I came across Sheridan Shook the other day ‘round the Morton House. I had not met Shed Shook before since he was an internal revenue collector in the city. By the by, what a book of books the real inside history of the internal revenue system would make, especially that part known as “the whiskey ring.”
The greatest man at ferretin’ out the whiskey ring frauds was James J. Brooks, who, although the whiskey thieves were sharp, was sharper still.
And one of the hardest customers Uncle Sam ever had to tackle in the whiskey ring was a distiller called Samuels. He was known to be very rich, yet he was strongly suspected of runnin’ the very largest kind of an illicit distillery, and Brooks, under the name of Brown, was deputed to represent the United States Government in this Distillery and report discoveries. But for a long while Brown could discover nothin’, and absolutely began to think that a whiskey distiller might be honest.
He took account of all the grain brought into Samuels’ distillery, and of all the grain that went out of it in the form of whiskey, and all seem to be O.K. [Note: folksy aphorism employing an ethnic slur removed]
Well, Samuels had in his employ a queer sort of a character, an old man named Stevens, who acted as a private watchman. Stevens was a Scotchman, and like most Scotchmen, fond of two things–religion and whiskey, in about equal proportions, only a little more whiskey.
Brown got talkin’ religion with Stevens a good deal in spare times, and then Stevens got talkin’ whiskey, and between the two, while Stevens found out from Brown that there are more “religions” in the world than were taught in the “kirk,” Brown found out from Stevens that it took a good deal less grain to make a gallon of whiskey than the United States Government was calculatin’ on, or than Samuels was payin’ on.
Getting’ all the facts and points he could from Stevens, Brown found out that it took a great deal less time to make whiskey then the United States Government calculated it did, or Samuels allowed for the operation. Samuels said that it took ninety-six hours to “ripen the mash,” and on this estimate the producin’ capacity of his distillery was based by the Government, and taxed accordin’ly. Whereas in reality it did not take more than about thirty-two or thirty-three hours. So that although Brooks (Brown) and another Government officer at a big salary were watching operations all the time, Samuels really produced sixty barrels of whiskey when he only claimed to be makin’ and payin’ taxes on twenty. In other words, he was, right in Uncle Sam’s face, cheatin’ the old gentleman out of two thirds of the revenue.
But all this was only accordin’ to Stevens’ points or Brooks’ (Brown’s) theory. It wasn’t proved to be an actual fact yet, and the Government couldn’t act on points or theories. So Brown set to work to prove his own theory, like a true philosopher.
And like a true philosopher he took high ground, very high ground, a very elevated position indeed. In fact, he made friends with the sexton of a church near the distillery, and climbed up to the top of the steeple, or as near to the top as he could get and there with a spyglass watched and took notes of all that was goin’ on at Samuels’ distillery. This watchin’ a whiskey mill from a church steeple strikes me as rather comical.
The result of his observations, “roosted in the steeple,” convinced Brown that about twice as much whiskey was being taken out from the distillery “on the sly” as went out of it “over and above board,” and pretty soon he let Samuels know that he was acquainted with this fact.
Samuels took the information very coolly. “Are you certain you have got things correctly?” he asked of Brown.
“So certain,” answered Brown, “that when we went out to lunch there were fifty-four barrels in your warehouse, now there are but eighteen.”
“Are you quite sure there were fifty-four barrels?” asked Samuels.
“Yes, I counted ‘em,” said Brown.
“And are you quite sure they were all full barrels?” asked Samuels.
“Yes; I saw Mack fill ‘em,” answered Brown.
Now, Mack was an honest-lookin’ young fellow whom Brown had learned to trust by this time. “Mack,” called out Samuels, “how many barrels of whiskey have you filled this mornin’?”
“Eighteen, sir,” said Mack lookin’ Brown full in the face without winkin’.
From that time Brown never trusted anybody.
Some few days after this, Brown, stayin’ round the distillery all day, made things so hot that Samuels tried one of his favorite games, “puttin’ his own private mark” on the whiskey barrels. This private Mark consisted of a ten dollar bill placed on the head of each barrel, so that the Government officer could grab the ten dollars but overlook the barrels. Brown took the greenbacks as he found ‘em, marked ‘em on the back and put ‘em aside in a hiding place, but said nothin’ to Samuels. Then he sent the government word of what was goin’ on. Samuels was arrested, and then, suspecting Brown of causin’ his arrest, in revenge accused Brown of havin’ taken his money. Brown thereupon referred the Government officer to the hidin’ place, where the marked money was found, which nonplussed Samuels.
This Samuels was a member of the old genuine, bona fide whiskey ring, which used to be known by the name of the Distillers’ “Preventive Association.” It was really an association to “prevent distillers” from getting’ caught at defraudin’. Altogether it was a splendidly managed concern, bein’ run entirely for the interests of those in it, which is, after all, the only way to run any concern.
There were four boss committees in this concern, each committee a model of its kind, attending to its own biz and goin’ straight at it.
First, there was the committee on surveys, which “surveyed” each distillery belongin’ to the association and estimated its producin’ capacity–not on fancy estimates, but on a practical basis. As a rule, this committee on surveys calculated that a distillery could really produce just three times what the United States Government thought it could, and charged a tax of its own of $1 on every bushel of green distilled into whiskey over and above the whiskey on which a tax was paid to the Government. This charge on whiskey that paid no other charge yielded in itself a tremendous revenue, and kept the association goin’ and able to pay the sums levied on its members whenever they were caught cheatin’ Uncle Sam.
Then there was the committee on sureties, which undertook to furnish the Government with the real estate sureties which it required from each distiller. It was a regular “straw bail” concern of course, and the chairman of the committee made a big thing by furnishin’ the sureties for $10 a head. This committee would furnish a man who, under some trick or pretense of searchin’ titles and so on, would get possession of deeds to property and swear to bein’ the owners, etc., etc. This committee was a regular bonanza.
Then there was a third committee, “on the rake.” This committee saw to bribin’ the Government officials, and did it well. Thousands of Government officers belong to “the grand army of rakers,” and had each his “little rake.”
Then there was a fourth committee, “on the goose.” This committee took charge of all the Government officers (there were not very many of ‘em) who wouldn’t be bribed, but would persist in doin’ their duty and troublin’ the whiskey ring. For these men the committee on the goose made life as uncomfortable as possible. The agents of this committee were all bruisers and roughs of the worst stripe—”maulers” and “heelers,” “bullies,” “blood tubs,” “plug uglies”– who were paid by the committee to do its dirty and bloody work.
One agent of this committee on the goose, called Nick Haughton, was a big burly fellow, who “mauled” eleven internal revenue officers, getting’ anywhere from fifty to one hundred and fifty dollars a “maul.” Twice he attempted to murder, and came very near committin’ it. He stopped at nothin’. Brooks was a special object of attention from this committee on the goose, and it was determined finally “to put him out of the way” altogether.
There was a gentleman a good deal like this Brooks in appearance who had some rather excitin’ experiences all on account of this resemblance. One mornin’, while this gentleman was standin’ in front of a hotel, a very well dressed stranger suddenly stepped up to him and told him he would find it to his advantage to call at a certain place at four o’clock that afternoon. Then the well-dressed stranger walked rapidly away.
The gentleman, filled with natural curiosity, put in an appearance at the time and place named, and there the same well-dressed stranger came up to him again and got talkin’ with him. In the course of the conversation, the gentleman found that he was bein’ mistaken for Brooks and was bein’ bribed, or rather was being “seen” as to whether he wouldn’t accept a bride from the whiskey ring.
Just for the fun of the thing, and with an eye to the main chance beside (havin’ made up his mind that if the well-dressed stranger should make up his mind to mistake him for another person and to offer him money unlawfully, as to that other person, why, he would teach the well-dressed stranger to be more careful and more honest), the gentleman accepted the proposition made to him by the well-dressed stranger and arranged to meet him that night and receive from him the neat little sum of two thousand dollars in greenbacks.
The well-dressed stranger, who was one of the committee “on the rake,” rushed to the rooms occupied by the whiskey ring and told the folks there, with great excitement, that he had at last succeeded, where so many men had failed, in bribin’ Brooks.
The whiskey fellows wouldn’t believe their good luck and sent one of the gang to watch the well-dressed stranger, and to go with him to his night appointment with Brooks, keepin’ shady himself, however.
Well, the gentleman kept his appointment, anxious to get his two thousand dollars from the well-dressed stranger, and the well-dressed stranger kept his appointment, anxious to get the great whiskey fraud detective in his pay and power. But just as the well-dressed stranger was about to hand the gentleman his money in a roll of bills the third party rushed on the scene and spoiled all. He had got a glance at the gentleman and had seen at once that he wasn’t the real Brooks, only at fellow who really looked like him. Brooks’ double had a wart on his nose, which the real Brooks hadn’t, and a slight cast in the left eye. So the third party stopped the transaction, and that wart on the nose and that cast in the eye between ‘em lost the fellow that looked like Brooks just a thousand dollars each.
After this the fellow that looked like Brooks had another experience. He came home one night and found his wife frightened out for wits by an anonymous note just left at her door without any address, but breathin’ all sorts of blood and vengeance on the head of the spy, the informer, the arch fiend and a whole lot of other things for whom this note was intended and who would know who was meant as soon as he read it. This the fellow who looked like Brooks did as soon as he read it, and calmed his wife’s fears by telling her that the blood-and-thunder note was meant for some other man, which relieved the wife’s feelings greatly, especially as her hubby’s life was not insured.
The next day the gentleman called upon Brooks himself and showed him this letter. But Brooks told him he was receivin’ on the average about three letters a day of a similar character, so this particular letter was thrown in the fire.
But Brooks was not indifferent to these threatenin’ letters, and didn’t go out after night. He rather enjoyed this stayin’ in the house in the evenin’s–played cards for a social glass, chatted, read the papers, and next day would proceed against the whiskey thieves as fresh as ever.
Later on letters came threatenin’ to put Brooks through by daylight; then Brooks got mad, and got the very best kind of a revolver.
But his time came at last, and as usual, when he didn’t expect it.
There was an auction store for spirits which Brooks was investigatin’, and he took it suddenly into his head one mornin’ to go down to the store and “see how the old thing worked.” He got to the store just at noon, and found only a small boy in charge of the establishment Brooks knew the store thoroughly, so he went and got a Government account book he wanted and was examinin’ it carefully, when three men came in and asked the small boy for the proprietor of the store. Brooks knew, or thought he knew, most of the whiskey ring roughs, but he didn’t know these three men and they didn’t seem to know him, so he didn’t bother with his pistol, but kept on lookin’ at his account book. All at once he heard a sort of explosion and felt himself struck with somethin’. Lookin’ around, he saw one of the three men walkin’ from the store; he smelt powder, and he felt he was shot. Then he saw a second man of the three throwin’ something at him. Brooks dodged, but the somethin’, which was a blackjack, hit him on the head and nearly knocked him senseless. Brooks fell, but quickly recoverin’ himself, started out of the store, callin’ “murder!” at the top of his voice. He also put his hand in his pocket for his pistol, but, as the devil would have it, the pistol was fastened by the hammer to the linin’ of the pocket, and before he could get it free and fire the three men had jumped into a hack which was waitin’ and had driven off.
Brooks’s wound from his shot was bleedin’ a good deal, but he ran bareheaded through the street, pistol in hand, chasin’ the carriage and callin’ for the police, but of course callin’ in vain.
He shouted to the driver to stop, and pointed his pistol at him, but the driver, though he bent his back till he was nearly doubled, as though he had a fit of the colic, so as to dodge a possible pistol shot, whipped on his horses and the hack soon vanished, and then the poor wounded Brooks fell faintin’ on the sidewalk. The whiskey ring had hunted down thier man at last. The news was spread that Brooks was dyin’, and hundreds of men in low life—aye, and in high life, too–rejoiced and rubbed their hands, and took an extra glass of their illicit whiskey on the strength of the good news.
For weeks the revenue detective hung between life and death, nearer death than life, but at last he turned the corner and began to near recovery, and then the whiskey ring people didn’t look quite as so jolly as they did.
This affair made a great stir throughout the country and a number of rewards were offered for the rest of the would-be murderers. At first nobody had any idea of the guilty parties, but as time rolled on and the rewards rolled up a man named Tom Hughes, not the English author, but an Irish hackman, turned up, who knew the driver of the hack into which the three men had jumped after the attack on Brooks. This Hughes had several talks with this mysterious hackman, and wormed out of him a good deal of information with an eye to the reward.
After he had unthinkin’ly given Hughes his points, the hackman began to suspect Hughes, got into a row with him and beat him. Then tellin’ some of the whiskey ring people about him, the ring people trumped up a charge of theft against Hughes so as to get him “railroaded” out of the way. But Hughes, spite of their cunnin’, escaped this trap and finally made an affidavit which proved that the three men who had made the assault were named Hugh Maher, Neil McLaughlin and James Dougherty.
For one whole month the police and detectives of the whole country were after these three men and the reward. And at last they were captured right here in New York by Inspector Walling and Officers Scott and Wilkinson.
Maher and Dougherty applied to “Habeas Corpus McCunn” for a little of his favorite medicine for ‘emselves, but it didn’t work in their case. As for Neil McLaughlin, he turned State’s evidence, or offered to, and made such statements as implicated the other two men.
The whiskey ring men of course did all they could to get those three men clear, or at least to keep ‘em from making things too clear to the world at large. The best lawyers were employed; dangerous witnesses, like Kelly, a policeman, who saw the three men getting out of their carriages after they had escaped, were put out of the way–Kelly receivin’, it is said, a sum equal to a whole year’s pay at one lick for being non est (instead of honest) durin’ the trial. McLaughlin, too, was induced to swear that his first sworn statements were all false, and nine men were hired to go on the stand as witnesses for the prisoners to prove an alibi.
The “ring” people above all others tried to “see” the Irishman, Tom Hughes, on whose testimony the three men had been accused. This Hughes, if come-at-able, could have got any money almost for skedaddlin’ or perjurin’, but Uncle Sam was smart and kept this Tom Hughes in care of some of his officers all the time till they used him on the trial.
Some men were arrested on suspicion of bein’ accomplices in the affair who are really innocent. These men applied to the whiskey ring for aid, but the whiskey ring people “sat down on ‘em” with the remark: “We only put up for the guilty; the innocent must look out for ‘emselves,” which shows the advantages of bein’ guilty.
When the trial came on the jury wouldn’t believe the nine alibi witnesses on oath, and it was well they didn’t. The prisoners were found guilty of assault with intent to kill and served a term in State’s Prison.
The fates of the principal parties mixed up in this Brooks affair were peculiar. Neil McLaughlin, who might have escaped by stickin’ to the original true statement which he made implicatin’ the other two men, but who was sentenced along with ‘em for makin’ his second false statement to save ‘em, died of hard work and a broken heart before he served out his term.
Tom Hughes, the man who got all the three in prison, was found dead in the street one day with a letter in his pocket from the government informin’ him that he was entitled to a thousand dollars of the reward. He was supposed to be on his way to get the thousand dollars when he dropped down dead without ‘em, though they wouldn’t have done him much good then anyway.
As for Hugh Maher, or Morrow, he tried to “bleed” the whiskey ring when he got out of prison, but as they had no more use for him, they wouldn’t stand any more bloodlettin’. They “dropped him” and let him stay “dropped.” So he went to Philadelphia and got off-and-on jobs as a barkeeper. Finally he got a steady position as bartender at Devitt’s tavern, next to the house of the Moyamensing Hose Company. One night the Moyamensing Hose gave a jamboree or anniversary, and among other big bugs Alderman Bill McMullen was at the spread.
Morrow was around and “full,” and McMullen was lively, and a row a rose between the two men about a bouquet, and Morrow shot McMullen so he was not expected to live, though he recovered. And for this second shootin’ Morrow had to serve a second sentence.
As for Dougherty, who was a great pal of Morrow’s, and had some “stuff” in him, he died a horrible death by violence. He got quarrelin’, or rather got quarreled with in a drinkin’ saloon one Sunday evenin’ and tried to get rid of the row by rushin’ out into the streets; but he was run after, caught and then laid down by three men on the sidewalk, while a fourth man, almost in the stage of delirium tremens, knelt down beside him and cut his bowels open. He died in agony, but he would never reveal the names of his murderers, and he died with his pal Hugh Morrow’s name on his lips.
[Editor’s notes: The above column condenses the book written by James J. Brooks, Whiskey Drips: A Series of Interesting Sketches, Illustrating the Operations of the Whiskey Thieves in Their Evasions of the Law and Its Penalties, W. B. Evans, 1873.
Brooks’s investigations took place in 1868-1869, just one of many instances of the illicit activities of the distiller’s association. The corruption that was exposed reached high into political circles, extending into the cabinet of President Ulysses S. Grant.]
The three roughs that attacked Brooks proved to all be members of the Moyamensing Hose Company, a Philadelphia fire company that produced many street gang members.]
