Roosevelt (8 page)

At this time United States senators from New York were chosen not directly by the voters but by the state assembly and senate meeting in joint session. The Democrats had won control of both houses in the 1910 election; if they stuck together they could name the next senator. When Roosevelt first arrived in Albany the field seemed open and a number of candidates were lining up support in the legislature. Suddenly the whole situation changed. Charles F. Murphy, boss of Tammany, passed the word down that the Democrats’ man would be William F. Sheehan. “Blue-eyed Billy,” as he was called, did not represent the worst of Tammany, but not the best either. Originally a Buffalo politician, he had savagely fought the rising Grover Cleveland. Later he had won riches and influence in New York City as a traction and utilities magnate. Now he yearned for a place in the Senate—the “most exclusive club in the world”—to bring his career to a grand finale.

Everything about the case—Sheehan’s early opposition to Cleveland, his later record, Boss Murphy’s easy assumption that the Democrats would fall in line, Tammany’s influence in general—was calculated to goad the young senator into action. Besides, an excellent “honest government” candidate was available in Edward M. Shepard of Brooklyn, counsel for the Pennsylvania Railroad and a civic leader. “Shepard is without question the most competent to fill the position,” Roosevelt wrote in his diary on January 1, “but the Tammany crowd seems unable to forgive him his occasional independence and Sheehan looks like their choice at this stage of the game. May the result prove that I am wrong! There is no question in my mind that the Democratic party is on trial, and having been given control of the government chiefly through up-State votes, cannot afford to surrender its control to the organization in New York City.”

Tammany showed its power at the first Democratic caucus that Roosevelt attended. Senator Tom Grady, leader of the Democrats in the senate, was occasionally given to independence and to alcohol. In the caucus Murphy easily deposed him. Roosevelt was pleased with the development. Grady’s ability was unquestioned, he noted loftily in his diary, but “not so his habits or his character.” Indeed, if Tammany had not ditched Grady, Roosevelt might have bolted the party then and there. Robert F. Wagner, a steady young senator from Manhattan’s upper East Side, took Grady’s place. Alfred E. Smith, another young Tammanyite, who in seven terms of
office had shown himself a dexterous, trigger-swift legislator, became majority leader in the assembly. The method of party control was simple. The Democrats commanded a majority in each chamber. Tammany commanded a majority of the Democrats. Thus, if all went according to party custom, a minority of Tammanyites could control the whole legislature, including the election of a United States senator.

During early January rumblings of opposition to Sheehan reached Murphy’s ears. His response was in character: no patronage or committee appointments would be given out until the Democrats toed the line. This was too much for a small group of assemblymen led by Edmund R. Terry of Brooklyn. They decided to boycott the caucus in order not to be bound by the caucus decision; by joining with the Republicans they could deny Tammany the necessary votes for Sheehan’s election.

Roosevelt got wind of this development and immediately joined the rebel group. On the night of January 16, while most of the Democrats went to their caucus to choose Sheehan, Roosevelt and Terry met in their headquarters. Both were nervous. Murphy was bringing pressure on the rebels, and Governor Dix was standing by the Tammany boss. Slowly the rest of the Insurgents, as they were called, arrived, and it became clear that the Democratic caucus could not command enough votes to put Sheehan over. Hopefully the rebels waited for a truce offer from Tammany, but none came. Murphy had only begun to fight.

Schooled in the politics of the Gas House district of New York City, Murphy had fought his way up through the Tammany hierarchy with his fists and wits. A big, glum, taciturn man who liked to receive his satraps at Delmonico’s, he was used to rebellions and he knew how to handle them. His moves against the Insurgents were ingenious and ruthless. From Boss William Barnes, who was delighted at the rupture in Democratic ranks, he got a promise that the Republicans would stand firm for their own man, incumbent Senator Chauncey M. Depew, until Murphy could overcome the rebels. He lined up state committeemen in the Insurgents’ districts to exert pressure on their most vulnerable flank: the next election. Insurgents’ appointees in government jobs were fired, their law firms boycotted, and other reprisals were threatened. Finally—and most harassing of all—Tammany whispered that the attack on Sheehan was simply an attack on Catholics and Irishmen. “Every conceivable form of pressure” had been brought to bear on the group, Roosevelt told the press with some exaggeration.

Although not the initiator of the revolt, Roosevelt gradually became its leader. He was informally chosen chairman at an early meeting and he usually spoke for the group. Acting essentially as a
presiding officer rather than a dominant chieftain, he conducted diplomatic negotiations with the Tammany forces. His leadership was partly due to the proximity of his home, and to the fact that he was a senator and the others virtually all assemblymen. It was also due to his resoluteness, good humor, and resourcefulness.

As the struggle deepened the Insurgents won nationwide attention. The fight against bossism struck a popular note. Progressives had long denounced the United States Senate as a “millionaires’ club” packed with hirelings of the trusts. The national Senate was under a drumfire of criticism for holding up a proposed constitutional amendment to require direct election of senators. Woodrow Wilson, just installed in the governor’s mansion in Trenton, was battling a move in the New Jersey legislature to send a noted boss to the Senate, and Theodore Roosevelt, who had come out in 1910 for direct primaries, seemed to favor popular election of senators. These changes, along with the initiative and referendum, were key parts of the Progressives’ apparatus of reform.

Newspapers throughout the country featured the fight that this new Roosevelt was making against bossism. Even more gratifying to the young senator were the hundreds of letters he received from his constituents. “Stand firm,” most of them urged. A few letters were hostile. “You know what they done to your Uncle Teddy,” he was warned. But his mail from the district ran heavily in favor of the Insurgents.

Early in the fight Sheehan warned Roosevelt to his face that he would go into the Insurgents’ constituencies and “show up their characters.” The Tammany politician carried out his threat, but his invasion of Dutchess County was a conspicuous failure. Regular Democratic leaders in Poughkeepsie, seeking to keep on friendly relations with the powerful Tammany elements in the party, gave a dinner for Sheehan and collected 265 names on a petition demanding that Roosevelt go along with the caucus decision. The petition did not worry Roosevelt. The more opposition from regular Democrats, the more popularity he gained with independents and Republicans.

On January 30 Murphy himself sought out Roosevelt. Was there any chance the Insurgents would change their minds? “No, Mr. Murphy,” Roosevelt answered. The Insurgents held strategic ground. They would not give in.

To hand out statements to the press, to deal with Murphy on equal terms, to assume heroic proportions in the eyes of voters back home—all this was heady stuff for the twenty-nine-year-old Roosevelt. But before the end his appetite for the fight palled.

For one thing, the struggle became unduly protracted. Week
after week went by with no break in the deadlock. Staying in session these extra weeks was expensive and inconvenient for the legislators, who received only $1,500 a year and ordinarily were in Albany only one or two days a week during the first three or four months of the year. They tended to blame the Insurgents. Pressures on the small group steadily built up, and Roosevelt and Terry had trouble holding their cohorts in line. Moreover, the struggle became increasingly complex as time passed. As Sheehan’s chances dwindled, more and more candidates—at least a score of them—entered the lists. Every new candidate changed the pattern of pressures and loyalties amid which the Insurgents were operating.

Even more important, at least for Roosevelt, was the change in the moral climate of the struggle. It was easy to soar on a high ethical plane, to be on the side of righteousness against wickedness. But was the issue this simple? Tammany was not a monolithic evil. Roosevelt could not but respect the honesty and integrity of men like Wagner and Smith. The machine, he discovered, was not really a machine, but a collection of men with crisscrossing loyalties and motivations. Revolts against Murphy flared in the strongest Tammany districts. Even more surprising, Murphy himself was not a dead-ender for Sheehan; as the deadlock continued and Sheehan’s chances faded, Murphy quietly began to line up support for Dan Cahalan, his lieutenant and son-in-law. Boss Barnes and his Republican minions played a crafty game, negotiating at one point with Tammany, at the next with the Insurgents. Instead of a grand rally between clean-cut opposing forces, the struggle began to look like Tolstoi’s picture of war as a confused scramble of men and groups.

Strange maneuverings took place on the Insurgent side too. Unable to make headway with Barnes, Roosevelt tried to arrange a bipartisan deal with influential Republicans through a group of eminent and conservative Cleveland Democrats, most notably Francis Lynde Stetson, attorney for J. P. Morgan. Roosevelt hoped to win over Republican support for a conservative, clean-government Democrat for senator. But some of the Stetson group apparently wanted a
quid pro quo—
an understanding that the anti-Tammany Democrats would continue as an anti-Progressive group pledged to oppose bills such as the then pending income-tax amendment. When Samuel Untermeyer looked like a possible compromise candidate, this same group, remembering Untermeyer’s antitrust and anti-Morgan activities, helped destroy his chances. Murphy did not miss his opportunity. He charged that the Insurgents were but a front for the reactionary Stetson group.

By late March the struggle had become a bitter war of nerves. Roosevelt and Terry were losing control of their small group; “we
came near going on the rocks several times,” Roosevelt said later. Tammany was still uneasy about a possible deal between Republicans and Insurgents. At this point Murphy staged an elaborate maneuver. He suggested a compromise candidate in Justice Victor J. Dowling. Knowing that the Insurgent tail could not wag the Democratic dog, Roosevelt and his group agreed. But a day later, as the Insurgents met just before going to the caucus they had boycotted so long, word came that Dowling had refused the nomination and Murphy had substituted the name of Justice James A. O’Gorman, formerly Grand Sachem of Tammany Hall.

Could the Insurgents swallow O’Gorman? Could they afford not to? O’Gorman, despite his Tammany connections, had shown independence from the machine. Moreover, he was ex-president of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick and beloved by the Irish. Some of the Insurgents had previously said they would accept O’Gorman. Two of the group left immediately to enter the caucus and vote for O’Gorman. The rest, badly divided, debated the matter for hours during that afternoon. Finally a majority, with Roosevelt and a few others still opposed, decided to go along with O’Gorman, after Smith and Wagner promised that there would be no reprisals. Roosevelt’s little band was deserting him.

The end was inglorious. Hoots, groans, and hisses greeted the Insurgents as they filed into the chamber for the final vote. They had done their duty as they saw it, Roosevelt said lamely. “We are Democrats—not irregulars, but regulars.” The press felt that the Insurgents had been outgeneraled. Roosevelt maintained that the Insurgents had won, but a defensive note crept into his letters to his constituents. And he was wary about future Insurgent strategy. “I believe it will be a mistake for us to try to get all of the former Insurgents together again,” he wrote to a friend, “but there are ten or twelve of us who can form a pretty good nucleus to work.”

Roosevelt could mark up some gains from the struggle. He had won national attention, he had strengthened his position in his district, and Progressives probably remembered his lengthy fight against Tammany long after they forgot the anticlimactic ending. Perhaps more important in the long run, the young politician had been given a telling education in the tactics of pressure and intrigue.

But he had suffered losses too. Midway in the struggle Sumner Gerard had urged him toward moderation. “If you go too far, needlessly, you run the danger of impairing your future political effectiveness.” Roosevelt knew what Gerard meant by his “future political effectiveness.” An aroused Tammany would spike any statewide ambitions the senator might have. But Roosevelt was in no mood to compromise. When a constituent warned him of the Tiger’s
long memory, Roosevelt said, “No, right is right, no matter who it hurts.”

He was not willing to let the issue die. Months after the Sheehan fight he told a Buffalo audience that Murphy “and his kind” must be destroyed, that the “beasts of prey have begun to fall.” Tammany lashed back. The “silly conceits of a political prig,” said a Murphy lieutenant. The party should not tolerate these fops and cads, these political accidents who “come as near being political leaders as a green pea does a circus tent.” The Tammany man compared Roosevelt’s education and background with his own leadership, which, he said, depended on “human sympathy, human interest, and human ties among those with whom I was born and bred.…”

The struggle between the high-minded patrician and the earthy, human bosses was to go on a long time. But perhaps the last words in the Sheehan struggle were uttered by Roosevelt to Frances Perkins many years later when he was President: “You know,” he said, “I was an awfully mean cuss when I first went into politics.”

The fight against Sheehan over, the senate settled down to the business of legislating. Senator Roosevelt threw himself into the work. Years later Frances Perkins remembered him on the floor of the senate: “… very active and alert, moving around the floor, going in and out of committee rooms, rarely talking with the members, who more or less avoided him, not particularly charming (that came later), artificially serious of face, rarely smiling, with an unfortunate habit—so natural that he was unaware of it—of throwing his head up.” During his two years in the senate Roosevelt seemed to be looking down his nose at people, but he was learning the craft of parliamentary politics with remarkable speed.