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he had appointed the first Irish American judge and the first black judge. But Southern delegates remembered Butler for other reasons—during the Civil War, he had been known by the epithet “Spoons,” due to accusations that he had pilfered the silverware of Southern plantations in which he resided during military campaigns. He was also called “the Beast,” because of his stern rule as commander of Union forces occupying New Orleans, during which he issued the notorious General Order No. 28, decreeing that a woman showing disrespect to a Union soldier would be deemed a “woman of the town plying her avocation”—that is, a prostitute.

In 1884, Butler was unelectable, his delegate strength eroding by the day. As one Southern delegate said of Butler, “We may be willing to eat crow, but we’ll be damned if we’ll eat turkey buzzard.” The wounds of war still echoed on the floor of the convention hall, where the band played both “Yankee Doodle”—and “Dixie.”

It was no accident that Butler and Kelly were occupying adjacent rooms at Palmer House. They were always in cahoots, coming out of Kelly’s suite, striding arm in arm, in deep conversation. Had a pact been reached between these two wily operators? Butler running as a spoiler candidate on a third party ticket in November could siphon votes from the Democrats and throw the election to James Blaine. One conspiracy theory making the rounds was that Kelly and Butler were clandestinely coordinating everything through Blaine.

Delegates from the South and West viewed the election as their best chance since the Civil War of electing a Democratic president. With Cleveland, they had a candidate with a virtuous image who could finally retake the White House. They cursed Boss Kelly’s name. He was a Democrat “for revenue only,” a “national disgrace,” a “tumor,” and his men were “banditti.” Others saw Kelly’s plotting as a blessing in disguise. Tammany Hall held an unparalleled reputation for corruption, and while it controlled the votes of thousands of New Yorkers, mostly Irish immigrants, it was said that for every Tammany vote lost, Cleveland would gain the support of five Republicans or independents just on principle. The New York Times estimated that if Tammany bolted, the Democratic ticket would actually result in a net gain of a half million votes come the November election.

Victory seemed within Cleveland’s grasp. Wilson Bissell was observed in the bartoasting his success before the convention even officially opened for business.

On opening day of the convention, as storm clouds rolled over Chicago’s skies, delegates streamed into Exposition Hall. Just one month before, the Republican Party, which had nominated Blaine, had held its national convention in the same arena. Boss Kelly sneaked in without his usual flourish, but as he took his seat in the New York delegation, he was instantly recognizable in his stylish lightweight white summer suit, which, impeccably tailored as it was, could not conceal his husky bulk.

Back in Albany, Grover Cleveland was attending to state business and trying to ignore the fuss at Exposition Hall. Bissell, Hudson, and Apgar were all in Chicago running the political operation, although the ailing Apgar had to remain in his hotel room that first day, too frail to work the hustle and bustle of the convention floor. The only key aide who remained with Cleveland in the state capital was his private secretary, Dan Lamont. Cleveland rebuffed Western Union’s offer to run a special wire into his office, so news from Exposition Hall came via a messenger running on foot from the branch telegraph office to the governor’s Executive Chamber. For this historic week, Mary Cleveland Hoyt and two of Cleveland’s nieces were staying at the governor’s mansion to share in his glory. Cleveland remained ambivalent about the nomination—just eight days earlier he had told Manning he had “not a particle of ambition to be president.” Perhaps Cleveland’s keen instinct for self-preservation was alerting him to the storm that was coming his way.

U.S. Congressman Daniel Lockwood of