CHAPTER VII,—MCCARTHY S FIRST BATTLE WITH SATAN
HOSE days there were few if any bribe agreements made in Albany. Sometimes a member would find money in his mail from unnamed but not, probably, from unknown sources, or now and then a good team or a pair of oxen would be delivered at his farm as “a token of regard” or “the tribute of admiration.” But “the lobby,” while on its way, had not yet arrived at the capital.
It had been noised abroad that Vanderbilt had control of all the great railroads in the State except the Erie, and was likely soon to acquire that—Vanderbilt, then worth forty million dollars! Clever and unscrupulous men, who foresaw that he would have favors to ask of the Legislature, began to hustle for seats. Next session a number of these came on with credentials, some who had failed of election came also, and began to organize “the third house,” as the lobby was called later.
We spent the last day or two of every week at Rushwater looking after the shop, which had an excellent manager, and things had gone well with us. The gentleman had been returned to the legislature without a word of opposition, and was known far and wide as the “cowcatcher.” He stood for progress, and was, indeed, a little in advance of it, and pushed things out of the way. He was polite—always polite—but as firm as iron. No word of vituperation ever escaped his lips, and yet he had a most dreaded and terrible gentleness.
Suddenly, just before the beginning of the session, an important man came to us with plans for a bridge of vast proportions to span the Hudson at Poughkeepsie. It was a daring, a magnificent, design of the best engineers.
“What are you aiming at?” McCarthy asked.
The important man explained the purpose of the bridge.
“I like that,” said McCarthy. “Now, please, say what you want of me.”
“We want you to get the charter.”
“Are you planning to spend any money here for that purpose?” McCarthy asked.
“We'll lay out any reasonable sum.”
“Then I won't have a thing to do with it—not a thing,” said the gentleman. “The legislature must be kept clean.”
“We're willing to put ourselves in your hands absolutely,” said the important man. “I hardly need say that we should prefer to have the proposition go on its merits, but you know there's a new element here which is looking for money.”
“And you rich men with big projects are going to raise the devil with us if you're not careful,” said McCarthy. “Your plans are so vast and important that you will let nothing stand in their way—not even the price of a thousand men. Now, when you begin to buy votes you'll have more and more of it to do, and by-and-by Albany will be a pest-hole.”
“We feel that as keenly as you do,” said the other. “But, you know, those new fellows who have lately come here—Joe and Ed and Sam and Jim and Jack, and a score like them—they've got a following, and every day it increases. Their plan is to hold up the car of progress and demand our money.”
“Put the matter in my hands, and I'll get your charter,” said the gentleman. “But you must agree not to interfere or spend a cent of money.”
“We put ourselves in your hands absolutely,” said the important man.
“Very well, then; I want to name three of the charter members of your board and the conditions under which that body shall begin its work.”
“I think I can promise that.”
“Well, talk it over with your associates, and let me have your answer in black and white as soon as possible,” said the gentleman.
The answer came next day and was all that we desired, and McCarthy began a piece of work which deserves to be lifted out of the limbo of forgotten things, for it was the first big battle with Satan at the State capital. He saw the leading men in both branches of the legislature. He showed them the plans of the great bridge, and explained its purpose and made its value clear. They agreed with him. There seemed to be nothing in our way. But suddenly there came a change: the air was charged with opposition, and we knew that Joe and Sam and Ed and Jim, and other birds of their feather, had been at work.
“All right,” said the gentleman; “we're in no hurry. They'll get hungry, and come to see us one of these days.”
We had not long to wait. One evening, within a week, who should call at our room in the Delevan but Joe—the handsome, smiling, good-natured, witty captain of our enemies. He was in full dress, and his white hair and imperial were not the least of his assets.
“Thane of Glamis and Cawdor,” said he, with a smile and a polite bow, “you are soon to be king, and we must all know you!”
“I had not suspected that you were a weird sister,” said McCarthy.
“I am weird as the devil, but harmless,” our caller laughed, as he took the chair that my friend offered. “Could I see you alone for five minutes?”
“Certainly, if you wish,” said McCarthy. “But first I want to talk with you about that bridge project of mine. I'd thought of you in connection with the board of management. Perhaps you'd like to be a charter member.”
My mouth was open with astonishment. What could he be driving at? Was he compromising with the devil?
“I suppose the board will have the letting of the contracts?” our caller queried.
“Yes, and many other important powers,” said the gentleman. “They want substantial citizens who will work.”
“Sir, I am at your service,” Joe assured him, with another smile.
“Have you any one to suggest for this board?” McCarthy asked.
“Why, there's Jack—what's the matter with Jack?” the other queried. “Then there's a new senator just elected from New York—a hustler and a particular friend of mine, with a silver tongue in his head. He's a protégé of Tweed—stands for important interests, and you'll have to reckon with him.”
“What's his name?” was the query of the gentleman.
“Squares—Bonaparte Squares.”
I had not heard of his election, and could scarcely believe my ears.
“I've heard of him,” said the gentleman. “I believe he's a very popular and promising man, but I don't think he will do. We want men of standing and responsibility if we can get them. The board will be made up of the most substantial citizens, I tell you. It's no place for small fry. I'll consider Jack, and perhaps you can think of another man as available.”
“Well, there's Jim,” Joe suggested.
“All right—I'll consider Jim.”
That was about the end of the interview, and within twenty-four hours Joe, Jack, and Jim had received the pledge they required. The charter went through with scarcely a murmur of dissent. The appointments were duly made according to the plans of McCarthy.
“It's a pity we had to have those fellows,” I remarked.
“Oh, they won't like the job,” said he, with a laugh.
We were at the first meeting of the board. Every member was present. The president rapped for order and said:
“Gentlemen, we have secured our charter, and now we have other important work to do. First, it is my duty to inform you that we have need of money and not a dollar in the treasury. I suggest that each member of this board lend the sum of ten thousand dollars to the enterprise, to provide a fund for preliminary expenses, and shall be glad to know your pleasure.”
A motion was promptly made and carried, with only three dissenting votes, which called for that sum from each. The dissenting votes were those of Joe, Jack, and Jim. Joe rose, and protested with some feeling.
“Of course, if any member finds it a hardship,” said the president, “he is at liberty to resign, but I trust that all are able to meet the requirements. The money is likely to be returned within a year from date.”
“It looks as if I were left at the pole,” said Joe, as he sat down.
That was the last we saw of the three outwitted sharpers in the meetings of the bridge board.
Joe came to see the gentleman next day, and began his talk with high words.
“Did you want something for nothing?” said the latter. “Did you think I was naming you to pay for your influence? Why, I never bought a vote or a favor in my life, and never will. I told you plainly that we wanted substantial citizens only, and that it was no kettle for small fish.”
The other smiled politely, and took off his hat. “I salute you,” he said. “I thought I was something of a bluffer, but you've raised me out of the game. Good-day.”
Not long after that Jim attacked the gentleman with gross invective on the floor of the House. McCarthy took the floor in a silence full of friendly feeling.
“The gentleman alleges that I am a liar,” said he, with calm dignity. “Now, it may be that I have been deceiving myself and my friends, but of this I am sure, Mr. Speaker, the gentleman has forgotten his manners, for I take it this is no place for the delivery of such information. He has said the like of one, also, who can never speak for himself again in this world, which is the more to be regretted. Without any disrespect to him, I may be permitted to doubt if he holds a brief for the judgment of the quick and the dead.”
His assailant never quite recovered from this rebuke, and ever after was playfully called “the Judge.”
McCarthy had ceased to speak of the gentleman within himself, but even his enemies did not fail to acknowledge and respect that great thing in him.
CHAPTER VIII.—IN WHICH WE TAKE SUPPER WITH THE FIRST CÆSAR OF THE CORPORATIONS
HE next day, on the steps of the Capitol, I met the Hon. Bonaparte Squares, a large, portly, handsome man with a deep, musical voice and a brown mustache and goatee, He seized my hand and shook it warmly.
“Old man,” he said, “I've been looking for you ever since we parted at Niagara Falls. I heard you were here, and I want to have a talk with you.”
I went aside with him.
“First,” he added, “I want to pay you that fifty dollars with interest to date. I couldn't find you after the tight-rope performance or I should have paid you then.”
“Give me the principal, never mind the interest,” I said.
“I insist,” said he. “Here are seventy-five dollars. Please forgive me—the thing had slipped my mind.”
I took only the fifty dollars, and asked how he had prospered.
“Oh, I'm getting along,” said he. “I have a good law practice in New York and a house on Fifth Avenue. When you go to New York, if I'm there, please look me up.”
I left Bony, for the gentleman was climbing the steps and we had much to do.
It was the middle of February, 1868. McCarthy was on some of the most important committees, including Ways and Means and Railroads, and had got his head above the crowd. Suddenly he was called to New York by the Commodore.
“Come to my house at 5.30 to-morrow,” the telegram said.
McCarthy wanted me to go with him, and I went. On the way down he told me that any day he was likely to be served with papers in a suit by the talented young lady.
“So far they've done nothing but threaten,” said he. “It may be it's only a bluff—an effort to scare me. I wish they'd act if they're going to. Have you said anything to Sarah about this?”
“Not a word,” was my answer.
“Don't,” said the gentleman. “Above all, don't let her know that I love her. If she gets a suitable offer she ought to accept it.”
“I have reason to believe that she is fond of you.”
His lips trembled when he turned to me and said: “Heron, if I knew that, I should be the happiest of men. But, you know, these are her best days. She ought not to wait for me.”
We rode part of the way over steel rails at fifty miles an hour in a new “parlor-car,” which the road was trying, with a small buffet at the front, and where we could be served with fruit and sandwiches and tea and coffee.
We arrived at the Commodore's ten minutes ahead of time. The first Caesar of the corporations came into the small reception-room to greet us, his straight, columnar form neatly fitted with a frock suit of black broadcloth. His dignified face, his white hair and choker gave him the look of an archbishop.
“Boy, I want to talk with you for five minutes,” he said to McCarthy. “Come up to my room.”
They were gone about half an hour, and on their return a clock on the mantel was striking six.
“Look here, boys,” said the Commodore, “it's six o'clock; you must come in to supper with us.”
“We're not dressed for company,” said the gentleman.
“You're all right,” said Mr. Vanderbilt. “You know where the bath-room is—go right up an' wash if ye want to.”
In two or three minutes we entered the parlors, and were introduced to a number of people; among whom was the Rev. Doctor Deems. It was a plainly furnished house, as things go now, but comfortable and homelike. The pictures were mostly family portraits, the largest of which was one of the Commodore's mother. There were models, in gold and silver, of steamships and locomotives on the mantel in the great front parlor. We took our seats at the supper-table.
At his best the Commodore was a playful and kindly man. There had been days when he wore his “railroad look,” and his words were as thunder and lightning, but now he was like a schoolboy. He ate only Spanish mackerel and a small venison steak, and drank a glass of champagne with it, and meanwhile said many droll things which have quite escaped my memory.
“For a man with a war on his hands, you're very cheerful,” said Doctor Deems.
“Doctor, I never let business interfere with pleasure,” said he. “I've reversed the old rule; my home is for comfort and pleasure, and I keep business out of it except when McCarthy comes.”
Supper over, the ladies retired, and cigars were passed to the men, who remained for a smoke with the Commodore. He smoked big cigars, and always said that when he gave up smoking it would be time to give him up.
“What ship is that supposed to be?” the minister asked, looking at the golden model of a ship trimmed with flowers in the centre of the table.
“The Caroline,” said the Commodore. “She was my first ship, and a beauty—brass and mahogany trim, and every comfort—and when she was all ready I gave Delmonico an order for the best dinner he could get up. He served it in her cabin, down the bay, one beautiful afternoon. I had landed at Staten Island, and sent for my dear old mother, and showed her all over the ship. Then I h'isted the flags, and took her into the cabin and sat her down at the table opposite me. There were a number of my friends seated with us. Mother was astonished. She looked around, and says:
“'Corneel, how the devil did you do it?'”
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” said Doctor Deems, “I'm sorry, but I have to doubt your veracity.”
“What do you mean?” the Commodore demanded.
“Well,” said the Doctor, “when you sit there and tell me that your dear old Christian mother asked a question like that, it casts a doubt on the whole story.”
The Commodore lowered his cigar, and said, with a sad smile:
“You're right, Doctor, she said it different—no doubt o' that. I have a miserable habit of swearing. Got it years ago, when my office was the top of a barrel down at the Battery. It seemed to be necessary those days, and sometimes I thought it was a help in the steamboat business, but of course it wasn't. I ought to be ashamed of it, and I am. I'm like a horse with a hitch in his gait: it's bad, but you can't blame the horse so much, after all.”
There was a touch of greatness in his answer, it seemed to me, and gave us all a broader charity for the lion-mouthed men of that day, and God knows there were many of them. A young man who sat with us asked the Commodore if he might quote his answer to Doctor Deems.
“Why, sonny, I haven't the least objection,” said the Commodore. “Everybody knows that I swear, and they ought to know why, if they don't.”
He was always very frank in the matter of his faults and vices, and his word for the meanest thing in the world was “sneak.”
“Would you mind telling us the secret of your success?” the young man asked.
“There's no secret in success, boy,” said the Commodore. “There's always a secret in failure, but not in success.”
On our way to the St. Nicholas, McCarthy said to me: “To-morrow we're likely to see one of the greatest battles in history. It's between the Commodore on one side, and Fisk and his associates on the other.”
“And what's the prize?” I asked.
“The Erie road,” said the gentleman. “It's in the hands of wreckers and pirates who are cutting rates, and are likely to make us all kinds of trouble. The Commodore is buying the stock; it will probably be cornered to-morrow. I'm pretty well loaded, and am going to sell everything but my Hudson River and Harlem stock at the opening.”
“I wonder what he wants of more trouble, with all his riches,” I said. “He owns the Harlem, the Hudson River, the Central, the Lake Shore, and a part of the Michigan Southern. Isn't that enough?”
“But he wants to build up a great, impregnable system,” said McCarthy, “the one we've been dreaming about. To be sure, he's got all the money he wants for himself and his posterity, but he keeps working and striving and building. Don't you remember that lecture of Mr. Emerson's, in which he spoke of man's love of the permanent? It was that love which slowly raised the Egyptian pyramids and the vast cathedrals of Europe. Now it is expressing itself in railroad systems, and tunnels through miles of mountain rock, and bridges over great rivers. We begin a long task, and know well that we shall never live to finish it; yet we strive and worry and suffer for it. Sometimes we give all for its sake, even our honor and our heart's blood. Like patriotism is our love for the permanent. We must work for those who follow us. It's God's will. Now you can understand why Vanderbilt is buying Erie: it's more rock for his pyramid. He's the great builder of his time. Drew and Gould and Fisk are destroyers; they're working for themselves. Vanderbilt is working for America; he ceased to work for himself long ago. He's Uncle Sam in flesh and blood, that's who he is—a plain, blunt, terrible fighting-man who leads the army of progress. No angel, but square. He could have robbed the Harlem bondholders, but he made them hang on till they got a profit. Next to Lincoln and Grant, he's the greatest man of his time.”