The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  “Ach, lucky for him, bad for me. My wallet is always empty.”

  “Honesty is its own punishment.”

  Dulles watched President Wilson intercept Clemenceau, then glided over to join them, standing at a respectful distance—close enough to hear, but not to intrude. The clean-shaven Wilson was taller, Clemenceau broader with a white walrus mustache and the soft gray gloves he always wore, indoors and out. Dulles knew he was standing at the fulcrum of the peace conference. Wilson and his idealism were the irresistible force of the new twentieth century. Clemenceau’s old-style diplomacy, based on balance-of-power calculations among Great Powers, was the immovable object. Clemenceau’s excellent English, acquired during four years in America and many more married to a New England woman, gave him a key advantage in the negotiations. So far, the immovable object looked entirely immovable.

  When the leaders separated, Dulles retired to his seat behind the president and Uncle Bert. Lansing leaned back and asked in a whisper, “What were they discussing?”

  “Who will preside in the chair. The president had already decided to concede it to Clemenceau as host.”

  “Ever gracious, aren’t we?” Lansing allowed a trace of annoyance to pass over his face, then mastered it. “Look around this room, Allen. Then tell me what’s missing?”

  Dulles scanned the room quickly. The Big Four were all there. So were their various aides and retainers, not to mention the day’s schedule of petitioners from small countries and from places that yearned to become small countries. He wasn’t sure what his uncle meant and said so.

  “The Germans, Allen. The Germans. All we have here are the winners and their friends, grunting and squealing like pigs at a trough. I’ve negotiated treaties in my time, but never without talking to the other side.”

  Tuesday, January 21, 1919

  “Where the devil is he?” Lansing was tetchy after a full day of hearings followed by several hours of meetings with American staff members. Gallivanting with his two nephews through the Hotel Majestic, headquarters for the British delegation, was not high on his list of preferred evening activities. He didn’t care for the Negro jazz that welled every few moments from a floor below as though a door were opening and closing. That music made him nervous. He was the Secretary of State, for heaven’s sake, and didn’t appreciate being kept waiting by anyone, much less a presumptuous English army officer below the rank of general. “You said he’d be easy to pick out.”

  “Now, Uncle Bert,” said Foster Dulles, “give it a minute. Colonel Lawrence is short, you know.” Slightly taller than his younger brother, Allen, Foster combined the same lean frame with the permanent expression of a man whose shoes pinched. “They say he’s utterly without polish. Simply says what he thinks.”

  “There he is,” Allen cried out, leading them through the lobby. A small, pale man in British khaki stood at the crest of a half flight of stairs, his Arab headdress setting him apart. It was green silk with tassels of deep red. He bowed to the Americans as they approached and indicated a seating arrangement in a quiet nook. There were no handshakes.

  “Colonel Lawrence,” Lansing began when they were seated, then was interrupted by a waiter.

  The Americans ordered coffee. Lawrence wanted nothing.

  Lansing started again. “What can we do for you, Colonel?”

  “You know of my involvement with the Arab cause, Mr. Secretary?”

  Lansing nodded in assent.

  “I wanted to speak with you about how essential it is to recognize the legitimate claims of the Arab people. They fought the Turks for their independence, and they must have it. Prince Feisal, who led them, is the only true and legitimate leader in the region. He’s reached an agreement with Weizmann and the Zionists to provide an area for Jews to settle in Palestine. President Wilson, in view of his support for self-determination of all peoples, can play a major role in fulfilling this destiny.”

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Foster broke in. “Do you speak for the British government in this matter? I have reviewed the Sykes-Picot treaty between your government and the French in 1916, and it divides that region between those two nations. It says nothing about an independent Arab state, nor of Jews in Palestine.”

  Lawrence showed no expression. “Sykes-Picot is rubbish. A stupid scrap of paper scribbled out to hurry the end of the war. Even Sykes thinks his own treaty must yield to the commitments that His Majesty’s government made to the Arabs.” His eyes were a disconcerting blue, a rich cobalt, yet he never looked directly at the Americans. His voice was both low and filled with power.

  “Awkward, isn’t it?” Lansing said, “that His Majesty promised the same lands to two different parties?”

  “Scraps of paper cannot withstand history. The French have no legitimate claim to this land, which is truly the land of the Arabs and the Jews. The Arab people fought for their independence, and it would be an historical wrong to deny it to them.”

  “I’m sure the president will study this situation most carefully,” Lansing said, pausing while the waiter delivered three cups of coffee to a low table before him. “If I might offer a bit of advice, Colonel. Your advocacy might better be directed to your own government, as Mr. Wilson will be particularly interested in how our ally, Great Britain, interprets its various—some might say inconsistent—commitments in that region.”

  Lawrence was quiet for a moment. “Prince Feisal will arrive shortly to explain his rights and those of his people, and I hope you will take the opportunity to consider them.” He stood abruptly and bowed slightly from the waist. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

  Lansing picked up his coffee and sat back. “What a remarkable person,” he said, nodding to Allen, “just as you suggested.”

  Foster picked up another cup. “He does make an impression.”

  “Yes, but not a good one. What can he be thinking? There’s a great deal of petroleum under all that sand, petroleum that’s needed to fuel the world’s navies. The Arabs and their camels are hardly fit stewards for that kind of wealth.”

  “I can’t see why the British wouldn’t abide by Sykes-Picot,” Allen said. “It’s quite straightforward. The French get their bit—though Lawrence is certainly right that they have no decent claim to it—and the British get the oil in Mesopotamia.”

  “Ah,” Foster said, “it needs to be a bit more complicated than that. The United States must have a share in this business or else why did we send our troops across the ocean?” His usual sour expression deepened into a scowl. “There’s no reason we can’t find some opportunity here. Mr. Cromwell agrees we should be able to retrieve something from the frightful hash the British have made. Uncle, how do you think Mr. Lloyd George will dance through this minefield of his own creation?”

  “You know what a slippery number he is. He’ll say anything to anyone. Actually, he and Clemenceau have already been at each other’s throats over this business. The French are having a spell of seller’s remorse over Sykes-Picot. They fear being left out of a great petroleum bonanza. The great danger is that Lloyd George starts listening to that blue-eyed Bedouin.” Lansing nodded to the chair where Lawrence had sat. “Lawrence has become quite the hero in Britain.”

  “Indeed,” Foster agreed, “the prospect is more dangerous when you add in our high-minded president, who despises anything that smacks of actual American self-interest, and who will have his Hebrew friends pouring Zionist propaganda into his ear. There’s no way to know how it will all end up.” He looked across to Allen. “You’ll have to keep a special eye on the Middle East. Mr. Cromwell can brief you. I’m afraid I’m going to be fully engaged with the reparations and financial settlement with Germany.”

  “How does that go?” Allen asked.

  “It’s a full-time job keeping up with this Maynard Keynes fellow on the British side. He’s two or three times smarter than everyone else, but distinctly bolshie. Not sound at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for starters,
he actually agrees with Mr. Wilson that the victorious allies should be charitable toward Germany in order to establish the League of Nations.”

  Lansing snorted his dismay.

  “Now, the League is fine as eyewash for the public, but it’s not really a serious proposal, and the serious men here know it. Certainly Clemenceau doesn’t take it seriously. I fear that our overwrought theologian in the White House will sacrifice America’s future on the altar of his pipe dream. You can’t play by rules of your own choosing while everyone else follows the old rules.”

  “Foster.” Lansing put down his cup. The coffee was tepid. It would probably keep him up, anyway. “What conversations are going on between your group and the Germans?”

  “None that I know of. It’s a bit tricky, as you know, figuring out which Germans to speak with. They’ve thrown all their energy into crises and street riots—socialists one day, Spartacists and anarchists another, out-of-work soldiers the next. Nothing but strikes, rebellions, murders. I imagine most Germans are missing the Kaiser.”

  “In any country,” Lansing said, “the banks and the businesses don’t change. German banks have always been run by sound men. We must find someone sensible to speak with in Germany.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Cromwell can help. The law firm did have a number of German clients before the war.”

  “You must tread carefully, Foster. Until very recently, these people were killing Americans in large numbers. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that we were having back-channel chats with Germans.”

  “Of course not.” Foster sipped his coffee with a self-possession that Lansing found unsettling in someone barely thirty. Evidently evening coffee didn’t keep him from sleeping.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, January 22, 1919

  The dockside tumult in Brest made it easy for Speed Cook to jump ship for the second time in a week. He shouldered his suitcase the way a stevedore would carry passenger luggage. Once off the gangplank, he swung the bag down and carried it civilian style. Then he kept walking. The fog and drizzle helped. With a wool cap covering his gray hair, he drew no notice.

  The ship’s captain got a fair deal: Cook’s free labor in return for hauling him across the Channel at a time when getting to France wasn’t easy.

  Cook had used the same device to get from America to England. With so many sailors siphoned off onto navy ships, merchant captains asked few questions of possible crew members. Which meant that he would be one of the few Americans at the Second Pan-African Congress in Paris. That prospect put some juice in his stride.

  His path to the activist life had been improbable. He had been scuffling for dollars, promoting Negro baseball games up at Olympic Field on 136th Street in Harlem. The ticket sales weren’t much, but he did all right with some smart betting on the side. During one game, he recognized the famous Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois in the stands. He introduced himself and they hit it off. Dr. Du Bois could be highfalutin with his New England ways, but underneath the superior veneer, the man had the same rage Speed had, that every Negro had. The thing with Dr. Du Bois was that he had thought through his rage. He could explain it, trace out where it came from in history. He could point to ways Speed could put it to work to make things better for all colored people. So Speed signed up with Du Bois and his NAACP, stopped scuffling for dollars and joined the cause, the movement, something bigger than himself.

  In Paris, he would meet the leading colored people on the planet, ones from Africa and Europe. The other Americans who meant to go, the ones who formed that International League of Darker Peoples, they weren’t going to make it. They couldn’t get passports. The US government didn’t want a lot of darker peoples walking around Paris, reminding folks that America still had lynchings and the Ku Klux Klan and no voting by colored folks. That would be embarrassing when President Wilson was bringing democracy to the world, at least to those parts that had white people. Du Bois had managed to get an actual passport—he was too prominent to be turned down—but no one else could. The others wailed with disappointment at being left behind, something they hadn’t much experienced in their doily-covered, froufrou lives.

  Cook hadn’t moaned and groaned about the injustice of Wilson’s government. When his passport application was denied, he dusted off the seamen’s papers he had from years back, then signed on to a terrible old rust bucket that was carrying wheat to the folks starving in Europe. It wallowed to England in only nine days. And now he was in France, jumping his second ship.

  Before going to Paris, he had something important to do. American soldiers, waiting to embark on the voyage home, crowded the streets near the Brest waterfront. He bulled through them, which was easy for a big man like him. The cobbled streets were slick from recent rain. The sky was threatening. It felt cold enough for snow. Stone walls near the port looked centuries old. He checked his bag at the railroad station, struggling with the language. He asked a doughboy for directions to army headquarters. Drizzle started as he walked five blocks to a large stone building that stood comfortably away from the mayhem on the docks.

  He pulled off his cap as he stepped to the sergeant at a desk in the center of the entranceway. “Sir, I’m hoping to find the Three hundred sixty-ninth infantry regiment.”

  The sergeant wore a broad-brimmed hat with crisp creases and a sparkling braid at the base of the crown. He ignored Speed for at least a minute, not moving, staring at papers spread before him. He called over a guard standing at the foot of the staircase. “Take this to Colonel Davison.” After handing over an envelope, he returned his attention to the papers on his desk.

  Cook shifted his weight and strained to keep his voice level. “Excuse me, Sergeant, I just need some directions and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Uncle, do I look like I don’t have nothing better to do than sit around and chin with you all day?”

  “I’m looking for my boy, he served with the Three hundred and sixty-ninth. He was at the front, but we haven’t heard from him for too long. Army can’t seem to tell us where he is. I need to find him. His mother needs to know. I don’t even know if they’re here in Brest, but it seems worth a try.”

  The sergeant took a deep breath, then pulled a sheet from a drawer. “The camp for nigger soldiers, let me see.” His finger traced down the page. “It’s over the east side of town.” He looked up and pointed to his left. “That way.”

  “What’s the best way to get there?”

  “Shank’s mare, uncle. You look a strong feller.”

  Speed swallowed the bile that still rose in his throat, even after so many years.

  He passed taverns and cafés, ones that doubtless catered to soldiers and sailors but were buttoned up tight in the ugly morning. Whoever pocketed the dollars and pounds and francs from the men who passed through Brest wasn’t investing it locally. The street cobbles tilted at treacherous angles. The buildings slouched wearily, paint peeling from woodwork and wood sheets hammered in place of glass panes.

  Cook felt the familiar sense of dread come over him, the tingling at the back of his neck. They had no word from Joshua since September. The boy’s last letter had the usual reassuring words for Aurelia, but if you read between the lines, you could tell he was tired. His spirit was tired. From his work with Du Bois, Cook knew that the army worked hard to ruin the lives of colored soldiers. It wasn’t enough to send them out to get killed. They had to be insulted and humiliated, too, made something less. Always less.

  He and Aurelia waited anxiously through those last weeks before the armistice, when the fighting was at its peak. They made excuses for Joshua not writing, for the army not getting letters out of France. But when the armistice came, the silence stretched on. Cook tried the army offices in New York, but had no luck. He wrote to Joshua’s commanding officer. He got no response. He tried to work through some politicians he knew in New York. They were precinct hacks but they might have known someone who knew someone. Still nothing. He even asked Dr. Du Bois to see what he could find out, but he
learned no more. Aurelia grew more and more alarmed. Their daughter Cecily scoured the lists of the dead in the newspapers. When she saw a Joshua Clark listed, Aurelia wondered if it might be a mixup, that it was supposed to be “Joshua Cook,” but then they found out that Clark was from a white regiment.

  It got so they couldn’t talk about it any more, but they couldn’t talk about anything else. Aurelia blamed him for Joshua going in the army. If something bad happened, and something bad must have happened, she might never forgive him, or herself. Dr. Du Bois had pushed the idea that Negroes should join the army and fight. That way, he argued, the race would show it was worthy, worthy of fair treatment. Its young men, standing shoulder to shoulder with white soldiers, would finally change things.

  It sounded good in their living room on 127th Street. It sounded good to Joshua, who went down and signed up, didn’t wait to be drafted. After that, it started to sound a lot worse. Now it was about his own son, not other people’s boys. And now, now they knew it hadn’t changed a thing, and it probably wouldn’t ever, not the way they treated the colored soldiers.

  Cook judged he’d walked a mile and a half, maybe more. He saw a colored soldier. “Hey, son,” he called. “Where can I find the Three hundred sixty-ninth?”

  “Straight ahead, sir. Sinking into that swamp over there.” The soldier pointed down the road Speed was on.

  “Thank you, son.”

  Speed’s steps came faster. Soon, he would know something. Maybe in a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Not more than that. He didn’t let himself think about what that terrible news might be.

  A large tent had a handwritten sign stating “369TH.” It was warmer inside, the space lit by bare electric light bulbs that dangled from wires. A few colored soldiers sat to one side. He guessed they were messengers.

  Snatching off his cap, he wrung it out on the dirt floor. He approached a table created by boards set across stacked crates. A white clerk looked up at him.