by T. J. Stiles
VANDERBILT MADE A HABIT of facing eternity. Even after marrying the pious Frank, he occasionally tried to speak to the dead. Mary E. Bennett, a friend of the Commodore's, would recall how he took her to a séance in the fall of 1874. They sat at a table, two raps sounded, and the medium intoned, “This is for you, Commodore. It is from your wife.”
“Business before pleasure,” Vanderbilt said. “I want a communication from Jim Fisk. Give me some paper.” He wrote a question for Fisk's ghost.
“Jim Fisk is here,” the medium said. Vanderbilt asked a question aloud about the stock market, and the medium gave an answer.
“That can't be so,” Vanderbilt said, “but I will watch and see if you are right or I am.” At that, Bennett recalled, he began to joke with Fisk, “and asked him how he liked it on the other side. Fisk said he liked it pretty well, and told the Commodore he would find out soon enough, for he was pretty near the end of his line.” Then Vanderbilt contacted Sophia and asked her for advice about Corneil.106
Bennett's account reveals Vanderbilt's ongoing interest in the world beyond—specifically his need to stay in contact with those who had died before him—and his continuing faith in his own sagacity even in the face of the supernatural. The Commodore found the sessions with the dead comforting, but he kept his own counsel.
As for his most famous intermediaries with the spirit world, Victoria Woodhull and Tennie C. Claflin, he had turned against them years before. For a time after Vanderbilt's second wedding, it was rumored that John Morrissey relayed his messages to the sisters. But their notoriety grew, and with it the Commodore's disenchantment. One by one, their brokerage customers—most of them women who wanted to patronize a female-run firm—began to sue as the sisters' extravagant promises fell through. Whether they invested any money on the stock market at all was an open question. They and Col. Blood spent most of their time on Woodhull & Claflin's Weekly, “devoted to the interests of free love and the ‘pantarchy’ whatever that may mean,” the Times wrote. They became embroiled in lawsuits with their mother, herself a shady character, and were evicted from their fine townhouse on East Thirty-eighth Street. Woodhull briefly became a leading figure in the women's rights movement, and offered herself as a candidate for president in 1872. She and her sister were also indicted for sending obscene material through the mail that year, the fastidious federal authorities judging their radical weekly to fit the definition. Finally they launched a vicious attack on Vanderbilt in lectures and their newspaper, for he had spurned them. Called to testify on January 4, 1875, in yet another lawsuit against them by a duped investor, he said, “I have not had business relations with them as bankers or brokers. I do not recollect of any authority given by me to them to use my name in their business.” By then, his connection with them had become a distant memory.107
Decay and death continued to claim Vanderbilt's friends. In March 1876, Daniel Drew went bankrupt. He had been battered repeatedly in stock market battles with Jay Gould, and never recovered from the Northwestern corner in 1872. His failure, one newspaper reported, “causes no special disturbance, as it would have done a few years ago.… The whole story of ‘Uncle Daniel's’ disasters is summed up in three words—he was tricky.” Railroad Gazette remarked that Drew “has been a great railroad man in his way, which way has been almost entirely that of a speculator in railroad securities.” This judgment was not entirely fair. Drew had been a great steamboat entrepreneur, and had helped start the Canada Southern, though that railroad proved to be a disaster for him, perhaps even the final blow. The real victims of his failure were his charities, especially Drew Seminary. He had endowed them with promissory notes which he could not pay. Vanderbilt said he was “sorry for Daniel Drew, whom he always advised to stop speculating and turn pious in real earnest.”108
A reporter called on Drew, seeking his reflections on his rise and fall. “I had been wonderfully blessed in money-making; got to be a millionaire afore I know'd it hardly,” he said. “I was always pretty lucky till lately, and didn't think I could ever lose very extensively. I was ambitious to make a great fortune like Vanderbilt, and tried every way I knew, but got caught at last. Besides that I liked the excitement of making money and giving it away.” He should have quit Wall Street long ago, he mused, when he was worth $8-$10 million. “One of the hardest things I've ever had to bear has been the fact that I couldn't continue to pay the interest on the notes I gave to the schools and churches. And then my children ought to have been left with large fortunes, as they had a right to expect. The thought of these things at first came near killing me or driving me crazy, but I have got over the worst feelings now.”
The reporter asked Drew who he thought were the richest men in New York. Alexander T. Stewart, he guessed, was worth $40 million, “but Vanderbilt was surely worth a hundred millions of money if he owned a dollar.”109 Stewart did not hold that fortune for much longer. He died on April 10. Three days after, the city saluted the department-store magnate with “an immense funeral,” as the New York Herald described it, attended by the rich and powerful, including William H. Vanderbilt. The Commodore did not go to his friend's service. He was sick in bed himself.110
On April 14, Frank sent word to Dr. Linsly asking him to come see the Commodore. Linsly found his patient in great distress. Vanderbilt's autopsy would show that he had an enlarged prostate—common in older men—which led in turn to cystitis, or an infection of the bladder, which was not draining properly. This condition was painful enough, but Vanderbilt also had terrible bowel disorders. He had anal stenosis, a constriction often caused by scar tissue—in his case, the result of surgery he had had decades earlier for hemorrhoids. In particular, he appears to have suffered from diverticulitis, another ailment that commonly afflicts the elderly, in which a pouch (diverticulum) forms in the lining of the colon and becomes infected and inflamed.111
Internal abdominal pain may well be the most unbearable of all. Vanderbilt loathed opiates, the only effective pain medication available. Even when he took them, they increased the constipation from his stenosis, which forced his waste into the infected pouch in his colon. The press reported, “His physical condition is rapidly going to pieces.”
Unfortunately, Dr. Linsly was thrown from his carriage in a severe accident on April 15, and would remain bedridden for several weeks. Vanderbilt demanded an “electrical physician,” William J. Bennett, who found the Commodore “howling like a wild beast with pain, so that he could be heard all over the house, calling upon God to relieve his sufferings and asking why the Lord persecuted him so much.”112 Vanderbilt's world had narrowed to the perimeter of his bed—to the surface of his skin—and it was aflame, with no hope of dousing the fire. He screamed; he exploded at those around him; he felt helpless after a lifetime in command.
Dr. William Bodenhamer would later talk about his treatment of Vanderbilt during the month when Linsly was bedridden. He spoke at length about Vanderbilt's faith in Spiritualism and his short-tempered explosions. He said that he explained to Vanderbilt that his enlarged prostate was likely the result of gonorrhea or “excessive venery”—too much sex. As for Vanderbilt's mental state, “I do not know that I ever did know a more clear-headed man under such suffering,” Bodenhamer declared. “I never saw him when his mind was not clear. In my opinion, he was at all times capable of transacting any business he was accustomed to.”113
Knowing the public impact of his illness, Vanderbilt pulled himself together to see a reporter in early May. He sat up in his sickbed and explained that he was recovering, though still weak, and he knowledgeably discussed the ongoing rate war. He explained that the New York Central “is placed on the defensive by all the other trunk lines—one road demanding the right to reduce fares because it is a longer route, and the other roads demanding the same right because they are shorter routes.” The natural superiority of New York as a port, he said, gave the Central a critical advantage. All it had to do was defend itself. “‘In other words,’ said he, as he turned
to look through some letters just brought him, ‘since I have been a railroad man it has always been my practice to let my opponents make the rates, and I follow them so long as they do not put the rate so high as to be an imposition on the public’”114
A few days later, a reporter for the New York Herald called at 10 Washington Place. As a servant held the door open, the reporter saw Frank striding toward him when “the well known voice of the Commodore came rolling vigorously after her, saying, ‘Tell the gentleman from the Herald that even my slight local disorder is now almost entirely removed.… Even if I were dying I could knock all the truth that there is in the wretches who start these reports out of them, and that, as vigorous as I am at present, I would, were they within easy reach, knock all the lies for hereafter out of them.” Frank, now at the door, said “the Commodore's declaration was quite in accordance with her view of the case.”115
William often came to consult with his father, as did Worcester. On one occasion, Worcester found the Commodore stretched out on a kind of bed set up over a bathtub—presumably so he could sit in steam—smoking a cigar. Vanderbilt said that he wished to establish a home for disabled employees, and endow it with $500,000 of second-mortgage Lake Shore bonds. He wanted it to serve New York Central workers first, and later those of the Lake Shore as well. He ordered Worcester to draw up a plan but keep it from William until he was finished. Also, Worcester recalled, “the Commodore said he did not want the lazy to be assisted by the institution.”116
All the while, he suffered. At the end of May, Frank began to keep a diary, a grim record of his agony, his bowel movements (or lack of them), his fevers, his explosions, his despair, his love for her. “Regrets so any hard expressions he uses during the painful paroxysms,” she wrote on June 4. “Com. strained all day. Had a natural passage from the bowels in the night,” she wrote on June 17. “So tempted to temper & hard words. Dr. says disease makes him so,” she wrote on June 26. On days when he was feeling better, he laughed and joked and teased his nurse and doctors mercilessly117
Often he received visits from his sister Phebe, who was close to the Crawfords. Speaking of Frank, he told her, “She has been so good to me, so true, so pure. I know she will never do dishonor to your name, Phebe. Say to my family too no matter how they do, they will always find her a Lady.… She may be like other women, but I have never detected any selfishness in her.” This combination of honest affection, keen searching of character, and harsh characterization (“like other women”) was vintage Vanderbilt. As he told Frank after a particularly bad night, “Tho' my manner had been rough to you, there was always love beneath my rough exterior to protect you from all harm.” His capacity for love did not contradict his famously domineering nature; it simply made him more complex. Frank wrote,
He never lost the habit of controlg others. Lizzie his nurse was disposed to argue for what she thought would make him comfortable. He would say, “Quick quick Lizzie not a word but do the work.” Asked for his spectacles & put them on with great deliberation & took Dr. Eliot's hand & examined his nails, ran his fingers over them very closely & carefully to see if they could possibly hurt him. His flesh was so sensitive. Dr. had trimmed his nails fortunately118
Both sides of his personality came out when dealing with his daughters. One day Martha Crawford asked if Frank really had to speak to Sophia Torrance, who had snubbed Frank so often. Some in the family said she should, Crawford said. “Who said so?” Vanderbilt asked. “No. She [Sophia] misused [Frank] & let her make the first advances.” At his insistence, Sophia apologized and shook hands with Frank in his presence. On August 4, he spoke to Mary La Bau, who demanded that he redraw his will. “Now don't be stubborn & give trouble,” he said. “I have left you all enough to live like ladies.” Frank wrote, “When she began to argue that she was not stubborn, he merely waved his hand at her, as if he could not hear more.”119
He frequently received visitors, ranging from old steamboat captains to Thurlow Weed. He sent telegrams to Bishop McTyeire. He read and criticized Worcester's lengthy report on the home for railroad workers. He listened to Frank, her mother, and Phebe sing. On September 12, Frank wrote, “He sent to the sitting room for me, kissed me, & asked me when I was going to the Centennial.” The national centennial fair in Philadelphia was the great cultural event of the age. Vanderbilt said, “You ought to go one day at least, & come home at night.” It took weeks before she was willing to leave his side, even for so short a time. When she read him the news of Braxton Bragg's death, he snapped, “Yes, I know about that.” (Someone had told him earlier.) Frank wrote that he “remarked how well it [was] he had not taken him [Bragg] in his business as he once wished he had (that was when we were married). Head still so clear.” His memory was sharp, she noted; he often corrected others, saying, “I don't forget what I remember.”120
His condition rose and fell, his pain swelled and subsided. In August, he endured an unspecified operation. Frank could tell it was “awfully painful.… It was heart-rending to witness his agony.” The doctors felt certain that he would die in its aftermath, but he rallied. On September 27, she noted, “He agrees with Dr. Linsly ‘No cure.’ Com seems oppressed but I played the piano for him & he revived wonderfully”121
Vanderbilt faced eternity. “He has queer dreams occasionally,” Frank wrote. “He dreamed he had been away down to the bottom but was coming up again & that it took all the power of the steamer Vanderbilt to pull him out but she did.” On October 5, he discussed business with Amasa Stone for half an hour, then met with Worcester. Afterward he called Frank to his bedside. “This morning he was trying to express himself to me about his soul & salvation & said for the first time, ‘Why don't you talk to me?’” she wrote. “I did & afterwards read him some beautiful prayers & he would say amen & ‘How sweet’ & showed plainly he enjoyed & felt them.” He actually prayed to Jesus for salvation. “I asked, ‘Dear, is it because you love him or is it to be relieved of the pain?’ He replied, ‘To be candid—both.’” He turned to Linsly and said, “Dr., it may be selfish, but I would take Frank with me, if I could.” He even said farewell to Corneil. After many refusals, he allowed him in for a last chat. “Poor unfortunate boy,” he said. “You make good resolutions but are not able to keep them from here to Broadway”122
Almost every day during his long illness, the nation's leading newspapers published reports on Vanderbilt's condition, what he had eaten, how he had slept, what visitors said of his condition. This extraordinary attention underscored Vanderbilt's unique, self-made position in American society—the personification of the otherwise faceless corporations that increasingly overshadowed the land. But the death watch also prepared the public and the markets for his demise, assuring that there would be no collapse of his stock prices. Vanderbilt's long agony was his final gift to William.
On December 16, William attended a conference at the Windsor Hotel that ended the rate war on favorable terms. Two days later, he went to 10 Washington Place, along with Worcester and the auditor of the Lake Shore. The Commodore spoke to them at length about the proper relationship of the Canada Southern to his other railroads.123
By this time, Vanderbilt's diverticulitis had resulted in a perforated colon. Fecal matter squeezed out of the intestine. Peritonitis set in.
At 9:12 a.m. on January 4, 1877, William sent a telegram to Bishop McTyeire at Vanderbilt University “Father is very low. Be prepared for the worst.” At 11:41 a.m., he sent a second telegram. “Commodore passed away at nine minutes to eleven this morning.” At 9:55 p.m., he sent a third. “Father passed away at nine minutes of eleven o'clock this morning without a struggle, surrounded by his entire family,” he wrote. “Dr. Deems offered up prayers a few minutes before, all of which he perfectly understood and responded acquiescence by motions.… Mrs. V. is very much depressed & we all feel very sad. A great loss which we hardly realize.”124
EPILOGUE
They never learned his secrets. Starting on November 12, 1877, crowds of o
nlookers filled the seats in Surrogate Court, watching the lawyers of William H. Vanderbilt and Mary La Bau battle over the sanity of Cornelius Vanderbilt. The trial dragged on for week after week, month after month. The attorneys called as witnesses the great and the marginal, the convincing and the convicted, whose testimony was sometimes insightful, often salacious, and frequently misleading. The result was a bizarre, fragmented mosaic of true and false moments in the Commodore's life, lacking context, missing vast stretches of his activities or inner life. This image would harden in memory until it formed a kind of shield, blocking any deeper penetration of the man.1
The great will contest went on for two years, two months, and four days. At various points, Ethelinda Allen and Cornelius Jeremiah fought alongside their sister. In the end, William won, but he also doubled their shares of the estate. He gave Ethelinda Allen the interest on an additional $400,000 in U.S. bonds, for example, and added $200,000 to Corneil's trust fund. William retained control of their father's empire.2
William's words to McTyeire said everything about his father's death. Sons are notoriously prone to exaggerate the importance of their fathers, as are biographers with their subjects, yet few nineteenth-century businessmen equaled Vanderbilt in his impact on American history. A handful of rival candidates come to mind—-John Jacob Astor, John D. Rockefeller Sr., Andrew Carnegie, J. P. Morgan, perhaps Jay Gould and Thomas A. Scott—but arguably none proved to be so influential at so fundamental a level over a period so formative or so long. His accomplishments bear repeating. With his role in Gibbons v. Ogden, he helped to transform the Constitution by tearing down state-erected barriers to trade and shattering the remnants of the eighteenth-century culture of deference. Vanderbilt epitomized the commercial, individualistic society that emerged in the early nineteenth century, and contributed to the creation of a culture in which competition was a personal, economic, and political virtue. With his leading part in the transportation revolution, he helped to shape America's newly mobile society, and to foster long-distance trade and the early textile industry of New England. With the gold rush, Vanderbilt's impact on the geography of the United States grew even more marked. Since steamship travel via Central America was the primary channel of migration, commerce, and finance with the Pacific coast, his Nicaragua line and related ventures fed the growth of San Francisco and the state of California. He also sped the flow of high-powered money to Manhattan, feeding the boom of the 1850s. Indeed, all his enterprises contributed to the rise of New York as America's financial capital.
