novelnext Chapter 22 Albany
Chapter 22 Albany
Roosevelt's voice echoed in Leo's mind, with a hint of predictable amusement.
"A very standard political tactic, kid. If they can't defeat you on the battlefield, they'll invite you into their banquet hall and then drown you in the swamp of bureaucracy with a generous salary, excellent benefits, and endless, meaningless paperwork."
"When you come to your senses one day, you'll find that you've forgotten why you fought in the first place, because you've become one of them."
Leo felt a wave of fear wash over him.
Roosevelt was referring to the very trap he almost fell into.
"So, should I call him right now and clearly refuse the job?" Leo asked.
"No." Roosevelt's answer surprised him. "To refuse outright is the act of a coward and a fool. It will only make you look like a naive idealist who knows nothing but slogans."
"A true politician never misses an opportunity. You must learn to turn the poison your enemy offers into a tonic for yourself."
"You must learn to use their system and turn their carefully designed traps into the first step on our path to the pinnacle of power."
Leo was somewhat confused.
"I do not understand."
"Then I'll use my own story to give you your first lesson in politics."
As Roosevelt's voice faded, the apartment scene before Leo's eyes vanished instantly.
He was once again pulled into that familiar vortex of consciousness.
After a brief period of weightlessness, Leo's consciousness regained focus.
He found himself standing in a huge, dark building hall.
Light struggled to squeeze in through the arched windows high up, casting dappled shadows on the floor.
There was a thick, complex smell in the air.
It was the smell of fine cigar smoke, a wool coat soaked by rain, and aged whiskey wafting from some room.
This smell is the smell of power itself.
Tall marble columns support the dome, and their shadows make the entire hall appear even more profound.
Well-dressed men gathered in twos and threes in the shadows, hurrying along, their leather shoes making a crisp echo on the marble floor.
They spoke in hushed tones, leaning forward, covering their mouths with their hands, exchanging messages that only they could understand, and exchanging knowing glances.
This is the New York State Capitol, a hunting ground built with legal statutes and secret deals.
Leo's perspective quickly focused on a young man who seemed out of place in his surroundings.
He was very tall, over 1.8 meters, with an upright posture, unlike those old politicians with their beer bellies and slightly hunched backs.
He was wearing a well-tailored tweed jacket, a bow tie around his neck, and a long ivory cigarette holder in his mouth.
His steps were light and confident, and his face carried the unique expression of an elite who had just graduated from Harvard, a mixture of naivety and arrogance.
Leo recognized him.
That was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 28 years old.
A New York State Senator who has just stepped out of his family estate in the Hudson Valley and into politics.
At this point, he was still able to walk steadily on his own two legs.
"My first step is to get into the system and build a reputation."
Roosevelt's echoing voice resonated in Leo's mind.
"Back then, the New York State Legislature was a Republican club. And within our Democratic Party, it was firmly controlled by a huge, corrupt machine called the Tammany Association."
"It was a deeply entrenched interest group dominated by Irish politicians. Their tentacles stretched from the foremen counting votes on the docks of New York City all the way to the office of the Speaker of the State Legislature. Everyone was under the thumb of their boss, a man named Charles Murphy."
Leo's perspective follows the young Roosevelt as he walks down a long corridor.
The walls along the corridor are covered with portraits of past governors.
Roosevelt pushed open a heavy oak door and walked into a smoke-filled caucus meeting room.
It was packed with people, mostly elderly men.
They were obese, and their faces were flushed from alcohol and food.
They spoke loudly, bursting into boisterous laughter from time to time, and their every gesture carried the slickness and arrogance characteristic of seasoned politicians.
They are members of the Tammany Association.
In the main seat of the room sat a man who seemed out of place with his surroundings.
He was also obese, expressionless, and had a gloomy look in his eyes.
He was Charles Murphy, the absolute dictator of the Tammany Society, known as "Silent Charlie".
He rarely spoke, but simply sat there quietly, observing everyone in the room with his small eyes.
But everyone knows that every glance he gives can determine whether the political life of a politician present continues or ends.
At that moment, his icy gaze was fixed on the arrogant young man, Roosevelt.
There was only one agenda item for the meeting.
Nominate a Democratic candidate to represent New York State in the U.S. Senate.
The Tammany Association had already internally selected their candidate.
A banker named William Sheehan, a man with close ties to Wall Street.
Today's meeting is just a formality.
A ceremony to demonstrate Boss Murphy's authority to everyone.
Just as Murphy was about to announce the results, the young Roosevelt stood up.
He cleared his throat, the crisp sound standing out starkly in the room.
He delivered a passionate speech.
He cited principles from the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution to criticize the Tammany Society's backroom politics and money deals.
He called for the restoration of democratic processes within the party and demanded an open, transparent election free from manipulation by anyone.
The more he talked, the louder the laughter in the meeting room became.
The old politicians exchanged disdainful glances.
They looked at this naive young master from a wealthy family as if he were a lamb that had just entered a slaughterhouse, unaware of its fate.
After Roosevelt finished his passionate speech, a brief silence fell over the room.
Then came an even louder, unrestrained burst of laughter.
Charles Murphy didn't even glance at him.
He simply whispered something to one of his most trusted lieutenants, a senator named Tim Sullivan.
"Now that the kids have had enough playtime, let's start voting."
The result is no suspense.
Sheen won the Tammoni Association's nomination by an overwhelming margin.
Roosevelt and his fellow newcomers, reformist congressmen who dared to stand up for him, suffered a crushing defeat.
"We have undoubtedly lost the vote," Roosevelt's voice-over rang out again, but there was no trace of frustration in it.
"But I won something more important than a vote."
The heavy oak door to the conference room was pushed open.
Outside the door, reporters from major New York newspapers crowded in.
They did not interview Sheehan, the banker who had just won and was riding high on his success.
They pointed all their cameras, flashes, and microphones at the young man who had just suffered a crushing defeat—Roosevelt.
"Mr. Roosevelt, what are your next steps?" a reporter asked loudly.
"How long do you think the Tammany Association's dominance over the Democratic Party can last?" another reporter pressed.
Roosevelt straightened his bow tie; though his expression was tired, his eyes were bright.
He smiled and spoke to the camera.
"Gentlemen, this is only the first round. The battle has just begun."
the next day.
The same news story was carried on the front page of every newspaper in New York.
A young senator of noble birth and promising future openly launched a suicidal attack on the corrupt behemoth that had dominated New York politics for decades—the Tammany Association.
He was labeled.
A label that would accompany him throughout his life and ultimately propel him to the pinnacle of power.
—Reformer.