Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  Members of the Ohio Republican Delegation have boarded the train and are making quite a fuss. They are churlish, very loud, and consummate boors. One gaudy fellow from this group took a seat next to Steinhaeuser and has been rattling on for the past hour and a half about the merits and weak points of the different candidates and their platforms. Steinhaeuser’s head moves only with the pitch and haul of the train ride. Except for his eye, which occasionally shifts ever so slightly, anyone who was paying attention may well have thought him dead and just propped up in the seat.

  Our friend from the Ohio delegation was oblivious to this condition and continued his monologue as if there were a rational and responding human being sitting next to him. When his mates finally called him for a card game in the back of the car, the Ohioan grabbed Steinhaeuser’s limp hand and began pumping it with forceful enthusiasm. “Been a great pleasure talkin’ with you friend, but I have to go. Remember, a vote for Thurlow Weed is a vote for the Union. You’ll remember the name Thurlow Weed, won’t you friend?”

  Steinhaeuser made a weak attempt to acknowledge this last remark by raising his good eye in the direction of the delegate. His head followed, and because he was unable to control the rotation, it soon rolled over until his ear was hard against the top of his own shoulder. From the unswollen side of his mouth he whispered something that sounded vaguely like “Thurlow Weed,” and at this point the delegate let go of John’s hand and gave him a hearty clap on the back which almost sent him flying out of his seat. He smiled broadly and thundered, “That’s the spirit, friend. That’s the American spirit!” I took Steinhaeuser’s opium from his pocket and secured it in my bag.

  May 16, 1860

  Chicago

  We are at rest now after straining every nerve to reach this city before the beginning of the convention. The train pulled into the station at 6am and it was all we could do to find accommodations, meager as they are here, in Mrs. Maggie Munson’s recently vacated bedroom. This great city, hard by an even greater blue inland sea, boasts 100,000 citizens on a normal day, but due to the Convention, methinks 175,000 or 200,000 may be better figures. There is no single space that is not thick with convention goers and their entourages.

  Our attempts to check in at the Tremont House were laughed at; the manager’s expression turned from cynicism to fright as he described five hundred souls sleeping in quarters designed for sixty. He added that similar conditions, or worse, existed in the city’s other hotels. “They are three to a bed and sleeping atop every billiard table in town.” It was he who took pity on two foreigners and directed us to the kindly Mrs. Munson.

  It was only with the assistance of Secretary Floyd’s letter of introduction that we were able to secure tickets to the convention itself. I was told that under normal circumstances, these passes would not have been obtainable. The convention is to be held at the corner of Lake and Market Streets where a gigantic structure called “The Wigwam” has been newly built for this event. It is festooned with bunting, rosettes, and evergreens and equipped with gas lights for evening sessions.

  After depositing our luggage at Mrs. Munson’s, we headed straight for the Wigwam and arrived just before noon. A throng of perhaps twenty thousand people were gathered around the building, shoving and pushing each other about in a state approaching mass hysteria. In comparison, the Pilgrims at Meccah were much better behaved. When the doors opened, ticket holders slowly elbowed their way through the crowd and eventually passed the nervous doorkeepers. Then suddenly, in one great surge, the masses pushed aside all material and flesh-and-blood restraints and swarmed inside, producing a scene of Bedlamite confusion.

  We made our way inside just as the opening gavel came down and a dull dog named David Wilmont began the proceedings with an uninspired speech accepting the post of Temporary Chairman. This was followed by an insufferably long and boring prayer by the Reverend Z. Humphrey. My formal initiation to American politics began with an offering by Mr. David Cartter, chairman of the Ohio Delegation—the same group that raised such a fuss on our train ride. Cartter began: “I move an amendment. I move to amend the proposition of the gentleman from Oregon or New York, I am not sure which [much laughter] Mr. Horace Greeley, that instead of each delegation presenting their credentials here, they present them to the Committee on Credentials.” Mr. Greeley responded by saying, “I accept the amendment of the gentleman from Maryland or Rhode Island, I am not particular which [laughter and applause].”

  Wilmont then called for a vote on Greeley’s original resolution. Just then, a grizzled, homespun delegate named John Johns, a preacher from Iowa, rushed to the podium and proclaimed, “I have walked one hundred and fifty miles to ride a Chicago-bound train and I will be sent to damnation before I see anything proposed by Mr. Horace Greeley pass before this honoured body.”

  Someone else raised a fist and shouted, “Sit down, you old fool, Greeley has been amended.” Preacher Johns responded he’d do nothing of the kind and leaped into the crowd at his tormentor.

  The two were engaged in fisticuffs and in the process of being separated when someone grabbed the preacher’s hair from behind and pulled off an unsuspecting wig. Howls of laughter filled the Wigwam as Temporary Chairman Wilmont beat his gavel for order.

  When order was finally restored, a member of the Chicago Board of Trade stood and invited all delegates and guests to a boat ride on Lake Michigan at five o’clock. Sounds of approval and agreement were issued around the Wigwam. Mr. Cartter cried foul. “I came here to work, and am not going on the Lake, nor is any delegate who came here to work.” This, of course was greeted with a chorus of booing. Someone from the Kentucky group stood and introduced a formal resolution that the boat ride offer be accepted, and this set off a deafening roar of approbation. Cartter then demanded that a platform committee be chosen at once and chided the crowd saying that the boat ride only represented a frittering away of time.

  Ten speeches later, a compromise was reached whereby a committee was finally appointed. Unfortunately for Mr. Cartter, their job had nothing to do with platforms but was formed only to issue a formal apology to the Board of Trade and to notify them that the Conventioneers would be pleased to accept their offer on another day. Being exhausted after this grueling exercise, the Convention as a whole voted to break for a three and a half hour lunch.

  At exactly 5:15 p.m., forty-five minutes after the extended lunch period had ended, Temporary Chairman Wilmont called the Convention back to order. The first business was a message from the Chairman of the Board of Trade. He solemnly reported that before the committee could reach them, his group had assembled what else but, “a perfect fleet of boats which stood at the ready.” He added that if the Conventions affairs were that pressing, “they could conduct business on the decks of the vessels, if they desired.” This triggered a violent debate where one side argued that the City of Chicago would be terribly insulted if the offer were not accepted and the other damning the City’s feelings in favor of electing the “next President of the United States.”

  Wilmont lost control again, and then came a riot of calamitous noise and confusion. Several men pulled pistols and knives from their jackets as individual fistfights erupted in the unruly crowd. The moment was saved when the Hon. George Ashmun of Massachusetts was brought to the podium, was unaccountably declared the Permanent Chairman of the Convention, and was given an oak and silver gavel said to have been made from part of Commodore Perry’s flag ship, Lawrence. Ashmun’s presence, (or perhaps it was the gavel) gained the attention of the crowd and quieted it enough to be dismissed shortly thereafter. Thus ended the first day of the Republican National Convention. It would seem that absolutely nothing of consequence took place—that is if one was to discount the fisticuffs and threats of more imperative forms of violence.

  But, hello, now I learn that the civic day was, in fact, far from over and one must look beyond the doings in the mighty Wigwam and into the crusty, dark night to appreciate fully the nuances of the American pol
itical system. It was into this night and the meretricious bars and restaurants of the city that the interested observer must repair in order to get a true feel for the complicated workings of the nomination process, for it is there that all the real work is done. They have a term for these efforts here. It is called “wire pulling.”

  Steinhaeuser and I left the convention center with the others and made the rounds of different establishments which are associated with the many candidates. Mr. Seward’s people are centered in the lobby of Richmond House, and from there issues his splendidly uniformed brass booster band, free food, and many pretty girls with silk campaign ribbons pinned to their ample bosoms. Supporters of the wealthy and unprincipled Mr. Cameron have taken over two dozen of the city’s whiskey houses, where the drinks, thanks to the candidate, are a mere fraction of their usual price, or absolutely free. Cameron’s taverns have also been stocked for the occasion with ladies of dubious repute.

  The simple-minded N. P. Banks has foolishly relied on temperance-themed street corner booths where nothing more than political tracts were handed to passersby. We agreed that the poor devil doesn’t stand a chance.

  A carnival atmosphere filled the streets. Surely the friends of “Old Abe” Lincoln had spread the word that if the people of Illinois wanted to see their man nominated, they should be on hand in great numbers and voice to insure the event. As this was his home state, one might expect a large representation, but their actual presence seemed beyond anything possible, and they made quite a racket. One supporter claimed he “could haller clear across Lake Michigan.” Lincoln posters bearing his image are affixed to every wall, window, door and horse. Lincoln banners are stretched across streets and the sides of barns. And Lincoln “callers” roam the city, heralding his merits and even carrying lengths of boards to symbolize support for the “Old Rail Splitter.”

  While wandering about town this evening, Steinhaeuser stopped before one of the campaign headquarters and stared up at a large printed bunting over a door. It read, VOTE FOR THURLOW WEED, A TRUE AMERICAN. “Dick,” he said, “I believe I know this fellow.” I was about to launch into a retelling of events on the train but he interrupted saying, “No, look here, I’m serious, Burton. I know this man from somewhere.” He flashed a smile and before I could begin again, the irrepressible Steinhaeuser rushed through the door and disappeared into the crowd.

  As it turned out, Thurlow Weed was actually Mr. Seward’s campaign manager, but Lord Thurlow’s lackeys had made a show with this street nomination in order to gain favour with the great man and afford him the opportunity of graciously declining his party’s call in favor of Seward.

  This headquarters was clearly nothing more than a play to Weed’s ego and a place where largesse may be distributed and deals done. The lean and white-haired Lord Thurlow had gained this appellation, and apparently a great deal of money, though a corrupt engineering of six street-railway bills in New York City. Mr. Proctor of Kansas said Weed reminded him of Byron’s Corsair—“the mildest mannered man that ever scuttled a ship or cut a throat, politically, of course.” The inside of Weed’s dominion was better appointed than any of the other candidates. The girls were prettier, the food and cigars better, and, dangerously, the drinks flowed freer here than any place in town. Weed himself was present at this time and engaged in political banter with a score of well dressed men in the back of the room.

  John was met at the door and at once fell prey to bottle after bottle of the liquor elite which were being liberally poured by the engaging hostesses. Their job was to identify the important visitors and soften any potential hostility with glasses of champagne. After an appropriate time, the visitor was to be brought to Lord Thurlow for a persuasive audience. The stage was set for some ugliness, but I imagined that John would quickly be relegated to obscurity by his accent and a failure to recognize his name as belonging to a person of political merit. I myself was approached by a young lady and was plied with carbonated wine.

  While attempting to explain the difference between being a soldier of the Queen and working for John’s Company, I kept an eye on Steinhaeuser and noticed he was getting on quite well with his hostess. Disturbingly well, for the entire Champagne bottle had passed from her hands to his. He was motioning for a second as the hostess brought her hand to her mouth to conceal a smile. “Why I didn’t know you knew Mr. Weed, Doctor.” I heard her say. “I’m sure he will be most happy to see you again, and I will arrange for this as soon as he breaks with Mr. Clay.”

  Oh God, by that time Steinhaeuser would be drunk again—especially with Champagne involved—and now face-to-face with Thurlow Weed. I feared the worst and attempted to get at John before something awful happened. Unfortunately, I was unable to rid myself of someone from the state of Kentucky who wished to impart his theory on the true source of the River Nile.

  Contrary to my initial belief, it was Steinhaeuser’s accent which eventually helped with his introduction. After hearing him speak and wrongly learning that the two were friends, the hostess must have assumed that Steinhaeuser was Delegate-at-Large Gustavus Koerner, an influential German/American member of the original Lincoln men. Before I could do anything about it, Steinhaeuser was being escorted towards the back of the room, where Weed was holding court. When I finally reached the scene, the following interaction was taking place.

  “Why, I beg your pardon, sir, but you are not Mr. Koerner. The girls must have made some terrible mistake.” Weed was very polite but almost jocular in tone, implying perhaps that a man as tipsy as Steinhaeuser could not possibly be a part of Lincoln’s inner circle.

  Steinhaeuser stiffened and looked Lord Thurlow in the eye. “And I, sir, do not believe that you are Thurlow Weed. Why … I have never seen you before in my life.”

  The two men stood apart and gazed at each other in disbelief. This went on for a long minute and I saw that Steinhaeuser was looking a bit woozy and beginning to turn pale. Suddenly, a great burst of vomit projected from his mouth and in an instant, the great power broker Weed was covered in bubbling sick. Steinhaeuser then dropped to his knees and let go another heroic volley that covered the tops of Boss Weed’s shoes and spats and splattered across the floor.

  A half dozen lackeys rushed to their mentor and began dabbing at his person with their handkerchiefs, and the enraged and temporarily blinded Weed began waving his arms in an attempt to push them away. His mouth was open as he staggered forward and within a step or two promptly tripped over Steinhaeuser, landing arse over tea cup in a pool of processed Champagne and Mrs. Munson’s evening supper.

  On our way back to Mrs. Munson’s bedroom, John was sober and penitent. “It was the champagne, Dick, believe me, the champagne. I must be sure never to drink that stuff again, and not so quickly. It’s no good, Burton, remember that. You see, the carbonation interacts with stomach contents in a way that often produces,” he rolled his hands in front of him and frowned, “unpredictable results. But remember the Great Salt Lake, Dick, and all those Indians. That is what we’re really here for. What happened tonight was nothing more than a bothering trifle along the way.” He sent a playful punch across my arm and said, “Getting The Captain up on deck is what it’s all about, right, Dick? Right, Dickey lad?”

  Next Day

  May 17, 1860

  The Wigwam opened its doors at promptly 10 a.m. Rumour has it that several delegates will be missing from today’s action due to a police raid on a brothel sometime last evening. Apparently, Chicago Mayor Long John Wentworth targeted a group of Lincolnites to exact a measure of revenge for not being selected as a delegate at the Decatur Convention. They are languishing in the Bridewell while their female companions were allowed out on modest bail. Opening day at the Wigwam produced at least one lesson that was quickly adapted by the masses. They soon discovered that all the chairs in the place were located in the balcony and that these were reserved for ladies and their gentlemen escorts. So when a ticket-holding gentleman found that he could not secure a seat without the ass
istance of a young lady, a booming escort business sprung up outside the front of the Wigwam. From the looks of the women offering their services, one might guess that they arrived directly after servicing the Lincolnites the night before.

  This was a day of somewhat reserved American-style politicking, as the activities of the night before seemed to take their toll. There was noticeable absenteeism and the nursing of hangovers on the part of those still able to attend. Some platform business was attended to but the absolute highlight of the day was a performance by the Chicago Zouave Cadets. More importantly, it was decided to adjourn the Convention early so everyone could enjoy the much debated boat ride.

  Despite the lackluster spirit that was exhibited today, one could not help but sense that this was merely the calm before a great storm. The general consensus is that “Old Irrepressible,” William H. Seward will be the runaway choice of the Republicans. His name seemed to be on everyone’s lips as we made the social rounds. As might be expected, we made it a point to avoid the places where Boss Weed might frequent, and this brought us to the camp of the Rail Splitter. Inside of the building were numerous hangers-on, newspaper reporters, and campaign planners all in a riot of activity. The Tribune was pro-Lincoln and their journalists were all about, busily crafting stories with the help of Old Abe’s assistants. A dark horse, eleventh hour rally was on everyone’s mind.