Authors: Marion Meade
Writing to another brother, the Reverend Thomas K. Beecher, about Henry's reply, Isabella said acidly, "So far as I can see, it is he who has dragged the dear child into the dirt—and left her there."
Henry Beecher decided that silence was the best policy. He made no comment, and his congregation at Plymouth Church demanded none. One of his parishioners, stopping him on the street, said, "Of course, Mr. Beecher, the whole thing is a fraud from beginning to end." Beecher looked the man squarely in the eye and replied, "Entirely!"
Outwardly poised, Beecher was consumed by inner turmoil. He sent trusted friends to raid newsstands and buy up all the copies of the
Weekly
they could find. Since Vicky had taken the precaution of printing one hundred thousand copies, Beecher's raids made little difference.
As far as his reputation was concerned, the damage had already been done. Within twenty-four hours, his private life had become the talk of the town and then the talk of the nation.
Around midnight one evening that week, a young man named Anthony Comstock saw a copy of the
Weekly.
His eyes flickered with a positively electric glow. Comstock's mission in life was to track down pornography—or what he considered to be pornography—and make sure that "smut peddlers" were punished.
Until the previous year, Comstock had worked as a clerk in a dry goods store. His crusade had been a personal one, undertaken in his spare time out of sheer joy. Then, in 1872, he persuaded the YMCA to set up a Committee for the Suppression of Vice. Ever since, he had been busily harassing booksellers and confiscating "obscene" literature.
When Comstock read Vicky's expose, he could not find anything actually obscene in the language. But, to his mind, the idea of printing such information about a revered minister like Beecher had to be immoral. The next morning he appeared at the district attorney's office and asked them to issue a warrant for the arrest of Victoria C. Woodhull and Tennie C. Claflin.
Waiting for the warrant to be prepared, Comstock suddenly remembered that Congress had recently passed a law making it a misdemeanor to send obscene materials through the mail. Subscribers of the
Weekly
must have received their copies in the mail, Comstock thought. Instead of waiting around for the poky clerks in the district attorney's office, he would ask federal authorities to arrest the sisters.
At one o'clock that afternoon, Vicky and Tennie were riding down Broad Street. At their feet, on the floor of the carriage, lay five hundred copies of the
Weekly
which they were delivering to a newsstand. Their driver, hearing shouts of "halt," pulled over. A carriage drew up next to them, and two men jumped out.
At first, Vicky couldn't understand what was happening. Her heart started to pound.
"United States marshals," the men announced. "Stop in the name of the law."
When Tennie indignantly demanded to know what was going on, one of the marshals announced that they were under arrest. He climbed up on the box next to the driver and grabbed the horse's reins. The other didn't know where to sit. There was no room on the box, nor was there space in the carriage which was stacked with newspapers.
To make certain that Vicky and Tennie wouldn't escape, the bewildered marshal flung himself across their laps. Red-faced, he sat there all the way to the United States Circuit Court.
Tennie burst out laughing and tried to bounce him on her knee. Vicky was ashen but calm during the trip.
At the Federal Building, they were escorted to a private room for a closed examination. Vicky shook her head.
"No," she said. "We want an open hearing because we wish the public to be thoroughly acquainted with this case. Furthermore, we will say nothing until we have an attorney to represent us and until we know what crime we are being charged with."
By this time, a crowd had gathered in the hall of the courthouse. Newspaper reporters, shopkeepers, brokers, and people on the street had congregated to learn what the sisters had done. People stood on one another's shoulders to catch a glimpse of them. "They're both wearing dark blue dresses with purple bows," somebody shouted.
A lawyer was soon found for them, and the group moved into a public courtroom.
Tennie found the experience amusing. "What nonsense!" she declared.
Vicky was not so sure.
Assistant District Attorney Henry E. Davies began by stating the charge. They had been arrested for "circulating through the United States mail an obscene and indecent publication." The offense was punishable by imprisonment and a fine.
Their attorney asked for an adjournment so that he could study the case and consult with his clients.
"Case will be put over until Tuesday, November fifth," the judge announced.
"Your Honor," said their attorney, "November fifth is Election Day. The courts are closed."
The judge corrected himself. "Monday, November fourth."
The assistant district attorney went on to ask for $10,000 bail for each sister, an unusually high figure.
"This is a special case," he declared. "Not only have the defendants circulated an obscene publication through the mails and are guilty of an offense against the law but they are also guilty of a most abominable and unjust charge against one of the purest and best citizens of the United States."
Vicky's attorney hastily reminded the court that the Reverend Beecher had not charged them with libel. The only charge against his clients was sending obscene materials through the mail.
But the judge could not be swayed. "An example is needed," he said, "and we propose to make one of these women."
He did, however, lower their bail to $8000 each. This made little difference to Vicky and Tennie since they had no money anyway. The marshals took them directly to the Ludlow Street jail.
"This is a monstrosity," Vicky kept repeating to her sister, "a monstrosity begotten by this city's lust, fear, and guilt."
Unlike Vicky, who had sat like a stone during the hearing, Tennie felt no alarm. She tried to comfort her sister by saying they would only have to stay in jail a few days. Besides, it might be a useful experience. When they were released, they could write an article about prison conditions.
That evening, in their new home at Cell 11 of the Ludlow Street jail, Vicky heard more distressing news. Luther Challis, the man Tennie had accused of seducing young girls, had sued them for libel. In his suit he had also named James, who had been arrested and taken to Jefferson Market Prison, a jail popularly known as "the Black Hole of Calcutta."
Both Vicky and Tennie expected that the obscenity charge would be dismissed when they reached court the following Monday. In no way, they told each other, could the
Weekly
ever be called obscene. Despite their confidence, they didn't want to take any chances. Over the weekend, they hired the best lawyer in town, William P. Howe.
Howe, a brilliant attorney, also had a reputation for dressing like a dandy. When he met them in court on Monday afternoon, he was wearing a purple vest, plaid pantaloons, and a blue satin tie. The courtroom was choked with spectators who gaped at Vicky and Tennie as well as the picturesque Howe.
"These ladies are the victims of persecution," Howe said in their behalf. "This case has been instigated by a man who dares not come into court and show his face." He did not refer to Beecher by name, but everyone knew who he meant.
Furthermore, declared Howe, there was not one word in the newspaper that could be called obscene. "If this newspaper is held obscene," he said, waving a copy of the
Weekly
above his head, "then the transmission through the mails of the Holy Bible, the works of Lord Byron, or any edition of the works of Shakespeare should be liable to the same penalty."
To her shock, Vicky learned they would not be given a hearing that day. The government planned to conduct a formal trial. But a date was not mentioned. In the meantime, they were to go back to jail and wait.
Tuesday, November 5, was a momentous day for Susan Anthony. The previous Friday, she and fifteen other women had appeared at a shoemaker's shop on West Street in Rochester, New York, Susan's hometown. The shop was the polling headquarters for the city's Eighth Ward.
"We are here to be enrolled as voters," Susan informed the dumbfounded inspectors.
When told she couldn't register, Susan pulled a copy of the Constitution from her bag. Uneasily, the inspectors finally enrolled the sixteen women.
On Tuesday, Election Day, the same group returned to the shoemaker's shop and cast their ballots, the first time women had ever voted in a federal election.
Susan's vote went to President Ulysses S. Grant.
The next day, surrounded by the latest editions of the New York papers, Vicky sat on her cot and read about the election. President Grant received 3,597,132 votes. Horace Greeley was the choice of 2,834,125.
Some papers mentioned that the Equal Rights party had been on the ballot, but none listed their votes. The election reports gave the impression that Vicky received no votes. As she later learned, this was not true. The Equal Rights party won about 3,000 votes, probably more if one counted the ballots discarded by jeering poll inspectors. When the history of the 1872 election was finally written, Vicky would not even rate a line.
She read the papers wordlessly. For a moment, the months slipped away. Once again she was back in Apollo Hall where six hundred voices were singing, "Yes, Victoria we've selected/For our chosen head." Their thunderous applause had been the sweetest music she had ever heard. She sighed and folded the newspapers.
The days dragged by. Still there was no word about their trial. William Howe was not being very helpful, Vicky thought angrily. All he could tell them was that the government had not yet set a date.
In some ways, jail was not as grim as she had expected. The cells were kept immaculately clean, the meals were generous and not badly cooked. There were even facilities for taking a bath. The warden, overwhelmed by his two famous guests, went out of his way to cater to them. Since he made no objections to visitors, their cell was sometimes packed from morning to night.
Friends, family, and readers of the
Weekly
came to pass the time and cluck about the outrageous way they were being held without a trial. There was noise and frequent laughter. "Cell No. 11," the New York
Mercury
informed its readers, "now well known as the residence of Woodhull and Claflin, was a perfect camp meeting yesterday."
In spite of the "camp meetings," Vicky grew restless and depressed. She couldn't sleep at night. She kept thinking of James in that dungeon at Jefferson Market. She tormented herself with worry about Byron and Zulu Maud, who had gone to live with Roxanna and Polly. Separated from James and her children, she fretted incessantly about when she would return to them.
Zulu Maud, shy and reserved, came to visit her mother. She sat next to her on the cot, eyes brimming with tears, and held her hand tightly. "I have not been a good mother to her," Vicky thought. When she was released, she promised herself, she would spend more time with the girl.
A new worry had begun to trouble her. The
Weekly
had been closed down. When she was freed, where would she find the money to live? How would she be able to pay William Howe's fee?
Three weeks went by. Then four weeks. She wrote a letter to the New York
Herald
:
"Sick in body, sick in mind, sick at heart, I write these lines to ask if, because I am a woman, I am to have no justice, no fair play, no chance through the press to reach public opinion."
Why, she asked, had they been given no trial? "Is it not astonishing that all Christian law and civilization seem to be scared out of their senses at having two poor women locked up in jail? Suppose, Mr. Editor, that some enemies of yours should throw you into a cell for publishing an article, suppress the
Herald
, arrest your printers, prosecute your publisher, shut up your business office, close all the avenues of press and lecture hall against your honorable defense? Would not every land ring with the outrage?"
When not entertaining guests, Vicky read the newspapers. Horace Greeley, Democratic candidate for the Presidency, died on Thanksgiving Day. On that same day, Susan Anthony and her fifteen friends were arrested and charged with violating a federal law by casting illegal votes. The women pleaded not guilty and each was released under $500 bail. Susan, on principle, refused to pay the bail. Without her knowledge, her attorney paid it for her.
Vicky wrote Susan a letter, congratulating her on the vote and offering her help if it was ever needed. Susan did not reply.
By the end of November, public opinion began to make itself felt. The press, which had originally criticized Vicky for publishing the expose, now said her incarceration was a clear violation of freedom of the press. The Brooklyn
Eagle
said it looked as if the government had locked the jail door and thrown away the key. People began to complain that, no matter what Vicky and Tennie had done, their constitutional right to a speedy trial was being violated.
On December 1, William Howe notified them that two men had approached him, saying they admired the sisters' courage and would gladly put up their bail money. But freedom did not come so easily. A few minutes after they were released at the Federal Building, a policeman arrested them on a variation of the original charge. On December 5, they were again released from jail and again arrested on still another technicality. But Howe, who had managed to spring James from his prison, kept bailing them out.
By mid-December, it looked as if they might be free at last. The first thing Vicky wanted to do was tell her readers everything that had happened since her arrest. She and Tennie put together another issue of the
Weekly
which appeared a few days before Christmas. But Vicky also needed quick cash, and because she wanted to tell the public her story in person, a lecture was scheduled in Boston. The speech was entitled, "Four Weeks in Ludlow Jail."