Five Points

by Tyler Anbinder

  Yet the savagery was far from over. As soon as the police had departed, the Spartans and their allies returned to Centre Street with their own clubs, vowing to punish what Whitman (an ardent admirer of Walsh) called “the outrageous insolence of these foreign rowdies.” As the Spartans inflicted “the most savage violence” upon the Irish Catholics, several of the immigrants took refuge in the Sixth Ward Hotel. The Spartans pursued them inside, reported the Herald, “and gutted the place, as completely as if there had been a fire there.” Many of the Irish fled to their homes in Five Points, wrote Whitman, but the Spartans “burst in the doors, dragged out their antagonists, and cracked their heads.”22

  The rioters chose their targets carefully. They attacked the Orange Street residence and grocery of Con Donoho “and injured it considerably; they also attacked several other houses of Irishmen in Orange street, destroying furniture and breaking windows.” The mob then moved uptown to Bishop Hughes’s home, where rioters broke windows, doors, and furniture before authorities dispersed them. “Had it been the reverend hypocrite’s head” that had been smashed, snarled Whitman, “instead of his windows, we could hardly find it in our soul to be sorrowful.” The divisions among Sixth Ward Democrats allowed Crolius to carry the election for alderman, giving the Whigs a one-vote majority on that board. In those races in which the Democrats were more united, however, they emerged victorious. Donoho, for example, was elected to a spot on the new ward school board. Although a Democrat, Whitman rejoiced at his party’s defeat in the contest for alderman, asserting that it would teach Tammany to resist Catholic demands concerning the school question.23

  New York newspapers described the election riots of 1842 as a clash between Americans and Irishmen, but in retrospect the roots of the conflict were far more complicated. After all, Walsh himself was a native of County Cork (though he had immigrated to New York as a small child) as was his chief pugilist, Yankee Sullivan. Philip Hone blamed the troubles on religious rather than ethnic tensions. “The combatants in this scrimmage,” he asserted, “consisted of two factions of Irish who, to keep up a pleasant recollection of their interesting amusements in their own country, retain the designations which they had there of Catholics and Orangemen, or as the terms are softened down here, ‘Spartans’ and ‘Faugh-a-ballaghs.’” Walsh was in fact the child of Irish Protestants (whether he was himself religiously affiliated is not known), so there was some basis for Hone’s conclusion that “the cause of all this trouble” was passage of the purportedly pro-Catholic Maclay Act. Yet it seems unlikely that religion was the sole motivating factor either, because when Walsh ran for Congress twelve years later against a devout Irish Catholic Democrat, “Honest John” Kelly, the predominantly Catholic Sixth Ward voted overwhelmingly for Walsh.24

  “I HAVE OFTEN SAID THAT THE ALDERMAN OUGHT TO BE LOCKED UP”

  For the rest of the 1840s, Sixth Ward politics remained in a state of flux, as a slew of men jockeyed to become the district’s Democratic leader. John Foote and Thomas Gilmartin, for example, successful running mates for alderman and assistant alderman respectively in 1846, fought a bitter battle for the top ward office a year later. Gilmartin succeeded in ousting the incumbent Foote, but the following year, Gilmartin’s running mate from the previous contest—Frederick Kohler—challenged Gilmartin for the alderman’s post, defeating him in the bloody contest described earlier. The details of these power struggles are impossible to reconstruct. Apart from a brief press announcement concerning which ticket had captured the “regular” nominations at the primary meeting and descriptions of the Sixth Ward polling places on election day, newspapers did not cover these local contests. All that changed in November 1849, however, when for a variety of reasons the entire city focused its attention on the contest for Sixth Ward alderman. A close look at this election reveals a great deal about the workings of Five Points politics.

  The November 1849 contest became a cause célèbre because of the outrageous conduct of the incumbent, Patrick Kelly. Kernan recalled that Kelly, who lived above his saloon at the corner of Mott and Bayard Streets, had been “very anxious to be an alderman.” But Kelly did not get along with Con Donoho, making his political ascent through normal channels impossible. According to Kernan, Kelly therefore “set himself up as a reformer who would knock the controlling power that was all to smash, and oppose the interest of old Tammany.” Yet after spending liberally in unsuccessful attempts to win the regular nomination for assistant alderman in both 1847 and 1848, Kelly was close to bankruptcy. Kelly then “sued for peace on any terms,” recalled Kernan, “and, in sympathy, was taken into friendship by the regulars and made an alderman” at the municipal election of April 1849.25

  That “friendship,” if it ever really existed, did not last very long. Because the city had decided to switch its municipal elections from April to November in order to match the state and national electoral calendars, Kelly was forced to run for reelection just seven months after taking office. Although few Sixth Ward aldermen served consecutive terms, Kelly believed that he deserved a second due to the unusually short duration of his first. A serious challenge to Kelly’s reelection, however, was mounted by ex-alderman Foote, who had the backing of Yankee Sullivan, ward police captain John Magnes, and Matthew T. Brennan, an increasingly influential twenty-seven-year-old fire company foreman and saloonkeeper.

  The source of the animosity between the Kelly and Foote factions is no longer apparent. Yet authorities were so certain that the upcoming Sixth Ward primary meeting would be even more violent than usual that they ordered the police from the First Ward to attend and preserve the peace (those from the Sixth would be in attendance with Magnes, fighting for Foote). According to the Herald, the First Ward officers “were ordered to wear their fire hats to ward off bricks and stones.” Early reports from the tumultuous scene gave Foote the advantage, but when it became clear that a majority of the men in attendance were casting their votes for Kelly, “the Foot[e] party, under their leader, ‘Yankee Sullivan,’ endeavored to carry off, or break, the ballot box, but did not succeed in the attempt.” Kelly and his supporters celebrated their primary victory at his saloon and all up and down Bayard Street, and according to the Herald, “every man they met of the Foote party they beat most unmercifully. One young man, a barkeeper of Mr. Brennan, of the opposite party, was severely handled; and in the Bowery, several of the voters for Foote were well ‘licked.’” However, the primary battle was destined to be repeated in the general election, as Foote and his ticket vowed to run on the split.26

  Because the contest in the Sixth Ward was so acrimonious, the press followed it closely, even taking the unusual step of publishing each of the sixty or so names on each faction’s primary ticket, and providing a rare opportunity to determine exactly who Five Points’ political activists really were. Of the men whose occupations could be determined, 53 percent were liquor dealers—either saloonkeepers or grocers. But a significantly higher proportion of the Foote delegates sold alcoholic beverages, while Kelly’s advocates were twice as likely as Foote’s to be blue-collar workers (artisans and unskilled laborers). These occupational distinctions make some sense given that Kelly positioned himself as a “reformer” in a district whose politics were dominated by saloonkeepers. The only other identifiable distinction between these Kelly and Foote supporters was geographic—Foote backers were much more likely to live in the western portion of the ward, while Kelly’s partisans resided primarily in the eastern election districts. Foote advocates outnumbered Kelly’s seventeen to four on Centre and Elm Streets (the two largest thoroughfares on the west side of the ward), while Kelly delegates exceeded Foote’s by twenty to eleven from Mulberry Street east to the Bowery. This trend may reflect that Foote, Brennan, and Sullivan all resided in the western portion of the ward, while Kelly lived in its northeastern election district.27

  Tensions between the two sides were still running high when, just after midnight on Friday, October 12, an inebriated Kelly stopped in at John
Lee’s Centre Street porterhouse for a drink. It took nerve for Kelly to visit Lee’s establishment, inasmuch as Lee was a well-known Foote supporter and his saloon was a gathering place for Kelly’s opponents. Indeed, when Kelly arrived, Yankee Sullivan and a number of “Mat. Brennan’s boys” were drinking at the bar. According to eyewitnesses, Kelly and Sullivan soon began “using very coarse and vulgar language together.” Fearing a brawl, Sullivan’s friends took him outside, but the infuriated prizefighter soon rushed back in and struck Kelly a glancing blow to the forehead. Kelly then ordered a policeman who was present to arrest Sullivan. Sometime after 1:00 a.m., the alderman and his political lieutenant John Layden (a printer whom Kelly’s friends had roused from bed when they learned that the alderman was quarreling with a slew of Foote supporters) left Lee’s saloon to accompany Sullivan and the officer on the two-and-a-half-block walk to the Sixth Ward police station on Franklin Street.

  Another person who had come to Lee’s porterhouse when word of the confrontation spread through the ward was coal dealer and politico Frederick Ridaboek. Unlike Layden, Ridaboek did not travel to Lee’s establishment to protect Kelly, but instead sought him out in order to have the alderman discharge two prostitutes—“‘Big Maria’ and Johannah Buckly”—who were being held at the station house. When the group arrived there around 1:45 a.m., Layden (himself once the ward’s assistant police captain) convinced Kelly not to press charges against Sullivan. Tempers flared, however, when Kelly, Layden, and Ridaboek entered the station house and found it filled with prominent Foote supporters, including both Brennan and Captain Magnes. Magnes was especially incensed that Kelly had brought Ridaboek with him. Earlier that evening while drinking at a grocery on Orange Street, Ridaboek and the captain had engaged in a fierce argument over Ridaboek’s claim that Magnes had caused the falling-out between Kelly and an influential ex-alderman, James Ferris.

  When Kelly began writing the discharge papers for the two prostitutes, Magnes insisted that Kelly should not act in a judicial capacity while intoxicated. But Kelly ignored him and with Ridaboek’s assistance continued drafting the release papers. The chagrined Magnes responded by ordering Ridaboek removed from behind the desk reserved for police and judicial officials. The two men and their associates hurled increasingly vicious slurs at each other, and when Magnes refused to remove a Foote supporter from behind the same desk, Kelly began screaming at the captain. Magnes then arrested Kelly for drunkenness and ordered him placed in a cell. Layden got another alderman out of bed to discharge Kelly, but the obstinate and still intoxicated Kelly refused to leave the cell unless the board president himself came to free him. The dutiful Layden fetched James Kelly from his Second Ward home, and at dawn Pat Kelly returned to his apartment on Bayard Street.28

  News of Kelly’s arrest for drunkenness caused a sensation in the Sixth Ward and throughout the city. His trial, which began on October 16, captivated New Yorkers for more than a week. The proceedings did not reveal any details not already well known within hours of Kelly’s arrest, but did expose the extent of the animosity between the two political factions and the weapons those in power could use to punish their enemies. One witness for the prosecution admitted under cross-examination that he might harbor bitterness toward Kelly because the alderman had fired his brother-in-law from his post as ward lamplighter. Patrolman Edward Riley testified that he had been told that Kelly would dismiss him from the force if he won reelection. Rumor also had it that Kelly would replace Magnes with Layden if Kelly won a second term. Virtually every prosecution witness conceded having spoken disparagingly of Kelly in public at one time or another. Brennan, for example, admitted that “I have often said that the alderman ought to be locked up.” After more than a week of testimony, attorneys for both sides rested their cases, and the judge announced that he would not render his verdict until after the election. The Irish-American hoped that the city would now concentrate on matters more important than “this supremely ridiculous affair.”29

  Meanwhile, Kelly’s arrest became a campaign issue. Within hours of the alderman’s release from jail, Foote’s adherents posted handbills headed in large, bold type: “AN ALDERMAN IN CUSTODY,” containing both a history of “the affray” and copies of the affidavits taken at the time of Kelly’s incarceration. Kelly quickly responded with a letter to the editor of the Herald, insisting that his arrest and the fuss over it “was made up for the shop, by the ‘stars’ [police] and their underlings, to suit the present electioneering times, and prejudice the minds of the community against me.” Each faction could also rely on newspaper allies to publish propaganda on its behalf. The Sun, one of the city’s first “penny dailies,” advocated the Foote cause, while a campaign sheet known as the Clarion rallied Kelly’s supporters. The Clarion reminded voters that in his first term on the Common Council, Kelly had proposed to establish “a FREE BATHING AND WASHING HOUSE for the poor” and to increase the pay of laborers working for the city to $1.25 per day in the summer when demand for such employees was at its peak. Kelly’s supporters also emphasized his status as a political outsider. According to the Herald, one speaker told Sixth Warders that the alderman “was none of your high-stiffened aristocracy. He did not live upon chicken for dinner, but his fare was just as homely as their own. And when he found any of the boys in a scrape he let him out of the Tombs.”30

  Both factions understood that spectacle was just as important as propaganda in an antebellum election, so as election day approached, each organized public demonstrations to inspire a groundswell of support for its candidates. On October 30, Kelly’s advocates held a “ratification meeting” at the Sixth Ward Hotel, concluding with a torchlight parade in which the marchers bombarded Brennan’s and Sullivan’s saloons with bricks as they passed by. Later, Foote’s supporters outfitted a Broadway omnibus with a “huge cap of liberty” and a “large placard” promoting the ticket. Inside the vehicle, someone lustily beat a drum while the other passengers chanted and sang of their allegiance to Foote. On the evening of November 2, his adherents organized an “open air meeting” which, according to the Herald, featured “bonfires, sky-rockets, torches, and bands of music . . . but no clubs, brick bats, or stones. Wonders will never cease.”31

  As election day dawned on November 6, the whole city braced for extraordinary violence at Sixth Ward polls. “In expectation of a riot,” noted the Herald, men from all over town collected in the district “to witness the sports.” But these enthusiasts were ultimately disappointed. “The election was one of extraordinary quiet,” remarked the Herald in surprise. Merchants and saloonkeepers in the vicinity of the polls kept their establishments shuttered in anticipation of a riot, and as a result, the scene “bore the appearance of a Sabbath day, instead of a hotly contested election.” According to the Herald’s reporter, the ward’s only election day excitement was

  a negro hunt. A colored voter in the forenoon having made his appearance at one of the polls, some of the “bhoys” took it into their heads to give him a licking. . . . He took to his heels in beautiful style, and never was there a rarer hunt. Through Centre street, and the streets adjoining, he ran for his life, amidst shouts and yells, while his pursuers chased him most vigorously, still keeping close on his track, till at length he gave a short double round the corner of a street, and “earthed” himself in a friendly house.

  As evening fell, the suspense became unbearable as each side waited to learn which ticket had polled the most votes. Kelly was finally announced the winner, having captured 892 votes to Foote’s 707. The unusually low Whig turnout—just 98 votes—suggests that one of the factions may have consummated a last-minute deal with that party’s leaders. The Herald, no great admirer of Kelly, insisted that the alderman had secured Whig support by placing the name of the Whig candidate for sheriff on some of his ballots. But it is also possible that Whigs stayed home (the total number of votes cast was well below normal) rather than risk bodily harm should they arrive at the polls as rioting erupted. In any event, after
the results became known, Kelly’s supporters “shouted and paraded around the ward,” throwing stones at “Footites” they encountered, firing off an occasional pistol, and holding “really uproarious” celebrations in neighborhood saloons.32

  In a fitting denouement, Police Justice Mountfort handed down his verdict on November 30. Issuing a stinging indictment of Kelly’s behavior, Mountfort observed that had the alderman “not gone to the station house for an illegal purpose, that of discharging from confinement two prostitutes . . . his other delinquencies might have passed unnoticed.” Mountfort reminded Kelly that an alderman could lawfully discharge a prisoner only after taking testimony and examining other evidence, not merely because a political ally asked him to do so. The judge pronounced Kelly guilty of drunkenness as charged, upbraided him for abuse of his judicial authority, but waived a fine, perhaps concluding that the embarrassing publicity and judicial tongue-lashing were penalty enough. In large part because aldermen such as Kelly so often abused their judicial powers, state lawmakers rescinded them when they reorganized the city’s legislative bodies a few years later. As for Kelly, his haughtiness and penchant for making enemies doomed his political future. He ran unsuccessfully on the split for three more offices—alderman in 1851, Congress in 1852, and councilman in 1854—and thereafter quickly faded from the political scene.33

  “THE BONE AND SINEW OF THE WARD”

  Kelly’s political demise cleared the way for Brennan’s emergence as the undisputed leader of the Sixth Ward Democratic party. Brennan was born in New York in 1822 and grew up in impoverished Irish enclaves in the First and Fourth Wards. His father, Timothy, a porter, was supposedly “one of the political refugees driven from Ireland to escape the fury of the British Government after Lord Edward Fitzgerald’s rebellion” in 1798. He died at about the time Matthew was born, forcing Matthew’s mother, Hannah, who as a child had emigrated from County Donegal, to run a vegetable stand at the Franklin Market to support the family. After attending primary school, Matthew helped his mother at the vegetable stand and was briefly apprenticed as a molder. In the mid-1830s, his older brother Owen, eight years Matthew’s senior and active in Whig political circles, opened Monroe Hall, a Sixth Ward saloon at the northwest corner of Pearl and Centre Streets, and the teenaged Matthew became a bartender there.34