by Chris DeRose
Brady had just won the biggest trial in American history. He was asked: “Have you any special end or aim in this life to accomplish? Anything which, when done, you will say, ‘I’ve gained my ends and will stand aside for younger men’?”
He considered his response in silence. “Nothing for tomorrow, nothing for the future. I am thankful only that I have been allowed to live for today.”9
The cover of Harper’s announcing the verdict featured a sketch of an angel opening a heavy cell door as a haggard prisoner steps forward into freedom. It was an illustration for the first installment of a new work by Charles Dickens—A Tale of Two Cities—and above it stood the name of part one: “Recalled to life.” Harper’s congratulated its subscribers: “Such an opportunity is rarely enjoyed by the readers of any periodical.”
The opening words were as true in the spring of 1859 as the period to which they referred: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .”
Chapter Forty-Seven
An Appropriate Finale to the Sickles Tragedy
* * *
“The long agony of the Sickles trial is over.”
—The New York Times
Sickles refused visitors and lay “in a state of great prostration” at the Decatur House. He wasn’t the only one who needed a rest: “The disagreeable trial in the criminal court of this district has been brought to an end,” wrote Judge Crawford. “Thank God this trial is now matter of history.”1, 2
Fifteen years earlier, the American public doubted the value of the telegraph, unable to imagine news so important that they would need to hear it immediately. The Sickles trial demonstrated the full “power of the printing instrument.” The American Telegraph Company wired 2,000 to 2,500 words per hour, a feat unperformed “since the first wire was stretched.” Over 16,000 words a day were sent to New York alone. The Associated Press alone telegraphed a total of 152,140 words at a cost of $3,682.29.
Joseph Gordon Bennet, a media pioneer of the previous two decades, recognized that a new era had begun: “The time is not far distant when the correspondents of this journal, at all points, will be instructed, as they are now in some cases, to drop their letters not in the post office but the telegraph office—when all the news now transmitted to the New York Herald by mail will be flashed along the magnetic lines from the most distant parts of the country—when space and time will be compassed by science until they are almost known no more.
“The public mind even now craves with so ardent a longing for the earliest intelligence of all interesting events, and the conductors of the press are so ready to appease the craving appetite of the people, that, as in the case of the Sickles trial, the echoes of that shout which welcomed the verdict in the court room at Washington had not died out ere the scene was presented to the eyes of our citizens in the columns of the New York daily press. And this is but the beginning of the end.”3
Meanwhile, Sickles had a life to lead. A month after his acquittal, he was back in court, this time as a lawyer representing the Board of Supervisors.4
The pistol entered at trial, used to shoot Key, went unclaimed. It was sold to the police officer who had recovered it at the crime scene, and it was then resold as a souvenir for $25.5
Reverend Haley, who from the first moments of the story had cast himself as a main character, was presented with a Bible in a ceremony at the National Hotel for his ministry to Daniel Sickles. He responded with a discourse on the importance of visiting those in prison.
“Has he ever visited the prison before or since the Sickles trial?” asked the Baltimore Sun.6, 7
The Sickles were an almost daily sight on the Bloomingdale Road in a splendid carriage drawn by two gray horses. When the weather was nice, they went sailing on the Hudson. On the river, there were no unkind stares or comments.8, 9
The New York Times reported that “the most resolute of avengers has approved himself also the most relenting of husbands” and was now living with his wife. “This of course is a purely personal and private matter, with which the public have nothing to do.” Some of Sickles’s friends who stood behind him at the trial wanted newspapers to know that they were not responsible.
The Herald reported that the Sickles’s had decided “to live together again in peace and mutual affection, burying the past in the grave of oblivion.” It “is said their love is greater than ever. There is an immense rejoicing among their friends, who have written letters of warm congratulations.”10
Alabama’s Daily Confederation wrote: Man “can tread the lowliest haunts of vice and infamy, and still the right hand of fellowship is extended. He was lost but now is found. But poor woman, like Teresa Sickles, when she sins, when she acknowledges her sin, when she is willing to be turned loose on the cold charities of the world—but simply asks forgiveness from one—that same mankind is insulted.”11
Sickles broke the silence he maintained through twenty days of trial. His letter to the New York Herald was publicized across the country:
Through the course of sad events, which during the last few months have brought so much affliction upon my family, I have been silent. No amount of misrepresentation affecting myself only could induce me now to open my lips. Nor could I deem it worthwhile under any circumstances to notice what has been or can be said in journals never regarded as the sources or exponents of public opinion, for in these it is too often obvious that only unworthy motives prompt the most vindictive assaults upon the private life of citizens holding public stations. But the editorial comments in the Herald of yesterday, although censorious, (of which I do not complain whilst I read them with regret) differ so widely in tone and temper from the mass of nonsense and calumny which has lately been written concerning a recent event in my domestic relations, that I cannot allow a mistake, into which you have been led by inaccurate information, to pass without such a correction as will relieve others from any share of the reproaches which it is the pleasure of a the multitude at this moment to heap upon me and mine.
Referring to the forgiveness which my sense of duty and my feelings impelled me to extend to an erring and repentant wife, you observe, in the course of your temperate and dignified article that, it is said, however that” the last phase of the affair was brought about through the advice of his lawyers?’ This is entirely erroneous. I did not exchange a word with one of my counsel upon the subject, nor with any one else. My reconciliation with my wife was my own act, done without consultation with any relative connection, friend or advisers. Whatever blame, if any, belongs to the step, should fall alone upon me. I am prepared to defend what I have done before the only tribunal I recognize as having the slightest claim to jurisdiction over the subject—my own conscience and the bar of Heaven. I am not aware of any statue, or code of morals, which makes it infamous to forgive a women; nor is it unusual to make our domestic life a subject of consultation with friends, no matter how near and dear to us. And I cannot allow even all the world combined to dictate to me the repudiation of my wife, when I think it right to forgive her, and restore her to my confidence and protection.
If I ever failed to comprehend the utterly desolate position of an offending though penitent woman—the hopeless future, with its dark possibilities of danger, to which she is doomed when proscribed as an outcast—I can now see plainly enough, in the almost universal howl of denunciation with which she is follow to my threshold, the misery and perils from which I have rescued the mother of my child.
And although it is very sad for me to incur the blame of friends and the reproaches of many wise and good people, I shall strive to prove to all who may feel any interest in me, that if I am the first man who has ventured to say to the world an erring wife and mother may be forgiven and redeemed, that, in spite of all the obstacles in my path, the good results of the example shall entitle it to the imitation of the generous, and the commendation of the just.
There are many who think that an act of duty, proceeding solely from affections which can only be comprehended
in the heart of a husband and a father is to be fatal to my professional, political, and social standing. If this be so, then so be it. Political station, professional success, social recognition, are not the only prizes of ambition; and I have seen enough of the world in which I have moved, and read enough of the lives of others, to teach me that, if one be patient and resolute, it is the man himself who indicates the place he will occupy; and so long as I do nothing worse than to reunite my family under the roof where they may find shelter from contumely and prosecution, I do not fear the noisy but fleeting voices of popular clamor.
The multitude accept their first impressions from a few; but in the end men think for themselves and if I know the human heart—and sometimes I think that in a career of mingled sunshine and storm I have sounded nearly all its depths—then I may reassure those who look with reluctant forebodings upon my future to be of good cheer, for I will not cease to vindicate a just claim to the respect of my fellows, while to those motley groups, here and there, who look upon my misfortunes only as weapons to be employed for my destruction, to those I say, once for all, if a man make a good use of his enemies, they will be as serviceable to him as his friends.
In conclusion, let me ask only one favor of those who, from whatever motive, may deem it necessary or agreeable to comment in public or private upon this sad history; and that is, to aim all their arrows at my breast, and for the sake of my innocent child, to spare her yet youthful mother, while she seeks in sorrow and contrition the mercy and pardon of Him to whom, sooner or later, we must all appeal.
The Times thought: “There will be fresh sympathies aroused for the dead man who moulders in his grave unforgiven, while the partner of his guilt smiles her gratitude up into the face of him whose mercy was so tardy while his justice was so swift.”12
The Sun, under the headline “The Sickles Tragi-Comedy,” said the “only regret that the public have is, that his vengeance proved so fatal, and that Mr. Key is not alive to witness Mr. Sickles’s restoration to sanity.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Excelsior
Mary Chestnut sat with her friends in the gallery of the House of Representatives. “What had that poor man done” she asked, of the gentlemen sitting alone, “as if he had smallpox?”
“He killed Phil Barton Key,” someone said.
“No, no,” responded another. “That was all right. It was because he condoned his wife’s profligacy and took her back.”1
There were calls and petitions signed to force Sickles to resign from congress. But he had survived the center stage in America’s first media circus and was not about to quit simply to gratify some malcontents.2
Teresa and Laura stayed in New York while Congress was in session. Sickles rented a small room, had quiet dinners with friends, and avoided the kind of parties he had been famous for hosting the previous session.3
Sickles found his voice in the Secession Crisis of 1860. The Republicans, with their refusal to allow the spread of slavery, had won the White House. As expected, a number of southerners were unwilling to accept the result.4
Speaking on the House floor, Sickles said, “It will never do, sir, for them to protest against coercion, and, at the same moment seize all the arms and arsenals and forts and navy yards, and ships that may, through our forbearance, fall within their power. This is not peaceful secession. These acts, whosoever or by whomsoever done, are overt acts of war.”5
Sickles was forceful, “clear” and “logical” in defense of his country, and his words were “attentively listened to by the members and crowded galleries,” to “decided effect.”6
Sickles found himself out of office again a month before shots were fired on Fort Sumter. He recruited three thousand men in a month and was made a Brigadier General. Stationed in Washington, awaiting orders, he heard from Laura: “I hope dear papa that you will write just as often as you can, since we are all so happy when your letters are received. How very fine your soldiers and horses must appear and how glad I should be to see them.”
Sickles became close friends with Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln and was a frequent guest in the White House. He was even invited to participate in Mary’s séances in the Red Parlor. Once, he was asked to hide behind a curtain while Nettie Colburn, her spiritualist, was asked to guess his identity: “Crooked Knife,” she said. In other words, a “Sickle.” There were reports that he may have tried to talk to Key. But he would get no response in this life.
As the war wore on, Sickles was promoted to commander of the Third Corps, one of only seven major generals—and one of only two who did not attend West Point. It was a remarkable rehabilitation for a man who was recently America’s most famous murder defendant.
On a rare visit home, General Sickles brought two pressed bouquets, signed by Mary Lincoln to “Miss Laura Sickles.”7
Teresa may have already been showing signs of consumption, the disease that caused her to waste away, claiming her life at the age of thirty-one.
On the second day of the Battle of Gettysburg, Sickles and his men occupied the low ground to the south. General Meade, his commander, had not seen the land for himself. If the Confederates were allowed to walk into the Wheatfield and Peach Orchard, they could set up artillery and obliterate them all. Sickles sent messengers to Meade, imploring him to come and see the lay for himself, to give them permission to advance to the high ground. At 11 a.m., he went to Meade himself. Meade refused but sent his chief engineer and artillery officer. When he could wait no longer, Sickles moved his men forward. They absorbed the brunt of the attack that day. James Longstreet, leader of the Confederate advance, believed Sickles’s move had prevented his victory. As the day neared its end and it looked as though they would successfully absorb the blow, a twelve-pound cannonball came bouncing at Sickles faster than he could avoid it. It exploded and destroyed his right leg. People watching assumed that he had been mortally wounded. Even he thought he was a dead man. His soldiers started to panic, just as victory was in sight, viewing their injured chief. To give them confidence to finish the battle, Sickles, while being carried from the battlefield, lit a cigar and smiled.8
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Unwritten Law
* * *
“Precedents are almost unanimous in favor of the assertion that any man has a right to kill the betrayer of his wife, his sister, or his daughter.”
—St. Louis Globe-Democrat
For a time, the most well-known law in America could not be found in a book.
On the night of the Sickles’s trial, a crowd of two thousand revelers had gone to Willard’s and asked for remarks from John Graham. He said that they “had shown to the world . . . that their homes must not be violated.” They moved on to the home of Philip Phillips, who told them: “A new era had been initiated in the jurisprudence of the world. An honest, upright and intelligent American jury had established a precedent which all civilized nations would henceforth recognize and be guided by.” If a “man violated the sanctity of his neighbor’s house he must do so at his peril.”1
This was not always the case. In 1825, Jereboam Beauchamp killed Solomon Sharp, the attorney general of Kentucky, for seducing his wife before their marriage. Beauchamp was executed seven weeks after being found guilty. It was the kind of homicide that would one day meet with public approval. But not yet.2
Eighteen years later, Mahlon Heberton seduced Sarah Mercer, a “beautiful and lovely” though “weak minded” girl, sixteen years of age, leaving her in a house of “doubtful reputation.” Her twenty-year-old brother, Singleton, challenged Heberton to a duel. Heberton didn’t realize that those were the best odds he was going to get. Instead, he fled Philadelphia under cover of night, driving his carriage onto a ferry to New Jersey. When the boat arrived, Mercer, who had concealed himself aboard, emptied a six-shooter into the carriage, killing Heberton. The Baltimore Sun called it a lesson to parents in caring for their daughters, “and what a lesson to the seducer.” Mercer was acquitted by re
ason of insanity after a half-hour of deliberation. “It is remarkable how some people lose all command of their senses, and suddenly recover it again,” noted one newspaper. The people of Louisville planned on presenting Mercer with a gold medal. Some proposed a monument to him.3
William Myers was married to “one of the loveliest women that ever lived.” Three years after Mercer’s acquittal, Myers learned of an affair between his wife and lottery salesman D. M. Hoyt. Myers found Hoyt in his basement room of the Exchange Hotel and asked him to sign a pledge to leave the city at once. When Hoyt refused, Myers shot him three times. The Richmond Whig wrote: “The injury said to have been inflicted upon Mr. Myers by Mr. Hoyt, in the most delicate relation of life, was of such a character as to justify, in the eyes of all men, the most summary punishment. Truth, surely, as here exemplified, is stranger than fiction.” The examining court heard evidence, consisting of proof of the affair, and refused to charge him. “Such a burst of applause took place as we never heard in a court of justice.”4
Thomas Washington Smith couldn’t believe his luck when a beautiful younger woman agreed to be his wife. But she had a secret, the kind it was impossible to keep. Richard Carter, a bank president, was the father. Carter was already married, so Smith was appointed to play the fool. Smith found Carter at the St. Lawrence Hotel in Philadelphia, firing four shots into him. Unlike many defendants acquitted by the Unwritten Law, Smith may actually have been insane. At the end of his trial, he was committed into the care of his sister.5
The New York Herald said: “Let the race of lotharios beware.” It claimed to know of several similar cases where no arrests had even been made. “It may be considered as the unwritten law of this country,” the paper wrote, “that a man may kill with impunity the seducer of his sister or the paramour of his wife” (italics added). The phrase “Unwritten Law” would not enter common use until the turn of the next century. But its watershed moment was a year away.6
