The Devil's Gentleman
Page 1
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
Prologue
SING SING: FEBRUARY 1900
Part One
THE SOLDIER AND THE CLUBMAN
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
Part Two
BLANCHE
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
Part Three
DEGENERATE
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
Part Four
INQUEST
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
Part Five
THE PEOPLE VERSUS MOLINEUX
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
Part Six
THE MAN INSIDE
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
Part Seven
AFTERMATH
CHAPTER 89
NOTES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY HAROLD SCHECHTER
PRAISE FOR THE DEVIL’S GENTLEMAN
COPYRIGHT
For Will and Mary Molineux
At the start of the twentieth century, death by electricity was a relatively recent form of capital punishment. It was only in June 1888 that New York became the first state to pass a law replacing hanging with electrocution. Two years later, on August 6, 1890, a thirty-year-old ax murderer named William Kemmler became the first man to die in the chair. After being hooked up to the apparatus, Kemmler was hit with a high-voltage charge lasting seventeen seconds. When the shock failed to kill him, the switch was thrown again. This time, the current was kept on for more than a minute. As Kemmler roasted, the room filled “with the stench of burning hair and flesh.” Some witnesses vomited, while others fainted or fled in horror.1
Over the succeeding decade, more than three dozen criminals were put to death in New York by the new, presumably more humane, mode of execution. All were men. That particular gender barrier was broken in March 1899, when a hard-bitten housewife named Martha Place became the first female to be killed in the chair. In the weeks leading up to her electrocution, her case became a cause célèbre. Even while reveling in the lurid details of her crime (Mrs. Place had smothered her seventeen-year-old stepdaughter after flinging sulfuric acid in the girl’s face), the New York Journal—William Randolph Hearst’s wildly sensationalistic “yellow” paper—crusaded for clemency on the grounds of her sex. The effort proved unavailing. Governor Theodore Roosevelt refused to commute her sentence, declaring that, when it came to punishment, female criminals deserved equality with men. On the morning of March 20, 1899, clutching a psalm book and muttering “Lord, save me, Lord, save me,” Mrs. Place was led to the death chair, becoming a pioneer of sorts in the women’s rights movement.2
Eleven months later, during the second week of February 1900, the Sing Sing Death House received a convicted murderer whose notoriety outstripped even that of the infamous Mrs. Place. His name was Roland Burnham Molineux, and—largely thanks to the feverish attentions of Hearst and his fellow scandal-mongerer, Joseph Pulitzer—his case had riveted the country for more than a year.
At the time of his transfer to Sing Sing, he had already spent twelve months in the city prison, known as the Tombs. Since his arrest in early 1899, his clean-favored face had grown pasty and his athlete’s physique had lost much of its muscular tone. Still, at thirty-four years old, he cut a striking figure. Even behind bars he was never less than immaculately dressed, grooming himself each morning as though preparing to visit his club. Unfailingly suave (if not supercilious) in manner, he bore himself at all times like a gentleman of the highest rank. Throughout his trial—the longest at that time in the history of New York State—he had barely been able to conceal his ennui. For a man convicted of what his accusers called “the greatest crime of the age,” he struck observers as a marvel of nonchalance.
Once immured in the Death House—an environment so grim that, by comparison, the Tombs seemed like a Newport hotel—he managed to maintain his unflappable air. At least in the beginning. Within weeks of his arrival, however, something happened that shook even Roland Molineux’s remarkable aplomb.
Among the other inmates on Death Row was a thirty-seven-year-old Italian immigrant named Antonio Ferraro. A year and a half earlier, in September 1898, Ferraro had bumped into a onetime friend, Lucciano Machio, on a Brooklyn street corner. Machio was overdue in repaying some cash he had borrowed from Ferraro, and before long, the two were hurling insults into each other’s face. The words grew uglier. Knives were drawn. Within minutes, Machio lay dying on the sidewalk, a gaping wound in his throat.3
Convicted and sentenced to die, Ferraro pinned his last hopes on an appeal. Late on the afternoon of February 23, 1900, however, he received word that the effort had failed and his execution would take place within the week. Ferraro did not take the news well. As one paper reported, “he emitted a prolonged scream that broke in fearful violence on the silence of the Death House and terrified the other prisoners. For a half hour, the hopeless man shrieked hysterically and rushed around the cell, moaning and shouting curses.”4
Though his priest, Father Orestes Allucci, eventually managed to calm him down a bit, Ferraro spent the next few days intermittently bursting into inhuman howls or spewing “fearful blasphemies.” Even on the morning of his execution—Monday, February 26—Ferraro was still violently protesting his fate. The curtains had been drawn in front of the other condemned cells, so that Roland could see only shadows. But he could hear Father Allucci say, “Do you forgive your enemies?”
Ferraro answered with a bitter curse.
“But you must,” Father Allucci plead
ed as he walked beside the doomed man. “Say yes, for God’s sake, say yes! You must, or God will not—” By then, the priest was weeping.
“No!” shrieked Ferraro. “No—no!”
That cry of maddened refusal was the last Roland heard of Ferraro. In another moment, the condemned man was led into the execution chamber. Later, Roland heard that it had taken five separate jolts of electricity to kill Ferraro. He had died, according to The New York Times, “harder than any man who has so far died in the electric chair.”5
Roland was so badly rattled that, for days afterward, he found it hard to eat or sleep. Gradually, however, he recovered his composure. What, after all, did he have to fear? His father had vowed to win his freedom and bring him safely home. And if anyone could be counted on to keep his word, it was General Edward Leslie Molineux, who throughout his long and celebrated life had maintained a moral stance as upright as his posture; a man for whom the concepts of duty, honor, and justice were nothing less than sacred—however quaint and outmoded they might seem to his son.
1
On July 15, 1852, Edward Leslie Molineux—still three months shy of his nineteenth birthday—began what he called his “scrapbook.” It was not a pasted-in collection of newspaper and magazine clippings (though in later years, when his own name began to appear regularly in the press, he would assemble several of those, too). Rather, this ledger-sized volume was a handwritten miscellany of striking facts, inspirational sayings, and practical information on everything from military tactics to medicinal recipes.
There is nothing remotely confessional to be found in this journal. His book has all the introspective quality of the official Boy Scout Manual, which it resembles in its single-minded emphasis on self-improvement and the cultivation of the higher civic virtues: industry, tolerance, charity, and a keen sense of duty to one’s country. The very look of the pages—inscribed in a flawless hand, perfectly free of blots or corrections, and meticulously labeled with solemn headlines (“The Importance of Physical Exercise,” “Useful Rules,” “Maxims for the Wise”)—speaks vividly of the young writer’s capacity for self-discipline, concentrated effort, and high moral seriousness.
“Be virtuous in mind & body & let your thoughts be pure,” he counsels himself in an early entry labeled “Rules for Living.” This injunction is followed by a score of precepts designed to promote physical, mental, and moral soundness:
Use dumbbells twice a day.
Bathe every morning.
Always get up when you first awake, no matter what time it is. One hour in the morning is worth two at night!
Do everything in a cool, active, and energetic manner.
In times of danger or trouble, first think—then act coolly and decisively.
Never be idle—always have something to do.
Never shrink from an unpleasant duty.
Persevere—never give up a thing until you have tried it every
possible way. Perseverance is the best school for every manly virtue.
Never be prejudiced nor allow yourself to be led by others.
If you are in the wrong, acknowledge it frankly.
Harden in every possible way your body but not your conscience.
Give up all bad habits.
Use no slang language.
Speak kindly.
Be truthful.
Be truly polite.
In studying, concentrate your thoughts solely upon the subject before you.
Be charitable in thought as well as action.
Love your God & read his doctrines & fail not to address him night & morning.1
Elsewhere in the journal, he transcribes the rules laid down by Benjamin Franklin as a prescription for happiness and success: “Eat not to dullness,” “Avoid trifling conversation,” “Waste nothing,” “Let all things have their place,” “Use no hurtful deceit,” “Tolerate no uncleanness in body, clothes, or habitation,” and so on.
Fascinated by every aspect of warfare, he fills his journal with extensive notes—often accompanied by his own diagrams and hand-drawn maps—on a sweeping array of military matters: the proper construction of field fortifications, the organization of the Hungarian army, the strategic deployment of troops in the battle of Waterloo.
At the same time, he had a lifelong love of poetry. He read Chaucer and Milton for pleasure and had a boundless admiration for the writings of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
He came honestly by his love of reading. His father, William, was a printer; his mother, Maria Leslie, a “remarkably intelligent woman [who] took great delight in reading French and German and was also a close student of English and American literature.”2
Young Edward’s enthusiasm for all things military was also a family legacy. His ancestors included soldiers who had taken part in the Norman invasion, fought alongside King Henry V at Agincourt, been slain on the battlefield during the War of the Roses, and received personal commendations for bravery from Henry VIII.
It was (and is) a proud and ancient line, whose origins can be traced to one Robert de Moulin—the son (according to family legend) of Abelard and Héloïse.3 At the time of Edward’s birth in October 1833, his father still retained the traditional spelling of his last name—Molyneux. It was only two years later—when William brought his wife and eight surviving children to the United States—that he adopted the somewhat less exotic-looking spelling.
Though the historical record is hazy, indications are that they settled in Manhattan, where William opened a print shop on the corner of Ann and Nassau streets, and where, two years later, the Molineuxs’ youngest child, Arthur—just twenty-two months old—died and was laid to rest in the vault of the Methodist Church on First Street.
William himself died in 1857 at the age of sixty-eight. By then, he was no longer living with his wife and children. Exactly what caused this estrangement is a mystery, though given the stigma attached to broken marriages in those days, the reasons could not have been trivial. What is known is that by 1851 William was separated from his family and living on Staten Island. Maria and the children, in the meantime, had moved to the Fort Greene neighborhood of Brooklyn, where Edward Leslie Molineux would reside for the remainder of his long and eventful life.
At seventeen, Edward was a handsome youth—brown-haired, blue-eyed—whose erect, aristocratic carriage made him seem taller than his five feet three inches. He had been educated at the Mechanics School on Broadway and Park Place. (Despite its name, the Mechanics School was not a vocational institution. Run by the General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, it provided a tuition-free general education to the children of its members at a time before New York City had a municipal public school system. As the son of a printer, Edward was eligible for admission.)
That year, 1851, seventeen-year-old Edward found a job at the paint-manufacturing firm of Daniel F. Tiemann & Company, whose owner was active in New York City politics and would eventually serve a two-year term as mayor.4 Within this bustling concern, young Edward—with his brains, ambition, and indefatigable energy—thrived. In the manner of a Horatio Alger hero, he quickly rose to a position of responsibility, handling all of the firm’s voluminous correspondence and occupying the front office with several other clerks.
In 1854, even as Edward continued to establish himself in business and (partly through his association with Daniel F. Tiemann) involve himself in city politics, the twenty-year-old Molineux commenced what would be a long and illustrious military career.
On June 15 of that year, he enlisted in the New York State Militia as a member of the Brooklyn City Guard, a celebrated light-artillery company whose smartly executed drills and dress parades had inspired a popular parlor tune, “The Brooklyn City Guard Quick Step.” The few extant records from this period in Edward’s life show how quickly he advanced through the noncommissioned ranks—no surprise, given his ferocious drive and exceptional abilities.
In 1858, when the U.S. government needed a courier for an important diplomatic mission to V
enezuela, the Department of State chose Edward, who discharged his duties with his usual professional grace. It was not long after his return in January 1859 that he was introduced to Hattie Davis Clark of East Hartford, Connecticut. Exactly where and under what circumstances they met is unknown, as are all details of their courtship. By the following December, however, they were betrothed. That Christmas, Edward gave her an illustrated volume of Schiller’s poetry, inscribed “To Hattie from Ned.” For the emotionally reserved, unremittingly proper Molineux, his use of his pet name—employed only by his family and closest friends—was a mark of the intimacy that had developed between them.
In the meantime, he continued to make himself indispensable to his employers—so much so that in 1860, he was made a partner in the firm. Business was bad for the Tiemanns, however. Most of their customers were Southern merchants, and sales fell off dramatically as tensions rose between the North and South following the election of Abraham Lincoln in November.
In late December of that year, Edward began a new journal, this one composed of his own philosophical musings. One of the earliest entries is dated January 1861. Titled “The First Day of the New-Year,” it is written in Molineux’s loftiest style, full of high-minded sentiments about the opportunities afforded by the coming year “to correct past errors, to cultivate new virtues, to accomplish greater things.”
It is not until the end of the essay that the twenty-seven-year-old deals directly with the momentous events of the day and their immediate implications for his own happiness and well-being. Here, the tone becomes deeply affecting as he contemplates two radically different futures, and girds himself to face the worst with his usual courage, honor, and gallantry:
And for myself, how far in this year of 1861 I may proceed, God alone knows; for who can tell what this eventful year may bring forth!
If to happiness and peace, all thanks to the Almighty! But if plain visible duty points to the other path—where men’s passions rage & where patriotism demands us to defend principles & secure future happiness at the bitter price of present suffering, danger & if needs be life itself—then let me rise superior to all considerations in defense of the right & let me recollect that “His Hand is above me” & let my foot be firm to do His Will.