by Roy Lewis
And why was Mary Surratt, essentially innocent of involvement in the plot other than providing a meeting room, subsequently hanged? Oh, yes, my boy, she was executed. And I think I know why: it was Mary Surratt who was Stanton’s spy. That’s how Di Rudio and I obtained easy access to the house in Surrattsville. And after arrest, she took her incarceration with tight-lipped equanimity because she was convinced it was all for show, hiding her spying activities, believing all along she would eventually be released. Only when she faced the hangman did she realize Stanton wanted her silenced. And then it was too late!
You still seem unconvinced. Well, as I say, if I could have got Stanton into a witness box, I could have put these questions to him, insisted on his answering them on oath, and I would have torn him apart!
And there’s one other thing. Colonel Lafayette Baker was another who suffered from Stanton’s failure to keep promises. After the trials of the conspirators he was rewarded with promotion to Brigadier General . . . then sacked again. A little later he wrote his book, The History of the Secret Service. You’ve not read it? Well, he had some sensational things to say about the diary of John Wilkes Booth . . . you’ll recall I had seen the diary taken from the corpse by Luther Baker, in the burning shed at Garrett’s Farm. Well, that book naturally fell into the hands of the War Department. But when it was finally produced two years later at the Inquiry – Stanton at first denied he had even seen it – it would seem that some eighteen pages had been removed while it was in Stanton’s custody. Why would a man’s diary be so mutilated? The only answer must be that those pages contained damning information. Damaging to whom? Clearly, the person who held it under lock and key.
Yes, that’s right. Edwin Stanton, Secretary for War.
We’ll never know what Booth had written in those missing pages. My own suspicion is that they disclosed the extent to which Booth’s activities were financially supported by Stanton: it was rumoured he supplied him with money through the medium of a company of which he was director. You pull a face at me, sir: you ask why would Stanton have wanted Lincoln kidnapped? Hah! I would have got that out of him in the witness box, believe me!
It’s well known that Stanton hated Lincoln, did all he could to undermine him, or belittle him. He pushed Lincoln hard on abolition of slavery and when the president demurred and hesitated, Stanton was infuriated. He wanted retribution against the Southern leaders but Lincoln wanted peace and forgiveness. Stanton also thought that with the president out of the way – kidnapped – his own power would increase, and he would have a fair prospect of himself becoming President at the next election. But Booth’s mad, melodramatic adventure destroyed that hope. All he was supposed to do – all Stanton expected him to do – was to kidnap the president, not murder him!
Yes, yes, all right, I agree that perhaps I exaggerate – yes, I admit I disliked Stanton, I was infuriated by his treachery and false promises, and perhaps I am biased in my opinions. Let it be. It’s a long time ago, and I’m in no mood for disputing the matter with you. I am just telling you how I saw things.
In any case, Stanton would do nothing for me and when I went back to New York a few days later, nursing my contempt and fury at Stanton’s behaviour, I found that no easy ride awaited me in that great city. I am now of the firm opinion that forgiveness never comes to a man who has erred; whatever ease he might achieve with benedictions from friends and even enemies, the misdeeds are never truly forgiven. At least, not as far as the reverberations caused by past errors continue to shake a man’s life. Such certainly was the case with me. For it was on my return to my Broadway office that I discovered the shadows of the past had risen up once more to put me in peril.
I opened my office door that day to find a man ensconced behind my desk. His billycock hat was perched on the back of his head; his soiled, booted feet were crossed at the ankle, reposing on my desk and he was clearly enjoying the fat cigar that was clenched between his bearded lips. He raised a hand as he called to me, fanned away the blue curling smoke and invited me to enter my own office.
His tone was jovial and confident. ‘Mr James! Back from great deeds in Washington, no doubt! Sit down, my friend, sit down. We have things to talk about.’ He tipped his hat forward so that it jauntily covered one eye. ‘You’ll remember me, of course! You appeared before me a couple of times, when that rogue minister the Reverend Pease was preaching sedition in the Five Points! We clashed, as I recall, you and I.’
‘He was preaching temperance,’ I growled. ‘Not sedition. And of course I remember you, sir. Matthew Brennan. Police court judge and a favoured man in Tammany Hall circles.’ My tone was surly, for I was out of sorts at his manner.
‘The very same,’ he agreed cheerfully, in no manner offended. ‘The man you humiliated with that Supreme Court appeal. But I was never a man to hold a grudge, if it suits me. So sit down. We have things to discuss. And I have a proposition to make to you.’
With a sinking heart, I listened to him, and as he spoke the almost forgotten shadows of my past in England arose once more to confront me and threaten my very existence.
PART 5
1
Matt Brennan. I knew him to be a typical product of the Tammany Hall system developed in New York by the Democratic Party. He was Irish, of course, born and raised in the Five Points. He had begun his rise in the same manner as so many others: making use of boyhood contacts, frequenting the saloons and gin palaces, rising to become a shoulder-hitter at political rallies, using his nailed boots and his fists to ensure a high turnout of voters of the right colour and eventually paying to join one of the fire brigades that were scattered around the city, competing with each other, fighting their own corner and galloping around in their horse-drawn machines like embattled knights of old.
He set up his own saloon in due course, naturally: Monroe Hall, one of the most successful saloons in the city, close to Niblo’s and the other Bowery theatres, and competing fiercely with Barney McGuire’s network of opium houses, hop joints, junk shops and pawnbrokers. He was closely allied to Bridget McCarty – who procured so-called young virgins for the well-heeled politicians – and he soon wormed his way into the Tammany Hall set-up by way of alcohol, opium, bribes and prostitution rackets. The natural prerequisite to political advancement in New York at that time was by way of service in the fire department and the police, so Brennan’s next step was to join the police force – when he could afford it because the entry fees were considerable – and then found himself able to profit from the graft that every officer was expected to indulge in. It meant turning a blind eye to gangs who made a living by burglary – for a cut of the profits – and even protecting them by keeping watch while they entered a house, and then causing confusion by running noisily in the opposite direction in a supposed chase after the guilty villains, once the alarm was raised.
Brennan’s rise in the ranks was assured by the favours he provided to the pothouse politicians: free drinks, complaisant girls and shares in the proceeds of graft. By the late 1850s, he had become Police Captain Matt Brennan. When I came into his arena – courtesy of Mrs Grimshaw’s pressure to defend the Reverend Pease and his Temperance Movement preaching – he had recently been appointed to the police court as judge. Knowledge of judicial procedures was an unnecessary qualification for such elected office; indeed it was probably a handicap. And now here he was in my office a few years later, leering at me knowingly as though he was aware that, somehow unknown to me, he had me over the proverbial barrel. He chomped at his cigar, and scratched at the thick mat of hair protruding above his open shirt collar.
‘I been learning quite a bit about you, James. And in spite of our little clash a way back – I ain’t a man to bear grudges, like I said, if it suits my purpose – I believe that in you I find a man after me own heart. You got style, James, and the kind of skills me and me friends can put to good use. I’d like to put some work your way.’
‘In your police court?’ I asked, surprised.
‘You’ve not kept u
p to date, my friend,’ Brennan announced cheerily, waving his cigar at me. ‘I’m no longer a police court judge! I been elevated. Last week I got elected to the position of City Comptroller. You know what that means? I get to keep up to date the electoral rolls of this great city of New York. And all that it implies.’
I could guess what it implied: electoral control by adding – or removing – names from the list, ‘arranging’ elections, organizing repeat voting, making sure that Tammany Hall directives were followed to the letter.
‘Congratulations,’ I said drily.
‘I appreciate that! Mr James, you got all the qualities I need in a man,’ Brennan said enthusiastically. ‘There’s still a place for the old ways – we both know Ward Primaries were always decided by knock-down, drag-out brawls, and gangs preventing voters from getting to the polls, getting repeater votes and rigging results. But things are changing, we got to be seen more respectable, so the day of the shoulder-hitter may well be over. On the other hand, these do-gooders who’d clean up Tammany Hall, well, they got to have recourse to the courts, don’t they? And that’s where you come in.’
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘I want the dice loaded against them. I want you to become a sort of Special Counsel to me. I seen you in action, James. You got the thunder, the bluster, you got the gestures – I like the white gloves bit of theatre, by the way – you got the temperament and skill to turn a jury inside out. I want you on my side.’
‘I’m not sure what—’
‘On my side. Not against me.’ He chewed on his cigar for a few moments, thoughtfully, moving it from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘And then there’s the fact you’re something of an expert on financial business. Even wrote a book about it, I hear tell.’
Bankruptcy law. It was how my career had started, years ago when I first was called to the Bar at the Inner Temple. I was curious suddenly. Was Matt Brennan in financial trouble? The answer was soon provided. He gave me a cunning glance, and cleared his throat noisily.
‘You see, James, certain complications have arisen regarding the setting-up of the Bowling Green Savings Bank. And the Guardian Savings Bank, for that matter . . . in both of which I have certain interests. I need sound advice, and I think you’re the man for it. Whaddya say?’
I considered the situation carefully. There could be advantage, of course, in being linked to Matt Brennan, and advantage also in scrabbling around in his secrets, obtaining information which might prove useful some day. On the other hand, I was still hoping to make a real career in the law, and to be tied in to such a corrupt individual might serve me ill. Moreover, I didn’t like the man.
‘I think I need some time to think this over—’
‘It’s not just advice on the finance stuff I’ll require,’ he cut in. ‘My work as Comptroller will no doubt bring in many court challenges – you know what the Republicans are like. Litigious bastards! I’d want you to be working for me on those matters too – sometimes behind the scenes, maybe, sometimes in court.’
I stared at those scuffed, soiled, arrogant boots still planted on my table. I grimaced. ‘As I say—’
‘We’d begin by you taking on a little job for me, regarding a certain young Irishman by the name of James Wilson, who’s just arrived, fresh-faced and innocent as a babe, from Dublin. Seems he has a considerable amount of money to invest in a suitable project. There’s an acquaintance of mine who has various business interests, who would be far from averse to giving this green young feller a hand. Your name has already been recommended to our gullible Irish friend. He will be coming to you for financial advice. When he does, you can recommend the friend I spoke of: Henry Hayward. A businessman of consequence. Things can move on from there, quietly. And profitably. For all concerned.’
I smelled stinking fish.
‘I’m not sure I can go along with that.’
Brennan stubbed out his cigar on the surface of my desk. He removed his hat, scratched at his thick mop of black, curly hair and grinned at me, sourly. ‘Now, just why would that be the case, Mr James?’
‘I don’t see,’ I said slowly, ‘how I can take on as a client a man with money to invest, whom I am then called upon to introduce to an investor about whom I know nothing.’
‘Not introduce, my legal friend. Persuade to an investment.’
The silence between us extended uncomfortably. At last, I said, ‘I think I must ask you to leave now, Mr Brennan. I have been away from my desk attending to business in Washington; I now need to catch up with what’s been coming in here.’
Brennan made no move to leave. He caressed his luxuriant moustache with a thoughtful finger. ‘From what I hear, you’ve not been so squeamish in the past, Mr James.’
I felt as though a lead weight had been deposited on my chest. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I managed to say at last.
Brennan smiled unpleasantly. ‘After receiving certain information, which I’ll come to in a moment, I been looking into what you’ve been up to in New York. Quite the jolly fellow, ain’t you! You and some foreign character, once a paid assassin, they say, you spent a lot of time trawling through the saloons of the Five Points, spending time with the Irish immigrants, sighing over their woes, singing songs and trading drinks with them. You got a love for the Irish, seems to me.’
‘They’re hard to avoid, in New York,’ I replied defensively.
‘But you seemed to be seeking them out,’ Brennan smirked. ‘Right in the middle of revolutionary talk, wasn’t it? What was you up to, James? Little in the Five Points passes my notice. I was born and bred there.’
‘It was just a period in my life. My early days in New York.’
‘Before your divorce. Caused quite a stir, that, in some circles. But none of my business, your marital problems. No, what I find surprising is that you seemed to be seeking the company of the Irish. Surprising, in view of your previous history.’
Under my breath I cursed my involvement with Colonel Lafayette Baker and his damned Secret Service. Because I was beginning to guess what was coming.
‘I don’t really want to continue this conversation. We’re getting nowhere, Mr Brennan. And I have work to do.’
He chuckled. ‘You telling me you don’t remember a man called Patrick O’Neill?’
I felt my fingers stiffen. I would have enjoyed wrapping them around Brennan’s hairy throat. ‘O’Neill is a common enough Irish name.’
‘As is Patrick, I’ll admit. But this man, O’Neill, well, we’re not talking about the Five Points. Patrick O’Neill, I’m led to understand, went to London: when was it? I’m told it was 1860. Would that be right?’
‘I’ve no idea. I never came across such a man.’
‘Now, is that the God’s truth! That’s interesting, because from what I heard this man O’Neill arrived in London from Cork – a Cork man he was, like me family – in search of certain information. It was in relation to a great scandal of the day throughout England and Ireland. I don’t recall the details meself, because we have enough to be getting on with here in New York, but it seems there was a famous Irish member of your Parliament, a financier who set up his own bank and used it to swindle maybe thousands of small tenants in Ireland out of the little money they’d earned by the sweat of their brows.’
I was beginning to feel sweaty myself.
‘Now, after this swindler of a banker died by his own hand, so it’s said, the gentlemen of Cork decided to set up a society to enquire into the whole matter. It’s the bane of old Ireland, is it not, the spread of secret societies? But there you are, we’re not much different here, with the Molly Maguires and Clan na Gael and suchlike. Anyway, to stick to the point. This society of Cork gentlemen, they gave the task of making particular enquiries of a certain delicate nature – and in a certain direction – to our Patrick O’Neill. Whom you tell me you’ve never met.’
He paused, eyeing me quizzically. When I made no reply, he went on, ‘So our Patrick proce
eds to London, and we don’t know quite where his investigation into the doings of this deceased banker took him, but the rumour is that they was somehow directed in your direction, Mr James. Now, what do you say to that?’
He locked his hands behind his neck in mock triumph, leaning back on two legs of the chair. I was hoping it would skid and he would crack his skull. I remained silent. It was the best defence, until I knew what the challenge might be.
‘Trouble is,’ Brennan sighed, ‘poor Patrick O’Neill never made his report. Seems he was found floating in the Thames some little while after, with his throat cut. Or was he dredged up on a mudbank? No matter, details are unimportant. And you say you never come across this unfortunate patriot from the Old Country.’
He regarded me with a malevolent confidence while I still retained my own counsel. At last he sighed, rocked the chair back into position and rose to his feet. He went to the window, looked out onto the bustle of Broadway and grunted. ‘Aye, it’s a grand life one can make for oneself in America. Land of opportunity. Streets paved with gold, if you ignore the pigshit. A haven for many who want to seek a new identity, a new life, an escape from the mistakes of the past. But opportunities must be grabbed while they’re there, Mr James. However, you need time to reflect. You’ve heard my offer. I’ll give you a day or so to think things through. I’ll say goodday to you now.’
He straightened his hat, brushed a hand through his tobacco-stained moustache, gave me a malicious smile and thrust past me on his limping way to the door, striking my shoulder, almost accidentally, as he did so. My heart was thumping unnaturally, and my fingers were tensed tightly. In the doorway, he paused, as though taken by an afterthought. He stood there, looking over his shoulder.
‘Me family, they’re originally from County Cork, as I said. Still have cousins there. In fact, it was one of me cousins who gave me name to a recent visitor to New York from the Emerald Isle. Name of Seamus O’Gonagle. It was Seamus who was tellin’ me the story about that swindling banker. Can’t recall the fraud’s name. . . .’