1901

by Robert Conroy

  “Mr. President,” interrupted Elihu Root, the secretary of war, “there are at least three regiments of New York National Guard trapped on Manhattan Island. If they surrender, which I’m afraid is inevitable, the Germans will have at least five thousand of our boys as prisoners, not to mention possession of the largest and most important city in the United States.”

  Roosevelt nodded. There was nothing he could say at this time. “And the war at sea?” he asked as he turned to the secretary of the navy, John Long, who was present with his intelligence expert, Capt. Charles Sigsbee.

  “Sir,” responded Long, “we have been inundated with ship sightings in such copious quantities as to make one believe the Spanish armada was off our shores. Quite frankly, every old lady who sees a fishing boat has reported it as a German battleship, creating panic everywhere along the coast. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff has been difficult, but we now estimate at least six German battleships and twenty or so light and heavy cruisers in and about New York harbor. Although that itself is not a huge fleet, we assume there are other vessels out of sight of land and, since our navy is nowhere near, it might as well be the Spanish armada.”

  “Are you trying to gather our fleet?”

  “Yes. However, there are several difficulties. First, the problem of notifying those ships currently at sea that hostilities have commenced. We will have to wait until many of them reach port or are hailed by another ship that is aware of the war. Even for those we can reach, there is another problem: what specifically do we ask them to do? Gather certainly, but where and for what purpose? Frankly, sir, we need not only direction in that regard but a safe haven for the fleet to gather. A sanctuary, if you will.”

  There was a buzz of general agreement. An army could be accumulated in safety almost anyplace on the continent. A navy, however, needed ports. Safe ports. If the fleet were forced to do battle piecemeal, it would be destroyed piecemeal. No, the fleet had to be gathered in its entirety. There was no answer, so they settled for a compromise in which those ships currently in American ports would remain where they were until they received further instructions, along with those that would subsequently return to the United States as word of the war spread. Somehow they had to find sanctuary.

  However, the army could be gathered. Directions were given that the scattered regular units would be brought eastward together from the dusty forts and camps they’d occupied in the West for more than half a century of warfare against the Indians. Even though the Indians were long subdued, no one had ever thought to move the army. It would have cost money.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Yes, Elihu.”

  “Guard and militia units from a number of states are accumulating around the New York area. For all intents and purposes, they are leaderless, as each consists of an independent brigade or regiment. There is no cohesion, no direction. I suggest that you appoint regular army generals for that area and make them responsible for the gathering up of those units before disaster strikes. For a start, I recommend simply establishing geographic lines of demarcation and control and letting our generals sort out who’s in their area.”

  “Who do you have in mind? General Miles?”

  Root smiled. “No, sir, he’s much too valuable right here.” A small sop. Root neither liked nor trusted Gen. Nelson Miles. “I propose sending Joe Wheeler and Fitzhugh Lee up there immediately. They are in town and I’ve got them standing by. Baldy Smith has been contacted. He will get there in a little while and, with your concurrence, will assume tactical command for the time being.”

  John Hay leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling in mock prayer. “My lord, our first line of defense is two aging Confederates to be followed as soon as possible by an old Union general.”

  Roosevelt hushed him. “It could be worse. At least they’re skilled soldiers.” There was a pause as a messenger entered with a sheet of paper. Roosevelt scanned it and looked up. “Well, Congress didn’t dally. They’ve approved a declaration of war and given me control over state units.”

  “Well, sir,” said Hay, “where does that put us regarding a response to the German ultimatum?”

  “Tell them,” Miles snarled, “to shove it up their Teutonic asses!”

  Roosevelt laughed and slapped the table. The irascible and unpleasant Nelson Miles, who had spent much of his career fighting rivals for his own personal glory, had focused on yet a new enemy and this time the correct one. Bully! thought Roosevelt. “Well, General, I think Mr. Hay and I can formulate a response that will convey the sense of what you just said.”

  Miles handed Roosevelt a thick envelope, bypassing the very surprised Elihu Root. “Sir, since we are going to war with a major European power, it will necessitate a major increase in the size of the American army. I have some thoughts and recommendations I am confident you will find interesting.”

  Roosevelt took the envelope and tried not to look at Root, who glared at Miles and appeared as though he wished to strangle the man. “I think we have accomplished much that is necessary here today, and we will accomplish much more in the days to come. We must make an army and gather our fleet. Then we will wring that puffed-up little bastard kaiser’s neck.”

  To a chorus of “hear, hear” they started to rise in dismissal, but the young lieutenant who’d been overseeing the telegraph operations in the war room above burst through the door. “Mr. President,” he gasped. “There’s been a battle!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Patrick Mahan regretted the delay in his journey to the front, but there was little he could do. With the death of the two servants in the attempted robbery, he had assumed responsibility for Katrina Schuyler and the refugee, Molly Duggan. The first thing to do was see to Molly’s health. They found a doctor who treated her physical wounds and assured them she would be all right with time. What mental wounds she’d incurred were beyond anyone’s estimate. It sometimes seemed to Patrick and Katrina that the whole ugly incident with the German soldier had been blotted from Molly’s mind once she told them of it. But then something about Germany or the Germans would arise in conversation and they could see her hatred. Nevertheless, with the resilience of a youth who was still almost a child, she soon became relatively cheerful and talkative, and assumed the role of assistant to Katrina. Patrick almost thought of her as Katrina’s maid, but that wasn’t quite right. The girl was very bright and reasonably literate, considering her tough urban background and her history as an immigrant. Until recently, she had been well cared for.

  Katrina accepted the inevitability of the situation and seemed to enjoy Molly’s company. Although Katrina had been shaken by the attempted robbery, she seemed to have put it behind her. She was, however, aware that she was growing more and more dependent on Patrick, and she wondered about it. He certainly did not resemble what she had once thought a knight-errant should look like, but he was quite attractive. He was tall, about six feet, and surprisingly muscular. And, as befits an officer, he had a commanding presence. But it quickly melted when they talked quietly together. He had a slightly receding hairline, and she imagined he would be bald in a decade or two and decided it might suit him. There was a small scar on his cheek and she wondered what caused it. A Spanish bayonet? She was also pleased and surprised to find him almost as well traveled and educated as she was. She had a strong dislike for stupid men and men who thought Katrina Schuyler was stupid. Patrick Mahan did not possess either flaw.

  All three of them, while relieved to find the escape portion of their journey over, were saddened at breaking up. The women would stay behind while Patrick rode on to find the armies. To no one’s surprise, there was a Red Cross camp north of Stamford, Connecticut, where Katrina’s and Molly’s services were gratefully accepted. When they parted, Molly gave Patrick an impulsive hug, and Katrina felt compelled to follow suit. Although amused at Molly’s embrace, Patrick seemed a little taken aback at Katrina’s. His response amused her. Brave soldier!

  Patrick was thinking o
f that hug and the surprising warmth and strength of Katrina’s slender body, and how involuntarily monastic a soldier’s life often is, while he rode westward alone toward White Plains, New York. He halted as the distant sound of thunder rumbled from the hills to his front.

  Thunder? Thunder, hell! That was artillery! He spurred his horse to a gallop and rode in what he thought was the right direction. What had Napoleon said? Ride to the sound of the guns! At least and for once, he was wearing a proper uniform.

  He had heard disturbing information that a number of militia units had been called up by the governors of at least three states and were converging westward in the general direction of the rumored location of German outposts, just east of White Plains. What in God’s name, he asked himself, were they going to attempt? Was there a plan? A leader? He doubted the existence of either. If the militia’s dismal performance in the Spanish war was any indicator, the best that could occur would be chaos, and the worst, disaster.

  Patrick had passed a number of poorly armed and poorly dressed militia units heading in the same direction as he was, but he had also seen others heading north, which further reinforced his conclusion that no one was in charge and that there was no coherent plan.

  After a while, he slowed his horse to a trot and listened as the cannonading became sharper and was punctuated by the distant rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire. Then it seemed to cease altogether and the land became eerily silent as the sounds of birds and buzzing insects returned.

  The first soldiers he saw were individuals running in panic. He made no attempt to stop them. They were the first casualties and they wouldn’t be useful until their terror abated. God only knew what they’d just seen, but they were through for at least this day.

  Even so, he yelled at them and tried to get information. “Boys, what the hell’s going on? Why’re you running?”

  One skinny, terrified lad who looked little more than fifteen stared at him, eyes wide with fear. “Everybody’s dead. Germans killed ‘em all. You better run too!”

  Patrick rode on to a fork in the dirt road that commanded a good view. After a while he was able to discern groups of men coming through the brush and trees. As he saw more, he realized that some were coming back in relatively good order, whereas others appeared leaderless and confused, separated from their units by the shock of whatever battle had just transpired.

  No use going after individuals, he decided, and urged his horse over to a group of a hundred or so men led by a stocky and sweaty-faced major who slogged along on foot.

  “Major, who is in command here?” Patrick asked.

  The major, who looked to be in his midforties, responded without raising his head. “Colonel Blaney of Massachusetts, if the dumb shit is still alive, that is.” The major was angry, his face reddened by exertion.

  Patrick leaned over in the saddle. “And who are you?”

  “Jonathan Harris, Connecticut Militia. Now, who the fuck are you?”

  “Major,” Patrick snarled, deciding to take immediate control of the situation, “as of this instant I am your commanding officer, and unless you wish to be shot for insubordination as well as for running from the enemy, you will acknowledge that simple fact and commence obeying orders.”

  Major Harris blinked and took in the fact that the man on horseback was not only his senior but regular army and immediately decided to obey. “Yes, sir,” Harris said as he smiled slightly and actually saluted. “What’ya have in mind?”

  Patrick ordered Harris to take his men and fan out in a screen to gather in as many of the retreating soldiers as possible. They were to direct them to a large and reasonably open field, where officers were to identify themselves and begin rounding up men in their units.

  Patrick watched for a few minutes until he was confident that his orders were being obeyed. He was puzzled by the absence of actual casualties. Had everyone run before the guns could do much damage? There was only a handful of wounded, but most of the men looked scared. It did not appear to have been a good day for American arms.

  Patrick then galloped hard down the dirt road and repeated the performance every time he found a good-sized group of men who appeared to have a leader. He was surprised at how readily he was obeyed, the major’s first reaction notwithstanding. The men were, of course, confused and in desperate need of direction.

  “Colonel Mahan, sir.”

  Patrick turned. Who the hell besides Harris knew his name? The speaker was a stocky black man with the uniform and insignia of a sergeant major in the 10th Cavalry. “You know me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Esau Jones, battalion sergeant major, 10th Cavalry, sir.” Jones saluted.

  Patrick returned it. “Good to see you, Jones,” he said, although he couldn’t remember the man. He had spent only a few months as a young lieutenant with the 10th, and later they were the “other” unit that stormed San Juan Hill. History immortalized the Rough Riders and conveniently forgot the black soldiers of the 10th Cavalry who charged alongside them.

  “Jones, steal a horse and come with me.”

  Jones simply took one from a confused private and rode on with Patrick as he tried to halt the flow of men. After a while, they returned to the field where Major Harris, his face even redder than before, was trying to bring order from chaos. There were now several thousand men in the field, and dozens of officers marched back and forth hollering the names of their units and trying to attract followers. Had it not been so tragic, it would have been farcical.

  Patrick saw casualties and realized that Harris’s group had been lucky. There were scores of moaning, crying wounded lying in rows and being attended to by volunteers who did their best in the face of horror. Some of the silent had already died. Patrick could only nod when Harris told him he’d sent to the nearby towns for medical help and to find permanent places to care for the wounded. There was nothing else to be done.

  It was beginning to look as though Patrick had gathered up the greater portion of the “army” that had taken part in an abortive attack on an advancing German column. He could count six militia regiments represented on his field: three from Massachusetts, two from Connecticut, and one from New York.

  In conversations with Harris, Jones, and others, Patrick learned that the major culprit was indeed a Massachusetts colonel named Charles Blaney. Blaney, whose brother-in-law was a congressman, had arrived from his home in Springfield, Massachusetts, at the head of his local regiment and was deferred to by the other Massachusetts officers because of his political influence. In all fairness to the man, Patrick realized he must have also been a natural leader who saw a job that needed to be done and tried to do it.

  Upon being informed that a force of Germans was to his front, Blaney had prevailed upon all three of his state regiments and at least three others to advance against the enemy. He had foolishly believed that his force would prevail and he would be able to drive back the German force.

  “Of course,” said Harris, “we did no scouting and had no artillery. We moved out for about an hour when we saw our first Germans. Skirmishers. We shot at them and they moved back. We stupidly thought they were retreating, then we stumbled onto the entire German column. Shit, they cut us to pieces.”

  Sergeant Jones agreed. “Colonel, it was awful. One minute we were runnin’, whoopin’, and hollerin’, and the next minute machine guns and rifles we couldn’t see were cutting our men down. Then they started firing their cannon into us. Nothing missed. Some of us fired back for a few minutes, but it was too much. Then we all just ran.” He shook his head sadly. “Wasn’t nothin’ like Cuba. Nothin’ at all.”

  Jones’s part of the tale had an even sadder ending than the simple defeat. He, along with three others from the 10th, had been in the area to recruit from the sizable colored population and had had the bad luck to be there when Colonel Blaney decided to forge an army. Blaney thought it appropriate for the four regular army men to accompany him as he led the assault. Although they didn’t think it right, they
also knew better than to disobey the orders of white officers.

  “Blaney stood there for a minute when the Germans opened fire,” Jones said. “It was like he never expected nothin’ like it. He wasn’t no coward, not at all. He just stood there until he took a bullet in the gut and started screamin’. Then the others ran off and left him. He has to be dead by now.”

  German skirmish lines moved out to take the field back from the retreating Americans. It was then that Sergeant Jones realized the other three men weren’t with him. “I looked back and saw all three lying there. Two weren’t movin’, but one was tryin’ to get up. I started to run to him but I stumbled. When I got back up I saw that a couple of Germans had reached him and were stickin’ him with their bayonets. You know what? They was laughin’. Then someone blew a whistle and the Germans pulled back.”

  Patrick wished the story had never been told. But then, was it so different from Cuba, where victorious Americans had killed Spanish wounded? He looked at the lengthening shadows and realized that night would come shortly. He gave orders to expand the area and form a defensive perimeter, with the wounded and unarmed men inside. Even though they had no digging implements, he told them to prepare such barricades as they could. If nothing else, it would give them something constructive to do and take their minds off the debacle.

  He also had each unit send out reliable men as scouts and pickets to warn of any German advance. If the enemy came, Patrick would gather his flock and retreat in the general direction of Bridgeport, Connecticut.