his career as a fence but progressed to become an owner of opium houses, saloons, hop joints, junk shops and pawnbrokers. Other immigrants from Ireland remained mired in poverty among dirty-faced, ragged children who made a living by sweeping crossing points and picking pockets.
There were also the theatres.
I had always been interested in the theatre, as you know, and with our guide we duly toured some of the more respectable: they did not include Billy McGlory’s Armory Hall, which, our guide assured us, was little more than a haunt for thieves, pickpockets, procurers and knockout drop artists. But we were introduced to the Louvre Concert Saloon near Madison Avenue and the cheaper theatres on Broadway, and shown the disreputable dance houses in Water and Cherry Streets. I got to know them more intimately later, without Marianne’s company, but that’s another matter.
After the tour was over, I received a message at the hotel: when I responded and met Frank Queen, editor and owner of the New York Clipper, he offered me an associate editorship of the newspaper . . . the idea was that I would contribute articles on sporting and theatrical events. So it immediately became part of my routine to visit the Free and Easy saloon, which was frequented by actors, clerks, bookmakers, theatrical men, journalists – and lawyers. There I could get to know the men who worked in and frequented the stage in New York. And then there were the Bowery theatres. They tended to play broad farces and bloody melodramas, plays involving highwaymen and murderers, and they offered the additional incentives of long bars and huge beer gardens where they offered fiery, deadly liquor served by way of rubber hoses into wooden drinking vessels. It all reminded me of my youth, I assure you! For a few cents, the determined drunkard obtained access directly to the hose and was allowed to swallow as much as possible before he needed to draw breath – at which point another took over the rubber mouth!
I also became aware that most of the saloons, dance houses, brothels, gambling houses and greengrocery speakeasies were operated by Ward leaders backed by the Democratic stronghold, Tammany Hall. Politics and the underworld were closely entwined, each feeding off th
e other.
I wandered among these haunts, I was soon seen as a ‘sporting’ man, one of the ‘Jolly Fellow’ society and I must admit I enjoyed being part of this cultural tradition. Marianne did not of course accompany me on these visits, nor did I take her to any of the numerous gin palaces which appeared on each corner alongside gambling saloons: Madison Square was a notorious haunt for these establishments and provided so-called ‘waiter girls’ who were scantily dressed, available for assignations, and served excise-free liquor in between the stage shows regularly on offer. I was able to mingle with actors at the House of Lords, run by an Englishman, where they served beer in toby jugs and offered such delicacies as pickled pigs’ feet. As for stage shows in the Bowery, Geoghan’s was my favourite. Its walls were covered with flash pictures, gaudy decorations and drawings of famous ring battles and was the haunt of the pugilistic fraternity. I had a few months’ free enjoyment of these opportunities before Marianne began to question me about my absences and late hours.
Such questions soon degenerated into increasingly bitter quarrels.
2
Marianne.
With no false pride, my boy, I’ve always regarded myself as an expert in horseflesh and women. True, I never seemed to have much financial luck at the races, but with women, well, I prided myself on my ability to entertain, please, and persuade the ladies at all levels of society. Over the years, I met all kinds, though I disagreed with that impotent fool Ruskin who claimed that a woman’s intellect is merely for sweet ordering and arrangement, just as I took issue with that idiot Coventry Patmore, whose poems described the ridiculously pallid Angel in the House. No, I’d met fiery women, passionate women like Sovrina and Henriette who were far from the limply bloodless creatures described by the poets. And whether it was at the Cock and Hen Club, or in private town houses when husbands were elsewhere engaged, or in the swirl and colour of the Haymarket after the theatres were out, I found I could handle all kinds of women crossing my amatory path.
But Marianne: I confess she was something beyond my experience, or, let me admit, my control.
We had entered into what was effectively a business arrangement, and once married I had been delighted by her response to activity in the boudoir, but I also quickly became aware of the strength of her character. She had a mind of her own, and she held the purse strings.
‘But I assure you, my visits to the Bowery are in the nature of work,’ I pleaded with her. ‘My articles in the Clipper bring in a satisfying income, but they do necessitate my keeping my finger on the pulse of the theatrical world of New York.’
‘But the gin palaces and the concert saloons and that appalling De Soto’s—’
‘You’ve been misinformed! The dining room is elegant with its chandelier, the broiled kidneys are superior, the cream of the acting fraternity congregate there to gossip and it is there that I obtain my best copy, my love!’
‘And Sir John Falstaff’s, and Pfaff’s—’
‘They are frequented by the sporting fraternity, by the supporters of pugilism and horse racing and the theatre – people whom I need to speak with, learn from, understand, in order to produce my articles!’
‘I don’t like it,’ she snapped as she stamped her foot, but she relented, at first.
So for a few months, as she quietly simmered, I continued to claim a legitimate lifestyle in the Five Points and enjoy the company of the Jolly Fellows. That’s what they called themselves, you know – it was a sort of culture in masculine New York. The old days of the famous ‘Bowery B’hoys’ were almost over, but in the saloons one came across the ‘shoulder hitters’ with their cropped hair, broken noses and thick boots, men who were used at elections to break up meetings of political rivals. Many of them were former pugilists – it was how John Heenan started out, after all – and in the saloons boxing merits were constantly discussed; the same topics of conversation occurred in the grog shops, brothels and gaming hells, where one found a clientele comprising fancy fighters, burglars, street thieves, barroom bullies, drinking alongside lawyers and New York aldermen.
Ah, yes, I felt I was back to the days of my youth! I had known St Giles and the Seven Dials in London, entered the rookeries with the protection of Ben Gully, and seen the dens of thieves and scoundrels – as well as the gambling hells frequented by the aristocracy. But the raucous delights of the gin palaces of the Five Points were different and yet reminded me strongly of a lost, dissolute youth.
But I should not have ignored the warning signs flashing in Marianne’s eyes: I was too confident in my persuasive tongue as far as women were concerned. And I had other things on my mind after Colonel Lafayette Baker got in touch with me.
It was shortly after I had attended the Tammany Hall celebrations of 4 July, when my new friend Judge Daly gave the oration, that the messenger called on me with the Colonel’s note. It made the suggestion that we should meet at the Union Club on Fifth Avenue: I had already been invited there on several occasions and knew it was a club for highly-placed gentlemen: an entrance fee of $40 was demanded and games of hazard were not permitted. I was met at the entrance by a lackey with trimmed whiskers, black suit with a swallow-tail coat, a white cravat and slippers . . . very ‘Hinglish’ according to New Yorkers. I presented him with my invitation from Colonel Baker.
The powdered lackey escorted me with mincing step through a chandelier-lit drawing room encumbered with heavy dark furniture and a centre table covered with richly bound volumes of American poets. The walls were elegantly frescoed and there was a convenient, wide bay window through which elderly members could ogle female promenaders on Fifth Avenue. We climbed broad stairs guarded by armoured knight sentinels until we reached the smoking room, inhabited only by a wrinkled old naval officer, a short, fat individual I took to be a Madison Square doctor, and a spruce-looking merchant. They eyed me with idle curiosity above their newspapers as the lackey tapped on the door of a private room leading off their den; a short pause followed, then the door opened and the lackey stepped aside after announcing me.
The man who faced me and held out his hand in welcome was a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered individual with dark-red hair and a magnificent, red-hued beard. He was thin as a lath, his eyes were sharp, his forehead intelligent and his handclasp was firm, almost aggressive in its grip. He was dressed in a dark frock coat, white corduroy breeches and military-style boots. He introduced himself as Colonel Lafayette Baker. He waved me to a comfortable seat beside a table on which stood a decanter of brandy. He poured two drinks, then sat down facing me.
‘It was Secretary of War Mr Stanton who suggested we should meet. I have taken the trouble to investigate you, Mr James, and I am impressed by your history as a lawyer and a politician. You will know little, if anything, of me so perhaps I should tell you that I am an officer of the Union Army, now seconded to the staff of the Secretary of War. He has asked me to undertake certain tasks . . . I seek to root out the corruption in the matter of army supplies among other matters, to ensure the Union Army gets what it has paid for; and believe me, sir, corruption is rife, even extending to senior officers of the army itself. Naturally I do not work alone: I have recruited a number of agents who work for me, report to me, and I report to Mr Stanton. Though. . . .’
He wrinkled his brow and was silent for a while. It seemed as though he was contemplating saying something that might be unwise, or indiscreet, but whatever it was, he kept his counsel. I learned later the reason: he was also keeping a close eye on the business activities of his employer, Edwin Stanton himself, who had his corrupt fingers in a number of company pies. . . .
‘The Secretary of War has advised me that we could make good use of you, not in the matter of army contracts, but in relation to an issue that is worrying Mr Stanton.’
‘He spoke to me of the Fenians,’ I prompted.
Baker nodded, narrowing his ferrety eyes. ‘Clan na Gael . . . Mr Stanton seems to feel they can be an embarrassment to us. I am not so sure. In my view they
are merely groups of drunken Irish blowhards who call themselves patriots seeking the liberty of Ireland, but while they speechify and drink and sing rebel songs and fight among themselves, I don’t believe there’s a single soldier among them. But the Secretary of War demands that their groups be further infiltrated so that we may gain intelligence of their intentions.’
‘Mr Stanton believes they may be planning an invasion of Canada.’
Baker grunted dismissively. ‘A fantasy without foundation, in my view. But it requires investigation. However, to cut to the chase, I would like to offer you a position in the Union Intelligence Service. I can pay you $100 a month, and expenses. All you have to do is mingle with these fellows in their saloons, gambling hells, gin palaces and concert saloons. You’ll observe the brawls they call battles; you’ll ingratiate yourself with them by singing their sentimental songs and spouting their battle cries – and you’ll keep your eyes and ears open, and report directly to me.’
I shook my head doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure they’ll accept me, an Englishman in their midst.’
‘You won’t be alone, Mr James. And the company I will provide you will give you an impeccable standing. And legitimacy.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I believe you already know him.’
And know him I certainly did. My fellow agent turned out to be none other than Carlos Rudio, now calling himself Charles Di Rudio, former Italian patriot and would-be assassin of Napoleon III, now an officer in the Union Army and like Baker assigned to the Secret Intelligence Service.
You don’t recall his name? Of course you do . . . you surely must! You remember the defence I made of Dr Simon Bernard, charged with planning the assassination attempt upon Napoleon III and his Empress Eugénie? Well, you must recall that while it was Felice Orsini who threw the first bomb that evening in Paris, it was Carlos Rudio who threw the second. They failed in their mission of course: Orsini was guillotined, I saved Bernard in an English court by my impassioned oratory – which even President Lincoln praised and learned by heart – and Rudio, his death sentence commuted because of his aristocratic lineage, was condemned to imprisonment for life at Cayenne, the notorious Devil’s Island.