A Secret Life_ The Lies and Scandals of President Grover Cleveland - Charles Lachman [75]
The real spectacle came when U.S. Representative Edward S. Bragg of Wisconsin took the rostrum to second the nomination. Bragg was a retired Union general. Built like a fireplug—the “ideal size for a cavalryman”—he had a gift for spontaneous speech-making that made him a fearsome adversary on the floor of Congress. He was also cool under fire. During the battle of Antietam, he had received orders to push on, but only if it was safe—a nonsensical command because with 23,000 casualties, Antietam was the single bloodiest day in American history. Yet Bragg issued a memorable one-word charge to his soldiers: “Forward!” That was twenty-one years before. Glaring into the New York delegation, the old warrior, his hair having turned gray in service to his country, fixed a hard expression on Boss Kelly.
“I stand today to voice the sentiment of the young men of my state when I speak on behalf of Grover Cleveland.”
With a gesture of his hand, Bragg told the delegates to cease their cheers. He had something more to say.
“His name is upon their lips. His name is in their hearts . . .” A wave of sentimentality surged forth from Cleveland’s people. Here at last was the speech they had been waiting for.
“They love him, gentlemen, and respect him, not only for himself, for his character, for his integrity and judgment and iron will, but they love him most for the enemies he has made.”
Tom Grady, seated next to Boss Kelly, sprang up and wagged his fist at Bragg, his face a mask of crimson fury. “In behalf of his enemies, I accept your statement!”
Bragg looked down at Grady. He let the groundswell of hisses fill the conventional hall, and then, pointing an accusatory finger at Boss Kelly, he likened the men of Tammany to the “vilest of the human species.”
The roll call of the states commenced after midnight, July 11. When the votes for the first ballot were tabulated, Cleveland was way out in front with 392 votes, but still 155 votes shy of the two-thirds majority required to win. His closest opponent was Senator Thomas Bayard of Delaware, with 170 votes. The patrician Bayard didn’t have a chance: He came from a small state with limited electoral clout, and he had defended the right of secession in 1861. Manning knew Cleveland was this close to victory.
Meanwhile, Kelly and Butler were working all angles. They approached Thomas A. Hendricks, the former governor of Indiana who had served as Tilden’s running mate in 1876, and induced him to join their alliance. Kelly’s men were sent out in force to recruit roustabouts from Chicago’s most disreputable saloons. For drinks on the house and a little pocket change, these scalawags were issued tickets, personally signed by the sergeant at arms who was in Tammany Hall’s pocket, and ordered to Exposition Hall at 11:00 a.m. sharp with these simple instructions: “Holler for Hendricks when the signal to do so is given”—and keep hollering until they were told to shut up.
Kelly and Butler were up until four in the morning in Butler’s room at the Palmer House, plotting strategy.
Seven hours later, with the convention about to be called to order for the climactic second ballot, a strange thing happened. Several thousand spectators holding legitimate tickets found themselves barred from entering Exposition Hall. The doormen were permitting only Kelly’s troublemakers holding those special passes to waltz right in.
The roll call commenced. For Manning, everything was falling into place. Then came Illinois—and an unforeseen hitch. Sometime during the night, Kelly had induced a single delegate from the state who had voted for Cleveland the previous day to switch his vote. The delegate stood on his chair and bellowed the words “Thomas A. Hendricks of Indiana!”
That was