There were still many questions surrounding King Leopold and the most elusive partner in his conspiracy, Basil Zaharoff. For the sake of security, the true events of the Titanic disaster became a closely guarded secret. When the RMS Carpathia arrived in New York on April 19 with more than seven hundred survivors, the SS Californian arrived completely unnoticed in Boston with another six hundred people. Many of them were immigrants who simply wanted to start life anew in America. Others were too frightened to return to their former lives knowing what they experienced on the Titanic. In both cases, the U.S. and British government complied, providing these passengers with new names and identities, new family histories, and lifelong protection from their enemies. The president also ensured that all their children received good educations at institutions such as the Taft School and Yale.
As for the idea of the Titanic sinking after hitting an iceberg, the U.S. government lifted this nearly verbatim from the 1898 novella Futility, or the Wreck of the Titan, by Morgan Robertson. There were concerns over how this story would hold after Senator William Alden Smith discovered the armor plating Leopold and Zaharoff had secretly built into the ship. Fortunately, he was humiliated by the British press with nicknames like “Watertight Smith” and “Bombastes” as a result.44 The heroism demonstrated by White Star Line employees, however, needed no embellishment. Prominent figures like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle proudly defended their valor, particularly that of the Titanic band.45
It was clever of J. P. Morgan to send an automaton aboard the Titanic rather than secretly board it himself. Otherwise, he might have suffered the same fate as Benjamin Guggenheim that evening. But with the full extent of King Leopold’s conspiracy exposed to the president, Morgan could no longer hide from his questionable business partners. In the midst of congressional and parliamentary investigations into the Titanic disaster, the U.S. House of Representatives formally investigated the so-called “money trust” Taft and Wickersham always believed Morgan was in the center of.46 Morgan, who hated public appearances and despised the democratic process even more, was forced to testify before this Pujo Committee in December. Three months later, J. P. Morgan died in his sleep in Rome. Allegedly from the stress of testifying before the committee.
Unlike King Leopold II, the king of Wall Street stayed dead.
However, there are some names that cannot be erased, certain histories that should not be rewritten, and select people whose heroism must not be forgotten. Among them were the soldiers of the Ninth Cavalry Regiment, who continued to serve their country even at a time when their sacrifices were never fully appreciated. After the sinking of the Titanic, they fought with their fellow countrymen through two world wars, witnessed the desegregation of the U.S. military, and helped usher a new phenomenon over future battlefields: air assaults. A special detachment of one hundred soldiers would remain at West Point until 1947, after which their old grounds would be known as Buffalo Soldier Field.
There was also Captain Charles Young, who, though born into slavery, became the third African American to graduate from West Point. In 1912, Young published The Military Morale of Nations and Races, a detailed examination of national identity throughout military history.47 It was a daring book that challenged racial discrimination in the armed forces while praising the heroic qualities of people of all races, as demonstrated by his fellow Buffalo Soldiers. The book received the full endorsement of Theodore Roosevelt. Captain Young eventually died Colonel Young in 1922. He was the first African American to achieve that rank.
And then there was Major Archibald Willingham Butt, whose body was never recovered from the wreck of the RMS Titanic. When President Taft spoke at Archie’s memorial service on May 2, 1912, he did not need to lie about the circumstances of his death. “If Archie could have selected a time to die,” said his friend, “he would have taken the one that God gave him, and he would have taken it because he would have felt that there before the world he was exemplifying the ideal of self-sacrifice that was deep seated in his nature, and that had become a part of that nature in serving others and making them happy his whole life long.
“The void he leaves to those who knew him; the flavor—the sweet flavor—of his personality; the circumstances of his going, are all what he would have had. And, while we mourn for him with tears that flood our eyes, we felicitate him on the manner in which he went, and the memory which he leaves to the widest circle of friends—a memory which is sweet in every particular.”48
That same day, a funeral service was held in Boston for Francis Davis Millet, Major Butt’s very good friend and housemate. One year later, a fountain was erected in honor of both men in President’s Park in front of the White House.
The fountain still stands there.
As does the Major Butt memorial in Arlington National Cemetery.
And the Butt Memorial Bridge in Augusta, Georgia: proud home of the Butt family.
Taft could not have chosen his words more appropriately. Archie’s death was not a tragedy; it was a triumph. He died as one of the most beloved soldiers in United States history.
But did he need to?
Taft tortured himself with this question shortly after his friend’s service. In the Blue Room of the White House, Taft confided his deepest guilt to the one person who truly understood him.
“What if I was always the wrong person for this job?” he confessed to his wife. “If Teddy had been president, would Archie still be alive?”
“No matter who was president,” Nellie assured her husband with love, “Archie would have been willing to give his life for his country.”
“But he saved my life.” Taft sobbed. “Me! He didn’t have to, but he did. If only I had caught Leopold sooner, Archie would still be with us!”
“Will,” Nellie whispered to her husband, the president, “as long as we are together, I will always have Archie to thank. He saved the man I love.”
Taft turned his head to Nellie, and the couple embraced. “You will always love me?”
“Yes, Will.”
“Even when I’m not president?”
“Of course, Will.”
Although Nellie could not see it, her husband was smiling for the first time in two weeks.
Chapter XLIV
Justice
It is hard to picture any story involving William Howard Taft having a happy ending. Theodore Roosevelt lived up to his promise on the Titanic and challenged Taft to reelection, crushing both men’s chances of returning to the White House. On November 5, 1912, Taft carried only two states and 23 percent of the vote: the poorest showing for any president ever. Nellie took the historic defeat well. The outcome was so obvious that she started packing her things early. Had Theodore Rex been content as a painting on the wall, Taft would have been elected to a second term easily. Maybe even a third. Maybe the Great War could have been avoided, or at least won under Taft. Maybe Prohibition never would have happened. And maybe Nellie would not have had to go thirteen years without alcohol.
Thirteen years without beer …
Nellie hated the Roosevelts.
However, Nellie was not the only Taft with a political agenda in the White House. On December 12, 1910, around the same time then-Captain Butt took Miss Knox ice-skating, the president announced that he had chosen Edward Douglass White as the next chief justice of the Supreme Court. Why was this so sly of the president? Because Edward Douglass White chose to die on May 19, 1921, and wouldn’t you know: the Republicans were back in the White House by then. With the chief justice’s seat vacant, President Warren G. Harding decided to ask the former president if he would like to step in. Although Harding was a complete and spectacular failure as a president, he apparently possessed a remarkable gift at making Taft’s lifelong dream a reality. The former president graciously accepted and, at long last, had the job he always wanted. William Howard Taft was now chief justice of the Supreme Court, after appointing more justices to the court than any president since Andrew Jackson. More than any Republican presid
ent in history. And all in one term. And while doing so many other things.
The first and only president to serve as chief justice. Even Nellie Taft liked the sound of that.
It was in this perpetual state of euphoria that Chief Justice Taft was reunited with a seventy-eight-year-old Robert Todd Lincoln on May 30, 1922, for the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial. It was a pleasant, sunny day with more than fifty thousand attendees there to share, for the first time, a monument President Harding described as “less for Abraham Lincoln than for those of us today, and for those who follow after.”
Taft and Robert sat next to each other during the ceremony, and within the shade of the stone temple, the two shared a brief exchange.
“How do you feel, Bob?” whispered a significantly slimmer Chief Justice Taft.
“Old,” Robert acknowledged in a drier, raspier voice than Taft remembered. “But well.” He smiled.
Taft grinned brightly and asked, “Is there any chance I can talk you into spending the afternoon with Nellie and me? We are having George Wickersham and John Wilkie, the real John Wilkie, over for ice cream. Would you like to join us?”
Robert contemplated behind his old, tired eyes. “Yes, I would. I think it will bring back some pleasant memories of our old friend.” Theodore Roosevelt died peacefully in his sleep three years prior, not that he would ever boast that.
“I still can’t believe you outlived him!” Taft chuckled.
“Yes, well. I had an unfair advantage.”
Taft expected to see Robert reach for his father’s pocket watch, but instead his hands rested comfortably on his lap. “Did you bring it?” asked the chief justice.
Robert shook his head. “I never could get it open after it caught that bullet. I considered recasting it, but thought that would rob it of its history.”
Taft was surprised but not too surprised to hear this. “So, where is it?”
“I left it on my father’s tomb last time I was in Illinois. It may not be there anymore, but I’m not too worried about it.”
Taft’s whiskers curled with curiosity. “That doesn’t sound like you at all!”
“Yes, well. I did not leave myself empty-handed.” Robert reached into his jacket and pulled out his father’s dazzling watch fob on a chain. Even in the shade, its gold-bearing quartz was as captivating as always. “I think I prefer it this way. It leaves me with precisely what my father had.”
The former president smiled at this just as President Harding finished his speech. The fifty thousand spectators in the Mall applauded, as did Chief Justice Taft and Robert Todd Lincoln. It was a beautiful day for the city. And for the nation. And for its people.
“Made in America?” Taft asked.
“Made in America,” Robert affirmed.
Epilogue
Clockwork
In Monte Carlo’s lavish Hotel de Paris, Basil Zaharoff had every reason in the world to be thankful. Even without King Leopold’s mad dreams of revenge, the Great War had made Basil the wealthiest man in the world. He had a beautiful chateau in France, a casino in Monte Carlo, and even two knighthoods to his name. He had access to everyone and everything he desired. And most importantly, despite being eighty-seven years old, he was in fantastic health. He was showing signs of possibly living into his hundreds, and his timing could not have been better. It was 1936, the world once again seemed primed for war, and a Belgian company called Union Minière du Haut Katanga enjoyed a virtual monopoly of the world’s uranium market. The company’s mines were located in the Belgian Congo, primarily in the southernmost parts of the Lualaba River.
There was a knock at the door, and a maid let herself in. Basil admired the woman as she moved into his bedroom. She was very attractive for her age and looked quite healthy as well. It was one of the reasons Zaharoff hired her. He thought she might make a fine wife some day, or at the very least a mistress. As she arranged his breakfast and poured him tea, Basil helped himself to the morning newspaper so he could leer at her from behind it. Like a gentleman.
She offered Basil his morning tea, and he accepted it.
A clock chimed.
As Basil flipped through the newspaper, a thought occurred: It was Thanksgiving in America. Or was it? He glanced at a wall clock and then checked his pocket watch. He turned out to be partially correct. It was still Thanksgiving in America, but only in Alaska.
He sipped his tea and, for a moment, allowed his mind to revisit some of the many adversaries he had outlasted: Taft, Roosevelt, Lincoln, and, naturally, Major Butt. All four men were dead. Basil smiled with satisfaction. However, as his thoughts turned to some of his former partners, his expression shifted to one of disapproval. Working with Leopold had been a mistake, Basil understood. The monarch relied too much on lunatics like Leon Rom. And Morgan had to complicate matters by bringing Nikola Tesla into it. Why would a man as wealthy as J. P. Morgan pirate Tesla’s telegraph lines when he could have just as easily used his own? And Guggenheim was a stooge. He always was. A businessman who knew little about his own business and even less about whom he worked with. It proved a fatal mistake for him at the end.
But then, Basil’s mind turned to the new German chancellor. Basil had an approaching meeting with some of the chancellor’s men, and he looked forward to continuing his conversation with them about the many, many uses for uranium.
The gentleman folded his newspaper and reached for his teacup, but his usually steady hand quite unusually knocked the teacup over.
What?
No!
A deep, wrenching pain coursed through Basil’s chest. He tried to scream for help, but quickly found himself unable to speak or move. He collapsed to the floor, gagging as if he were hanging from a noose.
His body went rigid, his eyes bulged, and his face froze in a horrific contortion.
The maid, meanwhile, finished cracking the safe Basil had hidden behind a painting and quickly emptied its contents: shipping manifests from the White Star Line, Yale’s missing blueprints for their steam tunnels, maps of uranium deposits in the Belgian Congo, experiments on chemical warfare, and, beneath them all, designs for a rather unusual pocket watch from the House of Fabergé in Saint Petersburg, Russia, dated 1865.
The maid hid these items beneath her apron and walked over to Basil. As he lay helpless on the floor, she searched through his pockets until she found a heavy, bulky object: a silver pocket watch.
She flipped it open and quickly translated its inscription:
PROTOTYPE.
655321
A. LINCOLN
The maid snapped the timepiece shut and slipped it into her apron. She then bent down on her knees to finish things with Zaharoff. As the struggling, gurgling arms dealer stared desperately at the maid, she took out one of her hairpins, slipped it inside Basil’s open mouth, and pressed a hidden plunger on the pin. A liquid dripped down Basil’s throat, and the maid removed the hairpin. Within a minute, Basil’s breathing became shorter and more rapid, almost as if he was panting. And then, panicking.
The maid stood up and left the room, shutting the door behind her. She did not appear to be in a hurry as she walked down the hall and turned a corner. From behind the corner, she could hear the gentleman’s screams grow louder and louder, attracting the attention of a valet at the Hotel de Paris. The maid watched as the valet opened the door. A screaming, flailing Basil Zaharoff threw himself at the man, writhing in pain.
The maid walked calmly to the powder room, and from there she left the hotel.
* * *
In a café not too far from the Hotel de Paris, a seventy-five-year-old widow was sitting at a table smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. She wore a large, black hat with matching sunglasses. Beside her was her forty-five-year-old daughter, Helen, who was now a professor of history and dean at Bryn Mawr College. The ladies sat patiently and talked about unimportant things as they awaited a third woman.
Miss Knox, now out of her maid uniform, joined the two ladies at the table. “It’
s done,” she reported.
“How did he die?” asked Nellie, savoring each syllable in the sentence.
“It was quick, but painful.”
“Good,” said Helen, holding her mother’s hand.
“Did you find everything we need?” asked Nellie, returning to her cigarette.
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Please make sure you include this with your parcel.” Nellie slowly pointed to her daughter, who produced a folded letter for Miss Knox.
The agent took the letter and sat quietly, looking back and forth between the two ladies. After this brief pause, she asked, “May I read it?”
Nellie thought for a moment, then responded, “I imagine now would be a good time.”
Miss Knox unfolded the letter and looked it over.
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
Lyman James Briggs
National Bureau of Standards
My dear Sir:
Please find enclosed a little something for your engineers to examine. From what I am told, it is a most unusual device that the Bureau should find interesting. (If you can believe it, it was originally made for President Lincoln!)
According to former Secretary of State Stimson, who as you may know was President Taft’s Secretary of War, this pocket watch was the basis for a weapon of unspeakable power that was used as part of a plot against the United States. Stimson will brief you on the details.
Please take me for my word when I say that the Bureau must treat this matter with the utmost secrecy. This device was intercepted from an apparent arms sale with the Germans. If the Reich is interested in developing some sort of uranium-based weapon, should we be as well?
The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy: A Novel Page 29
