1876 (45 page)

This morning, after I had finished the last draft of my weekly piece, I went to the Everett House, where I found the suite of rooms occupied by the Democratic National Committee packed with political hangers-on. Ticker tape pours in political intelligence from all about the country. There is a good deal of bustle but to no useful end, according to the critical Bigelow.

The new party chairman, Abram S. Hewitt, is an amiable but inexperienced political manager, unable to make that necessary distance between himself and those would-be officeholders who fill the rooms at the Everett House, an all-important distance superbly kept by Tilden himself.

Bigelow told me that the other night Tilden was sitting up late with a pair of powerful New York politicians, hungry for spoils. Relaxing over the Governor’s best hock, one of them said, “Now tell us, Governor, what’s in it for us when you come into the Kingdom?”

“Why, boys,” whispered the great man, smiling his small smile, left eyelid drooping with fatigue, “you know that you don’t want office for yourselves, because that would do your character more harm than good. What you really want is influence with the administration. That’s what counts.”

Tilden is as splendidly ambiguous when it comes to the dark side of politics as he is fiercely forthright when it comes to the issues of the day; thus, he is the reverse of every important politician in the country.

Physically, the Governor is holding up well, according to Bigelow. I have not seen him since the banquet in July at Delmonico’s where those wealthy magnificoes who support reform (I cannot think why) pledged their fealty over canvasback duck.

As I was rather forlornly inquiring for Bigelow in the Everett House confusion, Hewitt himself appeared at my side and said, “He’s down at Liberty Street. Where the
real
work is done.”

Before I could commiserate, the national chairman was borne away by clubhouse types. Like his leader, Hewitt is a martyr to dyspepsia. He is, also, I have just discovered, a son-in-law of the eccentric millionaire Peter Cooper, who is the Greenback candidate for president. “Soft” versus “hard” currency is one of the battles being fought between—and within—all the parties.

With difficulty, I got through the crowd of future postmasters, consuls and custom house men. Victory is in the air. Faithful and faithless gather round.

At 59 Liberty Street the Literary Bureau has been installed, with its own printing press; also, the Speakers Bureau. Tilden’s brother-in-law Colonel Pelton officially runs both, but Bigelow assures me that the actual administration of the entire campaign is the work of Tilden himself. Hewitt complains that he has too little access to the Governor.

In a windowless office the size of my hotel closet I found Bigelow at a table piled high with newspapers. In the next room some twenty men and several women sat at long tables, answering piles of correspondence by hand. There are, apparently, too few typewriter-machinists to take over this burdensome task.

“Even so, the Governor wants every letter answered.”

Bigelow shut the door to the closet. I was disagreeably aware that the wick of the kerosene lamp on his table wanted trimming.

Bigelow was in high good spirits. “You read about the ovation he got in Philadelphia?” “He,” said in a certain voice, is always Tilden.

“I’ve mentioned it in my next piece.”

Bigelow gave me a quick smile. “Your pieces in the
Herald
are being reproduced in every small-town newspaper in the country.”

“Without permission?” I affected horror.

“They do us a world of good. Oh, we’re on our way.” Bigelow clapped his hands; then ran a hand through hair that tends to arrange itself in grey tufts, rather like those sharp mountain peaks in the Dolomites.

“Our only trouble now is money.”

“Of all things!” I was surprised. “The Governor ...”

“... is a rich man.
Ergo
, other rich men say, ‘Why should we give him the money that he already has?’ ”

“So
why
doesn’t he pay for the campaign himself?”

“His
proprium
, I suppose. He doesn’t want people to say he bought the election.”

“Which they do.”
Harper’s
have outdone themselves with caricatures of Tilden pouring forth money from a barrel.

“As it is, he’s forced to pay for most of this.” Bigelow indicated 59 Liberty Street with a sweep of an ink-stained hand. “But he has hoped all along to win on the issues.”

“But the people dislike issues. They prefer scandal.”

“Some people. By the way, we’ve just solved the income-tax problem.”

I think Bigelow is unduly sanguine. For weeks now the Republican newspapers have been going on and on about Tilden’s taxes. Last month
The New York Times
made thirteen charges against Tilden, accusing him of various tax frauds. After much labour, Tilden answered the charges so skillfully that
The Nation
, which had previously regarded the whole business as “an ugly flaw” in the candidate’s history, now praises him.

Best of all, Bryant is angry at the unfairness of the attacks and he has promised to defend—if not support—his old colleague. Meanwhile, the egregious editors of
The New York Times
promise to reveal “new rascalities of Tilden”: theirs is a most inventive newspaper. I am certain that Tilden underpaid his taxes, but all the rich do, including Hayes.

Day after day, political orators range up and down the country. “We’ve the best organization, by far,” said Bigelow. “But the Republicans have the best speakers. What with Blaine” (two months ago translated from House to Senate by his native state, causing the House to drop its investigation of his crimes), “Ingersoll, Garfield, Mark Twain, General Sherman ...”

“What about Conkling?”

“Silence. Illness, they say. He lies in a darkened room at Utica.” Bigelow was enjoying the warrior’s defeat altogether too much.

“Emma has had a letter from Kate Sprague. She’s coming home this fall.”

“When they meet, I should like to be—what is it our French friends say?—a fly on that wall.”

Colonel Pelton joined us. I offered him my chair, the only chair aside from Bigelow’s, but he preferred, nervously, to pace the tiny room. “We’ve got to get more money into both Ohio and Indiana. And we haven’t got it. Belmont’s come through but the others ...” He shook his head.

They treat me as one of the family, and speak of the most arcane matters in my presence. Indiana and Ohio are crucial; although Election Day is November 7, these two states will hold local elections on October 10, and whoever wins the two states—both ordinarily Republican—will be sure to win the country.

The Democratic organization in Ohio has been indolent. Yet “Just a few more pennies,” Pelton groaned, “and we could take Hayes’s own state away from him.”

“More pennies
and
a better organization.” They mentioned names of important politicians who might be sent out. Was Bigler too ill? would Kernan go? and what about the infinitely corrupt, hence infinitely persuasive, Senator Barnum of Connecticut? is he not the ideal person to charm the sly Indianans?

The subject turned then—as always—to the South. “We’ll carry every state south of the Mason-Dixon line.” Bigelow was emphatic.

Pelton was equally emphatic, and deeply uneasy. Eight states of the former Confederacy have self-government. Of the eight, five have secure white majorities. But three of the self-governing states (I begin to think that one should use quotes about the phrase “self-governing”)—Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi—have black majorities.

“Grant can always put the pressure on. They can force those Negroes to vote against us.”

But Bigelow is certain that “The Negroes are as apt to support us as them. Besides, the whites will—to a man—vote for us and against Grantism. Oh, we’ll carry those states all right. By the way, Colonel, they want the Governor at the Alabama state fair. If you can arrange it ...”

Smoke from Pelton’s cigar had by now so filled the closet that I was beginning to feel ill. But I stayed where I was, eager to find out what I could. After all,
my
future (the United States can go hang!) depends on a Tilden victory.

“I’ve had another alarming letter from Louisiana.”

“The famous Returning Board?”

Pelton nodded. I tried to look intelligent but had no idea what they were talking about. “The Republicans have complete control over the board, and no matter what the Democratic majority they will report that the state voted Republican, and the Supreme Court has already ruled that there can be no appeal from their decision.”

“But they would never dare. This isn’t Mexico.”

“My correspondent also says that in the parish of Baton Rouge, the Republicans can and will vote the same Negro twenty-two times, and no one will ever have any way of catching them at it.”

“But there is still such a thing as public opinion ...”

“There are also, still, Federal troops in Louisiana ... as there are in South Carolina and Florida. And these troops report directly to the commander in chief. To President Grant.”

“Grant is always ill-advised, but I cannot see him subverting the Constitution.”

By now the room was dim with blue smoke and I was beginning to see double; had difficulty breathing. The voices of my companions came to me as if from far away; it was like the moment just before one slips into unconsciousness from nitrous oxide.

“I think we should send some of our people to Louisiana, and to Florida. Make sure that they don’t steal us blind.”

“But who will go? And the money ...”

Always money. To date, Jamie estimates that Tilden has spent close to half a million dollars on this campaign. The Republicans have spent perhaps twice that amount, but then the party’s chairman, Zach. Chandler, and secretary William Chandler (no relation to Zach.)
have resorted to the ever-useful spoilsman’s tactic of requiring all Republican officeholders to contribute to the party. Obviously there is a good deal to be said for being the party in power, particularly after sixteen years.

When Pelton left, I insisted that the door be kept open. New air revived me. Bigelow told me that he does not take seriously the possibility of fraud at the South or, rather, “They will of course
try
to steal the election. Then they will be caught
in flagrante
and even
The New York Times
will have to admit that this is not the way to conduct the affairs of a democracy.”

Bigelow changed the subject. “I do wish the Governor would take a holiday, go to the White Mountains—”

“He prefers Gramercy Park?”

“And running every detail of the campaign. He wears himself out. He has spent more time on that damnable report on his taxes than on anything else. It’s been a nightmare. I’ve never seen him so irritable. But,” Bigelow quickly added, “he is extraordinarily strong, physically as well as mentally.”

I rose, unsteadily, to go. “Is there anything I should know about Governor Hayes?”

Bigelow nodded. “Something odd. When we were preparing our paper on Governor Tilden’s tax returns, we asked the government for Governor Hayes’s returns, too. The government refused to make them public. That’s interesting.”

“I’m not excited by taxes, John. What I really want to know is whether or not Hayes shot his mother.”

“I should think not.” Bigelow was droll. “But you might wonder—aloud, as it were—in print, if such a terrible thing could ever have happened.”

ELECTION DAY: November 7, 1876.

In October Ohio went Republican by a mere six thousand votes. Bigelow and Pelton were right: with more money and more industry, the state would have been Democratic. On the other hand, the October canvass in Indiana was heartening. The Democrats won the state by five thousand votes.

I have been too busy to make any notes in this book. I make them now only because I am nervous; have nothing else to do; can no longer assist the Governor, whose fate is presently in the hands of the electorate.

At this very minute, millions of people who will never so much as get a glimpse of Tilden or of Hayes or understand what either represents are now choosing between them, and, I fear, there will be votes cast for Hayes because he is thought to be against the Roman Catholics and votes for Tilden because he is the opposite. Hayes himself has been responsible for thrusting religion into the campaign because, as he told an intimate, “Hard times is our deadliest foe.” So bait the Catholics. But the phrase “Tilden and Reform”
seems
to have caught on. Proof? President Grant has appointed 11,501 deputy marshals and 4,813 supervisors to police the polls, particularly in the Democratic wards of the Northern cities and in the Democratic South. Word has just come that Grant’s supervisors in Philadelphia are wearing Republican badges and making things difficult for those who want to vote Democratic.

Emma is staying with Denise in the Sanfords’ half-completed Fifth Avenue mansion. Sanford has been in the West working for Hayes. If Sanford is sufficiently industrious, the West is bound to vote for Tilden.

With suspicious docility, John Apgar has agreed to a postponement of the October wedding at Grace Church. Somewhat guiltily, we have made occasional forays into Apgar-land; and detect there a slight chill in the air—premonition of harsh winter?

But Emma is plausible. She has told John that she worries about Denise’s health (which is actually excellent), as well as that of her beloved old father (which is probably failing rapidly but I do not allow it to preoccupy me). In any case, John knows how important the election is to us and he has made no serious demur. I have not really had him to
myself
since our evening with Mr. Clemens.

As soon as this day is over—if it ever ends!—I must have that deep, serious talk with John and Emma about marriage, about the future, about France, where—God willing—I shall be the American minister once Tilden is inaugurated president in March.

It is now noon. I sit in my single room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, writing these notes in bed. A dark sky over Madison Square. A cold rain falling. Traditionally, bad weather is a good sign for the Democrats, since it means that the Republican farmers upstate will stay home while the loyal party members in the city will get out the vote. Presently I shall go to the Everett House, where Tilden is expected to make an appearance. Betting in the city is that Tilden will be elected. Odds: 100 to 80.