A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “I spoke to Sharpe. Told him it was old-fashioned and a disgrace. He muttered the usual excuses about standard practice and so forth, but I insisted. Frankly, I’m incredulous that no one has done so before now. I’d have thought Miss Fox, at least, would have made her displeasure known, but perhaps she wasn’t aware of the discrepancy. In any case, it’s been rectified now, for all of you.”

  My gaze fell back to the figures stamped on the check. “Thomas, I don’t know what to say. It’s … Thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. I merely called attention to an injustice. You fully deserve that salary.”

  “What salary?” Clara appeared in the dining room, ready to tidy up breakfast. “Rose, did you get a raise?”

  “I … Well, yes, I suppose I did.”

  “You’ll be able to afford your own lodgings now,” Thomas said smoothly, gathering up the rest of his letters. “No hurry, of course.”

  “No,” I said, swallowing. “Of course.”

  Thomas headed up to his study while Clara started clearing up. As for me, I just sat there, staring at the check. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like such a boon.

  “You don’t look like somebody who just got a raise,” Clara said as she stacked her tray. That’s just how well she knew me.

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” I forced a smile. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “Rose, honey, for somebody who lies for a living, you sure can be awful at it.” Glancing at the door, she lowered her voice. “You two still haven’t talked, I take it.”

  I’d told her about what happened between Thomas and me. Thankfully, she’d resisted the urge to say I told you so.

  “What gives you that idea?” I asked sarcastically. “The fact that he’s desperate to have me out of his house?” Not that I blamed him. There had been plenty of sleepless nights this past week. Both of us under the same roof … the temptation was just too great. I had faith enough in Thomas’s powers of restraint, but none at all in my own.

  “What happened between you two … There’s married folks don’t ever share a moment like that. How’re you gonna act like it never was?”

  “We can’t. We’ll have to deal with it eventually. But right now, we both need time to think.”

  “What’s there to think about? You’re sweet on him, he’s sweet on you.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. We’re partners. I’m not even sure it’s allowed. It could interfere with our work, and … then there’s what Viola Fox said. There are already rumors about Thomas and me, that he hired me for all the wrong reasons. If we were involved, it would only prove the rumors true. Or seem to, anyway.”

  “Why should you care what any of them think?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. I want them to respect me, and they won’t do that if they think I’m just Thomas’s paramour.”

  “Paramour?”

  “Well, what else could I be, with the difference in our stations?”

  She sighed. “So what’re you gonna do?”

  I thought about that for a spell. “Get a place of my own, I suppose. Carry on like a professional.” Thomas and I worked brilliantly together. I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of that, not if I could help it.

  “Well then.” Clara patted my shoulder. “That sounds like a plan.”

  I helped her tidy up, and then I fetched my overcoat and hat, intending to head to the bank with my check. I was reaching for my umbrella when the doorbell rang; opening it, I found my favorite copper.

  “Miss Gallagher.” Sergeant Chapman doffed his hat and stepped inside. “Fixing to brave the weather, I see.”

  “Awful, isn’t it? Barely November, and already I’m tired of the cold.”

  Thomas came down the stairs to join us. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “Wiltshire. Thought I’d drop in on my way to the station to let you both know that Henry Kelly—that’s the fella tried to shoot Roosevelt—he was convicted yesterday afternoon. It’ll be a hanging.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly. Foster’s accomplice certainly deserved to face justice, but still—knowing you’ve played a part in a man’s execution is not pleasant.

  “After that, we’ll be closing the case,” Chapman went on, “seeing how the rest of Foster’s boys is already dead, thanks to the Mulberry Street Gang.”

  I bit my lip. I hadn’t told Sergeant Chapman what I’d seen Marco do, and he hadn’t asked. “Did you arrest anyone for those murders?”

  He gave me a sour look. “You know better ’n that, Miss Gallagher.”

  I did know better, and it made me ill. Poor Chapman, I thought. It couldn’t be easy going to work every morning knowing half your fellow officers were corrupt.

  “What about the newspaper editor?” Thomas asked.

  “Bright?” Chapman shook his head. “Far as we can tell, the only part he played was to introduce Foster to the others. If he knew the specifics of what they was planning, he ain’t saying.”

  “You said the rest of them are dead, but are we sure about that?” I asked.

  Chapman shrugged. “Kelly didn’t mention nobody else, even with Byrnes doing his worst. Either he’s tougher ’n he looks, or that’s all he knows. As for some shadowy money funding the whole operation, nothing we turned up points that way. Don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, but I got no reason to think we missed anything.”

  I sighed. Why couldn’t anything ever tie up neatly, like it does in the yellow-back novels? “At least Mr. Roosevelt is safe.”

  “What about your bounty hunter friend?” Chapman asked. “She on the mend?”

  “She must be,” Thomas said, “because she’s back at One-Eyed Johnny’s as if it never happened. One would think three days in a coma would inspire her to look after her health a little more carefully, but apparently not.”

  “Hard to kick the bottle,” Chapman said. “I know it better ’n most. Anyways, I oughta get going. Good day to you both.”

  As Chapman headed down the walk, he passed another visitor on his way up, and they stopped to greet each other. I glanced at Thomas and saw my surprise reflected in his eyes.

  Our visitor was Theodore Roosevelt.

  “Good morning, sir,” Thomas said, shaking his hand. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Mr. Roosevelt thumped Thomas’s shoulder as if they were lifelong chums. “I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced,” he said cheerfully, “but I’m bound for England tomorrow, and I’m in rather a hurry to get everything arranged.”

  “Not at all. Please, come in.”

  “I’m very sorry about the election, Mr. Roosevelt,” I said.

  He brushed it off like a consummate politician. “You’re very kind, but truly, I cannot be disappointed at the result. I was defeated fair and square.”

  If I didn’t quite believe him, I thought it was very well spoken.

  “How can we help?” Thomas asked, gesturing for his guest to come through to the parlor.

  “Forgive me, but I can’t stay. I just wanted to reserve your calendars, both of you. I’ve a bit of business out west, if you’re interested.”

  “Out west?” My heart skipped a beat. The farthest west I’d ever been was New Jersey.

  “The Dakota Territory, at my ranch. Or rather, in the general vicinity thereof.”

  “What is the nature of the matter?” Thomas asked.

  “That’s just it, I’m afraid.” Mr. Roosevelt’s brow creased bemusedly. “I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  Thomas blinked. “I’m … sorry?”

  “It’s a very long story, and a strange one. I’m afraid there just isn’t time. We’ll talk when I’m back.”

  “It’s not urgent, then?” I asked.

  “Urgent enough,” said Mr. Roosevelt, “but there’s nothing to be done about it until spring. I just wanted to make sure you reserved the time.”

  “When would you like us?” I asked, already thinking about how I’d explain my absence to Mam.

  “May, I sho
uld think, through perhaps to the end of June. What do you say?”

  Thomas inclined his head. “We would be delighted.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have the papers drawn up.” Mr. Roosevelt donned his hat. “Needless to say, it will be dangerous. And the matter must be kept absolutely confidential.”

  “Well, sir,” I said, “you know our motto. ‘We never sleep, and we never tell tales.’”

  Mr. Roosevelt gave an enigmatic smile and turned to go. “You might regret that second part, Miss Gallagher,” he called over his shoulder. “Because I promise you, it will be a tale for the ages.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The mayoral race of 1886 is widely regarded as one of the finest in New York history, contested by three outstanding candidates. (A fourth, William Wardwell of the Prohibition Party, was on the ballot, but never taken very seriously.) Even at the time, the exceptional caliber of the contenders was recognized. “A place whose citizens have their choice in voting for Mayor between three such interesting and accomplished men,” declared The Sun, “is justified in thinking no small beer of itself.” Abram Hewitt was a prominent businessman, Henry George a brilliant writer and gifted orator. Theodore Roosevelt, meanwhile, was “a painstaking historian, a spirited and indomitable politician, a mighty hunter, and [crucially] the handsomest man of the three.” He was also a person of extraordinary charisma and energy, who instantly became the center of any room. Those who met him often commented on the effect of a mere handshake; in the words of biographer Edmund Morris, “a lightning moment of contact [was] enough to transmit the full voltage of his charm.”1

  Sadly for Roosevelt, even his preternatural charm couldn’t deliver him a victory in the race of 1886. Though he received a rousing reception from Republicans gathered at Cooper Union on October 27, on the night of his twenty-eighth birthday, he privately harbored doubts about his chances. In the end, large numbers of wealthy Republicans ended up voting for the Democrats, a phenomenon resentfully dubbed “the brownstone defection” by The New York Times. The Tribune was even more blunt, laying Roosevelt’s defeat at the door of “Republicans who were frightened into voting for [Hewitt] through fear of George.” It was a humiliating loss for Roosevelt, but as historians Burrows and Wallace dryly observed, “he would be heard from again.”2

  The plot against Roosevelt’s life featured in this story is pure fiction, though he was the target of an assassination attempt years later, in 1912, when he was shot in the chest outside a hotel in Milwaukee. The bullet passed through a thick wad of pages in Roosevelt’s breast pocket—his speech, which probably saved his life. In classic TR style, he insisted on delivering his remarks before being taken to the hospital.

  Nikola Tesla found himself between jobs in 1886, following his now-famous falling-out with Thomas Edison. Soon after, of course, he would become one of the most celebrated inventors of his day. His genius was rivaled only by his neuroses, which included a bizarre affection for pigeons, the compulsion to calculate the cubic contents of his dinner, and an obsession with numbers divisible by three. Tesla also claimed to have abnormally acute senses, which often caused him great discomfort. He could allegedly hear a watch ticking from three rooms away, and a thunderclap from 550 miles. At one point, he claimed, he had “the sense of a bat and could detect the presence of an object at a distance of twelve feet by a peculiar creepy sensation on the forehead.” Even so, he never hesitated to handle hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity, even if it would occasionally cause his flesh and clothing to glow. Spectators were routinely dazzled. Take, for example, the awestruck report of one journalist in 1899, visiting Tesla’s lab with Mark Twain:

  Fancy yourself seated in a large, well-lighted room, with mountains of curious-looking machinery on all sides. A tall, thin young man walks up to you, and by merely snapping his fingers creates instantaneously a ball of leaping red flame, and holds it calmly in his hands. As you gaze you are surprised to see it does not burn his fingers. He lets it fall upon his clothing, on his hair, into your lap, and, finally, puts the ball of flame into a wooden box. You are amazed to see that nowhere does the flame leave the slightest trace, and you rub your eyes to make sure you are not asleep.

  Tesla did not, to my knowledge, name the flame ball Scarlett, which seems a shame.

  Small wonder Mark Twain found Tesla so fascinating, and could often be found in his lab. I was unable to verify the date of their first meeting, but it was probably sometime after 1886. (Both men being notoriously apocryphal in their accounts, it’s hard to be sure.) Mark Twain was intrigued by unexplained phenomena, especially the idea that minds could communicate with one another in what he termed mental telegraphy. Such was his interest that he joined the American Society for Psychical Research.

  By 1886, Inspector Thomas F. Byrnes was a larger-than-life figure in the New York City Police Department, a man who seems to have been feared and respected in equal measure. Infamous for his brutal interrogation techniques, which he referred to as “the third degree,” he was also known for his “rogues’ gallery” (a term originally coined by Allan Pinkerton), a compilation of photos of known criminals, and the Mulberry Street Morning Parade, a precursor to the modern police lineup. Byrnes allegedly amassed a personal fortune of more than $350,000—impressive for a man whose annual salary was somewhere in the realm of $2,000 to $5,000 (sources differ). Rumors of corruption swirled around him for years, until eventually he was forced to resign by a reform-minded police commissioner, one Theodore Roosevelt.

  The Noble and Holy Order of the Knights of Labor was at one point the largest and most important labor organization in the United States, boasting a membership of some 800,000 (of whom Henry George, writer and mayoral candidate, was one). Though the Knights were quick to distance themselves from anarchists in the aftermath of the Haymarket Affair, in which an unknown person threw a dynamite bomb at police, their reputation was forever tarnished. Whispers that the bombing was actually the work of the Pinkerton Agency were never substantiated, and the rumor was rejected by several high-profile anarchists, including Johann Most.

  Rose’s experience at Bellevue Hospital is loosely based on the account of Nellie Bly, a reporter for the New York World who famously went undercover and had herself committed at the insane asylum on Blackwell’s Island in 1887. Her harrowing reports in the World shocked readers nationwide, and are credited with spurring much-needed reforms at that institution. Ten Days in a Mad-House, a compilation of those stories, is available online.

  Writing about the Gilded Age—and especially an election in which glaring inequality, corporate oligarchy, and the rise of populism were front and center—it’s impossible not to see parallels with our current political climate. It took decades of progressive reforms to begin addressing the major challenges of the day, beginning with the breakup of industrial monopolies like J. P. Morgan’s Northern Securities and John D. Rockefeller’s Standard Oil.

  The politician credited with leading that reformist charge was, of course, Theodore Roosevelt.

  Calgary, Canada

  April 2018

  The New York Times October 29, 1886

  ROOSEVELT’S STEADY GAIN

  The Good Effect of the Cooper Union Meeting

  THE CERTAINTY OF HIS ELECTION BECOMING MORE AND MORE APPARENT AS HIS CANVASS GOES ON.

  Neither the bustle and noise attending the dedication of the statue of Liberty nor the nasty weather that prevailed yesterday seemed in any way to interfere with the onward progress of Theodore Roosevelt toward the Mayor’s office. Every day the certainty of his election grows more and more apparent, and the specious appeals and theorizings of Mr. Hewitt’s friends, made with agonizing earnestness, are of no avail in stemming the tide which has set in so strongly in Mr. Roosevelt’s favor.

  The wonderfully enthusiastic meeting at the Cooper Institute on Wednesday evening had a very marked effect yesterday among business men, some of whom had been hesitating to see what their neighbors’ opinions were concerning the
drift of public sentiment as to which was, not the better of the two leading candidates, for there was and has been no question as to that, but the stronger of the two. Those who were in attendance knew it was a meeting whose hearty earnestness has not been excelled at any political meeting held in New-York in years.

  A fine crayon portrait of Mr. Roosevelt, handsomely framed, was hung in the County Committee headquarters, at the Fifth-Avenue Hotel, yesterday. A large number of lithographs made from this portrait have been made for distribution throughout the city, several thousands having been sent out yesterday.

  At 10 o’clock this morning merchants engaged in the butter, cheese, and egg trade will meet at the hotel to make arrangements for participating in the parade and business men’s meeting to be held to-morrow afternoon. Colored voters throughout the city are doing some excellent work for Mr. Roosevelt. They are thoroughly organized in the Ninth, Thirteenth, and Eleventh Districts, and will see that all colored men who are registered cast their votes next Tuesday, and are not deprived of this right by any Democratic machinations.

  Mr. Roosevelt will have a busy time to-day. After receiving all day at his headquarters in the Fifth-Avenue Hotel, he will make five speeches during the evening. Republican ratification and jollification meetings will also be held this evening in the First District, at which excellent speakers will be present; under the auspices of the Union-Square Roosevelt Club, and at No. 105 Clinton-place, where the independent voters of the district will have a grand rally and listen to a number of excellent speakers. The Executive Committees of the Down-town Roosevelt Club and the Dry Goods Roosevelt Club will have a meeting at No. 47 Broadway this afternoon.

  Mr. Hewitt’s literary bureau is still actively at work trying to give the public an idea that working-men find something or other in the Democratic ticket and its candidates to indorse. Last evening there was sent from that bureau to all the morning papers a report that a meeting had been held “by members of Knights of Labor assemblies and trade unions.” The bureau also kindly sends out a set of resolutions adopted unanimously in which the order to parade is denounced as well as the candidacy of Mr. George. That this whole scheme is a very cheap trick on the part of the Democratic leaders is shown by their own report. The resolutions refer to General Master Workman Terence V. Powderly as “our Grand Master,” a title which all Knights of Labor know does not belong to Mr. Powderly. Mr. Hewitt should put another and shrewder hand at the work of manufacturing bogus labor news, if possible one who knows something about labor organizations.