Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude
Soon after the wine supper episode I threw up my position, and Ed and I
started on our own account under the name of E. Weed & Co. My partner's
parents were wealthy, and his father had been well known in the street,
which fact gave us standing.
The years I speak of were fortunate ones for Wall street, stocks of
every kind on the boom, the general wealth of the country massing up by
leaps and bounds, and every kind of speculative enterprise being
launched. Our firm history was the usual one of broker firms in that
tumultuous arena--the Wall street of those days--commissions in plenty,
a large income, but one's bank account never growing, for what was made
by day in the wild excitement of shifting values was thrown away amid
wilder scenes at night. Those, too, were, indeed, the flush times for
the professional gambler; for men were not content unless they burned
the candle at both ends. Day faro banks were open everywhere around the
Exchange, and enormous sums were nightly staked in the uptown games.
These were everywhere--all protected, and the proprietors invested their
money for rent, fixtures, etc., with as much confidence, and kept their
doors open as freely, as if embarked in a legitimate speculation.
Hundreds who spent the business hours of the day in the mad excitement
of the Exchange flocked around the green cloth at night, devoting the
same intensity of thought and brain to the turning of a card which
earlier in the day they had given to the market reports of the world.
Small wonder that death cut such wide swaths in the army of brokers.
Statistics show that it was more fatal to belong to that army than to an
army in the field.
Ed loved to have me with him, and I used to accompany him to a game,
then quite famous, run by John Morrissey, who later became a member of
Congress. At this time I never ventured a single bet, and did not like
to visit the place. But Ed would beg me to go, and always promised
faithfully not to remain more than twenty minutes. Of course, his twenty
minutes would lengthen into hours. Frequently I would take a chair into
a corner and go to sleep until he left the game, that being almost any
hour between midnight and morning. As usual, in such places, an elegant
supper was served free at midnight. The proprietor was always rather
attentive to me, and, to give him the credit due, seemed anxious that I
should not play. At supper he always reserved the chair next to himself
for me. One night while standing beside the roulette wheel, no one was
playing, and the dealer was idly whirling the ball, a sudden impulse
seized me, and the ball then rolling, I pulled a $20 bill from my pocket
and threw it down on the red remarking, "I'll lose that to pay for my
suppers." Unhappily I won, and, laughing, turned to the dealer and said:
"Here, give me my money. I am done," and a moment later went out with my
friend, fully determined never more to gamble. But, being in there the
next night, I, of course, ventured again. Again I was so unfortunate as
to win, and within a short time staked and lost or won nightly. But
something worse than gambling was ahead of me, just at the very door.
CHAPTER III.
A LICENSED PIRATE.
We had latterly somewhat neglected business--our real business being at
night, when we made the pursuit of pleasure hard work. Soon the finances
of our firm not only ran low, but were on three several occasions
exhausted, so that we not only had recourse to borrowing, but were
barely saved from bankruptcy by liberal donations from Ed's parents. His
father was a fine, jolly old gentleman, and took it quite a matter of
course that it was his duty to help us off the rocks when we ran on
them. My partner took everything easy, but I, having no indulgent parent
behind me ever ready to draw a check, began to be uneasy over the
financial situation. Strangely enough, however, it never occurred to me
to cut down my personal expenses, and I continued living at the same
extravagant rate as when money was plenty--dining and wining and being
dined and wined. Just here an important character, one destined to have
an influence for evil on my future life, came upon the scene, and I will
halt for a moment in my narrative to give some account of him.
This man was James Irving, popularly known as Jimmy Irving, chief of the
New York Detective Force, and a bad-hearted, worthless scamp he was. I
was with several friends in the Fifth Avenue Hotel one cold January
night when he came in, and one of our party, knowing him, introduced us.
He was a man of medium height, rather heavy set, blond mustache,
pleasant eyes, but with a weak mouth and chin, and a flushed face,
telling a tale of dissipation. It was when Boss Tweed ruled supreme in
New York and the whole administration was honeycombed with corruption.
Except under similar political conditions could such a man attain to so
responsible an office in a great city as that of chief of the detective
force--a position which at that time invested him with all but
autocratic power. An old rounder and barroom loafer, without one
attribute of true manliness and not possessed of any quality which would
point him out as a fit man for the place. Nevertheless, when the
position became vacant his political pull caused his selection. From
being a mere detective on the staff he became chief. And truly this
meant something in those days. The great civil war had but lately ended,
and the country was still reeling from the mighty conflict. The flush
times, resultant from the enormous money issue of the Government, kept
everything booming. The foundations of society were shaken and vice no
longer hid itself in the dark caves and dens of the great city. The
Tenderloin, with its multifarious and widereaching influence for evil,
was then created, and the police of the city reaped a royal revenue from
its thousand dens of vice for their protection. To be captain of the
Tenderloin precinct meant an extra weekly income of $1,000 at least. He
had the lion's share; about an equal amount went to Headquarters, to be
divided between the Chief of Police and the gang, Irving being one of
the half dozen who had pull enough to get in the ring. The Tenderloin
lieutenant, roundsman and sergeant came in for about $100, $50 and $25 a
week, while the common patrolman got what blackmail he could on his own
account from the unhappy women of the street. These were considered
lawful game, and woe betide the poor unfortunate who refused to pay the
tax. Too well she found it meant a violent arrest, accompanied with
brutal treatment, a night in a filthy cell, and then to be dragged
before the magistrate, who was some ward heeler, hand in glove with the
police. The form of a trial and a speedy "six months on the island" from
the lips of the judge followed.
From Spring street to Tenth, Broadway was full of night
games--faro--each and all paying large sums for protection. This money,
however, did not all go to Police Headquarters, there being a host of
parasites aside from the police. The shoulder-hitter politicians, each
with his pull, and each having a claim to his percentage. Most of the
Broadway games were known as square games, but then there was the host
of skin games in the Bowery, Chatham square, Houston, Prince and other
streets. The Eighth Ward and all Broadway were considered the lawful
happy hunting grounds for Headquarters detectives, and this by long
prescription. Outside of that they had no claim save only to a
percentage from the Tenderloin. But the protection money paid by the
swindling games around Chatham square, Bayard street, and the whole
length of the Bowery, by a sort of sacred prescription, belonged to the
captains of those precincts, save only that part absorbed by the
politicians of the district who had a pull. These usually were the
Aldermen and Councilmen with their henchmen.
But to return to my friend, Capt. Jim Irving, who, before our party
separated, had opened three bottles of wine. Before leaving I had asked
him to call on me at the St. Nicholas. The next day he came and invited
me to take a drive with him to Fordham the following Sunday. On Sunday
he appeared behind a fast trotting horse, and in every respect an
elegant turnout. During our drive he casually remarked that he had paid
a thousand dollars for the rig, and as his pay was some two thousand
dollars per annum I easily figured that his rig and diamond pin had cost
him about a year's salary. It was a lovely morning, not cold, but
bracing, just the day for a ride. We started for Fordham, but changed
our minds and drove to the High Bridge, through Harlem lane, and well
out into Westchester County. Returning, we stopped at O'Brien's Hotel
for dinner. We fared sumptuously the whole day through, our dinner being
particularly fine, my companion paying for everything, and really it was
all highly enjoyable. He had a vast fund of anecdote, and many strange
stories of city life and adventure, which naturally would be expected
from one in his position. Many of those we passed or met during the day
were personally known to him, and some, both women as well as men, who
were then clothed in purple and fine linen, had histories, and many had
at some period of their lives looked on life from the seamy side, having
passed through strange vicissitudes.
Soon after dark we returned to my hotel, and after dinner, lighting our
cigars, we started for Police Headquarters. There he attended to some
routine business, having introduced me to two of his chief detectives.
Many who read this will recognize the men, but in this narrative they
will be known as Stanley and White. I will not further describe them
now; as they will appear in the story from time to time, the reader will
be able to judge what manner of men they were.
For the next eight weeks my life went on much the same as usual. In our
business we made some money, but by one unfortunate investment lost our
entire capital, and what proved worse for me, my partner's health began
to fail. Dissipation, late and heavy dinners and irregular hours began
to break a not over-strong constitution; consequently one Saturday he
abruptly announced his intention of withdrawing from the partnership to
take a trip to Europe. There was nothing to divide save the furniture in
our office, which he presented to me. The following Wednesday he sailed
with two members of his family. I saw him off, bidding him what proved
to be a last farewell. I left the wharf feeling very lonely and
miserable. It may be well to remark here that he died a year later in
Italy, one more victim of a fast life, while I was spared, but took no
warning from his fate. In truth, I was in the Primrose Way, which is
ever found a most tormenting and unhappy thoroughfare.
How I grieved all through the twenty years of captivity that I had not
had the moral courage to start afresh upon a basis of truth, sobriety
and honorable endeavor.
Instead of cutting down my expenses, I rather became more extravagant,
fearing my companions would suspect I was pressed for money. How much
more manly had I called them together and told them we must part
company.
Meeting Irving from time to time, he was most flattering in his
attentions, while I was young enough and silly enough to be pleased with
his notice. One evening about this time I met him while coming out of
Wallack's Theatre. Shaking hands warmly, he invited me to supper at what
was then known as upper Delmonico's. After supper, walking to the St.
Denis Hotel at Broadway and 11th street, we found Detectives Stanley and
White. Here wine was ordered, and long after midnight we parted, they
first having exacted a promise to dine with them the following night at