by Roy Lewis
I recalled it well enough. John Sadleir. I had identified the corpse in the Dead House.
‘Mr O’Gonagle, now, he’s a top man in that secret society I was telling you about. The Cork Revengers. Still making enquiries, it seems. Still wanting some sort of recompense – money or blood, he wasn’t clear about that – for the losses they suffered at the hands of that dead man. I sympathized with him and his friends, of course. But I had to point out to him that while the Five Points is crammed with immigrant Irishmen and Tammany Hall is awash with Irish support, we have our own way of dealing with things here in New York. The writ of the Cork Revengers don’t run here – unless, of course, we choose to so allow it. And we don’t allow it, not against our friends. . . .’
His meaning was crystal clear to me.
Next day I sent him a note to the effect I would be happy to deal with the client who had been referred to me.
And that’s how another phase of my life began.
It was how I came to defend in the police courts a series of Bowery saloonkeepers, brothel madams, petty crooks and fraudsters, opium den owners and concert hall proprietors. I became a go-between for the police and Tammany Hall officials, and I became a conduit for the covering-up of payment of bribes and protection money throughout the city, along with the collection of ‘taxes’. A certain movement of vice had begun from the Five Points around that time, at the end of the Civil War: a number of the red-lanterned bagnios paid taxes to Tammany Hall in order to open up in better districts uptown. And they changed their style. The most expensive brothel was Seven Sisters House – they demanded evening dress and flower bouquets from their visiting clients, but there was also a rash of lower-class establishments. It was said that uptown now had as many whores as Methodists. I was kept busy collecting dues from these establishments, to secure them from police raids. But I was also kept well at arm’s length from the men of political influence in Tammany Hall: Matt Brennan wanted me as his creature.
It all started with my involvement with James Wilson; almost immediately I was in trouble.
The young man from Dublin arrived in my office later that week. Brennan had been right: there was something innocent and trusting about James Wilson. He had an open, clean-shaven face, pink cheeks, and eyes that twinkled on the world, seeing only the good in men. He would soon learn otherwise in New York, was my guess.
‘I’m staying at the Albemarle for the moment,’ he announced enthusiastically, ‘until I find my feet in this great city, and then I’ll wish to buy a property, maybe in Manhattan. Perhaps you can advise me there, sir, since you know the city well, so it’s said. Meanwhile, I need to seek advice on the investment of my liquid assets – the product of my father’s life’s work as a timber merchant in Dublin. He died recently, God rest his soul, and somehow I felt that after that, for me Dublin had changed, and I wanted a new start.’ He smiled, confidentially. ‘And there was the matter of a certain young lady, I confess, whose attentions were becoming too pressing.’
I didn’t doubt it: a presentable young man of means was always a clear target, in Ireland as much as anywhere else.
‘How liquid are your assets at the moment, Mr Wilson?’
‘Ah, well, there you are! I have a certain amount in cash – dollars and suchlike – but the larger part is in specie.’
‘Gold.’
‘That’s so.’
I took a deep breath, considered the matter. ‘Then the first thing you need to do is place it where it is safe. Not all the banks are as reliable as one would wish.’
‘You could recommend a safe haven, until I decide upon a project for investment?’
‘Safe as houses.’
It was as simple and straightforward as that. Within three days he had handed into my safe keeping some thousands of dollars’ worth in gold. I placed the gold in the keeping of the Bowling Green Savings Bank: Matt Brennan had assured me all was well and financially stable there. I had already looked at the bank assets and all seemed well. On the face of it.
Over the next three weeks, I saw quite a bit of James Wilson. I showed him some of the more salubrious saloons and concert theatres in the city, and he came to me with various proposals regarding the best way to invest his specie. I found reasons to dissuade him from several of these, until finally – albeit reluctantly, but under pressure from an impatient Matt Brennan – I brought up the name of Henry Hayward.
‘He’s a man of some consequence,’ I announced, following the brief given me by the City Comptroller. ‘He owns a slice of the equity in a number of riverside projects, he has city and government contracts for the redevelopment of run-down areas in the Five Points, and I am aware that at the moment he is seeking investors to come in with him on a new project, one which should be after your heart, since it is of a kind you are already familiar with. You see, now the war is over, the demand for building materials, consequent upon war damage, is considerable and Mr Hayward has the concession to construct a lumber mill on the banks of the Potomac. It seems to me to be a sound enterprise. You could look it over for yourself, and make your own decision, but I feel I can recommend it as a rewarding investment.’
All right, all right, you look at me askance, my boy, but let me hasten to add that I had looked at Hayward’s papers and figures and projections and I was satisfied that the project looked sound enough. I was aware, of course, that graft would be involved: anything Matt Brennan had his fingers on would have elements of corruption, but that was the same throughout the city in those days: police, politicians, judges, lawyers, builders, they all had their hands in somebody else’s cashbox.
Hayward came into my office to meet Wilson the next day, and they shook hands on a deal. I didn’t like Hayward from the moment I saw his bloodshot eyes and sagging jowls, his meaty hands and crocodile smile. He was well dressed of course, apart from the billycock hat, and he had the confident swagger of a New York businessman. But he spat tobacco juice too often, and not always in the spittoon provided. Still, he seemed to impress young Wilson and they talked business for an hour.
Thereafter, I drew up the papers, which promised Wilson a percentage share of the profits as well as an immediate regular monthly income and employment as a manager once the lumber mills were constructed. I was also entrusted for the moment with the continued holding of the specie – still deposited in the Bowling Green Savings Bank.
Once again, I see a distrustful and cynical gleam in your eye, young man. But you have to appreciate the position a lawyer finds himself in. I had done all I deemed necessary, in checking the papers Hayward waved in front of my eyes. I had given advice to young Wilson, but I deemed that advice sound, even if it was backed by the corrupt Matt Brennan. But I was just the middleman, I was merely there in the transaction as a bond-holder, if you will. I wasn’t really part of what was going on.
It’s what I tried to explain to young Wilson three months later. The business he had entered into with Hayward was nothing to do with me.
‘But you advised me!’ Wilson expostulated.
‘In good faith, I assure you.’
Wilson was enraged. ‘But I have waited for three months, and I find that while large sums of my capital have been drawn from the bank in Hayward’s name, I have received not a single cent by way of the promised monthly payments, and when I visited the Potomac site, I discovered no building work has commenced! Indeed, no one I spoke to seemed to be aware of any such activity being projected!’
I spread my hands helplessly. ‘Mr Wilson, these are not matters I am involved with. I have placed your money securely. You have entered a business transaction on your own account. You must take these matters up with Mr Hayward, not with me.’
His eyes narrowed: I realized that while he might seem young and innocent James Wilson was also a man of dogged will. ‘I want my money back,’ he snarled.
I shrugged. ‘You have a contract with Hayward. You might have a problem obtaining what is left of your assets at the bank, since they are subject
to that contract. Hayward has a lien upon them. But that is where your route lies: with the bank, with Hayward . . . not with me.’
You smile. I can see what you’re thinking. Lawyers! But I was speaking legal truths in the same way I had done after the Horsham election years earlier, when that damned solicitor Padstone had tried to dun me for the money I had offered on behalf of Sir John Jervis. I wasn’t personally liable then – for I was acting merely as an agent – and I wasn’t liable now.
Wilson wasn’t convinced. He took me and Hayward to court.
He was never going to succeed against me, of course: I knew my law. But the affair caused a certain noise in the press, and I still had enemies back in England. One of them caused an article to be published – inevitably – in the Manchester Guardian. It gave a somewhat garbled account of what had happened, claimed I had been arrested on grounds of fraud, and spent a night in prison in the notorious Tombs. From whence I had been ‘mysteriously’ released by influential friends in Tammany Hall.
When I heard about the article I knew I needed to act. Fortunately, the judge who was supposed to have released me from the Tombs was named in the article: Judge Connolly. I immediately brought suit in Connolly’s court, for libel. All I needed was a statement in my favour – because of course a New York court had no jurisdiction over the Manchester Guardian, but that’s what I obtained. Connolly was as incensed as I and announced there was no truth in the allegations and that I left the court with no stain on my character. That decision was never reported in England.
What happened regarding Hayward and Wilson? Well, sad to say, Wilson lost a large part of his money and emerged a poorer but wiser man. Hayward was arraigned for fraud – there being no lumber yard under construction and no city contracts – and it turned out he was not a businessman but a confidence trickster. He was never tried for the offence, however: bail was posted in the usual farcical way and he immediately disappeared. Matt Brennan seemed pleased with the result.
As for me, well, there were some mutterings around the city precincts. And I continued to handle work in the police courts. But my associate, Tom Dunphy, was getting restless: he was not happy with the way our partnership was going, and though we still had some notable cases to handle such as the Conner murder trial, and Supreme Court hearings such as the Gowan fraudulent divorce matter – in which John Gowan found his father-in-law had brought false proceedings to enable his daughter to divorce, and get alimony from him – there were still too many Brennan-sourced briefs for Dunphy’s liking.
‘Look at this defence of Officer Busted you’ve recently taken on. He was charged with not paying for pawn tickets! Is this really the kind of work we should be seeking?’
Officer Busted was, of course, one of Matt Brennan’s minions. And Tom Dunphy was right. In his position I imagine I would have felt the same. But I had little choice, with the threat of Seamus O’Gonagle and the Cork Revengers hanging over my head. So, I suppose it was with a certain sense of relief on my part that Tom Dunphy finally suggested we should break up the partnership.
I was soon enough approached by another lawyer, Charles Blandy, with even greater Tammany Hall connections. But I held fire for a while. I was still hoping to make my own way, in spite of all these problems. I had achieved great things in England on my own: I felt I could still rise to the top without the support of a partner in New York.
But things only stumbled onwards and the work seemed slow in coming in. I felt dispirited, trapped by the past, and I began to lose confidence in my prospects. That was the time when I felt I was hitting rock bottom; Matt Brennan put me in touch with a certain Charlie King. He promised me that if we went into partnership we could do well in prize cases before the courts. I had already built up a certain reputation with the shipping companies in my early days in New York – though much of that work had drained away in the Hudson River – so I complied willingly enough.
And at first it seemed to go well, until I realized just what Charlie King was up to. He set up a firm of bankers and brokers and listed me as Special Counsel. And I soon found myself bringing a series of claims against ships arriving in New York for non-fulfilment of contract. The claims were largely settled out of court, because the ship-owners did not wish to go to the expense of a lengthy trial in the Prize Courts. When I looked more closely into these so-called contracts I realized they were a figment of Charlie King’s fertile imagination. And the shipowners – well, they saw the whole thing as a form of blackmail, but with discharging their cargoes and wishing to turn around quickly, they felt it wiser to pay Charlie King off, settle out of court and be on their way. Blackmail, insurance, a Matt Brennan tax, it depends what you want to call it.
And I was supposed to provide the legal muscle to back Charlie King’s claims.
I wasn’t happy. I soon broke off the connection. As for Charlie King, a few years later he was charged with murder, for killing his father-in-law, who had assisted in the seduction of Charlie’s wife: a curious business and somewhat complicated. Charlie was bailed, naturally enough, and disappeared, of course. It’s the way things operated in New York in those days.
I seem gloomy as I tell you about those times? Well, yes, I suppose it still affects me. My high hopes were being dashed, I was floundering at the edges of my legal career, I was under the pernicious thumb of Matt Brennan, my reputation was sliding and it was becoming clear to me that the glory days of the Old Bailey were long gone, and not to be repeated.
But I wouldn’t want you to think that all was gloom. After all, this was the period in which I made the closer acquaintance of your mother. She’s never told you how we met? Ah, well, I first met her when she was acting as a public lecturer for your father’s show in London: the Diorama of India, which drew large audiences. That would be about 1852. She was twenty-two years old then, and quite beautiful. The money she and your father earned was frittered away, of course: your father, J.H. Stocqueler, he always lived beyond his means, much of his activity was on the shady side, there was all the whoring, the doubtful financial deals, and he was bankrupted several times. He had abandoned his first wife and child in India, and when I met Eliza for the second time, years later in New York, he was in the process of leaving her – and you – in the same manner.
Drilling whores, actresses and would-be cavalrymen for the war was his proclaimed forte in New York but he was soon off to Canada, and then England, while your mother was left kicking her heels in New York and you were off on your first sea voyage. . . .
Yes, in my dark days Eliza was a beacon to me. How did we come to meet again in New York? Hah, it was when I was in the employ of Colonel Lafayette Baker in the Five Points, before Lincoln’s assassination, during the Draft Riots. I had taken to carrying an Equalizer at that period, whenever I made a foray into Hell’s Kitchen and Satan’s Circus. An Equalizer, you know . . . a Sam Colt revolver.
And it was just as well that I was carrying it under my frock coat that evening when I heard the screams from the alley near the Coloured Orphans Asylum on the junction of 5th Avenue and 47th Street. . . .
2
Colonel Sam Colt.
Americans always loved awarding themselves military titles. I met Sam Colt, you know, when I was still living in London. He’d set up a pistol factory near Vauxhall Bridge to make and promote sales of his ‘impossible gun’, a pistol that could fire five or six times without reloading. He was actually a farmer’s son who laboured for a while as a laughing-gas demonstrator, before he worked out his revolving principle after watching the helmsman on a ship he worked on for a while.
He came to me for advice regarding his patent – which he managed to get at last from the government – after he had exhibited his wares at the Great Exhibition of 1851. He presented me with a sample of his revolutionary weapon. But Palmerston didn’t approve of his factory so Sam Colt went back to the States after four years and awarded himself military rank while he busily promoted his guns. In 1860 he was selling the weapons to both Nort
h and South. Businessman, you see, taking no sides, concentrating on profit. He died of gout, I believe. . . .
Anyway, I became an aficionado of his weapon. That etching I showed you – the one made by Frank Vizetelly when we were in Italy with Garibaldi – it has me with a brace of pistols stuck in my belt. I was in a war, after all. But they were one-shot pistols, and when I first handled a Colt 1851 Navy revolver I knew it was the weapon for me.
It had provided a necessary insurance also when Di Rudio and I were working in the Five Points for Colonel Lafayette Baker’s Secret Service: we were spending time with belligerent, drunken Irish supporters of Clan na Gael and among the Jolly Fellows there was always the likelihood that a bout of drinking and gambling would be followed by a general brawl; someone would draw a knife, and chaos would ensue. Carrying an Equalizer gave me confidence that I could get out of any scrape that we got caught up in. Indeed, Di Rudio also carried one of those potent weapons. When we rode in the hunt for John Wilkes Booth we each carried a Navy Colt. It had certainly proved necessary that particular day when I found myself cut off from Di Rudio in the Five Points.
We had decided to part in order to cover a couple of separate meetings of the Jolly Fellows that afternoon. You know, New York was not unlike earlier days in London as far as links between concert saloons, bars, billiard rooms and brothels were concerned. In London, the Seven Dials area and St Giles rookeries teemed with low life, just a few yards from aristocratic houses and clubs. So it was in Five Points: there were almost four thousand Irish families crammed into garrets and damp cellars, living abject lives of poverty where vice and crime flourished. Many of the houses doubled up as taverns, while roaming pigs and chickens were underfoot everywhere. That particular day we drew straws, Di Rudio and I: he went off to the Clifton Shades and De Soto’s; I plunged into a couple of the gin palaces and gambling saloons in Madison Square and then into Izzy Lazarus’s dive for a while before taking a drink at Country McCleester’s in Doyer Street. It was a normally a popular place with its bar, exhibition ring for pugilists, dog pit and faro table, but there were few men there that day. I put one foot on the bar rail and looked at the faded fighting prints on the wall, and talked about old pugilistic encounters with the former knuckle-fighter who owned the bar. But as I drank, I let my frock coat swing open so that anyone who was interested could see that I had arrived duly defended.