by Paul Martin
While the young people of Salem initiated the witchcraft controversy, other factors contributed to the frenzy. Colonial Salem wasn’t a tranquil place at the best of times. In addition to the constant fear of Indian attacks, there was the ongoing political tug-of-war between the farmers of Salem Village and the merchants of Salem Town. Arguments raged over land ownership, and two rival families, the Putnams and the Porters, fought for control of Salem Village and its church. Any of these factors could have prompted villagers to lash out at their neighbors by accusing them of sorcery.
The chief villain of the witchcraft trials remains William Stoughton. For some reason, though, Stoughton’s dismal record at Salem didn’t damage his reputation during his lifetime. In spite of having compromised every legal aspect of the trials, Stoughton was named chief justice of Massachusetts in December 1692. He retained the office of lieutenant governor until his death in July 1701. Near the end of his life, he was also named acting governor of Massachusetts, which, if nothing else, proves that being a misguided executioner has never been an impediment to higher office. Stoughton’s contemporaries were impressed by his generosity, which included the funding of the hall at Harvard College that bears his name.
Later generations, however, have judged Stoughton more harshly. He wasn’t the first or the last judge to send innocent people to their deaths, but in this country, his sentences certainly rank among the most egregious. Nineteenth-century biographer John Langdon Sibley said that Stoughton ran the Salem trials “with a bigoted zeal akin to animosity,” and that his conduct was “heartless, unjust, atrocious.”18 Emory Washburn, governor of Massachusetts in the mid-1850s and author of a judicial history of the colony, passed one of the most devastating judgments ever on Stoughton, writing that he “prostituted the forms of justice to consummate a series of judicial murders that have no parallel in our history.”19
Even if you grant that seventeenth-century trials were far different from modern legal proceedings—and that Salem’s judges were simply trying to fight evil as it was generally perceived at the time—Stoughton’s performance was still a travesty. Witch-hunting in all its forms is ingrained in human nature. In that regard, the primary responsibility of any judge is to save us from our own ignorance and prejudices. That was William Stoughton’s greatest failing. Instead of quelling the superstitious fears that set neighbor against neighbor—as many judges and clergymen in his day were known to do—Stoughton chose to inflame them.
Daniel Drew
The old saying “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink” has the ring of folk wisdom, but it’s completely untrue. To make a horse drink, all you have to do is deprive it of water for a day or so and lace its feed with salt, and presto, when you lead the critter to a trough it will stand there slurping until its belly is ready to pop.
Of course, there’s no point in doing that to a horse, but with a cow it’s a different matter. That’s something Daniel Drew knew well. In the early 1800s, Drew ran a thriving livestock business in New York State. He bought cattle from farmers all over the northern part of the country, from New England to Illinois. Legend has it that when it came time to sell his livestock, Drew kept them away from water and fed them salt, then he let them drink all they wanted right before they went to market—where the animals were sold by weight.
Drew reputedly made a lot of extra money off his waterlogged cattle—whose last-minute gulping could easily pack on an extra fifty pounds each. The practice was fraudulent, but apparently Drew didn’t mind. The man seemed to have larceny in his soul, which may explain why he ended up on Wall Street. From the 1840s to the 1870s, Drew was one of the big fish who gobbled up the little fish—a double-dealing speculator and banker who believed that nothing should stand in the way of his making a profit.1 (Drew’s cattle-selling trick earned him a lasting place in the history of finance. The practice of bloating cattle with water prior to sale resulted in the term “watered stocks,” which refers to assets whose value has been artificially inflated. Despite modern laws against the practice, it still goes on. Enron shares, anyone?)
Drew remains a terrific role model for today’s “greed is good” Wall Street sharpsters, although the old pirate has been eclipsed in the history books by robber barons with names like Astor, Carnegie, Morgan, Rockefeller, and Vanderbilt. That’s a shame, since Drew was perhaps the most interesting of all the Victorian-era tycoons, largely because he was such a bundle of contradictions. Though financially cunning, Drew was poorly educated—a sort of Warren Buffett cum Archie Bunker. Despite his lack of business ethics, he was extremely devout (like other cutpurse capitalists, he tried to buy his way to respectability through philanthropy). The thing that makes Drew most compelling is that he ultimately got what he deserved. He lost his entire fortune near the end of his life, a big chunk of it due to his involvement with a pair of con men wilier than himself.
Drew was born in 1797 on a hardscrabble farm near Carmel, New York, a backwater hamlet fifty miles north of New York City. His father was sixty-five years old when Drew was born, which necessitated young Drew pitching in around the farm at an early age. There was little time for schooling, so Drew only attended sporadically. He could barely write, and his spelling and grammar were atrocious. His speech was filled with colloquialisms that must have sounded like dialogue from The Beverly Hillbillies. Mostly he learned about cattle and crops. Drew also “got religion” during his early years when an itinerant Methodist preacher convinced him that his heart was full of sin and he was on the road to hell. Drew admitted to some “backslidden’” now and again, but he remained a devout Methodist all his life.2
When Drew was fourteen, his father passed away, leaving him an inheritance of $80. For three years, he worked the family farm and hired out as a laborer on other nearby farms. At the age of seventeen, he joined the state militia to help defend New York City against the British in the War of 1812. Sailing down the Hudson River on his way to the city, Drew got his first glimpse of the world beyond his circumscribed environs—and he took a likin’ to what he encountered. It was an instant case of “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm?” Amid the hurly-burly of the big city, Drew made note of the lofty going price for beef. When he got home from his hitch in the militia, he told his mother that he wanted his inheritance money so he could become a drover. “I’m going to buy cattle and sell ’em in New York,” he announced.3 The budding businessman was about to launch himself into an unsuspecting world.
Drew began his business career by purchasing small herds of cattle and sheep and personally driving them into the city for sale. He seemed to possess the right combination of skills to make a go of it. He was a hard worker, knew livestock well, and was adept at haggling for the best prices. But no sooner had he started out on his own than he took a detour. On a whim, he joined the circus—one of those frivolous displays of levity that the puritanical Methodists abhorred. For three seasons, Drew traveled with the June, Titus, Angevine & Crane Circus between New York and Philadelphia. Besides taking care of the animals, Drew dressed as a clown and went into towns ahead of the circus to drum up business. Everything was roars and chuckles until one day the show rolled into a town where a revival was taking place. Drew attended the meeting and immediately climbed back on the religious wagon. Thoroughly chastened, he hung up his clown suit and returned to a life of eating dust behind a gaggle of lurching, bawling cows.
In 1820, Drew married a local country girl. The newlyweds set up housekeeping on the family farm, then being run by Drew’s younger brother. A few years later, Drew bought land of his own nearby, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts from straying to the bustle and excitement of New York City. That was where an enterprising young fellow could make real money. Before long, he had his opportunity. In 1830, he sold his farm and became the manager of New York’s only cattle market, as well as the proprietor of the tavern where all the drovers stayed. Fortune was about to beam on this ambitious, semiliterate backwoods entrepreneur.
> Drew expanded his cattle-buying business by employing purchasing agents. He made enough money to start casting around for other investments. In 1831, he bought an interest in a steamboat, the Water Witch, a venture that allowed Drew to cultivate his managerial talents. It was also his first opportunity to go up against someone who was well ahead of him in the race to riches—Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, the New York Dutchman who would become the wealthiest man in America by the time he died.
In the 1830s, Vanderbilt was operating a fleet of steamboats that plied the Hudson River and other routes in the New York region. Passenger traffic was heavy on the lower Hudson between Peekskill and New York City, and Drew dove into that market with a splash. The new rivals were an interesting contrast—the hardy, handsome, outgoing Vanderbilt and the slinking, Uriah Heep–like Drew, his dark, thin face framed by whiskers. The two competitors soon began a ruinous fare war. To entice passengers, Drew ran newspaper advertisements accusing Vanderbilt of trying to establish a monopoly that would result in skyrocketing rates.4 The attack worked. Passengers spurned Vanderbilt’s boat for the Water Witch.
Despite Drew’s victory, the Water Witch lost money the first year. Some of the major stockholders wanted out, enabling Drew to increase his interest in the boat. Afterward, he approached Vanderbilt to cut a deal. Vanderbilt paid Drew to withdraw from competition on the Peekskill route. Loyal passengers and small stockholders in the Water Witch were outraged, but Drew made a killing—the first in a long string of financial shenanigans that would earn Drew a reputation for underhandedness.5
Drew wasn’t on the sidelines for long. After helping Vanderbilt gain a foothold in the lucrative New York–Albany steamboat route, Drew headed up a group of men that bought one of the commodore’s boats and formed a new company in 1835. After adding another boat, the partners named their new fleet the People’s Line. Over the next decade, Drew made money coming and going—from routine operations as well as fare-rigging deals and payoffs from other owners to reduce the number of trips his boats made.6 By 1843, the People’s Line owned nine steamboats.
Drew had proven to be the shrewdest operator on the Hudson, although he hit a rough patch in 1849. Stockholders in the People’s Line complained about the highly profitable company’s lack of dividends. Drew argued that all the profits had gone into building new boats. Drew was hauled before the state supreme court and charged with exceeding his authority, failure to declare dividends, and systematic fraud. The court ruled in favor of the stockholders, declaring that the People’s Line would be sold at auction and the proceeds divided among the stockholders. It appeared to be a nettlesome defeat, but Drew turned the situation to his advantage. The receiver charged with liquidating the company was an old friend of his. By the time the auction was over, Drew had scooped up nearly all the company’s assets at a little over fifty cents on the dollar. It appeared that the Lord was taking care of someone who took care of himself.
Even while he was still heavily involved with cattle and steamboats, Drew had begun to expand his financial interests. In 1838, he’d become a junior partner in a Wall Street brokerage and banking house. The next year, he founded Drew, Robinson & Company, a partnership that lasted until 1852. By that time, “Uncle Daniel,” as he’d become known on the street, had achieved millionaire status. “I got to be a millionaire afore I know’d it, hardly,” he said.7 After he grew rich, Drew began to pine for the country life. He and his wife had an older daughter and a young son, and Drew wanted the boy to grow up in the country like he had. Drew sold his house in New York and bought another farm close to his brother, where he spent Sundays with his family. The other six days found him in his office in the city, usually pursuing his latest passion—railroads.
Cattle and steamboats may have been the foundation of Drew’s wealth, but it was railroads that pushed him into the ranks of the plutocrats. Drew’s trading in railroad stocks made him one of the country’s first big stock speculators. He was always looking to make a quick profit, legal or otherwise. (He was quoted as saying that “speckerlatin’” on Wall Street without insider knowledge was like “buying cows by candlelight.”)8 Drew’s most notorious transactions occurred after he became a director of the New York & Erie Railroad in 1853. Over the next fifteen years, he reaped huge profits by secretly manipulating Erie stock.9 Like most wheeler-dealers, Drew regarded investing as a game. Standing in front of his office one day, he looked out on a crowd of speculators who were gleefully anticipating big profits after selling Erie’s troubled stock short. “Happy creeturs,” the old man muttered. “Wal, I guess I must pinch ’em.”10 With that, Drew manipulated the stock upward and reaped another windfall. I win. You lose. Ha, ha.
Without a qualm, Drew used his steamboat and railroad connections to scalp the public during the Civil War, sometimes in collusion with the infamous Boss Tweed, the corrupt New York politician who was eventually jailed for stealing millions of taxpayer dollars.11 Drew had a lot of nice friends like that. In 1867, he joined forces with up-and-coming swindlers Jay Gould and James Fisk to battle his old associate/antagonist Cornelius Vanderbilt. (Gould and Fisk were another mismatched pair—Gould the wispy, introverted family man and Fisk the large, loud backslapper with a diamond stickpin and gold-headed cane.) Like Drew, Commodore Vanderbilt had moved into the railroad business. He already owned three railroads, but he wanted the Erie as well. He intended to buy a controlling interest—and then get rid of Daniel Drew. Uncle Daniel responded by flooding the market with overvalued shares of Erie stock and convertible bonds, all in direct violation of court orders. While Vanderbilt furiously bought Erie stock, Drew and his new pals sold short, raking in eight million dollars at Vanderbilt’s expense.
The affair seemed to have been stage-managed by Gilbert and Sullivan, as it zigzagged between drama and farce. Fearing imminent arrest for their stock manipulations, Drew and other members of the Erie board gathered up all the company records, withdrew millions of dollars from New York City banks, and hopped a steamer for Jersey City, where they holed up in a room on the second floor of Taylor’s Hotel. Gould and Fisk, who’d both stayed behind in New York, barely escaped arrest. They had to commandeer a small boat and row across the Hudson to the Jersey shore in the dark. When they finally showed up at Taylor’s Hotel—after rowing in circles for an hour in the fog and nearly being run down by ferryboats—Uncle Daniel looked at the sodden pair and inquired, “You didn’t have to swim over, did you?”12
The great escape to New Jersey led to a long, leisurely state of siege. The Erie directors filled their idle hours with quail and champagne banquets, although Drew, ever the party-shunning Methodist, refused to take part. Fisk kept up his spirits by sending for his girlfriend, an “actress” he’d met in a ritzy bordello. (Fisk’s wife was safely stashed in Boston.) After a few days, a gang of toughs arrived from across the river and hinted that they’d been offered $50,000 to snatch Drew and haul him back to New York. “Fort Taylor” was soon bristling with guns and Erie “detectives,” scruffy men chomping cigars and swilling down lashings of whiskey.
The threat against Drew, if there ever was one, never came to anything, but Uncle Daniel realized he had enemies other than Vanderbilt when Gould and Fisk confronted him about receiving their share of the profits. It was becoming clear that this Mutt and Jeff pair of grifters intended to tip the seventy-year-old Drew off his throne.13 Gould left for Albany with a suitcase stuffed with cash, money he used to bribe state legislators into declaring the questionable Erie stock and bond activities perfectly legal. (Though less colorful than Fisk, Gould was the more dangerous schemer.) In a typically duplicitous move, Gould and Fisk made amends to Vanderbilt by compensating him for his losses. The two interlopers emerged in control of the Erie board while Drew got the boot. It was major setback for an old trader who’d grown used to besting every adversary, but at least Drew was still a wealthy man. Even that, however, was soon to change.
In 1869, Gould and Fisk drove up the price of Erie stock, costing Drew�
��who’d sold short—$1.5 million.14 In 1873, a six-year-long nationwide depression began, sweeping away the rest of Drew’s fortune. His financial firm failed, and, in 1876, he had to file for bankruptcy. His empire fluttered to the ground like a house of cards in a March breeze. Once worth an estimated $13 million (equivalent to $194 million today), Drew had to rely on his son for support for the last three years of his life. He died in 1879, right back where he’d started out, as poor as a teenage cattle drover. Drew left his entire estate to his children, a sum of $148.22.15
During the years when he was flush, Drew gave generously to Methodist causes. He paid over three-quarters of the cost to build a new church in his hometown of Carmel and also paid for the construction of the nearby Drew Female Seminary. He funded half the cost of a new church in Brewster, New York, and donated a significant amount toward the construction of St. Paul’s Methodist Episcopal Church in New York City. He supported Wesleyan University and established the Drew Theological Seminary (now Drew University) with an endowment of half a million dollars. All those good deeds stood in stark contrast to his professional career.16
Such a colorful, contradictory life raises an interesting question: Since it’s impossible to be both moral and unethical, how does a person of faith become a ruthless tycoon in the first place? The trick to pulling it off must lie in self-perception (or self-deception)—being able to see yourself as a smart businessperson instead of a crook, as clever rather than dishonest. At least one historian has speculated that Drew simply compartmentalized his roles as a Sunday Christian and a weekday marauder.17 Drew would never have robbed the person in the pew next to him, but from the privileged, insulated confines of Wall Street, it was easy for him to view people in general as nameless marks. However Drew rationalized his hypocritical dishonesty, it seems unlikely that he could have squeezed his way through the Pearly Gates, despite his piety and financial support of the Methodists. After all, like other philanthropists of his era, the old devil was mostly just returning stolen money.