NF (1998) The Napoleon of Crime

by Ben MacIntyre

  The commander of the Flushing battery was a German-born shoemaker named Jacob Roemer, who had emigrated to New York in 1839. Captain Roemer was a fussy, irascible man with a thrusting beard, crossed eyes, and the bristling face of a natural martinet. Vain, blustering, and courageous to the point of insanity, Roemer wrote a massively self-inflating memoir many years later, apparently intended to prove that the author was himself primarily responsible for winning the war. Young Worth, Roemer’s fellow countryman by birth, seems to have caught the eye of his commander, for he was soon promoted to corporal and then, on June 30, 1862, to the rank of sergeant in command of his own cannon and five men. Worth was well on his way to becoming a successful soldier, but he had by now fallen into bad—and thoroughly congenial—company. “He became associated with some wild companions, whom he had met at dances and frolics” while in New York, Pinkerton later recorded.

  The life of the Flushing Battery was anything but frolicsome. For several months, the soldiers drilled on Long Island, learning to wheel the field guns under the obsessively critical inspection of Captain Roemer. Then, in early summer, Captain Jacob Roemer, five commissioned officers, Sergeant Adam Worth, 150 men, 110 horses, 12 baggage mules, and a laundry woman packed up and headed south to join the Union Army under the command of that dithering incompetent, General Pope, deservedly one of the least remembered generals of the Civil War. In Washington they drilled some more, around the unfinished Capitol building. Worth clearly hated every moment, and even Roemer admitted that Camp Barry was a “mud hole.”

  “All we wanted was a chance to prove our devotion and our loyalty to our country,” the prickly and patriotic Roemer stated. Worth already had other ideas. Indeed, his first taste of army life compounded a blossoming disrespect for authority.

  During the early part of August the Union Army and the Confederates under the command of Stonewall Jackson warily circled each other in the fields and hills of Virginia. The Flushing Battery took part in several skirmishes but it was not until late August that Roemer’s men tasted the full horror of battle when the two sides met head-on, for the second time in the war, near the stream known as Bull Run.

  On the evening of August 28, thanks largely to Captain Roemer’s absurd determination to cover himself and his men in glory and blood, the Flushing Battery found itself engaged at close quarters with the enemy in the middle of Manassas Valley. Roemer enjoyed every moment. “Shot and shell flew thick and fast,” he recalled, as the gunners fired off 207 rounds and somehow beat the enemy back. “I was triumphant,” wrote Roemer. One of his terrified lieutenants, however, was found hiding under a bush and had to be removed, gibbering, from the field. The battery commander was in his element, belting around the battlefield expecting, perhaps even hoping, to be shot by the enemy, and leaving a trail of appropriately heroic last words as he went. On the thirtieth he gave a pep talk to his troops. “Boys, it is no longer of any use to keep from you what may be in store for us,” he announced gleefully. “Before the sun sets to-night, many of you may have given up your lives; perhaps I myself will have to, but all I have to say is—Die like men; do not run like cowards. Stick to your guns, and, with the help of God and our own exertions, we may get through. Forward march.” What Worth made of Roemer’s epic oratory may be deduced from his subsequent actions.

  A few hours later, “L” Battery was caught up in the fiercest engagement so far. “Bullets, shot and shell fell like hail in a heavy storm … bullets were dropping all around and shells were ploughing up the ground. Men were tumbling, horses were falling and it certainly looked as though ‘de kingdom was a-comin’,” recalled Roemer, who had his horse shot out from under him and received, to his transparent delight, a flesh wound in the right thigh. Finally the enemy retreated. The Union Army was soundly defeated at Bull Run, but the unstable Captain Roemer regarded the battle as an immense personal victory.

  From Adam Worth’s point of view, the most intriguing fact about the engagement at Bull Run is that he did not, officially speaking, survive it.

  Roemer was unemotional in recording the passing of young Worth: “During this battle, generally known as the Second Battle of Bull Run or Manassas, August 29–30, 1862, the casualties in Battery L were fourteen enlisted men wounded (including Sergeant Adam Wirth, mortally wounded) besides myself, three horses killed and 21 wounded.” According to his army records, Adam Worth died at the Seminary Hospital, Georgetown, on September 25, from wounds received three weeks earlier.

  What really happened to Adam Worth at Bull Run must be a matter of speculation, for, unlike Roemer, and for obvious reasons, he did not write his war memoirs. Certainly he was wounded during the engagement. He later boasted of the fact, yet the injury does not appear to have been serious. At some point between August 30, when he was carried from the battlefield, and September 25, when he was officially listed as dead, Worth successfully made his escape. Perhaps he swapped his identification with another, mortally wounded soldier, or perhaps in the confused aftermath of battle when so many injured and dying were crammed into the nation’s capital, he merely ended up as a fortuitous clerical error, marked down on the wrong list. Either way, Worth emerged from the battlefields of Virginia with only a superficial wound and an entirely new identity. Adam Worth was officially no more, and thus could move on without fear of pursuit. For the first time, but not the last, he reinvented himself and became a professional bounty jumper.

  Over the coming months Worth established a system: he would enlist in one regiment under an assumed name, collect whatever bounty was being offered, and then promptly desert. Thus he drifted from one part of the sprawling army to another, changing his alias at every stop and developing a talent for masquerade that would later become a full-time profession. William Pinkerton, who was himself a young soldier in the Union Army, reported that Worth, after his first desertion and reenlistment, was “stationed for a time on Riker’s island, N.Y. and from there he was conveyed by steamship to the James River in Virginia, where he was assigned to one of the New York regiments in the Army of the Potomac.” Although the war convinced Worth of the futility of violence, his desertions were prompted by avarice rather than cowardice, and he repeatedly found himself in the thick of battle, including, according to Pinkerton, the Battle of the Wilderness in May 1864, an engagement scarcely less ferocious than the Battle of Bull Run.

  Desertion was a lucrative but highly risky business. “On his third enlistment,” according to one of his criminal associates, “he was recognized as a bounty jumper, and was in consequence sent, in company with others of his class, chained together, to the front of the Army of the Potomac.” Once more, Worth somehow emerged unscathed; he promptly deserted and reenlisted again. There was clearly a limit to how long Worth could get away with changing regiments, so, in a remarkable act of brass cheek, he now decided to change sides. As a contemporary stated: “About this time General Lee of the Southern Army issued a proclamation to the effect that all Federal soldiers who would desert from the Federal armies to the Confederate lines, bringing their arms with them, would receive thirty dollars from the Confederate Government, and also receive a free pass to cross the frontier back into the United States by way of the adjoining States of West Virginia and Kentucky.”

  The aspiring crook, untroubled by niceties such as loyalty to the Union cause, immediately “took advantage of these exceptionally liberal terms, and deserted one night in company with some others, while doing picket duty.” He did not linger in the South and, having collected his thirty dollars, traveled back “through the Confederate States on foot, in order to gain the frontier of the Northern States.” He would doubtless have repeated the process several more times, but before he could do so, the war came to end, and so did the first phase of Worth’s criminal career.

  Worth was just one of thousands of young soldiers to find themselves at loose ends with the declaration of peace. William Pinkerton, who came to play a defining role in Worth’s life and was to become his most reliable ch
ronicler, was another. Before long, the two men would become adversaries on opposite sides of the law, then grudging mutual admirers, then co-conspirators, and finally, most bizarrely, friends. Their paths did not cross until the war’s end, but already they were dark and light reflections of each other. Like the bright and tarnished pennies of Worth’s childhood, they were similar in value but utterly different in luster.

  The elder son of Allan Pinkerton, a Scotsman who had founded the great detective agency in Chicago in 1850, William Pinkerton was Worth’s exact contemporary and had enrolled in the Union Army at much the same time. Where Worth’s early life had been marked by material want and a complete absence of ethical guidance, Pinkerton was brought up in well-to-do Chicago under a regime of the strictest moral rules.

  Allan Pinkerton was a superb detective but a brutal father and a fantastic prig who hammered the virtues of honesty, integrity, and raw courage into his children and employees with something close to fanaticism. William did his best to live up to these exacting standards, but could never be quite good enough. Working with his father, Abraham Lincoln’s official spymaster, William Pinkerton not only ran agents across the border into Confederate territory but was also present on the first flight of an observation hot-air balloon during the Civil War. Brave, bluff, and energetic, Pinkerton was wounded in the knee by an exploding shell at the Battle of Antietam, having already “gained experience that was invaluable to him in the vocation which he was to follow.” He attended Notre Dame College in Indiana for a year and then joined his father’s fast-growing detective agency, where he soon established a reputation as a tireless lawman, one of the first and perhaps the greatest of the American detective breed. The Pinkertons chose as their symbol an unblinking human eye and the motto “The Eye That Never Sleeps,” from which the modern term “private eye” has evolved.

  The lives and subsequent careers of Worth and Pinkerton starkly demonstrate the moral duality that so obsessed Victorians. They shadowed and echoed one another, the detective playing Holmes to Worth’s Moriarty, yet they were birds of a feather in their tastes, attitudes, and opinions. Both, to a remarkable degree, represented typical American stories of self-created men from immigrant stock, rugged in their opportunism, sturdy in their beliefs, but at opposite poles of conventional morality. Worth would have made an outstanding detective; Pinkerton, a talented criminal. The Civil War was a grimly leveling experience, but its end allowed the country to begin to rebuild and reinvent itself once more. The two men emerged from the battlefields determined, like thousands of others, to make their mark. They took diametrically opposed routes to that goal, but a lifetime later the bounty jumper and the war hero would end up, in a way neither could have predicted, as allies.

  Pinkerton’s had been a remarkable war, but then the official military record of Sergeant Adam Worth was also one of unblemished bravery and tragic heroism: a young and promising soldier mortally wounded while defending the Union at Bull Run. In truth, of course, he had spent the war dodging the authorities, swapping sides, abandoning the flags of two rival armies, and collecting a tidy profit along the way.

  THREE

  The Manhattan Mob

  After the Civil War, Worth drifted, like so many veterans, to New York City, which by the mid-1860s was already one of the most concentratedly criminal places on earth. The politicians were up for sale, the magistrates and the police were corrupt, the poor often had little choice but to steal, while the rich sometimes had little inclination not to, since they tended to get away with it. Seldom has history conspired to assemble, on one small island, such a vivid variety of pickpockets, con men, whores, swindlers, pimps, burglars, bank robbers, beggars, mobsmen, and thieves of every description. Some of the worst professional criminals occupied positions of the greatest authority, for this was the era of Boss Tweed, probably the most magnificently venal politician New York has ever produced. Corruption and graft permeated the city like veins through marble, and those set in authority over the great, seething metropolis were often quite as dishonest as those they policed, and fleeced. As human detritus washed into lower Manhattan in the wake of the Civil War, the misery—and the criminal opportunities—multiplied. In 1866 a Methodist bishop, Matthew Simpson, estimated that the city, with a total population of 800,000, included 30,000 thieves, 20,000 prostitutes, 3,000 drinking houses, and a further 2,000 establishments dedicated to gambling. Huge wealth existed cheek-to-cheek with staggering poverty, and crime was endemic.

  New York’s most famously bent lawyers, William Howe and Abraham Hummel, wrote a popular account of the wicked city, entitled In Danger, or Life in New York: A True History of the Great City’s Wiles and Temptations, which purported to be a warning against the perils of crime, published in the interests of protecting the unwary. But it basically advertised the easy pickings on offer, and provided a primer on the various methods of obtaining them, from blackmailing to cardsharping to safecracking. Howe and Hummel promised “elegant storehouses, crowded with the choicest and most costly goods, great banks whose vaults and safes contain more bullion than could be transported by the largest ship, colossal establishments teeming with diamonds, jewelry, and precious stones gathered from all the known and uncivilized portions of the globe—all this countless wealth, in some cases so insecurely guarded.” The book was an instant best-seller and, according to one criminal expert, “became required reading for every professional or would-be law-breaker.”

  It was only natural that an ambitious and aspiring felon should make his way to New York and, once there, learn quickly. Determined to avoid returning to work as a mere clerk and hardened by his wartime experiences, Adam Worth took his place in the thieving throng. “On account of his acquaintance with bounty jumpers, he finally became associated with professional thieves and crooked people generally, and from that time on his career was one of wrong doing,” Pinkerton glumly recounted.

  Worth soon found himself in the Bowery, in Manhattan, an area of legendary seediness and home to a large and thriving criminal community which was divided, for the most part, into gangs: the Plug Uglies, the Roach Guards, the Forty Thieves, the Dead Rabbits, the Bowery Boys, the Slaughter Housers, the Buckaroos, the Whyos, and more. Many of these gangsters were merely exceptionally violent thugs whose criminal specialties extended no further than straightforward mugging, murder, and mayhem, often inflicted on one another and usually carried out under the influence of prodigious quantities of alcohol laced with turpentine, camphor, and any other intoxicant, however lethal, that happened to be on hand.

  “Most of the saloons never closed. Or they did for just long enough to be cleaned out and then to begin afresh drinking, fighting, cursing, gambling, and the Lord only knows what,” recalled Eddie Guerin, a useless crook but a successful memoirist who would eventually become Worth’s friend and colleague. The three thousand saloons noted with distaste by Bishop Simpson and others in post-bellum New York included such euphonious establishments as the Ruins, Milligan’s Hell, Chain and Locker, Hell Gate, the Morgue, McGurk’s Suicide Hall, Inferno, Hell Hole, Tub of Blood, Cripples’ Home, and the Dump. But if the nomenclature of the dives was indicative of the immorality therein, the names of the clientele were still more telling: Boiled Oysters Malloy; Ludwig the Bloodsucker, a vampire who had hair “growing from every orifice”; Wreck Donovan; Piggy Noles; the pirate Scotchy Lavelle, who later employed Irving Berlin as a singing waiter in his bar; Eat-em-up Jack McManus; Eddie the Plague; Hungry Joe Lewis, who once diddled Oscar Wilde out of $5,000 at banco; Gyp the Blood; the psychotic Hop-Along Peter, who tended, for no reason anyone could explain, to attack policemen on sight; Dago Frank; Hell-Cat Maggie, who filed her teeth to points and had sharp brass fingernails; Pugsy Hurley and Gallus Mag, a terrifying dame who ran the Hole-in-the-Wall saloon and periodically bit the ears off obstreperous customers and kept them in a pickling jar above the bar, “pour encourager les autres”; Big Jack Zelig, who would, according to his own bill of fare, cut up a face for one dollar and ki
ll a man for ten; Hoggy Walsh, Slops Connally, and Baboon Dooley of the Whyos gang; One-Lung Curran, who stole coats from policemen; Goo Goo Knox; Happy Jack Mulraney, who killed a saloonkeeper for laughing at the facial twitch which led to his sobriquet; brothelkeepers Hester Jane the Grabber Haskins and Red Light Lizzie, and the unforgettable Sadie the Goat, a river pirate and leader of the Charlton Street Gang, which occupied an empty gin mill on the East Side waterfront and terrorized farms along the Hudson River.

  According to Herbert Asbury, whose 1928 Gangs of New York is probably the best book ever written on New York crime, “Sadie [the Goat] acquired her sobriquet because it was her custom, upon encountering a stranger who appeared to possess money or valuables, to duck her head and butt him in the stomach, whereupon her male companion promptly slugged the surprised victim with a slung-shot and they then robbed him at their leisure.” (For reasons unknown but not hard to imagine, Sadie fell afoul of the formidable Gallus Mag of the Hole-in-the-Wall, who bit off her ear, as was her wont. But the story has a happy ending: the two women eventually became reconciled, whereupon gallant Gallus fished into her pickle jar, retrieved the missing organ, and returned it to Sadie the Goat, who wore it in a locket around her neck ever afterward.)

  Sophie Lyons, the self-styled Queen of the Underworld, whose remarkable memoirs are a crucial source of information on Worth’s life, was held by Asbury to be “the most notorious confidence woman America has ever produced.” She eventually went straight, began writing her salacious and partly fabricated accounts of New York lowlife for the city newspapers, and ended up as America’s first society gossip columnist.