Few men in wartime New York were better known than Cornelius Vanderbilt—or so often misjudged. Thousands recognized him as he drove his fast horses through the streets each day, sitting erect on a light racing wagon with reins in hand, long white sideburns flowing down his cheeks, keen eyes squinting ahead. The fastidious Commodore always dressed in black and wore a white cravat typical of a passing generation, now affected largely by clergymen.