Star Spangled Scandal

by Chris DeRose

  Not everyone shared their enthusiasm. “I want to be with you as much as possible,” Teresa wrote Dan. “I wish to be near and with you. I hate the idea of your going away without me, and know that I would not have you if it were in my power. You know what is best—and I shall act as you wish me to however much I may dislike it. God only knows how I can get along without you.”6

  Sickles concluded his business in New York and said goodbye to Teresa and their new baby, Laura Buchanan Sickles. They would join him when she was old enough for travel. He left on August 20 and arrived at Merseyside ten days later.7

  The Sickles spent their first anniversary separated by the Atlantic. Buchanan noticed his aide was “very anxious” for Teresa and Laura to join them. Sickles searched each day for mail addressed in her familiar, elegant script with a New York postmark and a letter inside addressed to “my own dear darling Dan.”8

  Sickles lived in London’s Clarendon Hotel with Buchanan while they searched for permanent lodgings. Their time together confirmed Buchanan’s opinion of Sickles: a “very agreeable and an able man,” with “much energy of character [who] will make a favorable impression here.”9

  Teresa and Laura arrived that spring, as hoped, and just in time. Harriet Lane, the bachelor Buchanan’s niece, was the hostess of the delegation. As Teresa arrived, Harriet returned to America. Teresa, as wife of the second ranking diplomat, assumed Harriet’s place. She had gone from her father’s house to her husband’s house but now held a position equal to her talents, advancing America’s interests at Queen Victoria’s court. “Her” joyful personality charmed as much as her “brilliance,” in the words of one courtier. The grand dames of English society, Ladies Palmerston and Clarendon, befriended her. There were balls at Buckingham Palace and banquets at Mansion House with the Lord Mayor of London. Then there were trips to Paris and the Hague, where Teresa “excited interest in every one who met her.” Teresa, feeling her power for the first time as she dazzled leaders of Europe, could never have known that these would be the “best days of her life.”10

  It was a wonderful time to be in London and an even better time to be away from America. On February 13, the London Morning Chronicle reported “A very strong opposition” to Stephen Douglas’s plans to organize the Kansas Territory. “The whole question of slavery and abolition will be opened up” because the bill “repeals the Missouri compromise.” By virtue of that compromise, which had held the country together since 1820, slavery was prohibited in all of Kansas and Nebraska. Now Douglas proposed to leave it up to the settlers.11

  The Kansas-Nebraska Act was passed 37-14 in the Senate and 113-100 in the House. There may have been bitterer days in Congress, but no one could remember them. The opposition to Kansas-Nebraska—Whigs, Northern Democrats, and Free Soilers, formed a new political party—the Republicans.

  They ruined the Star Spangled Banner!

  Sickles was getting increasingly angry at the host of this alleged Fourth of July party. George Peabody, an American living in London, had invited 150 people to the Garter Hotel for the occasion. There were life-sized portraits of the Queen and Prince flanking a small image of George Washington. From there, offenses accumulated: no visible honors to Franklin Pierce, a toast to the Queen before the President, and an Englishman given the right to toast Washington! Sickles opened the program pamphlet—featuring both the American eagle and British lion and unicorn—and saw that the lyrics to the national anthem had been edited to remove offensive references to the British. When Peabody played his redacted version of the anthem, Sickles stood up and walked out of the room. The incident made headlines in America. Most agreed with the Louisville Courier, applauding Sickeles’s refusal “to play the fawning minion to Royalty.”12

  In August, British newspapers were filled with speculation: Sickles was on his way to Washington, but what for? He briefed President Pierce and the Secretary of State and prepared a detailed memorandum “On the State of Europe.” He accomplished all this so quickly he returned on the same steamer that brought him. Sickles carried instructions to the American ministers at London, Paris, and Madrid to develop a plan to acquire Cuba from the Spanish. Sickles, whose rise had coincided with the Manifest Destiny, enthusiastically supported Cuban acquisition. American ministers gathered in Ostend, Belgium, on October 9 and prepared a policy statement declaring Cuba’s addition to the United States as important as that of any state. Pierre Soule, American minister to Spain, was a Louisianan who wanted Cuba for the purpose of expanding slavery and increasing its support in Congress. He was also not shy about sharing his viewpoint. These private proceedings became public, and the policy of Cuban acquisition became inextricably tied to slavery. The fallout in the north was dramatic, giving fuel to the new Republican Party and further damaging the Democrats.13

  The first election in Kansas, to send a territorial representative to Washington, was a violent charade. The pro-slavery faction won, using threats, voter fraud, and ballot box stuffing that would shame the most cynical pol at Tammany Hall. Of 2,871 votes cast, only 1,114 were legal.

  The Democrats paid the price that November, losing seventy-four seats in the House of Representatives (nearly half their total number). Republicans and other opponents of the president’s Kansas policy won 108 seats. Buchanan and Sickles were experienced politicians. They could see the spiraling disaster and what it meant for them. If Democrats were to have any chance of holding the presidency, they would need a candidate untainted by the mess in Kansas. Pierce had sent Buchanan off to end his presidential prospects. Now he was the party’s only hope.

  Buchanan was well-insulated in London. But for Sickles, there were other considerations: money, Teresa missing her family, and the fact that he could only be someone else’s person for so long. Plus, Buchanan needed friends to lay the groundwork for his presidential campaign.

  On December 14, 1854, Buchanan wrote to Forney: “I am warmly and strongly attached to [Sickles]. He is a man of fine talents, of excellent manners, and of a brave and loyal temper.” Sickles “possesses qualifications both of mind and manners for a much higher place than that of Secretary of Legation.” On that, they could both agree.

  Sickles left for home the following day, and wasted no time in reminding New York of his return. He was elected to the state senate, returning to provincial Albany with the shine of Queen Victoria’s court. He worked feverishly on several issues: revising the code of criminal procedure; tightening inspections of state poor houses and jails; and the creation of Central Park, a place the Tribune predicted would “become the pride and ornament of the city.”14

  James Buchanan arrived in New York on April 23, 1856, and was greeted like a conquering hero. Sickles had organized a welcome befitting a future president, inviting Democratic leaders from across the country. It appeared Buchanan’s moment had finally arrived.15

  Chapter Five

  A Key of the Keys of Maryland

  May 20, 1856

  Senators, diplomats, and the distinguished society of Washington were in a frenzy, thunderously applauding and waving handkerchiefs. Two of the greatest opera stars in the world, Mademoiselle Parodi and Madame Strakoselt, were on stage, belting out the beloved words of the national song:

  O, say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave

  O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

  There to acknowledge this energetic outpouring was Philip Barton Key II. Key, son of Francis Scott Key, was “most deeply moved by the homage to the memory of his father’s genius.” The constitutional rule against royalty could not prohibit America’s love for famous families. And in the unofficial aristocracy of Washington, Key was a King.1

  He was a Key, of the Keys of Maryland. Fifty years before Independence, British Brothers Henry and Philip planted their branch of the family on the banks of the Potomac. From Philip sprung a line of colonial high sheriffs and privy councilors, revolutionaries, legislators, congressmen, and judges. The Keys recycled names so much that their famil
y tree looked like a giant series of tributes. The first Philip Barton Key fought with the British during the Revolution. But his Loyalist sins were forgiven, and the young republic availed itself of his many talents. He was mayor of Annapolis, appointed a federal judge by John Adams, and served three terms in Congress. He had also trained his promising nephew, Francis Scott Key, as a lawyer. Despite his grandiose name, he went by “Frank.”

  In the dark days of the War of 1812, with the Capitol and White House in ruins, Frank learned that his friend, Dr. William Beanes, was captured and held aboard a British ship. Frank risked his safety, traveling under a flag of truce, to negotiate for his release. The Admiral told Frank that Fort McHenry would fall within a day and Baltimore within two. This preview also meant that Frank would be their hostage until the battle was finished.

  The British fired rockets for the next twenthy-seven hours. Morning light, however, revealed the waving broad stripes and bright stars of the flag above the fort. Frank wrote a poem about what he had seen and published it in the local newspaper. Set to the tune of “To Anacreon in Heaven,” the song of a London drinking club, “The Defense of Fort McHenry” became “The Star Spangled Banner.” Frank had outdone his ancestor John Key, poet laureate to King Edward IV, in composing the anthem of a great country.

  Four years later, in 1818, Frank and Polly Key welcomed Philip Barton, the eighth addition to their family. This was Philip Barton II, not to be confused with his great-uncle, who was also the II, or Jr., his cousin. He would be known by his middle name.

  Barton had been in Washington nearly his entire life, starting with McVean’s Academy in Georgetown. After boarding school at Highland Gymnasium in New York, he returned to the capital, where his father had been appointed US Attorney by President Jackson.

  Frank remained in office under Van Buren, survived the thirty-one-day presidency of William Henry Harrison, but was sacked by his successor, John Tyler. He may have been the author of the national anthem, but he was still a Democrat. “We regret that this change . . . is necessary,” said the New York Tribune. “The author of the Star-Spangled Banner ought to be a Whig.”

  Back in private practice, Frank traveled to Fort Madison, Iowa, for a federal case on behalf of the New York Land Company. Barton went with him.

  Father and son took a train from Baltimore to Philadelphia and travelled from there to Pittsburgh by a canal barge, pulled by a mule (the barge on the water, the mule on land). Pious Frank woke his son early for church and wrote home excited for a second worship service that evening.

  The two ate well and slept as comfortably as they could, making their way west. It took four days to reach Cincinnati by riverboat. From there, they traveled to St. Louis, where they boarded a steamer for Iowa.

  Barton was fascinated by the booming Mississippi River town and made plans to stay. The frontier was far enough that he could finally step out from his father’s shadow. No one would know or care who he was, and he could prove what he was made of, to others as well as himself.

  But his father’s gravitational pull proved too strong. Frank died suddenly, two years later, at the age of sixty-three. Barton inherited his father’s law library and the “hope [Barton] will make such use of it as will enable him to assist his younger brother and sisters and the children of his brother John.”2

  Barton had some early success as a lawyer. Two tailors made a pair of pantaloons for a man and sent them with a delivery boy, with instructions not to turn them over without payment. The intended recipient was offended and refused the delivery. The tailors sued him and won. The buyer hired Key, and on appeal, the court ruled that, because they had used credit in the past, the tailors had an obligation to discuss terms beforehand, reversing the judgment.3

  The Keys were not only a prominent family, they also married well. Barton’s aunt was the wife of Roger Taney, Chief Justice of the US Supreme Court. His sister wed Congressman George Pendleton of Ohio. In 1845, Barton married the beautiful Ellen Swann, daughter of the President of the Bank of Baltimore. Ellen was known for her sweetness, and, in the observation of Jesse Benton Fremont, who knew her well, she “was loved and made happy to a degree few women ever reach.” They were soon joined by the first of five children.4

  Key became an intricate part of capital life. He was appointed by President Polk and confirmed by the Senate as the new US Attorney. At twenty-eight, he was even younger than his father when he held the post. The Alexandria Gazette noted: “Mr. Key is the son of the late F. S. Key.” As if anyone needed reminding.5

  He was one of seven riders selected to escort the new president to town. He also served on committees to celebrate Washington’s Birthday and memorialize Jackson’s death.

  Key was an “excellent story teller,” “uncouth in speech and rough in address,” who would show up at dinner “with a riding whip under his arm.” This behavior would’ve rankled had it come from someone of lower standing. From Key, it was charmingly eccentric. Oh, that’s just Barton! Riding boots at dinner? There goes Barton again!

  The culture of Washington was Democratic, Southern, and unapologetically pro-slavery. To maintain his position, Barton would have to vigorously protect the institution.6

  On April 13, 1848, Washington was caught up with torchlight celebrations in honor of France becoming a republic. As they returned home from an evening celebrating liberty, over forty families realized their slaves were missing. A black cab driver, in exchange for a reward, told the slaveowners what they wanted to know: he had transported a number of them to a ship known as the Pearl, which was on its way north to bring them to freedom.7

  One of the dispossessed owners had a steamboat, for which a crew of thirty-five volunteers was quickly assembled, “armed to the teeth with guns, pistols,” and “bowie knives,” and well-provisioned with “brandy and other liquors.” The Pearl was captured and returned to Washington. Nights of riots followed, vandalizing the offices of antislavery newspapers and attacking the homes of abolitionists.8

  The ship’s captain, Daniel Drayton, was consigned to a cell with nothing but a “night bucket” and cut off from the rest of the world. Drayton was a semi-literate small-time seafarer from Philadelphia, and Barton Key was determined to know who had financed and planned the escape. Key found a friend of Drayton’s from Boston; he was allowed repeated visits with him, during which Drayton was encouraged to give up his co-conspirators. An offer of $1,000 was delivered by one of his jailors. Drayton was not interested.9

  One lawyer after another declined to represent Drayton before David Hall accepted. During their first meeting, Key walked into the room, advising Hall to “leave the jail and go home immediately.” People “outside were furious, and he ran the risk of his life.”

  Hall replied that events had taken a bad turn when a lawyer could not speak with his client.

  “Poor devils,” Key said of Drayton and his crew. “I pity them—they are to be made scape-goats for others.” Drayton remembered that Key pursued him with “rancor, and virulence, and fierce pertinacity,” and that it “did not look much like pity.”10

  Unable to break Drayton, Key won a grand jury indictment against him on seventy-four counts of transporting a slave. Drayton faced execution without “benefit of the clergy.” Many crimes carried the death penalty. This may have been the only one attempting to issue an eternal sentence. Drayton faced a minimum sentence of twenty years and a $15,000 fine for every slave, enough to keep him behind bars for the rest of his life. He noted that not even Methuselah of Old Testament longevity could serve out an 800-year sentence.11

  Key also obtained forty-one indictments for larceny, one for every identified owner. Drayton’s counsel accused Key of self-interest, referencing the $10 fee associated with every indictment.

  The first trial against Drayton, for transporting two slaves of Andrew Houver, opened on July 27. James Carlisle joined the defense team, hoping to show the country that Washington could put on a fair trial. Carlisle, though a close friend of
the prosecutor, thought Key’s opening statement was zealous and “vehement.”

  Slaves, Key argued, were not common property. With their ability to think, they were less secure than other forms of property; therefore, the jury must subject violators to the most serious consequences. “Suppose a man were to take it into his head that the northern factories were very bad things for the health of the factory girls, and were to go with a schooner for the purpose of liberating those poor devils by stealing the spindles, would not he be served as this prisoner is served here?

  “Let it be known from Maine to Texas to the earth’s widest limits,” Key said, “that we have officers and juries to execute that law, no matter by whom it may be violated!” Key called Drayton “a liar, a rogue, a wretch.”

  Carlisle took exception to this, saying, “I do not dispute the learned gentleman’s right” to use those words. “It is a matter of taste.”

  Key bristled. “Was I, instead of calling him a liar, to say, ‘he told a fib?’ ” Key then mocked Drayton’s fear of dying in the penitentiary. “Don’t you think he ought to?” Key asked the jury.

  To convict Drayton, the jury had to find that he intended to sell the slaves for profit rather than set them free. The sole evidence on this point was the claim of a single witness that Drayton told him he would make a fortune selling the slaves in the West Indies (despite the fact that the Pearl was a bay craft, unfit for sea travel). This witness would soon abandon his story, saying that he couldn’t remember whether Drayton had said it.