Star Spangled Scandal
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CONTENTS
Overture—Opening Night
ACT I
The Washington Tragedy
* * *
Chapter One: A Reckless Gaiety
Chapter Two: “A Skeleton Sketch of My Life”
Chapter Three: Teresa
Chapter Four: Men of Force and Originality
Chapter Five: A Key of the Keys of Maryland
Chapter Six: A Violent Year
Chapter Seven: The President’s Park
Chapter Eight: The Investigation
Chapter Nine: New Latitudes
Chapter Ten: Vile Calumnies
Chapter Eleven: The Last Dance
Chapter Twelve: No. 383 15th Street
Chapter Thirteen: An Improper Interview
Chapter Fourteen: Sunday in Lafayette Square
INTERMEZZO
* * *
Chapter Fifteen: Special by Magnetic Telegraph
Chapter Sixteen: The Day After
Chapter Seventeen: For the Defense, Part 1
Chapter Eighteen: Funeral Rites
Chapter Nineteen: Teresa, Part 2
Chapter Twenty: Revenge of the Keys
Chapter Twenty-One: Beekman Returns
Chapter Twenty-Two: Sickles in the Pulpit
Chapter Twenty-Three: Aria
Chapter Twenty-Four: Seeing the News
Chapter Twenty-Five: Another Sickles Affair
Chapter Twenty-Six: Deliberations of the Grand Jury
Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Life for Sale
Chapter Twenty-Eight: For the Defense, Part 2
ACT II
The Trial of Daniel E. Sickles for the Murder of Philip Barton Key
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Twelve Dispassionate Men
Chapter Thirty: A Carnival of Blood
Chapter Thirty-One: The Implements of Death
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Atonement of John Graham
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Queen Against Daniel M’Naghten
Chapter Thirty-Four: The Libertine Punished
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Thrilling Scene
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Confession
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Give Vent to Your Tears
Chapter Thirty-Eight: An Intense and Sudden Excitement
Chapter Thirty-Nine: “John B. Haskin, Salad and Champagne”
Chapter Forty: “Revelations Respecting the Intercourse Between Key and Mrs. Sickles”
Chapter Forty-One: “Conclusion of the Evidence for the Defense”
Chapter Forty-Two: “Curious Anonymous Letters Received by the Counsel and Jury”
Chapter Forty-Three: “The Case Drawing to a Close”
Chapter Forty-Four: “The Testimony Closed”
Chapter Forty-Five: “Address of Mr. James T. Brady for the Defence”
Chapter Forty-Six: Recalled to Life
Chapter Forty-Seven: An Appropriate Finale to the Sickles Tragedy
Chapter Forty-Eight: Excelsior
Chapter Forty-Nine: The Unwritten Law
Epilogue: Ghosts of New York
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Notes
Index
For Hannah DeRose, my wife, who showed me how happy a man can be. I love you beyond measure, today and for all time.
YEAR of meteors! brooding year!
I would bind in words retrospective,
some of your deeds and signs:
O year all mottled with evil and good!
year of forebodings!
As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and
be gone, what is this book,
What am I myself but one of your meteors?
—“Year of Meteors, 1859–60”
by Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
* * *
Overture—Opening Night
It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon in Washington. Two gentlemen in top hats encountered one another. “How do you do?” asked Barton Key, extending his hand.
“Villain, you have defiled my bed,” said Daniel Sickles. He pointed a pistol at Key and fired.
“Murder!” cried Key, United States Attorney for the District of Columbia. “Don’t shoot me. Don’t murder me.”
Key’s cries went unheeded. There was another shot. Key fell to the ground. Sickles advanced on him slowly and fired again. Key lay mortally wounded on his back. His killer stood triumphantly over his body.
Applause!
The curtain dropped on Act II of Sickles: Or, the Washington Tragedy! playing at the National Theatre. Nightly re-enactments of Key’s shooting were met with “enthusiastic” clapping by the whitest kid gloves in Boston. The Brahmins in all their finery cheered the death of a man who had been prominently among the living two months earlier.1
But a lot had happened since then. America had spent that time in the thralls of an illicit affair, savage killing, and sensational trial, grasping after every detail. The shooting touched off a national conversation on male honor, female virtue, marriage, fidelity, and the rule of law. Newspapers covered the story with more speed and space than any that had come before. The Evening Star declared that the name “Daniel Sickles” was “oftener pronounced than that of any other one living.”2
The jury had announced its verdict two weeks earlier, closing the matter for official purposes. But the public was not ready to let go.
It was “the sole topic of conversation wherever men meet, or women either,” in boardrooms, boudoirs, and bars. It was discussed in Spanish, German, and French, in London pubs and cafes on the Champs Elysees, and on the beaches of Bermuda and Hawaii. Closer to home, it displaced coverage of violence in Kansas, the breakdown of politics in Washington, the fracturing of the Democrats, and the ascendancy of the Republicans.3
Helen and Lucile Western, known as “the Star Sisters,” rushed their play into production. David Hanchett, a Shakespearean tragedian, was cast in the role of vengeful husband. Rehearsals were held during the trial, and the script was updated accordingly. Audiences loved it. Others were horrified. People were similarly divided over the whole Sickles matter.4
As one critic wrote of the play: de gustibus non est disputandum: “in matters of taste, there can be no dispute.”5
ACT I
The Washington Tragedy
Chapter One
A Reckless Gaiety
Thursday, February 24, 1859
* * *
“Over that gay and brilliant company how near and fearful a doom impended!”
—The New York Times
Daniel Sickles could see the White House from his window. He dressed the part of an up-and-coming congressman—as he had well before he was one—and went downstairs to greet his wife and daughter. Many members of Congress came to the capital without their loved ones. But Sickles found life “dull” and “wearisome” without his wife Teresa and daughter Laura.1
Laura was six, restored to health after a bout of fever and chills. Her baptism was coming soon. And President James Buchanan would serve as godfather.
When their morning meal was finished, Sickles boarded his coach and traded the peace of home for the frenzy of the House of Representatives. Teresa and Laura were headed for Centre Market, an errand another hostess might have left for servants.
Congress was in the final days of session, scrambling to put together the national budget on their way out of town. Some were looking to save money by shutting down the Navy Yards. Like the one in Brooklyn, critical to national security as well as Sickles’s constituents. When critics of the Navy Yards tried to force a vote, Sickles leapt to his feet, reminding them that they “could remain in session as long as they like.” The House agreed to defer action to the following day
.2
Sickles left the Capitol and traveled up Pennsylvania Avenue. The historic Ewell House, leased by Sickles, was just north of the White House and among the most prestigious addresses in the capital. An invitation there meant an evening with senators, congressmen, diplomats, journalists, cabinet members, and, sometimes, the president. It was the perfect place for a party, such as the one underway when he arrived.3
Sickles entered his home to the sounds of laughter, talking, and the clinking of glasses, the merry scene illuminated by gaslight and reflected in chandeliers and mirrors. Buchanan’s Washington was a return to form after the bleak Franklin Pierce presidency, where the social scene suffered from a first lady mourning the death of her son. William Stuart, correspondent for the New York Times, wrote: “I have never known Washington more delightful.” Henry Watterson, the young reporter for the Philadelphia Press, proclaimed “Mr. and Mrs. Sickles” the “universal favorites,” providing “the most generous welcome in Washington.”4
Sickles spotted his wife among the colorful dresses and dark suits, greeting guests in her “sweet” and “amiable manner.” People who never set foot in Washington could read about Teresa’s beauty in national newspapers: her “Italian luster and depth of eye” and “delicacy of feature” making her “remarkable . . . for something especially soft, lovely, and youthful.”5
Tonight’s guest of honor was Madame James Gordon Bennett, wife of the powerful publisher of the New York Herald. To be sure, there had been differences in the past: names were called (“Double Dealing Dan”), accusations made, and a libel lawsuit filed. But it had been sorted out. Bennett had more readers than anyone in Gotham, and Sickles’s rapid rise had been faithfully chronicled. This dinner party was intended to cement their nascent alliance. Draped in jewels and dressed in the latest French fashion, Madame Bennett was among “the most brilliant and best in Washington society.” Only yesterday she had been feted at the White House, and tomorrow she would dine with the diplomatic corps. But tonight, she was at the Ewell House.6
Also there was Chevalier Henry Wikoff, a living, breathing sign that you had arrived at the best party in town. Heir to a Philadelphia fortune, kicked out of Yale for “riding with a young lady,” he began his Washington social career in the days of Andrew Jackson. From there, he gained prominence in courts throughout Europe, from King Louis in Paris to the Pope in the Vatican to the Czar in the Kremlin.
In London, he became attaché of the American delegation, where he met the Duke of Wellington and King William IV, and he briefly became a spy for the British against the French. He became friends with the Bonaparte family, “who were then between empires,” particularly Louis, and wrote a biography of him. Wikoff returned to America as the manager of Fanny Elssler, the famed dancer, with whom he engaged in a turbulent and long-lasting romance. Wikoff had been engaged to the niece of a senior London banker. When she broke it off and moved, Wikoff found her, and, well . . . “kidnapped” was the word they used. Wikoff made the most of fifteen months in a Genoese prison, writing a bestselling account: My Courtship and its Consequences. James Bennett nicknamed him “Chevalier” because of his foreign affect and adventures throughout Europe. The sobriquet became true twelve years later when he was knighted by the king of Spain.7
Partisanship was at a high that winter and North-South relations at a low. But people who would not meet elsewhere could do so in the Sickles’s home. In addition to Bennett and Wikoff, there were Republicans and Yankees, like Congressman Anson Burlingame of Massachusetts and his substantial mutton chops and Alabama Belle Virginia Clay, wife of a leading Democratic senator. Clay was surveying the scene from a red sofa in the back parlor. In a matter of weeks, that couch’s history would become a matter of scintillating trial testimony.8
Clay likened Washington society to its topography: “many small circles and triangles, into each of which run tributary streets and avenues.” She remembered those days as a time of “general prosperity and competitive expenditure. While a life and death struggle raged between political parties, and oratorical battles of ominous import were fought daily in the Senate chamber and House, a very reckless gaiety was everywhere apparent in social circles.”9
Virginia Clay remembered for the rest of her life how Teresa looked that night. “More lovely than usual,” exotic, but “young and fair.” Neither she nor her circle believed “the rumors which were then in circulation.”
She never saw Teresa again.10
There were toasts and cheers and more laughter and conversation over “the most elegant and stylish” dinner served in Washington that winter. It was ten o’clock before they knew it and time for the next event. The crowd poured out of the house and climbed into carriages for Willard’s Hotel and their nightly hop. Teresa offered to take several guests in their personal coach. Go on ahead, Sickles said—I’ll walk and catch up with you.11
If dinner was for gossip and dealmaking, the nightly hops were a place to let loose and a “time for banalities.” One reveler saw it like a battle: the reconnaissance, as the crowded ballroom floor divided by sex, making “observations as to the best point of attack”; “feelers are thrown out” by “promenading close to each other, followed by general skirmishing” in the form of small talk. “It’s quite warm this evening,” “A very pleasant affair this,” “Were you at so and so’s?” An hour into the battle, those sitting on the sidelines—the reserves—are sent in. It seems fitting for people who would be killing one another in two years.12
Teresa arrived with her party and scanned the ballroom. Philip Barton Key II, US Attorney for the District of Columbia, was hard to miss. The “handsomest man in all Washington society,” an “Apollo in appearance,” “well formed,” and “athletic,” with a “well-trimmed mustache,” Key was also a sartorial standout, known for his foppish attire, such as white leather tights and high boots.13
“Barton” to those who knew him had “a sad yet handsome face.” Social arbiter Virginia Clay declared him “foremost among the popular men of the capital,” “a favorite with every hostess of the day,” “clever at repartee,” and “a generous and pleasing man.” He was a sought-after dance partner, known for his “presence, tall stature, winning manners,” and “easy, fashionable air.” “Fitted by nature to gain the affections of a woman,” those he fancied were immediately the “subject of conversation to the lovers of scandal.”
And for some time, his fancy had an unusual focus.14
The Sickles had become fast friends with Key on their arrival in Washington. A widower, he escorted Teresa on the social circuit while Dan was detained in the House. Key and Teresa sat next to each other on a couch. The two engaged in a lively conversation, oblivious to the ball that surrounded them and the looks and whispers cast in their direction.15
As Sickles prepared to leave for Willard’s, a messenger came to the door and handed him a basic yellow envelope. He tucked it into his jacket unopened and thought no more of it. Sickles walked outside, turning left on Pennsylvania Avenue, heading toward the hop.16
The brass band blasted music as gaslights masked the hour. The partiers—fueled by champagne—quadrilled, waltzed, and polkaed. Key took leave of Teresa when Sickles arrived. They came home late from the hop.17
Teresa went upstairs to sleep and Sickles to his study to catch up on correspondence. He remembered the letter in his pocket. It crinkled when he unfolded it:
Dear Sir: With deep regret I inclose to your address the few lines but an indispensable duty compels me so to do seeing that you are greatly imposed upon.
There is a fellow I may say for he is not a gentleman by any means by the [name] of Philip Barton Key & I believe the district attorney who rents a house of a negro man by the name of Jno. A Gray situated on 15th street between K and L streets for no other purpose than to meet your wife Mrs. Sickles.
He hangs a string out of the window as a signal to her that he is in and leaves the door unfastened and she walks in and sir I do assure you he h
as as much the use of your wife as you have. With these few hints I leave the rest for you to imagine.
Most respectfully Your friend R. P. G.
It is unclear what “R. P. G” thought they had left to the imagination.
A man could waste a lifetime accrediting every bit of gossip coursing through Washington. And it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to start trouble between Sickles and Key. Last time, there was at least a name attached to the charge; a man—if you could call him that—who backed down when confronted.
Normally, Sickles would have introduced the letter to his fireplace. But it was gnawingly specific. He could verify whether it was true. And he would have to. The answer, once found, would greatly relieve or utterly destroy him.
A sleepless night lay ahead.
Chapter Two
“A Skeleton Sketch of My Life”
There was a time, in his turbulent teenage years, when Daniel Sickles’s problems were limited to a domineering father and an overattentive mother. They sent him to Glens Falls Academy, two hundred miles north of Manhattan. There his troubles grew to include a headmaster tasked with smoothing out his rougher edges. He didn’t stay long.1
Rather than retreat home, Sickles walked across town and applied for work at the newspaper. It was a struggling weekly whose misfortune opened the door for a young academy reject with no relevant experience. Its routine mergers and changes in ownership were reflected in its unwieldly name: the Warren Messenger and Glens Falls Advertiser.
Sickles worked as a “printer’s devil,” a time-honored apprenticeship once held by Benjamin Franklin. Sickles was tasked with carefully laying type with black-stained hands while his nose filled with the pungent smell of ink.
From the small village on the Hudson, he absorbed the news of the world, letter by letter. The German states created a free trade union on a path to unification; President Andrew Jackson was censured by congress for draining the National Bank; Jackson’s opponents formed the Whig Party; slavery was abolished in the British Empire; anti-abolition riots raged in New York City; and Cyrus McCormick (who would later intersect with Sickles in a way neither could imagine) applied for a patent on his mechanical reaper. Sickles returned to Manhattan after eighteen months with a better education than that offered by the academy.2