A Secret Life: The Lies and Scandals of President Grover Cleveland

by Charles Lachman

  In 1884, Butler was unelectable, his delegate strength eroding by the day. As one Southern delegate said of Butler, “We may be willing to eat crow, but we’ll be damned if we’ll eat turkey buzzard.” The wounds of war still echoed on the floor of the convention hall, where the band played both “Yankee Doodle”—and “Dixie.”

  It was no accident that Butler and Kelly were occupying adjacent rooms at Palmer House. They were always in cahoots, coming out of Kelly’s suite, striding arm in arm, in deep conversation. Had a pact been reached between these two wily operators? Butler running as a spoiler candidate on a third party ticket in November could siphon votes from the Democrats and throw the election to James Blaine. One conspiracy theory making the rounds was that Kelly and Butler were clandestinely coordinating everything through Blaine.

  Delegates from the South and West viewed the election as their best chance since the Civil War of electing a Democratic president. With Cleveland, they had a candidate with a virtuous image who could finally retake the White House. They cursed Boss Kelly’s name. He was a Democrat “for revenue only,” a “national disgrace,” a “tumor,” and his men were “banditti.” Others saw Kelly’s plotting as a blessing in disguise. Tammany Hall held an unparalleled reputation for corruption, and while it controlled the votes of thousands of New Yorkers, mostly Irish immigrants, it was said that for every Tammany vote lost, Cleveland would gain the support of five Republicans or independents just on principle. The New York Times estimated that if Tammany bolted, the Democratic ticket would actually result in a net gain of a half million votes come the November election.

  Victory seemed within Cleveland’s grasp. Wilson Bissell was observed in the bartoasting his success before the convention even officially opened for business.

  On opening day of the convention, as storm clouds rolled over Chicago’s skies, delegates streamed into Exposition Hall. Just one month before, the Republican Party, which had nominated Blaine, had held its national convention in the same arena. Boss Kelly sneaked in without his usual flourish, but as he took his seat in the New York delegation, he was instantly recognizable in his stylish lightweight white summer suit, which, impeccably tailored as it was, could not conceal his husky bulk.

  Back in Albany, Grover Cleveland was attending to state business and trying to ignore the fuss at Exposition Hall. Bissell, Hudson, and Apgar were all in Chicago running the political operation, although the ailing Apgar had to remain in his hotel room that first day, too frail to work the hustle and bustle of the convention floor. The only key aide who remained with Cleveland in the state capital was his private secretary, Dan Lamont. Cleveland rebuffed Western Union’s offer to run a special wire into his office, so news from Exposition Hall came via a messenger running on foot from the branch telegraph office to the governor’s Executive Chamber. For this historic week, Mary Cleveland Hoyt and two of Cleveland’s nieces were staying at the governor’s mansion to share in his glory. Cleveland remained ambivalent about the nomination—just eight days earlier he had told Manning he had “not a particle of ambition to be president.” Perhaps Cleveland’s keen instinct for self-preservation was alerting him to the storm that was coming his way.

  U.S. Congressman Daniel Lockwood of Buffalo formally placed Cleveland’s name in nomination on July 9. Lockwood was an unusual choice for the honor because he held no national reputation, but he was a sentimental favorite for the Cleveland team and a good-luck charm besides, because he had previously nominated Cleveland for mayor of Buffalo and also governor of New York.

  The real spectacle came when U.S. Representative Edward S. Bragg of Wisconsin took the rostrum to second the nomination. Bragg was a retired Union general. Built like a fireplug—the “ideal size for a cavalryman”—he had a gift for spontaneous speech-making that made him a fearsome adversary on the floor of Congress. He was also cool under fire. During the battle of Antietam, he had received orders to push on, but only if it was safe—a nonsensical command because with 23,000 casualties, Antietam was the single bloodiest day in American history. Yet Bragg issued a memorable one-word charge to his soldiers: “Forward!” That was twenty-one years before. Glaring into the New York delegation, the old warrior, his hair having turned gray in service to his country, fixed a hard expression on Boss Kelly.

  “I stand today to voice the sentiment of the young men of my state when I speak on behalf of Grover Cleveland.”

  With a gesture of his hand, Bragg told the delegates to cease their cheers. He had something more to say.

  “His name is upon their lips. His name is in their hearts . . .” A wave of sentimentality surged forth from Cleveland’s people. Here at last was the speech they had been waiting for.

  “They love him, gentlemen, and respect him, not only for himself, for his character, for his integrity and judgment and iron will, but they love him most for the enemies he has made.”

  Tom Grady, seated next to Boss Kelly, sprang up and wagged his fist at Bragg, his face a mask of crimson fury. “In behalf of his enemies, I accept your statement!”

  Bragg looked down at Grady. He let the groundswell of hisses fill the conventional hall, and then, pointing an accusatory finger at Boss Kelly, he likened the men of Tammany to the “vilest of the human species.”

  The roll call of the states commenced after midnight, July 11. When the votes for the first ballot were tabulated, Cleveland was way out in front with 392 votes, but still 155 votes shy of the two-thirds majority required to win. His closest opponent was Senator Thomas Bayard of Delaware, with 170 votes. The patrician Bayard didn’t have a chance: He came from a small state with limited electoral clout, and he had defended the right of secession in 1861. Manning knew Cleveland was this close to victory.

  Meanwhile, Kelly and Butler were working all angles. They approached Thomas A. Hendricks, the former governor of Indiana who had served as Tilden’s running mate in 1876, and induced him to join their alliance. Kelly’s men were sent out in force to recruit roustabouts from Chicago’s most disreputable saloons. For drinks on the house and a little pocket change, these scalawags were issued tickets, personally signed by the sergeant at arms who was in Tammany Hall’s pocket, and ordered to Exposition Hall at 11:00 a.m. sharp with these simple instructions: “Holler for Hendricks when the signal to do so is given”—and keep hollering until they were told to shut up.

  Kelly and Butler were up until four in the morning in Butler’s room at the Palmer House, plotting strategy.

  Seven hours later, with the convention about to be called to order for the climactic second ballot, a strange thing happened. Several thousand spectators holding legitimate tickets found themselves barred from entering Exposition Hall. The doormen were permitting only Kelly’s troublemakers holding those special passes to waltz right in.

  The roll call commenced. For Manning, everything was falling into place. Then came Illinois—and an unforeseen hitch. Sometime during the night, Kelly had induced a single delegate from the state who had voted for Cleveland the previous day to switch his vote. The delegate stood on his chair and bellowed the words “Thomas A. Hendricks of Indiana!”

  That was the signal Kelly’s people had been waiting for. The next moment, Tammany delegates and Butler’s men from Massachusetts sprang from their chairs, waving their hats, while up in the gallery, Exposition Hall shook with cheers from the “spontaneous” demonstration. Manning, sitting with the New York delegation, now saw that there seemed to be an unusual number of young men up there in the best seats, shouting themselves hoarse, and they looked like a rough bunch. Someone actually yelled out for instructions: “How long shall we holler?” Kelly had stacked Exposition Hall with Tammany agents.

  Right on cue, Hendricks stepped into convention hall from a side entrance. Even he looked confounded as he stood there and took a little bow. For eighteen minutes the applause kept coming.

  Over at the Connecticut delegation, the state’s young governor, Thomas M. Waller, was swept up by the clamor. Waller called an
urgent caucus of his state right there on the convention floor. As the delegates gathered around him, Waller said the convention was clearly turning to Hendricks. Connecticut should back a winner and go with Hendricks. A consensus was reached. Waller shouted for recognition from the podium.

  “Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!”

  Manning could not believe it. Could it be that Waller was about to switch his state’s votes to the dark horse from Indiana? Manning instructed Edgar Apgar to put a stop to this nonsense. Apgar started clambering over chairs like an agile little monkey to get to Waller. At the same time, the national chairman of the Democratic Party, William Barnum, took hold of the governor’s coattails. Waller wheeled around and found himself face-to-face with Barnum’s wrath. Barnum had to inform the impressionable governor that he was being played for a sucker and that if he continued, he would be “making the great blunder of his life.” Waller sank in his chair. How fascinating to note that Governor Barnum’s cousin was the American showman P. T. Barnum, who is credited with the phrase “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

  Cleveland pulled in 683 votes on the second ballot. Bayard was second with 81, followed by Hendricks with 45. So much for the stampede for Hendricks. Grover Cleveland was the nominee of the Democratic Party.

  Word of his victory came to Cleveland in the form of a cannonball. His day had started in Albany with his usual half-mile walk from the mansion to the governor’s desk. He had arrived at his office at eight. Usually, he walked back home for lunch at one, but on this day he decided to sit tight. At 1:40 p.m., the telegraph announcing Cleveland as the standard-bearer of the Democratic Party came into the Western Union offices; and by prearranged signal, a cannon positioned on the dock was fired. It was said that the boom woke up every napping infant in Albany. Dan Lamont threw open the doors of the Executive Chamber, his face beaming with joy, and vigorously shook Cleveland’s outstretched hand. Cleveland stood there, steady and in control. Only the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his pleasure at the news. The telephone rang a moment later with confirmation of his nomination.

  “Dan, telephone the mansion. Sister will want to hear it.”

  Citizens started pouring in to wish Cleveland well. One laborer in short sleeves, grasping a tattered hat in his hand, came in with his clothes dusty from work. “God bless you!” he told Cleveland. The governor gave him a hearty handshake. Lamont couldn’t keep up with the volume of congratulatory telegrams—there were more than a thousand. He handed only the most significant ones to Cleveland to read. The first telegram came from the editor of the New York World.

  “Congratulate you and the cause of good government. You are nominated.”

  It was signed “Pulitzer.”

  The only sour note for Cleveland came when party bosses arranged for the nomination of Thomas Hendricks as vice president—a bone to mollify Tammany Hall and the old guard. It was seen as a cunning play because it solidified Hendricks’s home state of Indiana for the Democrats. Hendricks returned to Indianapolis expressing support for the top of the ticket, although his wife, Eliza, seemed to bear a grudge over her husband’s thrashing in Chicago.

  “Mr. Hendricks is a man whom very few understand,” she told reporters assembled outside her house. “I often tell him he ought not to be in politics, for he is as sensitive as a woman.” In a crack deeply offensive to Cleveland, Eliza Hendricks added, “Thomas was put on to strengthen a bad nomination.” (Mrs. Hendricks later claimed to have been misquoted.)

  Tammany Hall was dust, so disgusted with the nomination of Cleveland its delegates boycotted the final session of the convention. Tammany delegates were intensely resented, and they found it prudent to remove their Tammany badges lest they be physically accosted on the streets. Kelly and his people packed their gripsacks and boarded a train out of Chicago at 6:00 p.m. that Friday. Thirty-seven hours later, they pulled into the depot in Manhattan. In the contemptuous words of The New York Times, Tammany’s braves, “shorn of their plumes . . . drank very little firewater” on the depressing train trip home.

  Somebody asked John Kelly what he would do next. “I do not know,” he said.

  “What do you think of the nomination?”

  “I think that it means defeat. I thought so before it was made, and I think so still. I am sorry that the convention was so blind as not to see it.”

  In Augusta, Maine, James Blaine was already immersed in preparations for the fall presidential campaign. Publicly, Blaine said he considered Cleveland to be a weak nominee because no one outside New York State knew much about the man. Privately, however, Blaine confided to his son that he was deeply concerned. Cleveland would make a formidable opponent. New York was the key to victory. The candidate who took New York would be the next president, and Cleveland had the home court advantage. Fortunately, Blaine was in possession of some dynamite. It came in the form of a letter, sent to him on June 30. A Buffalo physician, Dr. Samuel A. Warren, had written it, and the contents could have enormous consequences to the campaign. If the information was true, it could finish the Democrats. Cleveland might even have to withdraw. Blaine was enormously appreciative, and had had his private secretary, Thomas Sherman, write a thank-you note to Dr. Warren.

  “I am directed by Mr. Blaine to thank you for your kindness of June 30, which he has read with interest, and referred confidentially to the secretary of the Republican National Committee.”

  9

  “A TERRIBLE TALE”

  MARK TWAIN MOVED to Buffalo when he was already a prominent writer whose masterpieces The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, yet to be written, would later bring him international fame. In 1869, he bought a one-third interest in the Buffalo Express newspaper for $25,000 and became co-editor of the paper.

  When Twain appeared at the Express office building at 14 East Swan Street for his first day on the job, he was upset to see just a single soul in the entire city room. Where the hell was his staff? The city room’s lone occupant stared at the squat little stranger with the shaggy mustache.

  “Is there someone you wish to see?” he inquired.

  Twain thought about it, then said, “Well, yes, I should like to see some young man offer the new editor a chair.”

  Twain had seen the Express as a worthy investment but had not been prepared for the stress that came with ownership. A year later, he sold his interest in the paper for $10,000, a huge loss, and left Buffalo. Like a lot of great writers, he made a rotten businessman.

  Just a year after Twain abandoned Buffalo for good, Jacob Riis, who had immigrated to the United States from Denmark, was working as a day laborer doing carpentry for the railroad; he’d also started to write about the appalling social conditions that had resulted from the rapid growth of cities he’d passed through.

  One day, when Riis found himself in Buffalo, he sought out the offices of the Express and applied for a reporting job. Told that the managing editor was at lunch, the eager twenty-one-year-old said he’d wait. After a while, a fellow strode through the lobby heading for the city room and brushed right by Riis. Assuming he was the managing editor, Riis caught up with him in the stairwell and asked him for a job. He never forgot what happened next.

  “He looked me up and down, scanning my poor apparel, and then he threw his head back and laughed.”

  “What are you?” the editor sneered.

  “A carpenter,” Riis answered.

  The editor turned on his heels. When he heard Riis following him, the man stopped.

  Riis recalled, “I stopped too, shook my fist at him, and vowed then and there that the time would come when the Express would be glad to have my services.”

  The editor broke into a hearty belly laugh. “That editor’s laugh has been ringing in my ears ever since,” the great social reformer and muckraker wrote in his memoirs.

  Newspapers were called rags in those days, not necessarily due to their scurrilous editorial content but because a sheet of newsprint had the consistency of a coarse dis
htowel. It was an era of spirited newspaper wars and pugnacious newspapermen who appreciated the value of a good row with the competition, even if one had to be cooked up. One night a journalist afflicted with writer’s block was at his desk, drawing a blank: “I wonder what I will write about tonight?” Then it struck him: “I believe I will have a controversy with the Troy Times!”

  In the 1880s, top reporters made about $15 a week for six days of work. The Courier, owned by Grover Cleveland’s great friend Charley McCune, was the city’s leading newspaper—high-toned, leaning Democratic, and set in its ways.

  Edward Willis Scripps and his half brother James Scripps were in the early stages of building their newspaper empire, having founded The Detroit News in 1873 and the Penny Press (later renamed the Cleveland Press) in 1878. Ed Scripps had one simple rule for decorum in the newsroom: “No man shall dress worse or get drunker than I do.”

  The Scripps brothers had been keeping a hungry eye on the Buffalo marketplace for several years. They settled on booming Buffalo for their launch of another penny publication, with delivery timed for the afternoon and early evening when folks at home could relax with the local newspaper. In 1880, the brothers went to Buffalo, looked at some real estate, bought office space at 153 Main Street, and declared that in a few weeks a new daily called the Evening Telegraph would begin rolling off the presses. Edward H. Butler, proprietor of the rival Buffalo Sunday News, had also been thinking about coming out with a penny afternoon paper, and the announcement by the Scripps boys accelerated his plan. Getting a jump on Scripps, Butler published the first issue of the Buffalo Evening News on October 11, 1880, selling it at a penny a copy when most Buffalo papers cost 2¢ or 3¢. The Evening News was a big hit; it sold 7,000 copies that first day, and circulation soon ballooned to 20,000.