TEDDY HAS AN ACCIDENT

 

I understand why Theodore Roosevelt (above) acted like a jackass on 3 September, 1902. He was in shock. He had received a head injury, and a bad leg wound and come within a hair's breath of being killed. So it was understandable if Roosevelt wanted to punch the man he assumed was responsible. 

Except time and distance should have allowed the President to see his mistake, and still he refused to reconsider. So events that afternoon seemed to confirm Republican boss Mark Hanna's assessment of “Teddy” as a “damn cowboy”. Hanna had never intended that Roosevelt should be President, and he would not have been except William McKinley, who was President, had refused to listen to a voice of caution.

See, McKinley (above), who just starting his second term, thought the people loved him, when in fact most of them were just being polite. 

His secretary, George Cortelyou (above, right, behind McKinley),knew how many people the Republican's policies had driven to desperation, and had twice removed from the President's schedule  the hand shaking receiving line at the Pan-American Exposition.  But McKinley kept putting it back. 

Thus, maybe only William McKinley was surprised when A poor, mad, unemployed Leon Czolgosz put two bullets point blank into McKinley’s self-satisfied and deluded brisket. 

And then, rather than wait for a real surgeon to arrive, the President insisted on being operated on by local doctor, Matthew Mann, who was a gynecologist. When the real surgeon showed up he was at least smart enough to wash his hands of McKinley, who died of infection a week later, 14 September,  1901.

That left the new President (at 42, the youngest President in American history, and richest - worth $200 million-) facing a huge problem. Over May and June of 1902 more than 100,000 coal miners walked off the job, demanding management recognized their union, gave them an eight hour work day, and safer working conditions. The mine owners (the coal trust) would rather pay to have the strikers shot than pay them more to work. 

While the "Anthracite Strike" caused some immediate economic “dislocation” (above), it would not create real hardship until winter, when the average American home, heated by coal fires,  would be frozen solid. Teddy knew he was going to need the American people to believe he would deal with the strikers and the mine owners fairly and firmly. So in late August of 1902 he took a tour of New England, where the cold would hit the most people first, to lay the foundation for his bargaining position.

First stop was Hartford, Connecticut on 22 August, where Theodore became the first President to publicly ride in an automobile (it was electric!). Then he headed north through Rhode Island to Boston, and up to Maine, speaking several times a day before crowds of 100, 1,000, 5,000, even 10,000 people at a time. Then he swung south again, through central Massachusetts. 

For a full week Teddy zig-zagged north and south across New England, weaving the pattern of his case for compromise. “The great corporations,” he said in his stump speech, “...are the creatures of the state, and the state not only has the right to control them, but it is in duty bound to control them....The immediate necessity in dealing with trusts is to place them under the real, not the nominal, control of some sovereign....in whose courts the sovereign’s orders may be enforced.”

And that was why, on the sunny pleasant Sunday morning, the third of September, 1902, President Theodore Roosevelt (he hated being called Teddy) riding in a magnificent black four seat horse drawn landau carriage, arrived in the small industrial town of Pittsfield, in the center of Berkshire County, in far western Massachusetts. 

Most of the town's 23,000 residents were on hand at nine that morning in the Commons Park to cheer short speeches by Roosevelt (above, left) and Massachusetts Governor Winthrop Crane (above), and Mayor Hezekiah Russel, a local industrialist. But sitting on the platform beside the mayor were the men who really ran Pittsfield, whose fiefdom actually spread across a huge chunk of New England, the owner and directors of Stanley Electrical Manufacturing Company.

Inside the brick walls of their plant 1,700 men and women toiled twelve hours a day, six days a week, building industrial transformers, which were used as far away as California, and as near as the Berkshire Street Railway Company - owned by most of the same men and the New York New Haven And Hartford Railroad. The corporation had been formed just the year before, with the merger of eight separate urban electric trolley lines, 150 miles of track, power lines, generators and transformers reaching across five states to form a single urban commuter network. 

Stanley's workers paid a toll to the factory owners just to reach the factory where they labored without representation. Roosevelt could have ridden that on those rail the sixty miles all the way to Bridgeport, Connecticut, where he was to make his final speech that night to a crowded coliseum.   Instead he went by carriage. That choice, while more familiar and a statement of independence, would threaten his life.

Just about ten that morning, after a short speech, the President, his secretary George Cortelyou (still on the job), and Governor Crane, pulled away from the Commons on South Street followed by three or four other carriages. There were even carriages in front of Roosevelt's landau, carrying reporters and staff. They were all heading for Lenox, six miles away, and a scheduled noon speech. 

Controlling the four white horse team pulling the landau was the Governor's driver, David Pratt. Riding next to him on the left hand seat was a 6'4” 260 pound Scotsman, Secret Service Agent William “Big Bill” Craig (above). Two days earlier the blond haired, blue eyed Agent Craig had told a reporter for The Worcester Telegram, “Too much caution cannot be taken to keep the crowds back from the (horse) teams and the President.” 

It had been the intention of the directors of the Berkshire Railway and Stanley Electrical to travel along with the President on his journey to Lenox , but there was a delay while Conductor James Kelly did his best to herd his bosses to their seats on the trolley. 

So the Presidential Carriage raced past the Country Club trolley (above) and it was not until fifteen minutes later that 32 year old motorman Euclid Madden pushed the control lever to drive the trolley down the rails running in the center of South Street. Almost immediately, the bosses began urging Madden to go faster, to catch up with the President's carriage. 

A mile out of town, on South Street, (Above, now called the Pittsfield Road), the Presidential carriage climbed the gentle slope of Howards Hill....

...then down the other side.  Crowds were thinner now, but there were still knots of people cheering and applauding as the Presidential party rode by. Then the road curved down and to the right, along the eastern slope of 1,200 foot high South Mountain, to the west of the highway. And the trolley rails slowly shifted from the center of the road toward the right, the better to handle the approaching turn. 

It must have been a relief to be out of the foul smelling industrial town, surrounded by farm land, and fresh air. The only sound would have the rhythmic plop-plop of the horses and the occasional greeting from the thinning throng. As Roosevelt's carriage neared the bottom of the grade (above), the turn tightened, to cross a dry bed of Wampenum Brook. And it was here the dusty Pittsfield Road crossed the trolley track (above, left to center).

 The descent added momentum, increasing the weight of the trolley. A carriage could slow to one or two miles an hour, but to widen the curve for the heavier trolley, which slowed to 8 miles an hour to negotiate the turn, the tracks as they angled first toward  the left edge side of the road before cutting to the right side at the apex.  

Approaching the procession of horse drawn wagons and carriages from the rear, the trolley driver, Euclid Madden did not see the President's carriage until he was just about 100 feet behind, when it suddenly turned to cross the tracks. As the first wheels of the Landau  crossed the tracks Agent Craig stood up, shouting, "Look out! Hold fast!", as he tried  to wave the trolley off, as if it could change course. Secretary Cortelyou also stood. Massachusetts Governor Crane also tried to urged the electric trolley to stop or swerve, neither of which it could do.  It was just about 10:15 a.m.

As the carriage passed over the tracks the trolley car smashed into the left front at a 45 degree angle, shattering the wheel, and hurling the carriage into the air. Closest to the impact, Agent Craig (above)  was thrown off his elevated seat, and fell directly under the wheels of the oncoming trolley. Sliding across the the Agent's shoulders and chest, the machine ground him up against the rail. He was killed instantly. 

Driver Pratt tumbled into the air, struck the rear of the a horse before landing on the roadway, dislocating his shoulder and bruising his face. The right wheel horse was crushed by the impact and began screaming agony,  while the other three, freed from the restraint after Pratt was thrown off, panicked and dragged the wrecked carriage another 30 or 40 feet away from the point of impact

Governor Crane landed some 20 feet from the crash and was relatively uninjured . Secretary Cortelyou struck his head on a rock, opening a bleeding wound which left him barely conscious. President Roosevelt was tossed from the left side of the carriage, landing on his cheek, cutting his lip open, and cutting and bruising his left leg.  The President assisted Cortelyou for a few moments. And then he lost his temper 

According to eyewitness Frederick Clark, Roosevelt stormed toward Motorman Madden, who was by now standing in front of his trolley. They exchanged what was described as “heated words”. No punches were thrown, and a witness later testified that Madden remained respectful in the face of the infuriated amateur boxer President. Eventually, passengers and bystanders stepped between the two.

They put the injured horse out of its misery. They took the injured humans to a nearby home to tend to their wounds. And then, half an hour late, Roosevelt made it to tiny Lenox (above). 

The Washington, D.C. Citizen newspaper  reported, “In front of the Curtis Hotel a vast crowd had congregated, and when (Roosevelt) drove up there was the silence of death...Pale, covered with dust, his eye blackened from the bruise, his cheek swelling visibly (above)...“My friends,” he said, “there has been an accident. One of our party has been killed. He was William Craig of the United States Secret Service. I had come to have for this man a genuine admiration, not alone for his rugged honesty and for his loyalty to me, but for the devotion and the love which he showed for my children. I beg of you that there be no cheering and no demonstration of any kind. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the greeting which you have given me.”

Roosevelt would say later, “If you’re set on risking your life, go to Pittsfield, Mass., and take a trolley ride.”

The national newspapers were calling for Madden and Kelly's heads. On 15 October they were both charged with “unlawful acts” leading to Agent Craig's death. However they were released on bail just two weeks later. It seemed the directors of Berkshire had come to realize the defendant's testimony about hectoring executives and demands for more speed could be damaging to their image, and the company had finally posted the $7,500 bond 

Then, according to the National Railway Historical Society newsletter, when, in January of 1903,  both defendant's pleaded guilty to manslaughter.  Berkshire paid their fines, and continued Madden's salary during his six month sentence (Kelly's sentence was suspended). Immediately upon his release, the father of five was reinstated to his old position. The Rochester Democrat commented, “This seems to be a light punishment for so grave an offense, assuming that Madden was guilty at all.”

William “Big Bill” Craig was the first Secret Service Agent to die while protecting the President, and was buried (above) in Chicago's Oak Woods Cemetery.  

Theodore Roosevelt's negotiations to end the coal strike had to done from a wheel chair as bacteria had invaded his inured bone, causing the leg to swell and abscess to form. Still, on 23 October, the strike ended, saving the winter for most families. 

A new six man arbitration board allowed the owners to pretend they were not talking with the union, but the ten hour work day became nine, and it seemed progress was possible, maybe even inevitable. The mine owners prediction of doom should the miners win did not come to pass. But for the rest of his life, Theodore Roosevelt suffered from flareups of osteomyelitis, the infection in his leg.

A year after the accident, Stanley Electrical (above) was bought by Westinghouse, which actively discouraged any other companies from settling in Pittsfield. This meant that when the multinational moved most production over seas in the late 20^th century, and closed the Pittsfield plant, the community was staggered. Unemployment drove most of the population away. Poverty and drug addition destroyed much of what was left. And the only industry thriving in Pittsfield, today is the environmental cleanup of dioxins used in building the transformers. However, building on the yearly Tanglewood Music Festival, the community has transitioned to a tourist based economy.

Look, I understand why Theodore Roosevelt acted like a jackass that Sunday Afternoon. He needed the emotional release. But there was no real justice in Pittsfield, before or after the accident. There was only life – messy, unresolved and unsatisfying.  I think, this that best you can hope for in this world - just small steps of progress, like never mixing horses and mechanical transportation ever again. That is progress.

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HOW TO GO BROKE IN A HURRY - USS Savannah

 

I heard about a guy who convinced some people to invest money in his dream, built himself a huge mansion and lived happily ever after.  Of course you rarely hear about the fifty or sixty guys who came up with exactly the same idea and then went broke. I call it the “Savannah Effect”, that being the name of the first ship (above) to cross the Atlantic using steam power.

It you check most history books you will discover that the first steam ship to cross the Atlantic was the “Great Western” (above) or the “Cape Breton” in 1833, or the “Siruis” in 1838. The Savannah was first but it is largely forgotten because, well, because it never made a dime. And in a Capitalist culture this is the big secret; Failure.

The alternative energy folks are now selling the idea that sailing ships can cross the ocean powered by the the wind: except the wind is not free. It requires masts and sails and a lot of rope and it once required a large crew to handle it all. And even with all of that you could only move when and where the wind was blowing.

By the beginning of the nineteenth century the world had five thousand years invested in sailing technology and experience.  But living with wind technology meant the advantages of steam power were obvious.

A steam powered ship could leave port when it wanted, and even travel against the wind. The crew could be a tenth of the size needed on a sailing ship, which meant more of the power was used for moving cargo. The crew are expenses. The cargo is profit. 

Besides, the new nation of America had a shortage of manpower, meaning a shortage of sailors. Steam ships were the obvious way to increase profits. And that is what capitalism is all about.

Anyway, in 1818, the successful cotton merchant William Scarbrough (above) of Savannah, Georgia paid $50,000 for a 319 ton packet ship then under construction at the Fickett and Crockett shipyard, on the East River, in New York City. 

Mr. Scarbrough was convinced the future of naval commerce was in steam, and he was president of (and principle investor in) the newly formed Savannah Steamship Company, which was to pioneer  steam ship service between America and Europe. And to shepherd that intention into reality Scarbough sought out Captain Moses Rogers.

Moses Rogers (above) seemed to have been born at almost the perfect time and place for a young man with a maritime heritage, a mechanical bearing mind and an adventurous spirit. Fifty years earlier those talents would have been wasted. But at the turn of the 19th century he seemed to be perfectly positioned.

He was pure Yankee, born in New London, Connecticut. He had been one of the first captains of Robert Fulton’s “North River Steamboat” (Later called the “Claremont”- above).

In June of 1808 Moses Rogers had shared command of John C. Steven’s (above) steamboat “The Phoenix”.  Stevens had missed beating Fulton to the honor of first steamboat in America by just a month, and missed profitability by not having the Governor of New York as his partner.

While Governor Livingston had granted Fulton (his partner, of course) the sole right to operate steamboats on the Hudson River, Steven’s "Phoenix "(above) was forced to make the  riskier runs between New York and Philadelphia. And it was in costal waters that Rogers built his reputation as a navigator and an engineer, because the early naval engines kept breaking down. And these constant repairs mean that Captain Rogers had discussed meeting the challenges of oceanic steam voyages with Stephen Vail.

Stephan Vail (above) owned an iron works in Moorestown, New Jersey. Vail employed engineers who had worked with Watson Watt, the developer of the steam engine. Vail’s engineers not only had personal experience at building steam engines but they had also managed to smuggle vital data about them out of England. It seemed like a partnership of these three men,  William Scarbrough, Moses Rogers and Stephan Vail was made in heaven.

On 22 August, 1818 the newly re-named  sailing ship “Savannah”,  98’6” long by 25’10” wide, with three masts and a man’s bust for a figurehead, slid off the ways in upper Manhattan. Rather than carrying cargo she had been redesigned as a passenger ship, with 32 berths in 16 staterooms, described as feeling more like a pleasure yacht then a passenger ship. 

The Savannah was immediately sailed to Vail’s Speedwell Iron Works, in Mooristown, New Jersey where a 90 horsepower 30 ton steam engine, removable side paddlewheels and a 17’ bent smokestack were installed. That work took six months. 

On 29 March, 1819,  the Savannah sailed south on her shakedown cruise to her namesake port. Then on 22 May she set sail again, this time headed for Liverpool, England.  Scarbrough could already smell the money piling up in his pockets.

The correct word here is “sailed” as the Savannah’s 90 horse power engine gobbled up 10 tons of coal a day to drive her two 16 foot paddle wheels.  She could only carry 75 tons of coal (with about another 5 cords of wood as an emergency backup). Besides, under sail, the Savannah could make 10 knots an hour, while under steam alone she could barely average half that. So the steam power was used only when the winds failed. She used her steam engine less than 80 hours in total during her crossing.

The Savannah broke no speed records. She covered the 3,000 miles in a mediocre 22 days, and ran out of coal in the process. Still she did make an impression as she approached Liverpool.

Seeing an unknown sailing ship approaching  with grey wood smoke pouring from her deck, life boats  set off in pursuit, seeking to rescue the crew. Ignoring their hails and offers of help. Captain Rodgers  forged ahead, until he finally realized what was happening. He then slowed so he could be boarded. With only a slight embarrassment, on 21 June 1818, The Savannah made her "grand entrance"  into Liverpool under wood fire driven steam power.

The British were not impressed.  In the first place they had not invented the thing. Pish posh, and poo hoo. It seemed to the Limies that the limited power of the steam engine was not worth the loss of all the cargo space the engine and coal took up.

Given the cold shoulder in England the Savannah sailed on for Copenhagen, where Jean Bernadotte, Charles XIV of Sweden and Norway (above),  offered to buy the ship for $100,000. But not having been authorized in advance to sell the ship, Captain Rogers said no. And when the Russian Czar made a similar offer, Rodger again said no.

Ah, if he had only said yes, this story might have had a happier ending, because back home in America, the nation was being rocked by the Panic of 1819, and Mr. Scarbrough desperately needed a cash infusion.

Record numbers of people in Boston were sent to debtors’ prison. In Richmond, Virginia, property values fell by half. Farm workers, making $1.50 a day in 1818, were only earning fifty-three cents a day a year later; wood cutters were being paid thirty-three cents for a cord of wood in 1818, but only ten cents for a cord by 1821. 

And one of the bigger victims of the panic was the Savannah Steamship Company. On 5 June 1819 Scarbrough had to take out a mortgage on his new mansion (above) to secure his loans, which then totaled $87,534.50.  Selling the Savannah would have made him whole again. But by the time the world's first steam ship had made it back to her home port, on 30 November, 1818,  the Savannah Steamship company was flat broke. 

 A year later, 13 May, 1820, Scarborough was forced to sell his beautiful home (above) to Robert Isaac, his brother-in-law, for $20,000.  Isaac allowed William to continue to live in the house. But the very next day he laid claim to everything else that Scarborough still owned, including the steamship Savannah.

The Savannah was stripped of her boilers and put back into service as a sailing ship between Savannah and New York City. But she was a failure at that too. In November 1821, in a gale, she ran aground and broke up off of Long Island, New York. I can only hope she was insured.

Stephen Vail, whose Speedwell Iron Works had installed the engine on the Savannah, was still owed $3,527.84 for his work. He never got paid. 

Moses Rogers went back to work running a dull coastal steamer, the “Pee Dee”. 

He died of yellow fever at Georgetown, South Carolina on 15 November, 1821, at the age of 42. And somehow I am sure a contributing factor to his early death was his loss of faith in the Savannah.

William Scarborough, the inspiration for this noble misadventure, lived out the rest of his life in his own home, (thanks to his brother-in-law), even leaving it to his daughter in his will, just as if he still owned it. He died in 1838, at the ripe old age of 62 and is buried in the Colonial Park Cemetery in the city of Savannah. 

His home is still standing. It's address is now 42 Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, an address which might take some explaining to an old slave owner. But the building now houses "The Savannah “Ships of the Sea Maritime Museum", featuring a model of that amazing failure, the steamship Savannah. And that should make the old man proud.

The steamship Savannah was a good idea. But like most good ideas,  nobody got rich off the Savannah and most people associated with her went broke.  Failure is required to give capitalism meaning. And somebody should explain that to the Wall Street Bankers and the Health Care Leeches who think they are entitled to suck America dry so they can avoid going broke.

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