Tired, depressed, and sick to my bones, I gave up. No one in New York City would rent to Tennie or me. Our names and faces were too well known. Maggie took us back and was eventually able to find us a small apartment, rented under an assumed name and paid for with campaign funds since it also served as the headquarters of the Equal Rights Party and the brokerage office.
How the mighty had fallen. The future presidentess who had once cowed all of Wall Street and lived in the tallest mansion on the block was now running a faltering campaign from a single room on borrowed funds. Where had it all gone so terribly wrong? My conscience and the spirits gave me the same answer loud and clear—my pride had brought us there. It was all my fault, and only I could undo the damage.
SEPTEMBER 1872
The summer had worn me down to my bones, sucking out the marrow of my iron will and ambition until I resembled the woman who had announced her candidacy two years before as much as winnowed grain resembles the tender shoots of spring.
Though finally recovered from my mysterious illness, I had no desire to attend the National Convention of American Spiritualists in Boston. But as their president, it was my duty.
On the second night of the convention, I mounted the stairs to the stage with growing resignation. No one knew this was to be my final speech to my beloved supporters, as I intended to step down as the group’s president. It would be a simple speech expressing my gratitude for their unwavering dedication and pledging my support to the group for years to come, albeit in a lesser role.
While Laura Cuppy Smith introduced me, I recited my habitual pre-speech prayer to the spirits for guidance. I was suddenly taken out of myself into a great blinding light.
“Paradise was lost in Genesis through woman and regained in Revelation through woman,” a female voice said with the force of a gale. “Through woman and not through man will the world be saved. The time has come to at last unburden yourself of all you know of Henry Ward Beecher and his affair. By doing so, you will save the world from the hell of a sexual double standard and sexual hypocrisy and usher in a new era—paradise found.”
Blinking rapidly, I returned to myself in time to hear Laura say my name and turn toward me, inviting me forth. I was barely conscious of the walk to the podium, still suffused with that heavenly light.
When I parted my lips, my voice rang out as though from a distance, repeating the words spoken by the spirits. “Paradise was lost in Genesis through woman and regained in Revelation through woman. Through woman and not through man will the world be saved. For this paradise to be found, we must no longer allow a standard of sexual hypocrisy to exist. As you know, I have myself been a victim of this falsity, privately and publicly charged with vulgar sins I did not commit, oftentimes by those I know for certain were guilty of the same crimes with which they charged me and worse.
“That is why today, I have come before you to reveal the most heinous of these crimes. Many of you have no doubt heard the rumors about the so-called ‘clerical weakness’ of Plymouth Church leader Reverend Henry Ward Beecher. I am here to verify that they are all true. I know from the mouths of all parties involved that he did in fact seduce the young, vulnerable parishioner Elizabeth Tilton, who was, at the time, married to Mr. Theodore Tilton. This beloved preacher used his power and charisma to form an unholy union with her, convincing her that their sexual affair was an expression of God’s love, a right and holy thing. Not only that, but a child resulted from this union, one which was untimely cast from its mother’s womb by the forces of nature which saw it for what it was—the forbidden fruit of criminal passion.
“I call this sin only because of the hypocrisy with which the act was treated. Were the affair undertaken under the auspices of Free Love, then no harm would have been done. But no, even though Reverend Beecher holds these views in his heart—he has told me so—he continued to deny that such an act ever took place even when confronted by Elizabeth’s cuckolded husband.
“I have held this information in confidence for years because I did not wish to expose those involved to undue scrutiny. However, the time has come for all to be revealed; at the urging of the spirits, I have told you what I reliably know from all involved. May we who hear these words take into our hearts and minds the lesson contained herein—that if sex and love are to be held up in private or public as the vital forces that they are, this must be done equally between the sexes with no expectation that what is right for man is shameful for woman. The responsibility for the behavior of two must be equally borne if our nation is to move toward becoming a just society.”
Word quickly spread about my speech, raising more than a few hackles among local Spiritualists. A Boston newspaper, no doubt influenced by the relentless Beecher sisters, accused me of slander, a charge I vehemently denied.
“I may have spoken against a public figure, but all that I said was true,” I said to the assembled Weekly staff. “In this situation, I must either endure unjustly the imputation of being a slanderer, or I must resume my previously formed purpose of relating in formal terms, for the whole public, the simple facts of the case as they have come to my knowledge. I have decided to do so in the Weekly, as it has always been the vehicle through which I speak.”
“But that would mean resurrecting it,” James pointed out. “Can we afford that?”
“For a limited time, yes. The funds from my delayed lecture tour out West should be more than enough to cover the expenses. I want the story to be released to coincide with the reverend’s silver anniversary so that it comes out when the most attention is already focused on him.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little cruel?” James asked.
“Not after what he’s done to me. I have only ever asked two things of the man: to stand with me before I made a speech and to put in a good word when I could not find shelter for my family. But he could not be bothered with either, and so now I will give his needs equal consideration.”
“You will be doing your campaign no favors coming out so near Election Day,” Stephen observed.
I whirled on him. “You think not? I think the opposite. This will be the grandest example of everything I’ve been speaking about for the last three years—a coup de grâce, if you will. This is no mere act of revenge; it is an illustration of the principles of equality, Free Love, and free speech in action.”
Stephen gave me a dismissive gesture as if to say, “I give up. Do what you will.”
Tennie, who had been silent up to this point, finally burst out, “I think you are absolutely right. But if you are going to raise a ruckus, I’m banging on the pots with you. I want to tell everyone what Luther Challis and Charles Maxwell did at the French Ball all those years ago. It’s an injustice that’s been chafing my heart for years and another example of men getting away with lurid behavior while women pay the consequences.”
I had nearly forgotten about that obscene night four years earlier, when Josie had dragged us all to the American Academy of Music for the annual hedonistic tradition that dated back to before the Civil War. For that one night, daring members of high society mingled with brothel owners and workers along with anyone given to carousing, drink, or open sexuality.
Challis and Maxwell had been no different from thousands of other men who took their pleasure openly—only one of their conquests had been less than willing, and the other had been Minnie, for whom I’d always felt a motherly protection. When Tennie and I protested, the men carried the girls off to Madame de Ford’s, where no one cared to stop their debauchery. Tennie had vowed that night that one day the girls would be revenged. She’d finally found her opportunity.
I took Tennie’s hand. “We’ll be like the female Frank and Jesse James.”
Tennie grinned at me. “Making waves and breaking laws to the last.”
James sighed. “Let’s all pray you meet a better end.”
I worked nearly around the clock in the weeks leading up to the reemergence of the paper from its financial slumber. While Steph
en and I tried to find the best way to present my story to the public, Tennie worked on her exposé with Minnie, who agreed to help her piece together that night and its aftermath on the condition her identity not be revealed.
I also spearheaded the layout of this most important issue. I didn’t want to scream what could be considered libel from the front page. No, this was a subtle, but deadly, attack. Sitting on the shelf next to other newspapers, the Weekly would appear like any other publication. Readers would have to buy it and wade through pages of Spiritualist articles and advertisements to get to the hidden powder kegs within.
Blue copying pencil in hand, I poured over the final proof of the issue. My article was set to appear on page nine under the headline “The Beecher-Tilton Scandal Case: The Detailed Statement of the Whole Matter.” It was written in the form of a mock interview in which I, after a brief introduction, answered questions from a made-up reporter about the affair.
“I propose aggressive moral warfare on the social question, to begin in this article with ventilating one of the most stupendous scandals which has ever occurred in any community. I refer to the conduct of Reverend Henry Ward Beecher in his relations with the family of Theodore Tilton. I intend that this article shall burst like a bombshell into the ranks of the moralistic social camp.
“I have no doubt that he has done the very best which he could do under the circumstances. The fault I find with Mr. Beecher is of a wholly different character, as I have told him repeatedly and frankly, and as he knows very well. I condemn him because I know that he entertains one conviction, substantially the same views I entertain on the social question; that under the influence of these convictions, he has lived for many years, perhaps his whole adult life, in a manner which the religious and moralistic public ostensibly condemns; that he has permitted himself, nevertheless, to be overawed by public opinion, to profess to believe otherwise than he does believe, to persistently maintain, for these many years, that very social slavery under which he was chafing and against which he was secretly revolting both in thought and practice; and that he has, in a word, consented and still consents to be a hypocrite. The fault with which I therefore charge him is not infidelity to the old ideas but unfaithfulness to the new.”
I marked a few errant spelling and grammar mistakes, moving into the section where I detailed what I knew of his affair with Lib Tilton. Flipping more quickly through the pages of advertisements and articles of trivial consequence, I stopped on page fourteen, where Tennie’s damning story appeared under the somewhat-veiled headline “Beginning of the Battle.”
“A governor of a state and a pastor of the most popular church, president of the most reliable bank or the grandest railroad corporation may constantly practice all the debaucheries known to sensualism, and he, by virtue of his sex, stands protected and respected, so much so that even though the other sex cry shame on the exposer, the newspapers pretend not to know anything detrimental to public morality has transpired. But let a woman even so much as protect herself from starvation by her sexuality, and everybody in unison cries out, ‘Down with the vile thing,’ while newspapers make it their special business to herald her shame, utterly forgetting there was a man in the scrape.
“We propose to take leading personages from each of the several pursuits of life and lay before the world a record of their private careers so that it may no longer appear that their victims are the only frightful examples of immorality. To that end, I give you the story of Mr. L. C. Challis.”
I made a few marks as Tennie laid out what had transpired at the French Ball in 1869. I considered striking the final line, “And this scoundrel, Challis, to prove that he seduced a virgin, carried for days on his finger, exhibiting in triumph, the red trophy of her virginity.” It was overly dramatic, but we tried not to edit one another’s work too heavily. I could live with it. It added shock value of Biblical proportions, which would be good for sales.
James oversaw the secret printing and ensured subscriber issues were mailed before the paper hit newsstands on October 28. Finally, there was nothing to do but wait.
The paper made exactly the impact I was hoping for. Within a few hours, people were referring to it as “The Scandal Issue” and with good reason. As word spread, papers flew off the shelves, quickly depleting the first run of ten thousand copies and forcing the printers to work overtime to meet demand. By evening, issues that normally went for a dime were selling for over two dollars each.
By the time we opened our home/office the second morning, clients were telling us all sorts of outlandish rumors. Supposedly, one copy sold for forty dollars. Buck, ever enterprising, proudly bragged that he was renting his issues to others to read for a dollar a day. Returning from the printer, Stephen reported seeing copies being burned in Union Square by Reverend Beecher’s supporters.
When the first one hundred thousand copies were depleted, our distributor, American News Company, refused to replace it on the stands. So Tennie and I used our network of contacts to get word to the newsboys that they could pick the papers up from our offices in person.
For the next two days, young boys in suits with rolled up cuffs and jaunty caps paraded in and out of our tiny office as though it were a schoolhouse, exchanging their coins for packs of papers tied with string. Some didn’t even wait until they hit the corner before shouting about their newly obtained wares.
One of them, upon obtaining his latest pack, thanked me, adding, “I don’t know how to read or who Mr. Beecher is, so I don’t know what’s got these papers so hot, but I’m glad they are. My family will be able to eat this week thanks to what I’ve earned.”
My heart warmed to hear the issue had some positive unforeseen consequences. But that did little to loosen the knot of anxiety growing in my belly with each passing hour. We were opening ourselves up to possible libel suits, so I kept waiting for some response from Beecher or Challis. But so far they were silent, which unnerved me more than if they had barged in demanding Tennie and I be arrested.
By the time the gaslights were lit, despite the brisk sales and satisfaction of finally exposing the two, my skin was itching with anticipation. Were Beecher and Challis plotting against us? It was the only possibility that would explain why neither of them had yet issued a statement or even hinted that they were aware of what had been written about them. They were probably holed up in some secluded club or hotel room, colluding to ruin the two women who dared speak against them.
Late that night, I voiced these fears to James.
“My dear, you are being ridiculous,” he said.
But I knew better. The sprits were whispering for me to prepare. But for what?
NOVEMBER 1872
The paper sold more than two hundred fifty thousand copies in three days, and now, halfway into our fourth day of sales, Tennie and I were on our way back to the office with three thousand more copies tied in freshly printed bundles on the seat and floor and lashed to the back of our carriage. The woody scent of paper pulp was bravely trying to hold its own against the astringent bite of the ink, both of which were stinking up the cabin.
We were only a few blocks from our office when the driver stopped the carriage. At first, I paid no attention to the male voices outside, thinking it a routine stop for traffic or so that the driver could help someone in need. But then the door was wrenched open to reveal a mustachioed police officer in his navy uniform. He politely tipped his cap before looking between Tennie and me.
“Mrs. Victoria Woodhull and Miss Tennessee Claflin?” he asked.
I shaded my eyes to see the officer in the glare of the noontime sun. “I am Victoria. May we help you?”
The officer frowned. “I regret to inform you that I must arrest you on charges of sending obscene material through the United States Postal Service. You are hereby under police custody and will be delivered to the local police station to undergo the routine procedures.” He flashed a document at us.
I assumed it was a warrant but was too shocked at th
e moment to read it.
“I will be driving your carriage, and Officer O’Malley here will be seated with you.”
“What?” Tennie spluttered. “Whatever does this mean?”
Officer O’Malley, a handsome boy of about eighteen, stuck his head into the carriage. After seeing the piles of papers crowding the seats, he carefully settled on Tennie’s lap. She responded with a flirtatious smile.
At the police station, heavy iron manacles were secured to my wrists, and I was sent through a series of procedures to make my arrest official, Tennie only a step behind. Then we were hauled in front of the police captain, who was grinning as though he’d inherited a fortune. I glared at him, imagining how much he must be relishing my humiliation. I was well aware that he had disliked me from the moment I started speaking in public.
“What do you have to say for yourselves?” the police captain asked.
“They are refusing to speak until they obtain counsel,” the first officer, whose name was Miller, said. “They request contact with Mr. J.D. Reymart.”
The captain grunted. “Well, see if Mr. Reymart is available. Until then, the two of you will have to get comfortable in a cell.” He shooed us out with a gesture usually reserved for animals.
The following morning, we were dragged before a judge with Mr. Reymart at our side. From what Mr. Reymart had told us during our brief session before being taken into chambers, the charge stemmed from a man named Anthony Comstock, who took objection to Tennie’s use of the phrase “red trophy of her virginity” even though she’d taken it from the book of Deuteronomy.
“Who is this man?” Tennie asked. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He is the United States Postal Inspector, a rather zealous fellow who sees himself as a crusader against vice. He claims you violated the law by mailing the issue to him.”
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