• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

A deputy pinioned Morrissey’s hands and feet. At 12:09 p.m., a black shroud was drawn over the prisoner’s eyes. One minute later, the signal was given. The future president of the United States pressed the lever, which pulled out the iron pin on which the trap rested. Morrissey fell through the trapdoor. His neck broke, and his body hung there, dangling in the breeze. He died without a struggle.

Some of the witnesses turned away from the ghastly sight; others looked on in morbid fascination. The gallows had been constructed, to Cleveland’s specifications, in such a way that the sheriff would not have to see the prisoner hanged. At 12:13 p.m., a doctor came forward and found no pulse on the prisoner. Morrissey was officially pronounced dead at 12:17 p.m. His body remained hanging for a total of twenty-five minutes. It was then cut down and placed in the coffin.

Cleveland found the entire experience “grievously distasteful,” and was in utter anguish. And the next execution was just three weeks away.

Fred and Cecil, the Cleveland brothers who had served with distinction in the Civil War, were now in the hotel business together. Fred owned Fairfield House, a summer resort in Connecticut. He, like Grover, was strong-willed. He had one policy at Fairfield House that was strictly enforced, no exceptions. Employees were forbidden from accepting tips. When Fred discovered that a waiter had pocketed a Christmas gift from an appreciative woman guest, he immediately had him fired.

“I will not have those in my house who are unable or unwilling to fee the servants put to any disadvantage,” Fred thundered. (Tips were called fees in those days.)

Only after the guest begged Fred to relent did he grudgingly take the waiter back—but only on the condition that he refund the money.

In 1872, Fred purchased from the British colonial government the lease for the Royal Victoria Hotel, the finest hotel in the Bahamas. During the Civil War, the Royal Victoria had been a haunt of Confederate spies and smugglers and had quite the reputation as a place for tropical bacchanals and skullduggery. The Blockade Runners’ Ball, a notorious party honoring smugglers, was once held there, and some 350 magnums of champagne were consumed. Now, in these days of peace, wealthy American tourists were sailing to the Bahamas and staying at the Royal Victoria Hotel for the winter. The hotel was said to be the most splendid ever to be built in the tropics, and Grover Cleveland’s brother was the new manager and leaseholder. Fred invited his brother Cecil to go with him and help him open the hotel for the season, and Cecil, who had been struggling to find his niche in business, jumped at the opportunity.

On their way to New York City to link up with the steamship that would take them to the Bahamas, Fred had an ominous premonition.

“I do not know how it is, but I have an impression that I cannot get rid of, that this will be my last voyage,” he said.

Accompanying the Cleveland brothers was a large contingent of staff they had hired to work at the Royal Victoria. On a Friday morning in October, everyone boarded the steamship Missouri—in all, ninety-eight passengers. Most were traveling to Havana, but others, like Fred and Cecil and their staff, were disembarking at Nassau in the Bahamas.

From day one, there were problems: Some boiler malfunction made the ship start and stop, slowing down the voyage; and the winds from the north were light before they picked up on the third day. There was a heavy sea. Four days out, on October 22, 1872, as Fred and Cecil and the other passengers were eating breakfast, the call “Fire!” rang out. Crewmen filled buckets with water and headed for the engine room. In those early moments, everything seemed under control.

“It is nothing but a box of matches, and all is out,” the chief steward assured the passengers.

But just as he said this, flames were seen bursting out of the engine room. Pandemonium followed. Everyone ran to the main deck, and the captain ordered