The
KENNEDY
MEN
1901-1963
The Laws of the Father
LAURENCE LEAMER
TO MY FATHER
LAURENCE E. LEAMER
AND
IN MEMORY OF MY FRIEND
DR. STEPHEN A. COLE (1940-2000)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Book One
1 A True Man
2 Gentlemen and Cads
3 Manly Pursuits
4 “Two Young ‘Micks’ Who Need Discipline”
5 Moving On
6 “Most Likely to Succeed”
7 The Harvard Game
8 Mr. Ambassador
9 “It’s the End of the World, the End of Everything”
10 Child of Fortune, Child of Fate
11 A Brothers’ War
Book Two
12 A New Generation Offers a Leader
13 A Kind of Peace
14 The Grease of Politics
15 The Golden Fleece
16 Aristocratic Instincts
17 The Pursuit of Power
18 The Rites of Ambition
19 “A Sin Against God”
20 A Patriot’s Song
Book Three
21 The Torch Has Been Passed
22 The Road to Girón Beach
23 A Gold Winter
24 Bobby’s Game
25 Lives in Full Summer
26 Dangerous Games
27 “A Hell of a Burden to Garry”
28 “The Knot of War”
29 The Bells of Liberty
30 The Adrenaline of Action
31 To Live Is to Choose
32 Requiem for a President
Source Abbreviations
Notes
Bibliography
INDEX
Acknowlegments
About the Author
ALSO BY LAURENCE LEAMER
Copyright
About the Publisher
Book One
1
A True Man
Twelve-year-old Joseph Patrick Kennedy may have been dressed like a young gentleman, but he walked with the bold strut of an Irish tough full of the lore of the streets. As he hurried down Webster Street, his blue eyes exuded a hungry intensity for whatever life might offer. He was taller than most boys his age and had reddish hair and an abruptness to his features that left him just short of handsome. His strong, willful face had already lost whatever boyish innocence it once held.
Joe had been brought up on the island enclave of East Boston and knew the streets and byways with perfect acumen. Today, for the first time, he would be traveling without his family to the proud city across the bay. He would be passing through streets full of uncertainty, confronting strange new people. It was a prospect that would have filled many youths with apprehension, but nothing in Joe’s demeanor suggested that he was worried about the adventure.
Joe’s mother, Mary Augusta Hickey Kennedy, had arranged for her only son to deliver hats from a prestigious shop to the great ladies of Boston. Before Joe set off on his delivery in the summer in 1901, Mary Augusta looked at her son with what the family called “Hickey eyes.” They were piercing, dismissive eyes that with a mere glance could stop a vulgarity in midsentence or send a supplicant reeling backward in shame. Joe’s mother admonished him to behave impeccably and to refer to himself as the proper “Joseph,” not the vulgar “Joe.”
Joe rushed off down the street from the Kennedys’ two-story home located in the best residential area. From up here on the highest elevation on the island, Joe could look down far below where passenger ships glided into the harbor packed with immigrants. Driven from their land by the great potato famine, between 1846 and 1849 nearly one hundred thousand Irish immigrants had arrived on Boston’s pristine shores. Among them were Joe’s grandparents. Patrick Kennedy had disembarked in 1849 on these very streets, where he and his bride, Bridget Murphy, set up residence in a tiny apartment.
After only nine years in East Boston, Joe’s grandfather died. He left his thirty-seven-year-old widow with four children under the age of eight and an estate of seventy-five dollars. Bridget worked first as a servant but eventually found a job in a small variety store only a few blocks from where Joe now walked. In what was a difficult accomplishment for an immigrant widow, Bridget managed to buy the store.
Joe found his way to the hat shop and stepped up into the horse-driven wagon. As the driver guided the horse through the streets, the air was full of the stench of horse manure, the foul odor of rendering plants, the fumes of the steamers, the acrid malodor of the New England Pottery Company, and the smells of the Atlantic Steel Works.
The carriage rolled toward the mainland ferry, passing numerous taverns, dark havens that marked their presence by small signs. If Joe’s father, Patrick Joseph “P. J.” Kennedy, had set a symbol of his success on his mantelpiece, it would have been a humble glass of beer. As a youth, P. J. worked a short while as a stevedore. Then P. J.’s mother had grubstaked her only son to open a pub. As for her daughters, Bridget followed the pattern of her people and her time. She sent one daughter off to work in the jute mills and settled for another to become a shirtmaker, while she did everything for her son.
P. J. drank only enough so that he would not appear a parsimonious sort, his shot glass filled not with whiskey but with beer. In P. J.’s tavern, as in most others in East Boston, the talk was usually of politics. P. J. carefully built his clientele, expanded into the wholesale liquor business, and entered politics as a state legislator. Favors were the mortar of P. J.’s career, and he built his career one brick at a time.
By the time Joe was born, P. J. was the Democratic ward boss for East Boston, one of the most powerful political figures in the city. With his husky figure and handlebar mustache, P. J. appeared the perfect rendering of an Irish-American politician. Every evening the petitioners arrived at the house on Webster Street, bewildered new arrivals clutching legal notices, unemployed workers looking for a city job, and widows about to be evicted.
As the carriage turned onto Meridian Square and the ferry landing, it passed the Columbia Trust Company, an imposing four-story brick and iron building. Joe’s father was a founder of this new bank, one of the many businesses in which he was involved. The East Boston Argus-Advocate, in a rare moment of candor, described P. J. as “slick as grease.” Slick as grease he was, and slick as grease he had to be to climb out of the prison of poverty and accumulate a fortune, all without ever moving from East Boston.
When a husband died, P. J. was there with his condolences, but he was also there to buy the widow’s house at a good price. He and his business associates bought extensive real estate and other businesses in East Boston, usually keeping their interest quiet. P. J. used his political power as a lever to push him into all kinds of deals, including a major position in the liquor wholesale business, an industry that he helped oversee in the state legislature.
No matter how well off he became, P. J. never flaunted his wealth. Though he sailed a yacht in the harbor in the summer and wintered in Florida, he still rode the trolley and tipped his hat to the ladies.
P. J. was a shrewd, practical man who endowed his son with his own deep insight into all the machinations of human beings. He was a man, however, who had none of his wife’s overweening ambition, a man who saw East Boston as world enough for himself and for his son.
Everywhere Joe cast his eyes, he spied new arrivals from the ports of Europe and heard the rancorous clamor of peddlers. The horse-drawn wagon brushed past Russian and other Eastern European Jews selling goods from pushcarts and gesticulating Italians hawking sausages and vegetables where thirt
y years before Irish widows had begged passersby for a coin or two. These new immigrants, especially the Jews, were an exotic, threatening element to Irish-Americans. They were pouring into East Boston, crammed into triple-decker houses and tenements. There would soon be enough of them to become the largest Jewish community in New England, and by the time they founded their synagogues and opened kosher markets, the second-generation Irish-Americans were pulling out. Joe’s father could have left too, but this was his political bailiwick, and he was not giving it up to these new arrivals.
The carriage waited in line before moving onto the ferry that sailed between East Boston and Boston proper on the mainland. The pedestrians hurried onto the boat, paying their one-penny fares and passing through the turnstile to share the ride with a polyglot cross section of Irish, Italians, Jews, businessmen, shrouded widows, and youths. Teamsters quieted their teams of horses while peddlers shoved their pushcarts aboard.
The ferry, like the island community itself, was an inelegant, practical affair, a low-bottomed vessel with a long smokestack set amidships, belching a spume of black smoke into the air. As the ferry approached Battery Wharf, Joe saw the commerce of Boston in all its diversity. Joe’s immigrant grandfather Patrick had been a cooper, a barrel-maker. Wooden barrels full of foodstuffs and sundry items rested everywhere along the wharves, sitting on horse-drawn wagons or standing dockside waiting to be lifted onto the ships.
Joe’s wagon rolled off the ferry and moved slowly through the clogged streets of the North End. Here, where almost a century and a half ago Paul Revere had created his elegant silver pieces, immigrants sat in sweatshops sewing pants and shirts, often for more hours than the day had light. The North End was a foul, fetid area where more than twenty-five different nationalities lived in uneasy proximity. Over twenty-five thousand people were jammed together there as tightly as in any city in the world except Calcutta.
As much as Joe’s mother might have wanted him to discard much that marked him as Irish-American, that heritage was his free pass through these dangerous streets. The Irish were diminishing in numbers, but they still controlled the waterfront, and at night, if an Italian or a Jew dared trespass in these precincts, he might leave with a broken nose or a bleeding face. The ethnic groups struggled against each other, the Irish against the Jews, the Jews against the Italians, the Italians against the Greeks. Stick to your kind. That was the basic axiom of life.
Beyond these sad streets lay the commercial areas of downtown Boston. These stores drew their clientele from all over the city. Highborn ladies in expensive finery stepped gingerly through the crowded streets. Chattering shop girls hurried back from their break. Workingmen with wages in their pocket shopped for Sunday suits, and unemployed men wandered aimlessly along.
The wagon moved up these teeming roads, finally coming upon an open space that exploded with light and the appearance of freedom. Here lay Boston Common and the Boston Public Garden. The Common, founded in 1634, is a massive version of the public parks found in towns across New England, emblematic of the democratic ideals of the region. The gallows once stood on the Common, and until 1830 Bostonians reserved the right to graze their cattle there. The formal, elegant Public Garden, founded in 1839, fit in with the aristocratic ideals of nineteenth-century Boston and the Protestant elite that controlled it. Along the pathways even the weeping willows and beeches seemed as properly garbed as the Bostonians who strolled past the swan boats.
The elite walked sedately among the flowerbeds and statuary, but there was another world as well, a boy’s world full of danger. Outsiders like Joe knew that they had to be wary. In winter, Boston Common became a field of battle. The Irish boys made their way up from the North End to take on the highborn Protestant boys in epic snowball fights. The Irish toughs were a dark and terrible legend, merciless in their attacks against the young blue bloods who asserted their own young manhood and held their ground against assaults on their turf.
Joe was not much of a fighter himself, and he had not come here today to confront any of the boys who lived near Boston Common. His carriage moved on toward the townhouses and mansions spread along Commonwealth Avenue in the new Back Bay area and along Beacon Street. It was a world so different from the one below that it was as if life itself should have a different name here. So in a way it did. Here on these broad avenues the Protestant elite ruled over the space and grandeur of the city, over its elegance and art, and applied fine-sounding old English names to their streets and apartments. Clarendon. Exeter. Somerset. The names resonated like fine old crystal.
When a servant answered the door, Joe politely stated his business and waited for the lady of the house to come to the door to try on her new hat. The elite ladies believed that they had nostrils of such refinement that they could catch the scent of an Irishman before they even saw him. They had as their guides not only their own servants but also half a century of magazine caricatures by Thomas Nast and others portraying Irish-Americans as quasiapes, as looming, salivating simian wretches.
Joe’s face at first glance showed nothing of what the ladies considered the crude excess of an Irishman’s features. The matrons could try on their hats with the pleasing knowledge that their bonnets had been touched not by a rough Irish hand but by the fine fingers of a young man who could have been their own son.
These ladies were “New England Brahmins,” a term coined by one of their kind, Oliver Wendell Holmes. The hereditary aristocracy of the region fancied itself much like the Hindu religious caste: a natural elite, sanctified by an all-knowing God and a just social order. The Brahmin was, as Holmes wrote, “simply an Americanized Englishman. As the Englishman is the physical bully of the world, so the Bostonian is the aesthetic and intellectual bully of America.” Bullies they were, protecting their sacred precincts from loathsome pretenders who dared to dress themselves in the language and lingo that was not theirs, attempting to pass as one of their betters. The Brahmins had an almost perfect self-confidence. Nothing, no momentary fall in their economic well-being, no peasant races disembarking on their land, could move them off their high ground.
The Boston upper class was largely without irony and had a blessed ability to forget what should best be forgotten. They tended not to focus on a past in which many of their ancestors had made fortunes in a three-sided trade that had slaves as one of its sides, or a present in which their coffers were enriched by the cheap labor of the immigrants they largely despised. They were proud that at their Somerset Club on Beacon Street no member would think of engaging in the disgusting practice of doing business in their social bastion, blissfully forgetting that they were such a close-knit elite that they could easily do their dealing elsewhere.
These were a people of restraint who at times mistook manners for morals. The flowering of a distinctive, dominant New England literature and culture was largely over. The blossoms had fallen, leaving the thorns of reaction and regression in a people who had turned from history to genealogy, from literature to antiquarianism. The Brahmins were facing the melancholy mathematics of democracy: one foul Irish immigrant vote was worth as much as that of the most refined Brahmin gentleman. The Irish politicians would soon have the votes to take over the Brahmins’ city, and there was little the Protestant elite could do to prevent it.
The Protestant upper class, however, did not simply slink into the night, carrying away the burden of their culture and their past. They were astute businessmen. They sat atop vast wealth that they continued to amass, dominating the economic life of New England. In their leisure hours they asserted themselves where a man’s vote did not matter, over the cultural and philanthropic life of the city.
As diminished as this world might soon be, it was still the summit toward which Mary Augusta pointed her son. Joe went from one imposing home to the next, learning the lesson of this exercise: these Brahmins were a royalty to whose company he could dare aspire. There was nothing about him—not his name, not his features, not his manner—that marked him as someone
apart from these rich ladies and their elegant homes. Nothing seemed to prevent him from living the life they led.
When Joe arrived back in the house in East Boston, he was in his mother’s universe. Mary Augusta was the monarch with absolute sovereignty over her small kingdom. She was five feet seven inches tall, towering above most of the women of her era, with a posture so straight that it seemed to add even more inches to her height. Mary Augusta was her own greatest creation, having reinvented herself as an aristocratic lady. No one who saw her walking to church with stately grace would ever imagine that her father had been a laborer. Even when she was a young woman and her father had risen to the point where he listed his occupation as engineer, the Hickeys were still not well off enough to live in anything but a rented house.
Mary Augusta was twenty-nine years old in 1887, approaching spinsterhood, when she spied P. J. walking past her kitchen window and set her cap for him. She became a splendid wife, no less so because she was so aware of her virtues. A woman of deep faith, she had been educated by the nuns for her role as wife and mother.
Mary Augusta loved her two daughters, Mary Loretta and Margaret Louise, but Joe was the measure of all things. Joe, not his younger sisters, would go out into the world. Mary Augusta taught Joe that there was no horizon on which he could not set his eyes. His sisters could be coddled and spoiled, for if they married well and properly, they might spend their lifetimes coddled and spoiled. As for Joe, his mother did not so much give him love as the promise of love. She spooned out her affection to Joe like a tonic that had to be taken in only the smallest of doses.
Mary Augusta was so concerned with the impression Joe would make on the world that when he was born on September 6, 1888, she insisted that he be named Joseph Patrick, not Patrick, after his father and his grandfather. Patrick was the most common Irish name, and she would not have her only surviving son forever marked by his immigrant forebears. Mary Augusta was trying to bring Joe up as her little Catholic gentleman, all frills and fanciness, but her son had never fully gone along. For his first formal photographs, she had Joe photographed in a long dress with a bow around his neck. Even then Joe stared out at the camera with firm unyielding eyes and a clenched fist.
The Kennedy Men Page 1
