Cleveland reappointed Smith, and it may have been a shrewd thing too, because Cleveland seemed to have very little interest in the routine duties of the sheriff. He delegated most of the day-to-day administration to the under-sheriff; meanwhile, he played. Weather permitting, he would go hunting or fishing with a buddy, usually Oscar Folsom, a young lawyer he came to feel as close to as a brother. If Folsom was busy, Cleveland rounded up Louis Goetz, owner of a Buffalo pub known as the Dutchman’s. Goetz’s saloon was located behind City Hall, at 194 Pearl Street, in the heart of the county office buildings and across the street from Democratic Party headquarters. The geography made the Dutchman’s a favorite hangout for Democrats.
Goetz served steak at the saloon, but the specialty of the house was bluefish when it was in season, sent directly from the Fulton Fish Market in New York City. Sometimes, after Cleveland and Goetz went fishing, they would return to the saloon, and Cleveland’s catch would be served for dinner.
Goetz worshipped the new sheriff and called him what sounded like “Grofer” in his German accent. He even hung a full-length portrait of Cleveland in the saloon, directly above the grill. During Cleveland’s tenure the Dutchman’s became a kind of annex of the Erie County Sheriff’s Office. In the back room, Cleveland’s cronies would gather for ale and song, and Cleveland himself, using a stein as a baton, would lead the chorus. In his rich baritone, he would begin, “There’s a hole . . .”
“There’s a hole,” the choir answered.
“There’s a hole,” sang Cleveland.
“There’s a hole,” responded the choir.
“There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea,” went Cleveland.
They could go on for hours like this. And the song would not end until everyone had emptied their steins.
The legal closing hour in Buffalo was 1:00 a.m., but rank had its privileges, and for Cleveland, Goetz’s would remain open until the wee hours. Soon, so would the other saloons where Sheriff Cleveland took his ale. He was playing cards at Blume’s saloon with Oscar Folsom and two other lawyers when the proprietor pointed to the clock. It was two in the morning.
“Now, boys,” Blume said, “take one more drink—on the house. I have got to close up, or the police’ll be after me.”
Cleveland, as the chief law enforcement officer in Erie County, had a good laugh over that one. Then he raised his mug and started singing—what else!—“There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea.” They had the next round on the house, and several more after that.
Sometimes, Louis Goetz failed to appreciate Cleveland’s brand of humor. One time, around midnight, Cleveland dropped by the Dutchman’s and found Goetz asleep. No one else was there. It was almost too good to be true. First, Cleveland set the clock ahead two full hours. Next, he found two Buffalo cops on patrol outside the saloon and asked them to play along. Then Cleveland returned to the Dutchman’s, woke Goetz up, and ordered a drink. A few minutes later, in walked the cops. Pointing to the clock, they informed Goetz that he was under arrest for illegally keeping his bar open past closing hours. Goetz turned to his friend.
“Grofer,” he said and pleaded with the sheriff to come to his rescue.
Cleveland shook his head. “Can’t do it, Louis. Look at the clock. The officers are doing their duty.”
Only when Goetz’s simmering temper came to a boil did Cleveland let him in on the practical joke.
The frat-boy atmosphere of the sheriff’s department took a solemn turn when Cleveland had to hang a man—Erie County’s first public execution of a prisoner in six years. The crime was matricide.
Patrick Morrissey was born in County Tipperary in Ireland. His parents took him to America, and they settled in Buffalo. As a youngster, Morrissey got into a few scrapes; and when he was eleven, he was sentenced to six months in the Western House of Refuge, the first prison in the United States built for juvenile delinquents. When he was fourteen, he ran away from home and signed on to a schooner as a roustabout. First he sailed the Great Lakes, and then the world—Brazil, Liverpool, the West Indies, Amsterdam, Sicily, St. Petersburg, and many other ports of call. Aboard the clipper George Peabody, he made a voyage that took 122 days—from New York to San Francisco, around Cape Horn—the sailors’ graveyard. In June 1872, back in Buffalo on one of his occasional visits home, he went to see his mother.
Patrick Morrissey was short, about five foot four, with wavy chestnut hair and light blue eyes. Ann Morrissey, fifty-five years old, ran a waterfront saloon and boardinghouse at No. 7 Pratt’s Dock, near the Erie Canal. She was a hard woman and a heavy drinker, with a “most savage and ungovernable temper.” Mrs. Morrissey was cutting cold meat with a sharp carving knife, preparing dinner for her boarders and saloon patrons, when her wayward son came in drunk. He demanded money from her. Harsh words were exchanged; she called him a bastard and ordered him to leave, threatening to send for the police if he did not get out immediately. Enraged, he threw her to the floor. “You had better kill your mother and be done with it,” she spat.
Morrissey wrestled the knife from his mother’s hand and plunged the seven-inch blade into her left breast. Five minutes later, she was dead. Her final word was “Oh!” as her son stabbed her.
Morrissey made no attempt to escape. When the police arrived, they found him slumped over in a chair. He never denied the killing, only that it was not premeditated. He told police he would “give the heart out of his body” if he could only bring his mother back to life.
Justice moved swiftly in those days. The trial was held three weeks later. Testimony lasted a single day. The verdict, rendered on July 10, 1872, was guilty. Sentencing was immediate. The judge told Morrissey he was to be “hanged by the neck until you are dead” on September 6. Morrissey’s lawyers appealed for a new trial on grounds that a member of the jury had fallen asleep during important testimony and that another juror was over the age of sixty. The appeal was denied, and when the governor of New York, John Hoffman, refused to grant a respite, Morrissey’s fate was sealed.
The Morrissey saga gripped the city. An immigrant son stabbing to death the mother who bore him—it had all the elements of a Greek tragedy, by way of Buffalo. The buildup to Morrissey’s date of execution was covered in every vivid detail. It was Grover Cleveland’s responsibility as sheriff of Erie County to carry out the hanging. He found it so detestable a responsibility he actually considered resigning. How he resolved his conflicted state said much about him as a man.
Grover journeyed to Holland Patent to talk things over with his mother, now sixty-six years old, and it felt good to be home. Ann Cleveland was still living in the parsonage of her late husband’s church. The bighearted parishioners had pulled together after Reverend Cleveland’s death in 1853 and told the widow that she could remain in the house indefinitely, rent free.
Grover never attended church in Buffalo, but he made an effort to accompany his mother to services whenever he stayed in Holland Patent. Mrs. Cleveland considered everything there was to know about the Patrick Morrissey case. As a good Christian, she told Grover, she could not countenance the execution of a man, even someone who had murdered his own mother. She advised her son to delegate the hanging to a subordinate. But this was one time when Grover had to disagree with his mother.
Even though the law gave Cleveland the authority to appoint a surrogate in his place as executioner, for a $10 fee, he returned to Buffalo determined to carry out his duty himself. He ordered the gallows to be constructed in the courtyard of the county jail, which took only an afternoon. On the night before the hanging, Morrissey read the Bible, prayed, and fell into a fitful sleep at one in the morning on September 6. He awakened four hours later and got dressed. At 9:00 a.m., onlookers started to gather for the hanging. Some parents brought their children. But a force of twenty-five police officers arrived and sent everyone home. To his credit, Cleveland had done everything he could to make sure the hanging did not degenerate into a public spectacle.
Morrissey’s three sisters and
a brother-in-law had pooled their funds to buy a beautiful black walnut coffin. It was delivered to the jail. Eerily, there was already a silver plate on the coffin’s lid with the following inscription:
Patrick Morrissey
Died Sept. 6, 1872
Aged 28 Years
That morning, Cleveland appeared grim, even despondent—“not his old self.” He looked as if he had not slept all night. For ten weeks, since Ann Morrissey’s murder, he had known this day was coming. A deputy, Richard Harris, pulled Cleveland aside and informed him that instead of breakfast that morning, he had drunk several glasses of brandy. Slurring his words, he said he was volunteering to take Cleveland’s place and send the condemned man to eternity. The task was something that he could perform without having it haunt him for the rest of his life, Harris said.
“That job’s up to me, Mr. Sheriff,” Harris insisted.
Cleveland, with a cluster of deputies surrounding him, listened, met Harris’s eyes, and shook his head: “No, I have to do it myself. I am the sheriff.”
At 11:43 a.m., Morrissey was taken from his cell and escorted down the corridor toward the yard. On his way, he bid farewell to the other prisoners; and when he reached the cell of John Gaffney, he stopped and begged the deputies to let him embrace his friend. They shared an exceptional connection; in just twenty-one days, Gaffney was to be hanged for shooting a gambler to death during a game of draw poker. It was Morrissey’s last request. Everyone looked at Undersheriff Smith for guidance. He silently nodded his consent. Gaffney’s cell door was opened, and he stepped out. The two condemned men embraced and sobbed, kissing as they held each other until they were pulled apart.
The execution was set for noon. At 11:57 a.m., Cleveland led Morrissey into the yard, where sixty witnesses, appointed by Cleveland, were waiting. The noose was already around the prisoner’s neck. A Catholic priest, Father Malloy, stood at Morrissey’s side and chanted the death service: “Even though I walk in the valley of death, I shall fear no evil . . .” Cleveland took his place at the foot of the gallows, his hand resting on the lever that would unbolt the trapdoor. When Morrissey was asked whether he had any last words, Father Malloy handed him a folded sheet of paper. Morrissey opened it and read.
“I have no words but these to say. I am about to die on this scaffold, and God above knows how guilty I am. I hope my sad end will be a warning to all young men and determine them to keep away from liquor, to abandon all evil associations, and attend to their religious duties.” It certainly sounded as if a priest had written it. Then Morrissey whispered, “I am ready to go now. Good-bye. God bless you all.”
A deputy pinioned Morrissey’s hands and feet. At 12:09 p.m., a black shroud was drawn over the prisoner’s eyes. One minute later, the signal was given. The future president of the United States pressed the lever, which pulled out the iron pin on which the trap rested. Morrissey fell through the trapdoor. His neck broke, and his body hung there, dangling in the breeze. He died without a struggle.
Some of the witnesses turned away from the ghastly sight; others looked on in morbid fascination. The gallows had been constructed, to Cleveland’s specifications, in such a way that the sheriff would not have to see the prisoner hanged. At 12:13 p.m., a doctor came forward and found no pulse on the prisoner. Morrissey was officially pronounced dead at 12:17 p.m. His body remained hanging for a total of twenty-five minutes. It was then cut down and placed in the coffin.
Cleveland found the entire experience “grievously distasteful,” and was in utter anguish. And the next execution was just three weeks away.
Fred and Cecil, the Cleveland brothers who had served with distinction in the Civil War, were now in the hotel business together. Fred owned Fairfield House, a summer resort in Connecticut. He, like Grover, was strong-willed. He had one policy at Fairfield House that was strictly enforced, no exceptions. Employees were forbidden from accepting tips. When Fred discovered that a waiter had pocketed a Christmas gift from an appreciative woman guest, he immediately had him fired.
“I will not have those in my house who are unable or unwilling to fee the servants put to any disadvantage,” Fred thundered. (Tips were called fees in those days.)
Only after the guest begged Fred to relent did he grudgingly take the waiter back—but only on the condition that he refund the money.
In 1872, Fred purchased from the British colonial government the lease for the Royal Victoria Hotel, the finest hotel in the Bahamas. During the Civil War, the Royal Victoria had been a haunt of Confederate spies and smugglers and had quite the reputation as a place for tropical bacchanals and skullduggery. The Blockade Runners’ Ball, a notorious party honoring smugglers, was once held there, and some 350 magnums of champagne were consumed. Now, in these days of peace, wealthy American tourists were sailing to the Bahamas and staying at the Royal Victoria Hotel for the winter. The hotel was said to be the most splendid ever to be built in the tropics, and Grover Cleveland’s brother was the new manager and leaseholder. Fred invited his brother Cecil to go with him and help him open the hotel for the season, and Cecil, who had been struggling to find his niche in business, jumped at the opportunity.
On their way to New York City to link up with the steamship that would take them to the Bahamas, Fred had an ominous premonition.
“I do not know how it is, but I have an impression that I cannot get rid of, that this will be my last voyage,” he said.
Accompanying the Cleveland brothers was a large contingent of staff they had hired to work at the Royal Victoria. On a Friday morning in October, everyone boarded the steamship Missouri—in all, ninety-eight passengers. Most were traveling to Havana, but others, like Fred and Cecil and their staff, were disembarking at Nassau in the Bahamas.
From day one, there were problems: Some boiler malfunction made the ship start and stop, slowing down the voyage; and the winds from the north were light before they picked up on the third day. There was a heavy sea. Four days out, on October 22, 1872, as Fred and Cecil and the other passengers were eating breakfast, the call “Fire!” rang out. Crewmen filled buckets with water and headed for the engine room. In those early moments, everything seemed under control.
“It is nothing but a box of matches, and all is out,” the chief steward assured the passengers.
But just as he said this, flames were seen bursting out of the engine room. Pandemonium followed. Everyone ran to the main deck, and the captain ordered all engines stopped and the lifeboats lowered. The conduct of the crew was disorganized and shamefully inept. The blaze spread across the ship, creating an impassable barrier of flames between bow and stern. The lifeboats were so carelessly lowered over the side one actually fell into the ocean, bottom up. As another lifeboat was lowered on the port side, passengers saw that only nine crewmen were occupying it; they said the boat “belonged to them.” Still another lifeboat, afloat under the command of the ship’s assistant engineer, John Freaney, immediately took on water and began to sink. Freaney rowed to a lifeboat commanded by crewman James Culmer and demanded that his passengers be transferred to Culmer’s more seaworthy vessel. Culmer refused, saying he had enough on board.
“Your boat could hold more,” Freaney called out. Culmer responded by throwing a bucket to Freaney and leaving him and his passengers to their fate. Everyone aboard started bailing. They had the bucket and four oars.
What followed was utter hell. In the lifeboat they were sitting in, water was waist deep, and there was nothing to eat or drink. It was like this for four unbearable days. A crewman died of thirst; two others, suffering from dehydration and hypothermia, went “crazy” and jumped overboard, never to be seen again. Another man, in a state of delirium, tossed the bailing bucket overboard. Now they were left with nothing but two hats to bail with. On the fifth day, they made a sail out of their life preservers. At last, on the eighth day, they sighted land: Abaco, the northernmost island in the Bahamas archipelago. In a state of exhaustion, they landed on the beach and came upon a spring of f
resh water and a deserted house. They discovered a few tomatoes that they boiled in a pot. This was their first taste of food since the Missouri had gone down. On the tenth day, they were about to give up and surrender to death when they saw a sloop cruising off the island. Freaney hoisted his clothes on the oar and signaled. They were rescued—Freaney and the three other crewmen who were left alive.
The disaster at sea was huge news in America. In total, sixty-six souls had been lost. When the first telegrams reporting the calamity reached Buffalo, Grover Cleveland rushed to Holland Patent to comfort his mother. He arrived at a scene of hopeless misery. Five of his siblings were there too—his brother Reverend William Cleveland and his sisters Mary, Louise, Susan, and Rose. Only the eldest, Anna, the missionary in Ceylon, was unaware of the family misfortune. All of Holland Patent was in mourning. A woman from the village named Mary, who had been hired by Fred and Cecil to work at the Royal Victoria Hotel, had also been on board the Missouri. Like the Cleveland brothers, she too was unaccounted for.
Ann Cleveland was a beloved figure in the village–an “estimable lady,” in the words of the Utica Morning Herald. Fred and Cecil were also popular and respected, not only for their wartime service to the nation but also for their devotion to their mother. Just the past summer, they had spent several weeks with Mrs. Cleveland, keeping the elderly widow company. For three weeks, Grover and the others waited for word of them, praying for a miracle.
Then, on November 21, the steamship Morro Castle arrived in New York City. It had left Nassau four days earlier and carried fifteen Missouri survivors. These included “a servant of Mr. Cleveland, the lessee of the R. V. Hotel, who was on board the Missouri at the time of her loss,” The New York Times reported. Grover must have read the newspaper report with cold fury. The article quoted crewmen as saying the Missouri had been “hastily prepared” for the voyage and that the boilers in the engine room had been improperly fitted with insulation. That could explain the cause of the fire: Heat from the boiler would likely have ignited the ship’s woodwork.
A Secret Life: The Lies and Scandals of President Grover Cleveland Page 5
