“Did we mail a copy of the paper to him?” I asked.
“You did, upon his request. He furnished the paper along with an envelope bearing a local postal mark and a note in your hand thanking him for his request.”
“So the rat set us up,” Tennie sneered.
“It appears that way, yes. Mr. Comstock is a powerful man, so getting these charges dropped will not be easy. The police are even now searching your offices, probably seizing and destroying the presses.” He turned to me, his expression full of concern. “I’m sorry to tell you that the colonel and Mr. Andrews have been arrested and sent to Jefferson Market Prison.”
I closed my eyes as if doing so could unmake his words. Jefferson Market Prison was one of the worst in the country, notorious for its prison fights and filth, and hence, normally reserved for hardened criminals. I drew in a shaky breath. How would James fare in a place like that? He would be fine. He was the same man who had been shot six times during the Civil War and once even removed the bullets himself. I exhaled loudly, willing myself to be calm.
“Why would they send them there instead of bringing them here?” I demanded.
Mr. Reymart shrugged. “Probably to make a statement about how seriously they are taking this case. My point is that they will likely find or manufacture evidence that leads to additional charges, so it is my recommendation that after bail is set, you do not pay it but remain here.”
“Why would we do such a thing?” Tennie asked, obviously appalled.
“Do you want to suffer the humiliation of being arrested again? Because that is exactly what they’ll do as soon as you set foot outside these doors.”
Tennie pouted but said nothing more.
Our appearance in the courtroom was brief, with Mr. Reymart speaking on our behalves. Bail was set at eight thousand dollars each—but not before a court official editorialized that “an example is needed and we propose to make one of these women.”
We were then escorted to cell eleven, a sparsely furnished eight-by-four-foot room meant to house common criminals. No matter how many times Officer Miller apologized that the nicer guest quarters for notable inmates were full with the warden’s family and the citizen bedroom was occupied by a merchant, I still found it fitting that we ended up with the common population, sleeping in a spare room right next to criminals. It wasn’t too different from the way we had grown up.
To help make up for our living conditions, Officer Miller smuggled in copies of the paper to us the following morning. The New York Times declared, “The female name never has been more disgraced and degraded than by these women.”
The Herald tut-tutted, “These women cannot even be classified with the unfortunates. It is a greater depth of infamy to which they belong.”
“That’s a pleasant way to start trial day,” I muttered as we waited to be transported to the courthouse.
Though my heart was pounding, I told myself not to worry. We had a strong defense thanks to Mr. Reymart and two additional lawyers we had hired. They were going to argue that the language Comstock found so offensive was also repeated in the plays of Shakespeare, the poetry of Lord Byron, and the Bible. Therefore, if he insisted on pursuing these charges, he would have to also arrest anyone who had ever shipped one of those materials in the mail.
When we arrived at Jefferson Market Court, surrounded by half a dozen officers, we were greeted by a clerk barring the door to the courtroom.
“I’m sorry you were not informed, gentlemen,” the agent of the court said to the trio of lawyers, “but the federal grand jury has already met.”
“Now see here, it is a violation of the law—”
The clerk held up a hand to stave off further argument from Mr. Reymart or any of the lawyers. “Sir, I am only the messenger. I was told to relay to you that Mrs. Woodhull and Miss Claflin were each indicted on individual counts and one joint count of sending obscene material through the mail. These charges carry a maximum of one year in prison and a five-hundred-dollar fine. They will be held until you can enter a plea tomorrow.”
Back in our cell, Mr. Reymart apologized for the confusion and promised to investigate whether any of our rights had been violated by the grand jury meeting without representation from the defense. “I should probably also tell you something I overheard at the courthouse, but you aren’t going to like it.”
“Tell us,” I said.
“Stephen Pearl Andrews was arraigned this morning. He told the court he had disassociated himself from the paper over a year ago and had never heard of Luther Challis until he read the issue as a subscriber.”
“That weasel!” I made an exasperated noise. “He helped me edit the article. And he certainly had heard plenty about Mr. Challis from Tennie. What did the court say?”
“I suppose they believed him. He was released when he made bail.”
I shook my head. “He’s a man. Why should we expect differently? Any word on James?”
“He was released as well.”
I blew out a breath. “Thank God for that.”
Mr. Reymart patted my hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out in time for Election Day. We tried. Honestly, we did.”
“I know. There’s one thing you can do to make it up to me.”
“What’s that?”
I gave him a wry smile. “Vote for me.”
A somber pall lay over cell eleven on Tuesday, November 5. Even the inmates in the surrounding cells maintained a respectful silence. They must all have known that a presidential candidate was in their midst, unable to even attempt to cast a vote in her own name. The pitying glances of the guards told me that they—well, most of them at least—were sorry I was detained for this momentous occasion.
While Mr. Reymart was in court entering pleas of not guilty for both of us, Tennie and I were stuck in our cells with little to do and nothing to distract us from the election taking place without us.
Trying to focus on the big picture, I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. All was not lost. I might not have been able to cast my own vote, but many others would be voting for me. At that very moment, men and women across the country were clipping Equal Rights Party ballots from their local papers, accepting them from election volunteers, or writing in my name on other parties’ tickets. Somewhere, not too far away, Paulina Wright Davis was fulfilling her promise and doing her best to cast her ballot in my name.
Tears slipped unbidden from beneath my lashes. I was no fool. I had little chance of winning, especially given the events of the past six months, but I should have at least been able to try, to scrape together what little support remained—to end my campaign with the same vigor with which it had begun.
Sitting in a damp cell was definitely not how I’d envisioned Election Day when I’d announced my candidacy or when I’d been formally nominated. On both occasions, drunk on heady optimism, I’d pictured myself striding confidently to my polling place with James on my arm, a train of hundreds of suffragists—both male and female—in our wake. James would cast his vote for me first. Then, with my ballot clutched firmly between my fingers, I would ascend the platform, hold it up for all to see, and hand it to the official. In some of my fantasies, he would take it almost reverently, sensing that to be part of a historic moment like that was a great honor. In others, I was verbally or physically denied, but I fought my way to the ballot bowl and dropped my ticket in right before I was dragged off to jail. The other women present, of course, would follow suit, beginning a riot that would make national headlines.
Later in the day, another inmate confirmed that my vision had been eerily accurate but for one small detail. Not far away, in Rochester, New York, Susan B. Anthony had completed the historic act of which I could only dream. She had successfully cast her vote and had subsequently been arrested, along with fifty friends, family, and supporters, in an act of defiance that would surely be remembered for generations.
I bowed my head, accepting defeat. I had lost the war.
&nbs
p; While President Grant was celebrating his reelection, Tennie and I were being slapped with more charges, and James was rearrested.
“It seems that Luther Challis finally found his balls,” Tennie said when Mr. Reymart told us that libel charges were being added to the mounting list against us. “I bet that boat-licker Maxwell follows suit.”
Fortunately, she was wrong. When the preliminary hearing rolled round on Friday, the only charges being discussed were those from Challis.
Jefferson Market Court was jammed with people, including many heavily veiled women who wanted to witness the proceedings but not be recognized. Tennie, James, and I sat at the defense table next to Mr. Reymart; Mr. William Howe, our main lawyer; and his partner, the rail-thin Mr. Abraham Hummel. Mr. Howe was a large, muscled man with a lion’s mane of wavy gray hair and a mustache that made him resemble a walrus. Eccentric but effective, he was attired in plaid pantaloons, a purple vest, and a blue satin scarf held in place with a diamond pin, with more diamonds on his fingers, watch chain, shirt studs, and cuff links. He was well-known for his courtroom theatrics but also as one of the best defense attorneys in the state.
The first to testify was Luther Challis, who still had the same loosely trimmed black hair, mustache, and goatee. He had aged into a ruddy-faced drunk rather than the gentleman of means he claimed to be.
“Did you attend the French Ball in 1869?” Mr. Howe asked.
“Yes, I met a friend there,” Challis replied.
“And is that friend present here now?”
“Yes. Just there.” He pointed at Mr. Maxwell.
“Were you accompanied while at the ball?”
“If you mean were we with any women, yes, we met two young ladies there.”
“And did you, as Miss Claflin claims, get them drunk and seduce them?”
“Absolutely not. We drank only a small bottle of wine with them before tiring of the scene and leaving.”
“Small bottle?” I whispered to Tennie. “They were practically pouring wine down the girls’ throats. Perhaps his memory is failing in his old age.”
Mr. Reymart shushed me and advised me to remain silent for the rest of the proceedings.
“Did you leave alone?”
“Yes. The girls stayed behind. If anything untoward happened to them after that, I cannot say, but I would be truly sorry if it did.”
When the next witness was called, I had my first glimpse of our accuser in the other upcoming trial, Anthony Comstock. He was a tall, portly man with no hair save a bristly mustache and even larger ginger mutton chops. He didn’t look the sort to be obsessed with morality, but they never did.
“Mr. Comstock, will you please tell the court how you came to be in possession of the offending issue of Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly?” Mr. Reymart asked.
“At first I obtained it by visiting the offices of the paper on Broad Street and purchasing a copy. It was so popular that was the only way one could get ahold of it. Mrs. Woodhull, Miss Claflin, and Colonel Blood all were in the office at the time I purchased it. Later I lost that copy and so sent a request asking them to deliver a copy by mail.”
“That’s a lie,” Tennie hissed. “I’ve never seen that man in my life.”
Mr. Reymart sent her a warning glare, which she acknowledged by crossing her eyes at him.
Mr. Reymart stood. “Mr. Comstock, can you please identify Colonel Blood for the court?”
Mr. Comstock shifted in his seat, eyes sweeping the crowd once from left to right then from right to left. “I am afraid I cannot. I must not have gotten a good look at him.”
“Hmm… that is most interesting because he is sitting right in front of you.” Mr. Reymart interlaced his fingers behind him, leaning toward the witness. “Related to the second copy, the one that you obtained by mail, is it true that you receive half of the fines paid by people who are charged with violating the law that bears your name?”
Mr. Comstock glowered at the lawyer. “It is.”
“And so you would have motivation to entrap innocent people with such claims?”
“Objection!” the prosecution’s lawyer yelled.
“Sustained. Counsel, you’ve been warned,” the judge growled.
But Mr. Reymart had gotten his point across.
I cringed as the next witness was called. Buck Claflin shambled to the stand, leaning forward and cupping a hand to one ear and holding an ear trumpet to the other. He had been going deaf for years. I had no idea why he had been called because he was not at all involved in the paper. I could only guess it had to do with confusion over his involvement with the firm.
“Mr. Claflin, I will make this brief since I know you are hard of hearing. Did you have any knowledge of your daughter Tennie’s plans to write her libelous article against Mr. Challis?”
Buck nodded into the ensuing silence as though he were just catching up with what was asked of him. “Oh, yes. I warned my daughters both against printing the article. I told them it would end up badly. But that man”—he pointed at James—“insisted they go ahead with it. I always said he was a bad influence, and this proves it.”
I put a warning hand on Tennie’s thigh, silently begging her not to make a scene. I was pressing my lips together, fighting the urge to blurt out something about Pa constantly reviving the same old grudges. Neither of us relaxed until the judge told Buck he could sit down.
The final witness of the day was Mr. Maxwell, who had been with Mr. Challis at the French Ball. I gritted my teeth, waiting for him to side with his pal, Challis.
After being sworn in, he looked straight at Tennie and me, and without waiting for the lawyer to question him, he said, “I will make this easy on everyone. I was there. I saw what happened, both at the ball and after. Every word Miss Claflin wrote was true.”
I grinned at Mr. Maxwell as the courtroom burst into an excited buzz of conversation. Finally, someone had done right by us.
Vindicating though it was, Mr. Maxwell’s testimony did us little good. Weeks passed without a decision by the judge or any indication we would ever be released. Mr. Reymart did his best to fight on legal grounds, but nothing moved the court or the police.
Frustrated, I reached out the only way left to me—by mail. I poured my heart out to the American people through the Herald, the only publication that had ever treated us fairly. My request was simple—that my sister and I be tried for our words and actions, not the claims of others regarding us.
Johnny wrote back, saying my letter would run on Sunday. Plus, he was confident it would be picked up by papers across the country as the public was growing impatient with the increasingly unfair treatment Tennie and I were receiving.
On November 20, I sat in my cell, reading my own appeal.
“To the Editors of the Herald—
“No one can be more conscious than I am that prudent forethought should precede any appeal made to the public by one circumstanced as I am, and I think I have not ignored that consciousness in asking the attention of the public through your columns.
“I have been symmetrically written down as the most immoral of women, but no act of mine has been advanced in support of this charge. My theories have been first misstated or misrepresented and then denounced as ‘revolting.’
“But what is the great danger which the public pretends to fear from me? The plain statement of what I desire to accomplish, and it is this at which the public howls, is this—I desire that woman shall be emancipated from sexual slavery maintained over her by man.
“The great public danger then is not my exposure of the immoralities that are constantly being committed but in the feat that their enactors will be shown up to the public they have so long deceived. The public is in no danger from me. To the public, I would say in conclusion that they may succeed in crushing me out, even to the loss of my life, but let me warn you that from the ashes of my body, a thousand Victorias will spring to avenge my death by seizing the work laid down by me and carrying it forward to victory.”
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JANUARY 1873
We were released from jail days before Christmas. James and Tennie urged me to take some time to rest before returning to the public eye, but I could not. Demosthenes had foretold I would be queen of this land. I may have lost the presidential election, but that was no reason for me to go into hiding. On the contrary, it gave me all the more reason to speak even louder. He never said 1872 was the year; that had been my assumption. There would be other elections.
By the beginning of the year, I was itching to speak out about my experiences at the hands of the United States justice system. I wrote my speech “The Naked Truth, or Moral Cowardice and Modern Hypocrisy” partially from my jail cell and wholly with the purpose of debuting it in Boston, right under the noses of the Beecher family. But I hadn’t counted on how red-hot their hatred of me still was or how powerful they really were. Catharine had me banned from the city.
More resolute than ever, I booked the Cooper Institute auditorium in New York, determined that my fellow citizens learn exactly how the government treated its people.
I was rehearsing my speech only hours before I was due to give it when Laura Cuppy Smith knocked on my door. Her face was pale, and she was panting.
“Victoria, you have to get out of here,” she cried as soon as she crossed the threshold. “Mr. Comstock has laid eight new charges on you and your sister. You will be arrested for certain.”
“Oh, God. Tennie has gone out. How will we warn her?”
“I’ll find her, ma’am,” Minnie said, already grabbing her cloak, one foot out the door.
“I know a place where you will be safe.” Laura urged me toward the door.
“But what about my speech tonight?”
“We’ll come up with something on the way there.”
“There” was a hotel in Jersey City, where I remained until it was time for my lecture. Laura and I had crafted the perfect plan. It wouldn’t hold the police off forever—but long enough for me to get my say.
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