Chapter 28

CHAPTER VII,—MCCARTHY S FIRST BATTLE WITH SATAN

THOSE 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 prot�g� 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.