Deliberate Evil Read online

  Copyright © 2022 by Edward J. Renehan Jr.

  All rights reserved

  Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated

  814 North Franklin Street

  Chicago, Illinois 60610

  ISBN 978-1-64160-341-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021944642

  Typesetting: Nord Compo

  Printed in the United States of America

  5 4 3 2 1

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  For my grandchildren

  Connor William

  and

  Annalise Marie

  “Time flies over us but leaves its shadow behind.”

  —Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun

  “You see, for a while [Daniel Webster] was the biggest man in the country. He never got to be President, but he was the biggest man. There were thousands that trusted in him right next to God Almighty, and when he argued a case, he could turn on the harps of the blessed and the shaking of the earth underground.”

  —Stephen Vincent Benét,

  “The Devil and Daniel Webster”

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Old Salem by Moonlight

  2 An Inconvenient Apparition

  3 Wharves and Decline

  4 A Melancholy Process of Decay

  5 Great the Pain This Monster Must Be In

  6 Murder as One of the Fine Arts

  7 The Knapps of Salem

  8 The Crowninshields of Salem

  9 Vigilance

  10 A Damned Eternal Fortune

  11 Forever Stained with Blood, Blood, Blood

  12 In the Hands of an Angry God

  13 Joseph Knapp Jr.’s Confession as Transcribed by Henry Colman

  14 The Fiend Has Robbed Justice of Its Victim

  15 An Elaborate Game of Chess

  16 Black Dan

  17 A Murder of No Ordinary Character

  18 The Cry of the People Is for Blood

  19 Refuting the Truth

  20 The Conclusion of Webster’s Summation in the First Trial: “Suicide Is Confession”

  21 A Contagion of Unexampled Popular Frenzy

  22 Franklin Dexter’s Summation at the Second Trial

  23 Daniel Webster’s Summation at the Second Trial

  24 The Execution of Frank Knapp

  25 Emphatically Encompassed by a Sea of Blood

  26 She Must Be the Very Devil

  27 The Complaint of the Human Heart

  28 Ghosts

  Acknowledgments

  Appendix: The Last Will and Testament of Captain Joseph White

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Index

  Prologue

  “Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak.”

  —William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  The April 1830 murder of wealthy eighty-two-year-old shipmaster, trader, and slaver Joseph White in Salem, Massachusetts, inspired not only national journalistic attention but also something more: notable literary contemplations by none other than Salem native Nathaniel Hawthorne, who actually knew several of the participants in the crime. Hawthorne used aspects of the murder case, and other elements of Salem history and culture, to fuel extended ruminations on dark and complex themes—most notably, the nature of guilt, both inherited and otherwise.

  The White murder also served as one of America’s first real-life experiments in what would become the classic tableau of that genre known as “the detective story.” Writing in 1940, Edmund Pearson spoke of how the murder of Joseph White had all the fundamental elements of the great procedurals of deduction subsequently crafted by the likes of Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins. “There was hardly,” he commented, “one omission of scene, of cast, or of stage property.” In addition to the “morbidly respectable and extremely horrified” citizens of the Salem establishment, there was the victim of great wealth and prominence asleep in the presumed safety of his mansion, there were menacing figures observed in darkness on the night of the crime, and there was “even talk of a cave in the woods, where a gang of ‘harlots, gamblers and sharpers’” gathered.1 Indeed, in sentencing one of the main culprits in the crime, Massachusetts Supreme Court Associate Justice Samuel Putnam said, “If such events had been set forth in a work of fiction, they would have been considered as too absurd and unnatural for public endurance. The story would have been treated as a libel upon man.”2

  The byzantine, months-long investigation into the murder of Captain White was made all the more interesting to the newspaper-reading public when it was realized that some of the people involved in the affair came from several of the most prominent and prosperous families on the entire Eastern Seaboard. This interest was heightened further by the Gothic fascination with which many already viewed Salem, home to the infamous witch trials of 1692. There was also Captain White’s sordid history in the slave trade at a time when Massachusetts was becoming imbued with heated antislavery sentiment, a fact that made him quite an unsympathetic victim. Add to this the participation in the trial of one of the most famous men in the country at that time: the eloquent and brilliant Daniel Webster, then a sitting senator from Massachusetts, who came aboard as a freelance prosecutor and in that capacity rendered what is, still today, considered one of the finest summations ever uttered in an American courtroom.

  The overall story of the White murder is so utterly engaging from so many different angles that one at first wonders why the tale—as much a story of murder as it is the study of the social history related to the great maritime families of the New England coast—has remained so obscure for so very long, since the days when it dominated headlines up and down the Eastern Seaboard. But there are reasons, which form a unique and important story unto themselves.

  The suppression of this story over many decades has been due to direct efforts by wealthy descendants of several Salem shipping dynasties—prime players in the drama—who wished the tale to dry up and blow away. Suppression over the course of nearly two centuries has taken many forms. It has included, but not been limited to, the recall, rewriting, and republication of an early Daniel Webster biography, this exercise financed by the White family in order to eliminate all mention of the murder and trial. In this way, they hoped to erase from memory the visage of Joseph White, who added so much to the family wealth through his lucrative but shameful career as a slaver.

  Other tools of suppression were available to descendants of these same Salem clans by virtue of their roles as major benefactors of the Peabody Essex Museum—the prime holder of documents, relics, and even real estate involved in the story. Throughout many decades, these families exercised great influence over which archives were to be open or closed and how objects related to the crime—including the site of the murder itself—were to be maintained and interpreted.

  Over time, various descendants of those involved with the 1830 episode married into the very highest ranks of American society, allying themselves with the Adams, Endicott, and du Pont families, to name just a few. When these scions went on to become captains of industry and presidential cabinet secretaries, they did not need the stark memory of one ancestral ghost’s career as a slaver, or another ancestral ghost’s propensity for murder, haunting their families, lives, and careers. But some ghosts cannot be exorcised—at least not permanently.

  Thus, the case’s very obscurity, and the reasons behind that, form a significant part of the tale—a tale worthy of Hawthorne. “It is not down on any map,” wrote Hawthorne’s close friend Herman Melville in Moby Dick, “true places never are.” The story to be told here, though entirely true, has been largely, though not entirely, unmapped for some 190 years.

  1 Old Salem by Moonlight


  “Murder, like talent, seems occasionally to run in families.”

  —George Henry Lewes,

  The Physiology of Common Life (1859)

  We have it on record that there was a bright, full moon in Salem, Massachusetts, on the evening of Tuesday, April 6, 1830. If one were viewing the town of fourteen thousand from the high ground of that grim place, Gallows Hill, which according to local lore was said to have been the site of the original witch trial hangings, one would have spotted, in the distance, more than fifty wharves extending into the harbor. These wharves were the result of more than a century of the most powerful and prosperous Salem families—led at various moments by the Derbys, the Whites, the Crowninshields, and the Storys—seeking to subdue the land and waters and make both conform not to nature’s plan, but to the demands of modern man and modern commerce. Not so long before 1830, Salem’s prominence as the world center of the highly lucrative China trade, not to mention trade with the East Indies and other ports of the world, had stood undisputed. The city’s still fairly robust waterfront was but one symbol of that status.

  The wharves hummed with constant activity by day and night. Ships and crews were expensive assets not meant to rest on shore for any longer than was absolutely necessary. The spectator standing on Gallows Hill would have seen the wharves lit brightly with torches and lanterns. He or she would have heard, in the distance, the incessant shouts of stevedores and the groans of tortured gangways as heavy cartons and barrels were hauled up and down. He or she would have spotted the silhouettes of men in the rigging of the tall ships, checking sheets and mending sails in the full moonlight. And the observer would have known that those members of the crews lucky enough to have a few hours away from the vessel could likely be found in the taverns, gambling dens, and whorehouses on the edge of town, abominations such as Salem’s witch-killing Puritan founders could never have imagined. Many of these were owned and managed by a highly entrepreneurial free Black man of dubious reputation, John “King” Mumford, while the balance were owned by two men who shall soon become principals in this story. (Most of the vice, one contemporary report said, had popped up after the War of 1812, which, according to several observers, had caused the violent habits of war and privateering to injure public morals.)

  Looking out from that same high ground of Gallows Hill, the watcher would have also seen and comprehended all the architectural landmarks of great prosperity side by side with relics of that prosperity’s humble and unlikely genesis. Near the waterfront in South Salem stood the “first period” houses of the earliest settlers, dating back to the mid-1600s. These were simple frame dwellings with deep-pitched roofs: two-room, central-chimney affairs characterized by all the spartan simplicity one would expect from stern Protestant settlers intent on creating God-centered lives in a new, uncertain, and alien land.

  Elsewhere, particularly along Essex, Brown, and Chestnut Streets, one could make out the elaborate Federal-style mansions of a later generation: those Puritan descendants who, over long decades, had come around to the lure of materialism, the comforts of wealth, and an understanding of the ease with which such comforts could be obtained through the practice of sometimes unscrupulous trade. Among these houses stood the looming red-brick Federal-style mansion of an eighty-two-year-old merchant, Captain Joseph White. Designed and built in 1804 by Salem’s most prominent architect and builder, Samuel McIntire, the home featured high Corinthian columns framing a wide portico, just the sort of ostentation and indulgence that Salem’s original inhabitants would have thought sinful.1

  The central section of Salem, excerpted and adapted from an 1851 map of the city made by Henry McIntyre. The Salem commercial waterfront lies two blocks to the south of Essex Street. Original of the full map is in the Norman P. Leventhal Map Center of the Boston Public Library. Chris Erichsen

  Yes, opulence had come to define the better quarters of Salem, where possessors of great fortunes dwelled in luxury not far from the waterfront where longshoremen, sailors, and shipwrights worked long hours to maintain the affluence of others. On this particular night of April 6, the minions of Salem’s great families slept well—and, one would have thought, safely—in their beds, content with the world and their dominance over it.

  2 An Inconvenient Apparition

  “‘I am thinking,’ he remarked quietly, ‘whether I shall add to the disorder in this room, by scattering your brains about the fireplace.’”

  —Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White (1859)

  According to the story he told on the morning of Wednesday, April 7, 1830, forty-year-old Benjamin White had spent the previous evening at the same place where he could be found most nights: his favorite waterfront tavern. Fellow habitués of the saloon would later confirm Benjamin’s presence. As usual, the impoverished Benjamin had been complaining about his employer and distant cousin, Captain Joseph White, whom he was known to despise.1

  To the denizens of the tavern, it was a familiar rant. A drunken Benjamin could always be counted upon for vehement denunciations of White. He routinely criticized the widower’s frugality when it came to wages, his swagger and commanding manner about the household, and his lasciviousness. In regard to the latter, Benjamin loudly informed anyone who would listen of White’s “unnatural” relationship with his forty-year-old niece and housekeeper, Mary Beckford—an accusation that appears to have been completely fraudulent—and also the captain’s frequent lewd remarks and behavior toward twenty-six-year-old chambermaid Lydia Kimball, these occurring whenever Mary was out of the house.

  With each drink, Benjamin would become more and more agitated in denouncing White’s many sins. The man would usually be in a pure white rage by the time he headed home to his room in Captain White’s mansion, which he did at around nine o’clock on the evening of April 6. The oft-repeated script was well known, an object of levity for those who made a nightly amusement of buying Benjamin drinks and urging him on.

  “Mr. W. went to bed that night rather later than usual,” Benjamin would recall, “about 20 minutes before ten. His usual hour was about nine. . . . I went to bed that night immediately after Captain White went. It was almost a quarter before ten.” Benjamin left Lydia Kimball behind, raking up the fire. He was sure of the time because he “looked into the keeping parlor at the clock.”2 There was nothing between Benjamin’s room and that of Captain White other than a short hallway and a staircase. Nevertheless, Benjamin heard nothing from the captain’s room during the night.

  Essex Street, photographed circa 1900 with the mansion of Captain Joseph White, number 128, shown at far right. Now called the Gardner-Pingree House, the mansion is owned and maintained by the Peabody Essex Museum. The house was designed and built by Salem’s preeminent architect, Samuel McIntire, in 1804. Photo by Frank Cousins from the Frank Cousins Collection of Glass Plate Negatives. Courtesy of Phillips Library, Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, MA

  Benjamin rose early on the seventh, as was his habit, even after a night on the town. Though his head might throb, there was still a stove to light, water to be fetched, and a privy to be washed down—the regular daily round enacted before the rest of the household awoke. Benjamin was in the midst of these duties when he noticed a window open on the rear ground floor of the mansion and a plank leaning against the lower exterior frame. The window that had been opened went into a room that, like the entire eastern side of the house, was used very little, there being at that time only four residents of the very large place. Benjamin assumed, he said, that there had been a burglary. With this in mind, he went into the front room, where he observed nothing amiss, then upstairs to alert Lydia Kimball in her third-floor room near his own. Not long afterward, following a survey of the front parlor with Kimball, Benjamin went to wake the captain.

  White’s bedroom was on the second floor and had two doors, front and back. One, the front door, stood open: an uncustomary occurrence. Entering the room, Benjamin found the master of the house laying on his side, very cold, very stiff, and very dea
d. A pronounced wound to White’s forehead looked as though it had been made with the blow of a hammer. There appeared also to be several stab wounds to the chest. The captain’s face, Benjamin said, was “very pale.” Benjamin saw that the bedclothes had been turned down, and “I think I saw some blood upon the side of the bed, or on his flannel.”

  The head of White’s bed lay against the eastern wall of his chamber, near the front entry door. Therefore, anyone who might have entered that door—the door that had been left open—would have been able to come up behind Captain White as he slept, as he usually did, on his right side.

  After taking a moment to digest what he was seeing, Benjamin rushed downstairs and informed Kimball as to what had happened. Once this was done, he ran to alert some near neighbors—a Mr. Mansfield and a Mr. Deland, then Captain White’s physician, Dr. Samuel Johnson (who was also a neighbor), before finally trotting across Washington Square (referred to colloquially as the Salem Common), to the home of Captain Joseph White’s forty-one-year-old nephew and adopted son, Stephen White. This younger White was a prominent Salem merchant, state senator, and brother-in-law to another Salem resident, Joseph Story, who at that time served both as associate justice of the US Supreme Court and dean of the Harvard Law School.

  After informing Stephen White, Benjamin returned to the mansion and examined the open window. He found it raised some twenty-one or twenty-two inches. “The shutter, which opened very hard, was open some ways,” Benjamin would testify. “The window was fastened by a screw, and the shutter by a bar. I found the bar standing by the right side of the window.” Nothing seemed to have been forced or broken, although the window was usually secured by both the screw and the bar, and both would have had to be broken for a forced entry. Later on, examining the same spot, Dr. Johnson would note that he saw “two footprints, both directed towards the wall of the house. There was a plank set up, diagonally, the bottom of it about two feet from the sill. There were no marks of wet feet, but a little dampness on the floor.”