BOSS TWEED: The Corrupt Pol who Conceived the Soul of Modern New York (49 page)

Why did Alfred Young go so far beyond the call of duty on behalf of the friendly fugitive? Young denied ever receiving a penny from Tweed or even knowing much about the Tammany scandals. “I thought Tweed was a persecuted man,” he explained, “and I wished to help him,”
^F
OOTNOTE
29

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“I am at this moment in receipt of a telegram from Havana saying ‘do not send vessel. Treachery somewhere,’” Secretary of State Hamilton Fish reported as news reached Washington of Tweed’s latest escape. “So it is, ‘the best laid plans of mice and men.’”
³⁰
Fish ordered that telegrams be fired off now to Spain itself. It was essential that Tweed be tracked.

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Tweed had little time to celebrate his narrow escape. He’d avoided arrest in Cuba, but had become a prisoner at sea. It would take the
Carmen
forty-two days to cross the Atlantic Ocean. Along the way, rolling on the ocean swells, Tweed suffered miserably. Wracked by seasickness, his large body magnifying the nausea, he couldn’t look at food. “I try to eat what is provided, but I can not do it; my stomach instantly turned when I get a taste of garlic, and as that is the only flavoring they use in cooking, I am sure to get it in the first mouthful. I have not eaten more than two plates of soup and a few soda biscuits in two days, and I begin to feel the necessity for food,” he wrote in a journal. His body weight fell precipitously; clothes no longer fit him. “I still keep on the cloth [summer] pants, a pair made for me in June 1873,” he complained. “They are about ten inches too large around the waist, so I think I must have decreased some in size since that time.”
³¹
When he did eat, he limited himself to soup for breakfast, soup and biscuits for other meals, and an occasional glass of sherry from the ship’s doctor.

Reaching Spain, the
Carmen
headed directly to the port of Vigo on the Atlantic coast. It cast anchor in the town’s harbor near a small island called San Simon that held the port’s quarantine station. Here too, Tweed had little chance to enjoy the respite. Barely had they arrived when Tweed was startled to see the local governor come aboard leading a squad of soldiers. He came directly up to Tweed: “the old fellow [Tweed] had no coat on nor any shoes or stockings, and his trousers and his sleeves were rolled up and he was scrubbing the deck,” a local seaman said later, describing the scene to reporters.
³²

“Mr. Tweed, put on your coat and shoes,” the governor said, “we want you to go with us, we are going ashore.”
³³
He was under arrest.

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Behind the scenes, Hamilton Fish had once again set a trap. President Grant had taken a personal interest in the chase. “I think it will be advisable to ascertain if the Spanish authorities propose to give ‘Secor’ up in Spain,” he’d wired Fish from his vacation home by the New Jersey seashore, “and if so if there is a Naval vessel handy to take charge of him.”
³⁴
Following Grant’s lead, Fish had sent a cipher telegram to Caleb Cushing, the American Minister in Madrid, shortly after Tweed had flown the coup in Santiago: “Ascertain secretly and cautiously if he can be returned to Cuba.”
³⁵

Cushing, a 75-year-old veteran diplomat, former congressman and former attorney general, was preparing to leave Madrid for a summer holiday to the United States via Paris and London, but left the matter in the hands of his young charge d’affairs, 33- year-old Alvey Adee. Adee, an upstart in the foreign service who’d hiked the Alps before learning civil engineering from an uncle, had come to Spain in 1869 as a personal aide to family friend Daniel Sickles, the flamboyant one-legged former Civil War general who’d famously shot his wife’s lover in 1850s Washington, D.C. and won acquittal from a jury. President Grant had appointed Sickles the new American ambassador. Soon, Adee had won the staff’s respect and become secretary of the Legation.

“I am directed by the Secretary to instruct you to ask for the return to Cuba of both Secor and Hunt,” Adee read as diplomatic cables flashed between Washington and Madrid that summer.
³⁶
Taking the initiative, Adee met with Spanish officials and quickly had things arranged. The main problem would be identification, both of the vessel and Tweed himself. Spain had on its lists over thirty ships named
Carmen
; finding the right one would require covering every port of entry. As for Tweed, Adee had no photograph to provide Spanish officials who’d be making the arrest. Like most Americans, though, he’d seen the Tweed drawings by
Harper’s Weekly
artist Thomas Nast. He asked a friend named Don Benigno S. Suarez who had a
Harper’s Weekly
subscription if he could borrow a recent copy; he picked out Nast’s “Tweed-le-dee and Tilden-dum”—the drawing of Tweed arresting the two children—and passed it along to the Spanish.
³⁷

Spain posted alerts all along its Atlantic coast as the
Carmen
approached. The fact that Spain had no extradition treaty with the United States never became a problem. Spain had decided to play along, eager not only to return Tweed to Cuba but to surrender him directly to the U.S. Navy—thereby avoiding any legal process on either side of the ocean. Tweed’s arrest in Spain would be totally outside Spanish law, American law, or international law—no judge, no lawyer, no hearing, no magistrate, no delay. In fact, Spain didn’t even ask for identification of Tweed or Hunt beyond the Nast cartoon.

Spain understood the
quid pro quo
: “The generous conduct of the Spanish Government, which has not hesitated to deliver up these criminals [Tweed and Hunt], notwithstanding that no treaty of extradition exists, ought to be well appreciated by the North American Republic, which, in its turn, will take pleasure in doing us the same service if it be necessary,” it announced.
³⁸
By turning over Tweed, Spain had earned a diplomatic favor: Topping its wish list: the right to do as it pleased in Cuba, to demand that America return Cuban rebels seeking refuge, and to continue arresting American “adverturers” who got in the way.

Harper’s Weekly, July 1, 1876.

To make the transfer, Adee arranged for the U.S.
Franklin
, a 47-gun frigate on a scheduled stop at Gibraltar, to change course for Vigo. “I hope you will find among your officers someone familiar with Tweed’s personal appearance,” he alerted the captain, “or that other means of identification (such for instance as a recent file off Harper’s Weekly with Nast’s caricatures).”
³⁹
On September 7, Adee could report home: “Tweed, traveling as Secor, is arrested, together with one William Hunt, said to be his nephew, the baggage of both being sealed.”
⁴⁰

Washington wired back: “Luggage should be guarded and no papers allowed to be taken.”
⁴¹
Tweed himself was to be kept quiet. The
New York Herald
sent a reporter to interview him, but Adee denied him access to the fugitive.
⁴²

At the last minute, though, the State Department reversed itself on one key point: They wanted Tweed only. “Say also [to the Spanish] that we learn nothing about Hunt and do not desire his detention, but will also receive him if so desired,” Fish wired Adee, who relayed the message.
⁴³
Why would the U.S. government release Hunt, an obvious accomplice in Tweed’s escape, before even questioning him? It created a mystery: Could the State Department have learned a deeper secret: that Tweed’s entire escape had been aided or engineered by people whom President Grant’s administration had reason to protect? People whom “Hunt” could identify? The list of possible conspirators was long: Republican politicians whom Tweed had threatened to expose, New York prosecutors tired of risking their reputations in court, or police officials who’d taken bribes?

Or was “Hunt” just an innocent nobody? By letting him go, Fish left the question forever unanswered.
⁴⁴

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Word of Tweed’s arrest caused a sensation back in New York City when news arrived by telegraph. “Where is Vigo?” people asked. The rich irony that Spanish officials had used a cartoon by Thomas Nast to identify him became instant grist for legend. Accounts told how, seeing the drawing, Spanish officials had assumed at first that “Twid” was a kidnapper or child abuser, not the Boss of Tammany Hall.
⁴⁵

The timing of the arrest raised suspicions, though, coming just as the presidential contest had reached fever pitch.

The Tilden-Hayes campaign had grown strikingly dirty for two candidates bent on “reform.” Republicans attacked Tilden with every possible smear. They dredged up his Civil War-era Copperhead ties, proclaiming “not every Democrat was a rebel, but every rebel was a Democrat.” They accused him of defending slavery, evading income taxes, and defending corrupt railroads while calling him a thief, a liar, and a drunk, “Slippery Sammy” or “Soapy Sam.”
⁴⁶
“Reform,” the original buzzword, got lost in the shuffle: “The word ‘reform’ is not popular with the workingmen,” Horatio Seymour warned Tilden as the contest heated up. “To them it means less money spent and less work.”
⁴⁷
Tilden’s high-minded appeal became replaced by a simple “Turn the rascals out.”
⁴⁸
His campaign would spend over half a million dollars that year on expenses, including $100,000 from Tilden’s own bankroll.

And now, Tweed was back. All that year, Tilden had seen his early ties to the ex-boss thrown back at him. Copies of Tilden’s testimony from the Tweed
abstentia
trial in February had appeared under the headline “Tilden and Tweed; The Twin Leaders of the New York Democracy.”
⁴⁹
“Samuel J. Tilden was personally responsible for the rise of the Tweed Ring,” the
New-York Times
itself declared, “and he did nothing whatever to break their power until their ruin had been accomplished.”
⁵⁰

With Tweed now captured, rumors exploded that Republican politicos had engineered the arrest to make trouble. A quick ship could return the ex-Boss to New York City by late October, weeks before Election Day with plenty of time for mischief. Some newspapers openly charged that a deal had been struck: That Tweed had agreed to come home, pay a million-dollar fine, and be immediately released; in return, he’d testify against Tilden on a laundry list of scandals. Tweed would win his freedom and get his revenge in one fell swoop. “The capture of Tweed is no accident,” announced the
New York Sun
, “it is a put up job.”
⁵¹

President Grant, from his vacation home on the New Jersey seashore, didn’t deny it. Instead, he personally instructed Secretary of State Fish to prepare quick transit: “a Naval vessel should be on the spot to return [Tweed] to Mr. Tilden who must be anxious to see him,” he telegraphed on September 7, hours after the arrest.
⁵²
In another telegram a few days later, he reminded Fish of the key issue: “The [New York] Herald is very anxious to learn whether it is true that Tweed is to be used as a witness against Tilden….”
⁵³

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Tweed knew none of this. Arrested on reaching port in Spain after forty-two days at sea, his luggage, papers, and diaries all seized, he found himself held incommunicado in the
Lazaretto
, the quarantine house at Vigo harbor. Then, after a full week, a squad of
Carabineros
, local soldiers, came and marched he and Hunt up a steep rocky hill to the Vigo fortress that overlooked the town. Here, they threw him into a dungeon with stone walls, stone floors, and stone ceilings. Nobody spoke English to him and Tweed’s broken Spanish barely allowed him to communicate. He could only guess what was happening.

The local American consul at Vigo, a Mr. Molins, took the initiative to see “Secor” and reported him as a “respectable” man with “social standing.” Adee, reading the dispatch, smelled a rat: “These details, from a stranger, lead me to the inference that some of Tweed’s friends are, or have been, working for him at Vigo,” he reported.
⁵⁴
He quickly put a stop to any such friendly visits.

Tweed, from his dungeon cell, paid money to an old Spanish women to bring bedding, food, and beer for he and Hunt from a local tavern. After several days, another squad of
Carabineros
— some thirty soldiers in bright red and yellow uniforms—came and marched them back down the hill to the harbor to board yet another ship, a handsome Navy frigate called the
Franklin
. Here among the greeters he spotted his son Richard, the first member of his immediate family he’d seen in nine months. The two happily embraced; Richard shared a few warm words with his father and gave him a few gold coins before having to leave the ship.

On board the
Franklin
, the soldiers delivered Tweed and Hunt to the ship’s captain, Samuel R. Franklin, who finally told Tweed the full story—that he’d been given orders to carry him back to New York City and prison. Franklin assured Tweed he’d be given every courtesy during the passage, including use of the private stateroom usually reserved for visiting Navy brass and privileges of the officers’ mess. But Tweed would be guarded day and night, sentries inside and outside his cabin, and his porthole kept shut.

To Hunt, the captain gave a choice: either passage home on the
Franklin
or immediate release in Spain. Hunt didn’t need to think it over; he quickly took his leave and returned to shore, never to be heard from again.

The voyage home offered no relief. Stormy seas followed them across the ocean. Instead of the planned thirty-day crossing, headwinds, fogs, and gales slowed the
Franklin
to a crawl and made Tweed constantly seasick. Most days he awoke at 7 am and stayed in his room where he took meals and read books, including a Bible and a copy of McDuff’s “Words and Mind of Jesus,” gifts from his wife Mary Jane. He buried himself in military histories of the Civil War and talked of stocking a library when he got home to New York City. Other times, he played cards, solitaire when alone and cribbage with ship’s officers who came for conversation. “His behavior was that of a perfect gentleman. He was always glad to see any of us when we called on him,” one of them said. “Though everything on the ship was at his disposal, he made no extra demands. He did not smoke, nor did he drink, either wine or spirits, unless when unwell.”
⁵⁵
Only once during the long voyage did Tweed emerge from his cabin to walk on deck; he found the experience of being escorted by guards more humiliating than the relief of fresh air.

He grew morbid alone in his cabin. “He evidently regards himself as a sort of martyr, pursued by malignant fiends,” a shipmate wrote.
⁵⁶
Tweed apparently considered suicide, but rejected the idea as “wicked.”
⁵⁷
More than once, the ship’s doctor ordered him to drink sherry to relieve chest pains.

After thirty-eight days at sea, the
Franklin
had covered barely half its route, reaching St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands where it stopped for coal and fresh food. The final leg of the journey would be worst of all. A heavy storm described as a “hurricane” hit the Atlantic seaboard as the
Franklin
steamed north off the New Jersey coast, pushing it far from shore.
⁵⁸
Tweed had gorged on tropical fruit loaded at St. Thomas—oranges, bananas, and alligator pears—which magnified his seasickness. At one point, feeling desperately nauseous, he managed to entertain the crew with what one described as “very amusing remarks signifying his willingness to try the experience of Jonah and to attempt to get ashore in a whale’s belly, or on the back of a porpoise.”
⁵⁹

They finally reached New York on November 23 and newspapers covered every step of Tweed’s return like a royal pageant. As soon as word hit the city of his approach, crowds jammed the Battery. A Navy tug, the
Catalpa
, left port carrying Sheriff Conner, District Attorney Benjamin Phelps, and other dignitaries to intercept the
Franklin
off Sandy Hook and collect the prisoner; an armada of boats from the major newspapers followed them.

Reaching the
Franklin
, Sheriff Connor climbed aboard, presented his papers to Captain Franklin, and followed him to Tweed’s cabin. Coming out, he joked: “It’s the old man. I found him at his usual occupation, playing cards.”
⁶⁰
Tweed said little as he followed the sheriff from his cabin onto the deck wearing a black hat, gray coat, and eye-glasses hung over his vest. A newspaper writer watching from a nearby boat described him as looking exhausted: “[w]alking slowly… stooping and with some appearance of feebleness, leaning upon a cane [with] pale and somewhat haggard features and a full gray board.”
⁶¹
Every member of the
Franklin’s
crew came on deck and formed a line so Tweed could shake their hands before leaving.

He walked unsteadily down the gangway to the
Catalpa
, then sat with the sheriff in the tug’s wheelhouse as it steamed up New York harbor toward the city. He occasionally asked the sheriff questions, mostly about local politics: “Is Reilly elected Sheriff? … And Gumsleton was elected County Clerk?” When Connor remarked that, yes, they were, Tweed said “I thought so.” Nearing the Battery, seeing Castle Garden and the South Street piers approaching from the distance, Tweed marveled at the progress made on the Brooklyn Bridge’s towers during his absence. “I see they’ve got the wires across at last,” he said. Still, he couldn’t hide his gloom. A crewman who’d known him in his hay-day described Tweed simply as “careworn and very much thinner.”
⁶²