Part I: The Last Hurrah
September 8th, 1862
Troy, New York
There had been a time, not all that long ago that the citizens of Troy, New York talked about making a real play to move the State Capital the dozen miles up the Hudson to the real engine of the North Country. It was Troy that had the first non-military Engineering School in the nation, had the better rail lines, more factories, beautiful neighborhoods and --- something that was tempting to just about any legislator who had ever had to climb Albany’s State Street --- a gentler hillside to have been built on. Not to mention what was generally considered to be better restaurants, taverns, and bordellos. Like their cousins down the road though, they too lacked any private clubs, but that was no change after all. Albany had been chosen by the leader of the revolution, yes, but only out of desperation and military necessity.
And so for years the idea had been whispered, and the idea had seen petitions and the idea had been talked over drinks and steaks and in the company of loose women. In the 1840s and the first half of the 1850s it had seemed like an idea to seize, and in anticipation property values in Troy had creeped up, as everyone prepared for the inevitable, and for the state government to honor the growing, young, industrial dynamo of a city.
But Troy was not that powerhouse anymore. The economic crash in Fifty-Seven had been devastating, with several thousand men in the small city thrown out of work. Her political clout had faded with the fading of her prefered political party, the Whigs. In Albany a design committee began work to find a plan for a new building to be built across the street at the site of the former City Hall, so that the State Capital could be moved from the Old City Hall building, and in its place when the move was completed, a newer City Hall could rise. Albany’s colleges, in Law, Pharmacy, and in Teaching --- but not Engineering were outpacing Troy’s.
And then in the spring had come the fire. The heart of Troy, from the thousand foot long Rensselaer and Saratoga Railroad Covered Bridge, where the inferno had begun, across seventy-five acres had been ripped out by the conflagration. Dozens dead, thousands homeless, and millions of dollars of property lost, the city seemed finished.
As such, it was the perfect place to host the Constitutional Unionist Convention for the upcoming State Election. Troy, always a loyal Whig city, was matching the fortunes of her old party.
Even with all the losses in hotel and inn space, it was a small affair, made up mostly of diehards who had missed the trends in the past few years, and old men looking for a graceful way to enter their political oblivion.There was no trouble for burnt out Troy to host its guests, who after all we're only going to be present for a day or so before leaving for Albany, and then points South and West.
Joel T. Headley found the whole affair to be equal parts depressing and stressful. It had been impossible in the past few nights to go out without running into everyone else who was here for the Convention, all sorts of former Congressmen, former state legislators or state office holders like he, as a former Secretary of State, was. There were also plenty of folks who had never served in government, newspaper editors, factory owners, a few cranks who had made a living over the years passing the hat while giving Pro-Whig Speeches over the years. They were all so tired, and all so awkward with each other.
That was understandable though, none of them after all could make much of a case of being Whigs anymore. Some had supported one or the other of the two Democratic factions in the state, Hunkers and Barnburners in recent years, other had a foot in the door of the black Republicans, ready to join the list of traitors. Some like Headley himself had embraced the angry mobs and tried to save the party running as ‘Americans’, knowing nothing and tossing out comments about disgusting Irish and disloyal Germans like red meat to wild animals. In Sixty they’d scattered, there’d been no Whig or American or Constitutional Union tickets in statewide races, just a few legislators, congressional candidates, and splitting. They hadn’t even had a ballot. They’d all flocked to other factions and tried desperately to get Bell in, when that had failed they’d prayed for Crittenden, all the while making deals with whatever party might work with them for the moment.
And now they had to pretend they all hadn’t stabbed each other in the back, time and again, that they were still the heirs to Henry Clay and… well, maybe DeWitt Clinton if one squinted hard enough, and most importantly that somehow this mattered.
It was damnably hard to manage this, as hard as it had been to be a minister half a lifetime ago for Headley, but he tried to keep a brave face on it, and reminded himself again it would all be over tomorrow.
If he was lucky in fact, it might be over after this meeting.
Because the great old man of the whole convention had called on him to stop by. Washington Hunt, the young former Governor had called a private meeting, and for some reason had asked Headley to attend. The quietly spoken word, generally offered with sounds of reluctant approval was that Hunt and the rest of the party leadership were aiming to get the whole convention to nominate the Democratic ticket straight, which would be a bit of a challenge, what with the Democrats not meeting until the day after the vote here, and with the full chance the party would split again.
Regardless, an invitation from his former governor and the closest thing left to a party leader was not something that Headley would turn down, and so he walked to the decently sized house that he had been requested at, and attempted as much as he could to keep his nervous ticks under control. He hadn’t seen Hunt in years, since the American Party National Convention in ‘56 when Hunt had been chairmen and Headley a New York delegate.
For a moment he had a flash of memory thinking back to that disappointing race, and the man they had run.
It was a strange assortment of men in the rented parlor when Headley was the last to arrive. Governor Hunt was joined by his only remaining fellow still in the party, the older but more recent Myron Clark, the former Congressmen and Comptroller Lorenzo Burrows, Stephen B. Cushing, the former state Attorney General and law partner of none other than Tammany Congressmen and now by some feat, General Dan Sickles, and then the most surprising man of them all, the bearded, double-chinned millionaire and traitor of the American Party, George Law, now occasional Republican financier.
The Butler had a Cigar in Headley’s hand, opened and lit before that had actually quite sunk in. He was barely paying attention as the man asked him what he’d have to drink, it wasn’t an issue as Hunt, smiling answered for him “Mr. Hadley will have a sparkling water, Charles. Same as Governor Clark. We don’t want to force anything on our temperent friends.” And then to Headley, the one-time governor directed him to a floral stitch couch. The man sat there, and took a slow drag of the cigar.
“I find myself in quite the conclave,” he offered, sounding out the audience, “I hope you didn’t need me to make quorum.” They all offered polite, slightly amused smiles. Even Law, whom Headley eyed nervously.
“Factionally, yes we do.” Hunt responded. “And while I wish we had a few more men present for this, it will have to do as it is now.” He walked over to the brick fireplace in the room and placed his arm on the mantle, holding his whiskey in that arm and gesturing about with the other, firmly gripping his cigar between his two forefingers.
“Gentlemen, I’ve asked you all here because our tired, old political party has one chance, just one, to save itself from oblivion. I trust you have all had an ear to the ground these past few weeks. You know the state of things.”
All nodded, though Headley wondered just how much more these men knew than himself.
“If we don’t secure a ticket on the first ballot the thing is finished. We will be dead. There will be no more Whigs or Constitutional Unionists or Know-Nothings---” Headley cringed slightly at the slur of a nickname --- “or any sort of party. We will face the fact that the legacy of our party, of Webster and Clay and three Presidents will be tossed to the wayside. The machines are all gone. We are the only bosses left. And without intent to offend, I think we can all agree that we are not nearly as strong as the bosses of old.”
The former Governor began pacing the room now as he spoke, breaking only to puff on the cigar. “The convention is going to be fragmented. We don’t have the traditional means to keep it in line, and that is what our enemies are counting on.” With a flare for the dramatic Hunt paused for just a moment to look at the assembled collection before continuing. “The black Republicans gentlemen are at the gates. Here in the city. Waiting for that moment to pounce, just as they are in Albany. They have their pet ‘War Democrats’ lined up and mounted there, ready to break the opposition and repeat last years farce of the ‘People’s Ticket’, but they hope to take it outright. And here, though they haven’t come out as such we’re dealing with ‘War Whigs’,” he spat out the term as he coined it, ash from his cigar shaking onto the floor as the former governor trembled with anger. “ready to sell us out all the same.”
Headley, looking at the Governor, didn’t quite catch who it was who offered “I’ll be damned if I join those abolitionists.” He and the rest, even Law, who had done just that in 1856 when he’d lost the nomination offered agreement. They all--- at least besides Law--- agreed with that, otherwise they’d have made the ‘easy’ choice in the past several years.
“Exactly.” Said Hunt, offering a sardonic grin, as he saw that his audience had catched on. “We’ll all be damned on the ash heap of history if we fail to secure the convention. If we fail, we will harm the men who think like us in the Democrats, perhaps even cripple them, cause an outright stampede to back Morgan, or Raymond or Weed or God help up, even Greeley. The Democrats might survive that, but we won't. And neither will the country.” He didn’t have to explain why the party machinery of the Democrats going over would be a disaster. Everyone in the room understood immediately the power of War ticket labeled ‘Democrat’ over even a ‘Unionist’ one as had happened the year before.
Burrows spoke up at this point, while remaining seated on the sofa. “I’ve spoken to friends who are in Albany right now, as I’m sure all of you have. They feel a showing by the Constitutional Unionists towards a united Peace Ticket would be decisive in tipping the balance. In exchange for that, they’d be willing to toss us a good deal of patronage, Enough to keep things going, allow the party to stay alive, help us get ready for after the next Presidential Election when all this Lincolnite madness comes to an end.” --- Or to let us into their party with our dignity intact He didn’t say allowed, though Headley was sure that was part of the offer, being as he’d heard similar offers himself.
“I’ve heard the same.” Offered Hunt. “The future of our Party is going to be decided right now gentlemen. I assume you all agree that its better to join with the Jacksonians than the Abolitionists?” Nods all around, though with all eyes glancing over to Law.
“So we endorse Seymour.” Stated Burroughs as the sense of consensus spread across the room.
It was obvious, Horatio Seymour, the former Governor had made a name for himself in the past two years, walking a fine line between the Peace and War factions, opposition to Confederate Independence but also a strict and powerful call against the excesses of the Lincoln Regime. It had been he in Utica who had coined the phrase that spread across all opposition in the Republic ‘The Union as it was, the Constitution as it is.” He was on paper, the only man in the Democrats who would be able to keep at least most of the war faction contentedly in the tent, allowing for victory for Peace and Law.
Again, more nodding across the room. This was the big decision, and between all of them, they’d probably be able to get him though tomorrow, the bridge he created between Democratic Factions being an easy crossing for the divides in their own party. Headley was about to ask about if they would try to secure for themselves the Clerkship of the Court of appeals when a gruff voice spoke for the first time since he’d come in the room.
It was a deep voice, and with finality it offered a monosyllabic refusal. And yet again, all eyes turned to George Law. The corpulent man moved himself forward in the overstuffed chair, and repeated himself. “No, no, no. Seymour won’t do.”
Finally where he wanted to be in his chair, the one time American Party candidate and closest thing the Constitutional Unionist convention had to an open ‘War Whig’ leader continued. “Seymour will offend the party base. They hated him as Governor and the War faction will hate him doubly. And even more importantly, we have the Democrats over the barrel right now. They need us gentlemen, to stop their party from fracturing. And we can use them to save this organ from oblivion. I say we use it.” He leaned to one side as he reached into his jacket and from its pocket pulled out a rather crumpled looking packet, which he waved around before with determination he smacked it onto the small table in the center of the room, to which he was closest.
“We are facing an outright abolitionist administration in Washington. We are facing a party that knows only how to govern by dictatorship. This is not just about the governor’s mansion. This is about the Constitution itself. We’re on the ropes as a party. But there’s another man who has walked that line Seymour has, and better yet he’s one of ours. He’s supported this war when it was about maintaining the law, that will appeal to our Jacobins, and now, he’s come out swinging about this ‘Emancipation Proclamation’ that Lincoln released before Thoroughfare Gap was even finished. He’s the only chance we have to keep our own party united.”
Headley stood up and walked over to the table, and picked up the pamphlet unfolding it. He’d been half-sure that he knew who Law was talking about, as much as he couldn’t believe it. Governor Hunt in a few quick steps was looking over Headley’s shoulder at the pamphlet as well, and so quiet that only Headley could here muttered a curse in surprise.
When both men looked back at the Industrialist he looked pained, but was nodding. “If we want a Peace man, and we want the Constitutional Unionists to matter beyond tomorrow. And if we want a man who can actually stand up the tyrant in Washington he’s the only chance we have.”
“Will the Democrats accept him?” Asked Headley to Hunt and Law, the other men in the room looking around in confusion no longer existed in the conversation.
“They have to, unless they want this to break down into a four way election.” Said Hunt, his eyes darting across the speech in the pamphlet, taking it all in, and Headley imagined, trying to cope with the fact that it would preclude himself from securing the nomination to any major posts in State Government.
“So that settles it then, offered Law, slapping his hands on his knees. We’re going to nominate a real son of a bitch.”
It was as if the lamps in the room all caught the flame and lit at once. Everyone must have suspected, but like Headley could barely believe that it was George Law proposing it.
“I’ve got a code I can use to send a message to Albany, let Tweed and the rest of the right people know.” Offered Hunt, now grinning, with even more malevolence than before. “Hell, we’ll give them the rest of the ticket outright. But they're going to have to meet us part way, tomorrow we’re nominating President Millard Fillmore for Governor.”
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Thanks for Reading. As always, thoughts, comments and criticisms are appreciated and sought.