An Audacious Myth: The Personal Memoirs of Major General Daniel Edgar Sickles

By William R. Sutton

An Audacious Myth: The Personal Memoirs of Major General Daniel Edgar Sickles is a fictional first-person account of the real-life Civil War Union General Dan Sickles and his controversial actions at the Battle of Gettysburg. An Audacious Myth chronicles Sickles’s rise from a self-centered operative of New York's infamous Tammany Hall to the rank of Major General. His scandal-ridden life included owning a brothel with his lover Fanny White, marrying the teen daughter of his best friends, and gunning down his wife’s lover in front of the White House. He was the first American to be found not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Sickles’s time after the war was devoted to creating a narrative that put him at the center of heroics at Gettysburg. His efforts won him the Medal of Honor thirty-five years after the battle. Did he save the Union and deserve the medal? Was there a twisted divine intervention that guided him at Gettysburg? We view the man through his own eyes and decide for ourselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662944420

Book preview

ALEXANDER ROBINSON SCHOOL

New York City

September 25, 1837

I don’t want to read your damned book!

I glared at this emaciated little man with his balding hairline and little round spectacles that made him seem bookish. In fact, he was a failed man seeking shelter teaching literature in this sterile schoolhouse my parents insisted I attend.

Master Michaelson looked back at me with resentment, anger, and a shadow of fear, knowing that the tempest that always simmered in my soul could spill into his classroom. I had likely earned my last visit to the headmaster. Young Master Sickles, I excuse you from this classroom and order you to you confer with Headmaster Collins. I will escort you to Mr. Collins’ office.

Michaelson knew better than to touch me, and I knew it best to follow him to the office in a civil manner. The office was on the first floor of the frame schoolhouse located adjacent to a church, the Second Presbyterian, which my Episcopalian parents deemed my source of proper education. These pale Scots may know something about their letters, but of life in color they knew nothing.

Good afternoon, Mr. Michaelson. I see you have brought the charming Mr. Sickles with you. Has he earned another citation for excellence?

Quite the contrary, Mr. Collins. Another spout of belligerence from the young man, I am sore to report. He openly cursed the Lord in my class while refusing to discuss his assignment.

Collins looked at me with resignation. I had felt the sting of his English riding crop enough to know that this time he was keeping it under his desk. Mr. Sickles, could you please explain your behavior?

I looked at him, a man slightly less contemptuous in appearance than Michaelson, but likely another that had failed at navigating the ways of commerce in this city. I could not finish the book, sir. It’s just a pasty story about a slutty Puritan girl that gets impregnated by a fellow Puritan, but it’s written in such sheepish language I could not bear to page through their suffocating drudgery!

Very well, Mr. Sickles. You have proved yourself a rather belligerent boy yet again, and despite the generosity your parents have provided this school I have no recourse but to excuse you from the premises of Robinson School until the beginning of the new year, and by that time you shall have completed, on your own resource, a written report of the books on this list! He took out a paper and wrote in pencil five lines and handed the paper to me. We are trying like Saints to keep you on a path to a good Christian life, Mr. Sickles, and it seems the devil owns part of your soul. It’s no use trying to beat that out of you. Some time at home with your parents might help. Good day, and may God help you.

Michaelson escorted me to the entry door that opened onto the unpaved lane that led up the hill to Broadway. I descended the stairway and turned left, away from Broadway, along a footpath that would lead up to the open pastureland east of the school, and eventually back to the Sickles Residence. I looked at the list Headmaster Collins gave me. Thank the devil, that ridiculous Puritan book was not on the list. Instead, at the top of the list was Last of the Mohicans, a recent book that seemed to have some redeeming potential with savory tales of kidnapping maidens, battles with savages, and killing Redcoats, or so I heard from Father. Rather than head directly home, I took the long walk down toward the city to find a bookstore, thinking it wise to return home with at least one book in hand. My parents were quite involved in the business and social affairs of the city, and they were not harsh disciplinarians. Mother and Father both seemed a little apprehensive about taking the cane to my bare buttocks, as I always responded with a trifle of destruction in their attempts to subdue me.

The footpath ended at a dirt road named Middle Road, optimistically called Fifth Avenue by some of my father’s real estate speculator friends who saw the city extending out to this farm country. I followed it south, standing aside for an occasional wagon loaded with farm products headed into the city, or returning northbound with stores and implements, to where it became more settled with frame houses. As the road widened it became the real Fifth Avenue, the frame structures being methodically replaced with three and four story brick row houses, complete with paved sidewalks and saplings. It was the embryo of civilization emerging from the wilderness. The further I traveled toward the city, the air changed, the pine and hay scent of the country slowly giving way to the odor of the city. More horse manure, the lingering smell of coal fires that had cooked the morning bacon, and the smell of human waste in the sewers. To love the city was to take the wheat and the chaff together. The avenue continued into denser and denser habitation and in the distance, I could see its termination at Washington Square, where I knew there to be several bookstores.

I continued my walk to the square. The sun was high and warming the early autumn day as I strolled across the park to Thompson Street. I recognized a bookstore I visited with my father; the exterior painted a leafy green with large windows displaying a variety of new publications. I entered the store. The clerk behind the counter greeted me and asked how he could help. I would like to purchase a copy of ‘Last of the Mohicans.’ He sized me up and said, Well, it’s quite a story, but you look like you are up to the task and directed me to the far aisle. It’s in the fiction section toward the rear of the store.

I proceeded to the designated area. The stacks of books seemed to be ordered by author, and Headmaster Collins had not written that down. I walked back to the counter and was told the author was named Cooper. This time, I walked straight back to the rear of the store and turned left. On the rear wall was an opening into another room with a sign above it that said, Adults Only. I remembered Father asking about ‘adult books’ when we visited here earlier, and he was always careful to secure his purchases in his valise before we left the store. My curiosity took control. I stepped into the room. It was small, almost a closet, and dimly lit by a single lamp. There were shelves on both sides filled with books. Looking at the titles, some seemed rather silly for adults, but one caught my eye, a small paperback titled ‘The Lustful Turk, or Lascivious Scenes from a Harem.’ I didn’t know what ‘Lascivious’ meant, but I had heard of Father referring to a lady’s boarding house in the Bowery as that harem. I opened the book and the page I chose had an etching of a naked woman posed on an enormous bed, her eyes looking straight out the page at me. I smiled back at her and stuffed the book into my trousers and exited the small room, continued to the right to find Last of the Mohicans, located in the C section of authors. It was a hardbound copy selling for fifty cents, rather pricey, but worth the expense if it would keep peace in the Sickles home.

I walked to the front, set the book on the counter, presented the payment, and bade the clerk a good day. He eyed me with suspicion, and I thought it best to make a hasty exit to the street. He followed me to the door and opened it. As he did, he patted me on my belly and felt my secreted package. What have we here, son? I looked up at him. He was a tall man, somewhat emaciated, like Michaelson and all the other bookish types. I grabbed his hand, put it aside and said, It’s a gift and darted out the door and into the street. The clerk yelled Thief! Noontime shoppers crowded the sidewalks. Most stood passively as I ran past, but as I skirted around a carriage, a large arm swung out from the box and grabbed my shirt. Needn’t be in such a hurry on a busy street like this. You’re likely to spook my horses. I looked at him and shouted back, Let go of me! Nothing will spook those nags except the smell of the glue factory! I tried to pull free and with a quick tug my shirt ripped, leaving him holding a piece of the collar. I turned and rushed into a large burley constable. Well, now, what have we here? A little thief, albeit dressed a bit fancy for the usual street urchins around here. What’s your name, boy? I held up the book I had purchased and said, I’ve nothing to hide! I paid for this. Unfortunately, during all the tussles, my shirt lifted and exposed ‘The Lustful Turk’ above my waistline. And that? he pointed. No telling fibs here, boy. You will only dig deeper. What’s your name? I felt a rush of tears coming and tried to hold them back. The clerk appeared and the constable grabbed ‘The Lustful Turk’ and handed it to him. The sight of that man invoked a resentment in me at all these little people that quickly dissipated any notion of crying. My name is Dan Sickles.

The clerk looked at me and said, If I ever see you even looking at my store again, I will summon the police, and next time you will be on a one-way ride to Rochester. The constable looked at the clerk, then at me. Sickles. Possibly the son of George? He’s a familiar face in this part of town, quite connected with the money crowd paving the streets up to Harlem.

Yes sir, I am the son of George Sickles, and I would offer any kind of service to keep this matter between us. It was a dreadful act, totally impetuous. I intended only to purchase a proper book, this one, and I tripped across the other one, which I knew I could not purchase.

The constable looked down at me and gave a wry smile. As a matter of fact, I know some good people that have need of some services from a well-bred young man. Yes, they would like to have you. Follow me and don’t think about running. I know where you live! We walked together, south on Thompson, left on Canal, and Right on Broadway. I did not know where he was taking me. For all I knew, I was headed to a warehouse on the docks. We turned left on Chambers Street, with a park on the right, which we circumnavigated. A large brick building crowned with a cupola resided in the middle of the park. Is he taking me to City Hall for booking? Sir, am I to be arrested? He looked down at me and said, Oh, I have something far better than that for you. On the right a walkway led obliquely to the entrance portico of City Hall, but there we turned left, at the intersection of Nassau and Frankfort. We walked across the street and headed to the steps of a three-story brick building. Above the ornate doorway flanked by leaded glass sidelights and a fan transom was a sign that read Tammany Hall. The constable knocked on the door.

SALON DI LORENZO

New York City

January 21, 1838

Master Daniel Sickles, I presume. Son of George Sickles!

The voice woke me from a deep sleep. I spent the night in a small room, with a tiny square window that was letting in morning light. My bed was a small cot with a wool blanket. I had to remind myself I was not in jail. This was Tammany Hall.

I am Mr. Cornelius Van Wyck Lawrence, an acquaintance of your father. A large figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by a dimly lit hallway behind him. Please get dressed and come with me. I dressed and slipped into my boots.

I’m quite hungry. May I get a little something to eat?

A nice breakfast is waiting for you, Master Sickles. Please follow me.

We descended the stairway that led from my third-floor quarters to the mezzanine overlooking the entrance hall, then down the more elegant grand walnut staircase to the paneled foyer and out into the street. It was the middle of the week, Wednesday by my reckoning, and the city was alive with morning commerce. We walked across the street, to where City Hall sat dappled with morning rays of sunshine. Then we cut through its park on a path that led past the entrance portico. Next, we turned right on Broadway. Lawrence walked quickly and purposefully. I had seen him the night before in the dining room of the Hall with a group of men, all smoking cigars and engaged in conversation. I did not know at the time he was one of the boss men.

Where are we headed? Centre Street is a shorter route to my house.

We are not going to your house. He had the vestige of a Dutch accent. One of the Van’s.

We continued the brisk pace until we arrived at Spring Street, turned left, and walked alongside elegant new brick row houses. In the middle of the block, Lawrence climbed a stone stairway to a landing and rapped on the paneled oak door with his cane. The door opened and a well-dressed man greeted him. Mr. Lawrence, good morning. We have been expecting you. And is this your new friend down there on the street?

Indeed, it is James. He looked down at me and said, Please follow me, Daniel. Obedient as a newly trained Spaniel, I climbed the stairs and entered the foyer. A fine Persian rug covered the maple flooring. The walls were paneled with silk patterned inlays into which were hung paintings of Old-World cities and landscapes. We proceeded down the hallway leading to the rear. A figure emerged from the end and walked toward us. He was an old gentleman, with an erect posture supported by a cane and wearing a formal topcoat, interesting for this time of morning as if he dressed for a funeral. His face had a swarthy complexion, and he sported a finely trimmed goatee beard. Lorenzo, my friend, good morning. I bring to you my new acquaintance, Master Daniel Sickles. The man studied me in my disheveled clothing that I had not taken off for several days. My hair was no doubt frayed in all directions. This entire scene was a mystery to me. I thought at first that I was being escorted back to my parents’ home, and when I saw it was not the case, perhaps taken to the wharves to give blankets to the Irish pouring off the emigration ships. And now I was here in this elegant home with a man named Lorenzo.

Master Sickles, it’s my pleasure to meet you. He spoke with a foreign accent. Italian or Spanish, most likely, definitely not French or German. Please follow me. We walked along the corridor to a room at the rear of the house with painted paneling and more artwork. On the right was a fireplace surrounded by a marble mantle. Atop it was a clock with a bust of Mozart next to it. Hanging above was a painting of a man on a black horse wearing an antiquated silk costume, his right hand on the hilt of a sword and his left holding a wide-brimmed hat. There was a grouping of paired upholstered wingback chairs on either side of a long cushioned settee that faced the fireplace. Lorenzo looked at his friend Cornelius and said, Thank you for bringing young Master Sickles here today, and entered the room to take a seat on the far wingback nearest to the blazing fire. Cornelius followed him in and remained standing behind the chair next to a sunlight filled window. I entered the room and Lorenzo motioned for me to be seated on the settee. I sat, looked at the flames in the fireplace, and to the right. Seated in the farther wingback chair, and obscured from my view until now, was my father! And in the other, another man, who appeared much like Lorenzo but younger. He looked at me with a wry smile. Welcome to the salon of my father, Lorenzo Da Ponte, Master Sickles. I am also Lorenzo. They call me Lorenzo the Younger. He followed that with a broad smile.

I looked at his finely cultivated face. You are Professor Da Ponte from the University of the City. I’ve read some of your works. It makes me eager to visit Europe.

A servant brought in a tray with some fruit, nuts, small sandwiches, and a pitcher of lemon water. Do you mind if I have some water and food? I have not eaten since supper yesterday. Lorenzo the Younger smiled and said, By all means. His father also reached for the tray and spooned some nuts into a small bowl. I had seen very few people his age before. He must be at least ninety years old!

Cornelius Lawrence then spoke. You risked drawing attention to your father over your little transgression at the bookstore, Daniel. His voice was stern, but muted, and very matter of fact.

I am so very regretful of what I did. I’ve tried to say that, but there is no one at that Hall building to listen. Tears were welling in my eyes. I looked at my father. He recognized my state and continued to stare, knowing what was coming. And it came, a flood of inconsolable tears that had been building since they stopped me outside the bookstore. Lorenzo the Younger said, Daniel, there’s no need for crying. We are here to help you. My father looked at him and simply said, You can’t stop his anguish anymore than you can stop Pisa from leaning or the Pope from praying. He will calm in a few minutes. And so, they waited while my sobbing slowly diminished into depleted whimpers, and finally, silence.

The elder Lorenzo rose from his chair. He looked directly into my eyes and held out a book. It was the one I had pilfered from the bookstore. He hurled it into the blazing fire. Enough trashy pornography for you, Master Sickles. You are here to learn how things sensual rise to the level of true art! He walked to a bookshelf left of the fireplace and removed a leather-bound volume. Then he came to me and put it on my lap. Returning to his chair, he picked up a small bell, and rang it. Ask Maria to come in, please. What, I wondered, is this book? ‘Don Juan?’

In a few moments, a comely young ginger haired beauty gracefully made her way to the old man, who took her hand and guided her onto his lap. Good morning, Father she said to him in a soft clear voice. He began gently stroking her silky waves, whispering softly to her in Italian. She smiled and kissed him softly on his lips. He turned to me and said, Only a foolish boy wastes time looking at pictures. The feel of a woman’s skin, he began intertwining his fingers with hers, upturning her palm which he kissed, and moved his lips up the inside her of wrist, is the only thing that can truly arouse an enlightened man. He looked intently into my eyes.

I looked at the lovely young woman, and her bright green eyes met mine. She appeared just a few years older than me, and a quite fully developed woman. This is my lovely daughter, Maria. That seemed like pretty intimate fondling for a father and daughter. What does she have to do with my penance? "She is wed to my dear friend Antonio Bagioli." Lorenzo beamed, showing his well-preserved teeth in a broad smile.

Lorenzo the Younger spoke. You were chosen, only by the goodwill of your father, to be mentored by me. Maria then looked at me in a way I was unfamiliar with, an intent gaze that successfully penetrated through my eyes and setting off a wave of energy inside my body that surged to the young manhood below my waist. The senior Lorenzo patted her on her thigh and said, My darling, I appreciate you taking time from your studies to visit with us and meet my new charge. Maria said, It will be a pleasure learning with you, Master Sickles! Her eyes went wide with playfulness at the formality of that, and she let out a light giggle.

I looked at his ancient brown eyes as she nestled in his lap. You are a teacher as well, Mr. Da Ponte?

My father then spoke. Daniel, you are in the presence of the renowned Lorenzo Da Ponte from Venice, Italy. He is the Chair at Columbia University in Italian Literature, and his other accomplishments are too many to mention, but among them are many operas he composed. That portrait above the fireplace is his good friend, the adventurer Giacomo Casanova. I looked up at the portrait of the famed Casanova and then to Lorenzo Da Ponte. He took in my father’s brief biography and held a calm smile. Daniel, you will live here at 91 Spring Street, and my son will tutor you in the ways of the world, and New York City. Your first assignment is to read Don Juan. I was so inspired by this book that I wrote the lyrics to the opera ‘Don Giovanni’ that my friend Mozart composed.

The son then continued the conversation. Master Sickles, the life you knew is finished. Today is the beginning of a new one. You are to be tutored in more than operas and classics. I provide special education here for certain young men, and you are my new apprentice. Cornelius Lawrence interrupted. OUR new apprentice, Lorenzo. He nodded and continued.

You will become my apprentice, and I will groom you for greatness with all the power and support of Tammany Hall if you succeed. I looked past him to Cornelius, who looked at my eyes with a stony stare and a wry grin. If you fail, you can go back to stealing pornographic literature and rubbing yourself on downspouts in the back alleys with all the other street urchins. Old Lorenzo returned his attention to Maria and once again spoke in Italian. Her eyes found mine with her penetrating gaze. She smiled, rose from his lap, and gracefully made her way out of the room. I was mesmerized and intrigued as he delved into a discussion about women, their beauty, their desires, and their power over men. My mind tried to reconcile this with the woman I knew best in the world: My mother. I could not imagine she was capable of all this manipulation. Every word from his mouth was a work of art exuding his love of seduction, his insatiable desire for women and beauty, and the power it inferred upon himself. This man is diabolical!

The old man then spoke. You must think I am a demon, Daniel. But I’m just a man, another son of Adam, trying to find his way through the world. They chose you to do bidding for the Hall based on my teachings. My son will make you the man they need, and you will live to greatness following the path we lay before you. Images of grandeur came to me, a large home beautifully furnished, with beautiful women lounging in its parlor awaiting a chance to serve me, and travel to the magnificent cities of the world with the loveliest of them. Glory, perhaps on a great battlefield. This is my punishment?

My father spoke. My son, your actions brought you here, actions that shocked me with the threat they bring to your mother and myself. Your redemption from that is here, if you can get control over your impetuous emotions. This is not another chance, Daniel. It’s your last chance to have a consequential life. As you will find, we all live under an umbrella that protects us. If you stay under the safety of that umbrella, it will keep you safe. Outside of it, you have no protection.

What is this umbrella you are talking about?

Tammany Hall, my son. He looked across to the elder Lorenzo, stood from his chair, and said Thank you, Lorenzo. I hope my son does not disappoint. Both Lorenzo’s gracefully rose from their chairs and shook my father’s hand. The Younger said, I can see now that he will not disappoint. My father and Cornelius Lawrence exited the room and walked out of the house into the streets of the city.

Lorenzo the Younger took three glasses from the shelf and opened a bottle of wine. Here’s to you, my little Bacchus! Here’s a toast to wine, women and, of course, to song, the Opera! he said, throwing his arm wide. He reached over and grabbed the statue of Mozart and kissed it passionately on the lips. You must learn the Operas! Your first bottle of fine wine awaits, he said as he directed his attention to the door where the lovely Maria stood. She smiled at us precociously and said, I too would love some wine and share in this discussion, but Mother instructed me to ask if you would like any other nourishment. It was enough nourishment for me just to see her standing there, and Lorenzo smiled at her. Just some more caviar would be nice, my lovely.

LESSONS FROM MARIA

New York City

February 10, 1838

I was in my second week of studies at the home of Lorenzo Da Ponte. The ‘classroom’ was on the second floor of his magnificent home. At the head of the stairway was an extensive library that faced Spring Street, with three large windows surrounded by bookcases and a comfortable upholstered chair under each window. The bookcases returned along the side walls of the room to the partition, where a pair of large mahogany doors opened out into the stair hall. In the center was a walnut table with two more chairs, and in one sat Maria, poring over a large, illustrated volume of ‘Dante’s Inferno’ in its original Italian.

I entered the library and took a seat at the chair under the center window, facing Maria, and opened my assignment to read the first three chapters of ‘Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors and Architects’. This was a recent English translation from the original 1550 publication by Giorgio Vasari complete with recently composed black and white plates of the works of art. I was staring at the plate depicting ‘The Birth of Venus’ by Botticelli, and as my eyes followed the graceful lines of her nude body, I would look over to Maria, her raven locks tied behind her head as she read her assignment. She lifted her eyes for a moment and noticed my attention. How is your study of the arts going, Master Sickles? Then she giggled. Are you finding the history of art interesting?

Since moving into the Da Ponte home, I learned more about this intriguing family. It seems that Lorenzo adopted Maria when she was a baby and he was almost seventy years old. There were whispers from a house servant that she was his natural child from another woman.

I answered Maria. Some of it, yes, some of it not as much. I find the endless portraits of popes and merchants tedious. But Venus has me captivated. I looked at the lines of her face and saw how much she resembled Venus. Oh, father tells me often I look like Botticelli’s depiction of Venus. Such flattery. Only a father can win with that kind of adulation. Her speech was always refined, and she could switch from English to Italian to French on a whim. Antonio Bagioli was a very fortunate man to have landed this young American goddess.

Have you ever seen a woman with her clothes off, Dan? A forward question was that! I assume you mean in the flesh, not just in pictures? She laughed loudly. Of course! I felt my face flush with a rush of embarrassment. She looked at me with her penetrating green eyes, rose from her chair, and walked to