by Follett, Ken
“Disgraceful,” Otto said. “Absolutely disgraceful.”
Walter had sensed he was grumpy, but this astonished him. “What on earth do you mean? You approve of well-born ladies doing something to help the poor!”
“Visiting sick peasants with a few groceries in a basket is one thing,” Otto said. “But I am appalled to see the sister of an earl in a place like that with a Jew doctor!”
“Oh, God,” Walter groaned. Of course; Dr. Greenward was Jewish. His parents had probably been Germans called Grunwald. Walter had not met the doctor before today, and anyway might not have noticed or cared about his race. But Otto, like most men of his generation, thought such things important. Walter said: “Father, the man is working for nothing—Lady Maud cannot afford to refuse the help of a perfectly good doctor just because he’s Jewish.”
Otto was not listening. “Fatherless families—where did she get that phrase?” he said with disgust. “The spawn of prostitutes is what she means.”
Walter felt heartsick. His plan had gone horribly wrong. “Don’t you see how brave she is?” he said miserably.
“Certainly not,” said Otto. “If she were my sister, I’d give her a good thrashing.”
{ II }
There was a crisis in the White House.
In the small hours of the morning of April 21, Gus Dewar was in the West Wing. This new building provided badly needed office space, leaving the original White House free to be used as a residence. Gus was sitting in the president’s study near the Oval Office, a small, drab room lit by a dim bulb. On the desk was the battered Underwood portable typewriter used by Woodrow Wilson to write his speeches and press releases.
Gus was more interested in the phone. If it rang, he had to decide whether to wake the president.
A telephone operator could not make such a decision. On the other hand, the president’s senior advisers needed their sleep. Gus was the lowliest of Wilson’s advisers, or the highest of his clerks, depending on point of view. Either way, it had fallen to him to sit all night by the phone to decide whether to disturb the president’s slumbers—or those of the first lady, Ellen Wilson, who was suffering from a mysterious illness. Gus was nervous that he might say or do the wrong thing. Suddenly all his expensive education seemed superfluous: even at Harvard there had never been a class in when to wake the president. He was hoping the phone would never ring.
Gus was there because of a letter he had written. He had described to his father the royal party at Tŷ Gwyn, and the after-dinner discussion about the danger of war in Europe. Senator Dewar had found the letter so interesting and amusing that he had shown it to his friend Woodrow Wilson, who had said: “I’d like to have that boy in my office.” Gus had been taking a year off between Harvard, where he had studied international law, and his first job at a Washington law firm. He had been halfway through a world tour, but he had eagerly cut short his travels and rushed home to serve his president.
Nothing fascinated Gus so much as the relationships between nations—the friendships and hatreds, the alliances and the wars. As a teenager he had attended sessions of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations—his father was a member—and he had found it more fascinating than a play at the theater. “This is how countries create peace and prosperity—or war, devastation, and famine,” his father had said. “If you want to change the world, then foreign relations is the field in which you can do the most good—or evil.”
And now Gus was in the middle of his first international crisis.
An overzealous Mexican government official had arrested eight American sailors in the port of Tampico. The men had already been released, the official had apologized, and the trivial incident might have ended there. But the squadron commander, Admiral Mayo, had demanded a twenty-one-gun salute. President Huerta had refused. Piling on the pressure, Wilson had threatened to occupy Veracruz, Mexico’s biggest port.
And so America was on the brink of war. Gus greatly admired the high-principled Woodrow Wilson. The president was not content with the cynical view that one Mexican bandit was pretty much like another. Huerta was a reactionary who had killed his predecessor, and Wilson was looking for a pretext to unseat him. Gus was thrilled that a world leader would say it was not acceptable for men to achieve power through murder. Would there come a day when that principle was accepted by all nations?
The crisis had been cranked up a notch by the Germans. A German ship called the Ypiranga was approaching Veracruz with a cargo of rifles and ammunition for Huerta’s government.
Tension had been high all day, but now Gus was struggling to stay awake. On the desk in front of him, illuminated by a green-shaded lamp, was a typewritten report from army intelligence on the strength of the rebels in Mexico. Intelligence was one of the army’s smaller departments, with only two officers and two clerks, and the report was scrappy. Gus’s mind kept wandering to Caroline Wigmore.
When he arrived in Washington he had called to see Professor Wigmore, one of his Harvard teachers who had moved to Georgetown University. Wigmore had not been at home, but his young second wife was there. Gus had met Caroline several times at campus events, and had been strongly drawn to her quietly thoughtful demeanor and her quick intelligence. “He said he needed to order new shirts,” she said, but Gus could see the strain on her face, and then she added: “But I know he’s gone to his mistress.” Gus had wiped her tears with his handkerchief and she had kissed his lips and said: “I wish I were married to someone trustworthy.”
Caroline had turned out to be surprisingly passionate. Although she would not allow sexual intercourse, they did everything else. She had shuddering orgasms when he did no more than stroke her.
Their affair had been going on for only a month, but already Gus knew that he wanted her to divorce Wigmore and marry him. But she would not hear of it, even though she had no children. She said it would ruin Gus’s career, and she was probably right. It could not be done discreetly, for the scandal would be too juicy—the attractive wife leaving a well-known professor and rapidly marrying a wealthy younger man. Gus knew exactly what his mother would say about such a marriage: “It’s understandable, if the professor was unfaithful, but one can’t meet the woman socially, of course.” The president would be embarrassed, and so would the kind of people a lawyer wanted for clients. It would certainly put paid to any hopes Gus might have had of following his father into the Senate.
Gus told himself he did not care. He loved Caroline and he would rescue her from her husband. He had plenty of money, and when his father died he would be a millionaire. He would find some other career. Perhaps he might become a journalist, reporting from foreign capitals.
All the same he felt a stabbing pain of regret. He had just got a job in the White House, something young men dreamed of. It would be agonizingly hard to give that up, along with all it might lead to.
The phone rang, and Gus was startled by its sudden jangling in the quiet of the West Wing at night. “Oh, my God,” he said, staring at it. “Oh, my God, this is it.” He hesitated several seconds, then at last picked up the handset. He heard the fruity voice of Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan. “I have Joseph Daniels on the line with me, Gus.” Daniels was secretary of the navy. “And the president’s secretary is listening on an extension.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary, sir,” said Gus. He made his voice calm, but his heart was racing.
“Wake the president, please,” said Secretary Bryan.
“Yes, sir.”
Gus went through the Oval Office and out into the Rose Garden in the cool night air. He ran across to the old building. A guard let him in. He hurried up the main staircase and across the hall to the bedroom door. He took a deep breath and knocked hard, hurting his knuckles.
After a moment he heard Wilson’s voice. “Who is it?”
“Gus Dewar here, Mr. President,” he called. “Secretary Bryan and Secretary Daniels are on the telephone.”
“Just a minute.”
Pre
sident Wilson came out of the bedroom putting on his rimless glasses, looking vulnerable in pajamas and a dressing gown. He was tall, though not as tall as Gus. At fifty-seven he had dark gray hair. He thought he was ugly, and he was not far wrong. He had a beak of a nose and sticking-out ears, but the thrust of his big chin gave his face a determined look that accurately reflected the strength of character that Gus respected. When he spoke, he showed bad teeth.
“Good morning, Gus,” he said amiably. “What’s the excitement?”
“They didn’t tell me.”
“Well, you’d better listen in on the extension next door.”
Gus hurried into the next room and picked up the phone.
He heard Bryan’s sonorous tones. “The Ypiranga is due to dock at ten this morning.”
Gus felt a thrill of apprehension. Surely the Mexican president would cave in now? Otherwise there would be bloodshed.
Bryan read a cable from the American consul in Veracruz. “‘Steamer Ypiranga, owned by Hamburg-Amerika line, will arrive tomorrow from Germany with two hundred machine guns and fifteen million cartridges; will go to pier four and start discharging at ten thirty.’”
“Do you realize what this means, Mr. Bryan?” said Wilson, and Gus thought his voice sounded querulous. “Daniels, are you there, Daniels? What do you think?”
Daniels replied: “The munitions should not be permitted to reach Huerta.” Gus was surprised at this tough line from the peace-loving navy secretary. “I can wire Admiral Fletcher to prevent it and take the customs house.”
There was a long pause. Gus was gripping the phone so hard that his hand hurt. At last the president spoke. “Daniels, send this order to Admiral Fletcher: Take Veracruz at once.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the navy secretary.
And America was at war.
{ III }
Gus did not go to bed that night or the following day.
Shortly after eight thirty, Secretary Daniels brought the news that an American warship had blocked the path of the Ypiranga. The German ship, an unarmed freighter, switched its engines to reverse and left the scene. American marines would go ashore at Veracruz later that morning, Daniels said.
Gus was dismayed by the rapidly developing crisis but thrilled to be at the heart of things.
Woodrow Wilson did not shrink from war. His favorite play was Shakespeare’s Henry V, and he liked to quote the line “If it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.”
News came in by wireless and cable, and it was Gus’s job to take the messages in to the president. At midday the marines took control of the Veracruz customs house.
Shortly afterward, he was told that there was someone to see him—a Mrs. Wigmore.
Gus frowned worriedly. This was indiscreet. Something must be wrong.
He hurried to the lobby. Caroline looked distraught. Although she wore a neat tweed coat and a plain hat, her hair was untidy and her eyes red with crying. Gus was shocked and distressed to see her in this state. “My darling!” he said in a low voice. “What on earth has happened?”
“This is the end,” she said. “I can never see you again. I’m so sorry.” She began to cry.
Gus wanted to hug her, but he could not do so there. He had no office of his own. He looked around. The guard at the door was staring at them. There was nowhere they could be private. It was maddening. “Come outside,” he said, taking her arm. “We’ll walk.”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll be all right. Stay here.”
“What has upset you?”
She would not meet his eye, and looked at the floor. “I must be faithful to my husband. I have obligations.”
“Let me be your husband.”
She raised her face, and her yearning look broke his heart. “Oh, how I wish I could.”
“But you can!”
“I have a husband already.”
“He is not faithful to you—why should you be to him?”
She ignored that. “He’s accepted a chair at Berkeley. We’re moving to California.”
“Don’t go.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Obviously,” Gus said flatly. He felt as if he had been knocked down. His chest hurt and he found it hard to breathe. “California,” he said. “Hell.”
She saw his acceptance of the inevitable, and she began to recover her composure. “This is our last meeting,” she said.
“No!”
“Please listen to me. There’s something I want to tell you, and this is my only chance.”
“All right.”
“A month ago I was ready to kill myself. Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. I thought I was so worthless that no one would care if I died. Then you appeared on my doorstep. You were so affectionate, so courteous, so thoughtful, that you made me think it was worth staying alive. You cherished me.” The tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she kept on. “And you were so happy when I kissed you. If I could give someone that much joy, I couldn’t be completely useless, I realized; and that thought kept me going. You saved my life, Gus. May God bless you.”
He almost felt angry. “What does that leave me with?”
“Memories,” she said. “I hope you will treasure them as I will treasure mine.”
She turned away. Gus followed her to the door, but she did not look back. She went out, and he let her go.
When she was out of sight he headed automatically for the Oval Office, then changed direction: his mind was in too much of a turmoil for him to be with the president. He went into the men’s room for a moment’s peace. Fortunately there was no one else there. He washed his face, then looked in the mirror. He saw a thin man with a big head: he was shaped like a lollipop. He had light brown hair and brown eyes, and was not very handsome, but women usually liked him, and Caroline loved him.
Or she had, at least, for a little while.
He should not have let her go. How could he have watched her walk away like that? He should have persuaded her to postpone her decision, think about it, talk to him some more. Perhaps they could have thought of alternatives. But in his heart he knew there were no alternatives. She had already been through all that in her mind, he guessed. She must have lain awake nights, with her husband sleeping beside her, going over and over the situation. She had made up her mind before coming here.
He needed to return to his post. America was at war. But how could he put this out of his mind? When he could not see her, he spent all day looking forward to the next time he could. Now he could not stop thinking about life without her. It already seemed a strange prospect. What would he do?
A clerk came into the men’s room, and Gus dried his hands on a towel and returned to his station in the study next to the Oval Office.
A few moments later, a messenger brought him a cable from the American consul in Veracruz. Gus looked at it and said: “Oh, no!” It read: FOUR OF OUR MEN KILLED COMMA TWENTY WOUNDED COMMA FIRING ALL AROUND THE CONSULATE STOP.
Four men killed, Gus thought with horror; four good American men with mothers and fathers, and wives or girlfriends. The news seemed to put his sadness in perspective. At least, he thought, Caroline and I are alive.
He tapped on the door of the Oval Office and handed the cable to Wilson. The president read it and went pale.
Gus looked keenly at him. How did he feel, knowing they were dead because of the decision he had made in the middle of the night?
This was not supposed to happen. The Mexicans wanted freedom from tyrannical governments, didn’t they? They should have welcomed the Americans as liberators. What had gone wrong?
Bryan and Daniels showed up a few minutes later, followed by the secretary of war, Lindley Garrison, a man normally more belligerent than Wilson, and Robert Lansing, the State Department counselor. They gathered in the Oval Office to wait for more news.
The president was wired tighter than a violin string. Pale, restless, and twitchy, he paced the floor. It was a pity, Gus tho
ught, that Wilson did not smoke—it might have calmed him.
We all knew there might be violence, Gus thought, but somehow the reality is more shocking than we anticipated.
More details came in sporadically, and Gus handed the messages to Wilson. The news was all bad. Mexican troops had resisted, firing on the marines from their fort. The troops were supported by citizens, who took potshots at Americans from their upstairs windows. In retaliation the USS Prairie, anchored offshore, turned its three-inch guns on the city and shelled it.
Casualties mounted: six Americans killed, eight, twelve—and more wounded. But it was a hopelessly unequal contest, and over a hundred Mexicans died.
The president seemed baffled. “We don’t want to fight the Mexicans,” he said. “We want to serve them, if we can. We want to serve mankind.”
For the second time in a day, Gus felt knocked off his feet. The president and his advisers had had nothing but good intentions. How had things gone so wrong? Was it really so difficult to do good in international affairs?
A message came from the State Department. The German ambassador, Count Johann von Bernstorff, had been instructed by the kaiser to call on the secretary of state, and wished to know whether nine o’clock tomorrow morning would be convenient. Unofficially, his staff indicated that the ambassador would be lodging a formal protest against the halting of the Ypiranga.
“A protest?” said Wilson. “What the dickens are they talking about?”
Gus saw immediately that the Germans had international law on their side. “Sir, there had been no declaration of war, nor of a blockade, so, strictly speaking, the Germans are correct.”
“What?” Wilson turned to Lansing. “Is that right?”
“We’ll double-check, of course,” said the State Department counselor. “But I’m pretty sure Gus is right. What we did was contrary to international law.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we’ll have to apologize.”
“Never!” said Wilson angrily.
But they did.
