With all that was happening south of the border, she’d been told it was dangerous to ride alone. She agreed to a point and carried a model 1899 Krag carbine that had belonged to her father, and a Colt revolver she’d bought for herself in San Diego a few months ago. She was an excellent shot. She was not so familiar with the Bowie knife strapped to the outside of her boot. She jokingly said she mainly used it to clean her nails, while her cousin Ella once quietly accused her of using it to castrate suitors. Kirsten had the feeling that Ella was a fragile creature who was having a difficult time dealing with the harshness of ranch life.
Motion in the sky caught her eye. For an instant, she thought it might have been an airplane. She’d only seen a couple of them and they fascinated her as they did just about everyone. Even though they’d been invented more than fifteen years ago, they were still so rare that the very sight of one resulted in gasps of wonderment. Someday she would like to go up in one. Maybe she could use some of her precious savings to buy a ride from one of those pilots people were calling barnstormers.
But no, it was just a vulture. Then she saw a couple of more. Something had disturbed them and caused them to take off from the ground. They were a mile or so away and she wondered what they were feeding on. Was it one of her cattle, perhaps a calf that had wandered off? Or was it something else?
Kirsten pulled the rifle from its sheath and checked to see that it was loaded. It always was but she always checked. She urged the horse into a trot and hoped it was only a calf.
It wasn’t. Kirsten fought down the bile in her throat at the sight of the two dead men lying face down on the ground. They were Mexicans and had been shot in the back, executed, hands tied behind them. She did not dismount and examine them more closely. No point, she decided. Their wounds were just too massive.
That was about as much as she could tell after the vultures had been working on them. Their clothes were in rags and they were barefoot. More casualties from the long and bloody civil war being fought in Mexico, she thought, but these two had been chased or followed into California. They were likely soldiers of defeated General Alvaro Obregon, murdered by the victorious forces of Mexico’s current president, Venustiano Carranza. If the newspapers were to be believed, Carranza had essentially proclaimed himself a dictator, thanks to the backing of Imperial Germany.
That Mexicans were killing Mexicans was nothing unusual. They’d been doing it for decades. But now they’d begun taking their fighting and their vengeance killings into the United States. The presence of the two dead men meant that they’d passed close by her ranch in order to get where she had found them, and that was very unsettling. She didn’t want her ranch to become the front lines in a Mexican civil war.
What to do now, she wondered? First, she decided, she would send a detail out to bury the two men and, second, notify the sheriff. The sheriff would be powerless to do anything but take down a report and forward it to the state capital at Sacramento where they would also do nothing.
Kirsten wiped her brow with a neck kerchief. Her cousins, however well meaning, would use this as further ammunition in their argument that she should sell and move on. Maybe they were right.
She rode home and gave the instructions for the burial detail, ignoring Ella’s look of concern. She went to her room, poured several buckets of water into the cast iron tub, stripped, and settled in. The water was comfortably lukewarm. She wondered what her late husband would have done about the situation she’d discovered.
Kirsten laughed quietly. She knew what Richard would have done. He would have climbed into the tub with her, washed the riding dirt from her body, and then thrown her down on the bed where they would have romped like naked bunnies. Damn, she missed him. It wasn’t fair, she thought as she closed her eyes and envisioned him. It just wasn’t fair.
* * *
“Good morning, Mister Vice President.”
Secretary of State Robert Lansing was startled. Then he grinned at his secretary, the gray-haired and middle-aged spinster, Hedda Tuttle.
“Not yet, Mrs. Tuttle, and maybe never. There’s still an election to be won and votes to be counted.”
Robert Lansing was fifty-six years old, a distinguished-looking lawyer from New York, and had been secretary of state since June, 1915, following resignation of William Jennings Bryan. He liked to brag that he was the only secretary of state to have a state capital named after him—Lansing, Michigan. It was a joke. The capital of Michigan had not been named after him or his family.
He had opposed Woodrow Wilson on a number of issues, which made him wonder why Wilson had chosen him to be his running mate instead of the very pliable and not overly bright Thomas Marshall who had already served two terms as Wilson’s vice president. Lansing had a nagging feeling he knew why, but was unwilling to face it just yet.
Hedda Tuttle waved her hand dismissively. The election had been the day before, and the returns were already coming in showing a substantial plurality for the ticket of Woodrow Wilson and Robert Lansing, as well as a decisive lead in the even more important Electoral College. Warren Harding had been a viable alternative until his many sexual romps with women other than his wife became public knowledge.
“Mr. Wilson will win and so will you,” Mrs. Tuttle said with serene confidence. “There’s no doubt about it, sir.”
“Thank you for your support,” Lansing said sincerely. He just hoped he would be up to the task. He wondered just what the devil was going on in the White House where a nearly invisible Woodrow Wilson allegedly resided. Nobody had seen the man for weeks.
But for now he was still the secretary of state and third in the succession to the Presidency of the United States. There’d been talk of changing the Constitution so that the Speaker of the House, an elected office, would be number three, but nothing had come of it.
Of more immediate concern was the bombshell that had been handed to him by the ambassador from Great Britain. It said that the Germans were up to their old tricks, were coveting more territory, and that covetousness directly involved the United States of America. He had to get to see President Wilson, no matter what Wilson’s harpy of a wife said. Edith Bolling Galt, now Edith Wilson, was Woodrow Wilson’s second wife. His first wife had died in 1914.
Edith Wilson was extremely protective of Woodrow Wilson, and, as his health deteriorated, had blocked almost all access to him, allowing only written notes and questions that were responded to in her hand. Edith Wilson, some suspected, had promoted herself to the position of acting President of the United States. Lansing shook his head. Even if they could prove it, what would happen? The constitution was vague on the matter of a president being incapacitated.
Regardless, Robert Lansing had to see the president, no matter how difficult it might prove. The information provided by the British was so devastatingly important. The country had to be prepared for what might come.
“Mrs. Tuttle, is that nice young cousin still visiting you?”
She beamed. “Lieutenant Martel will be here for a couple more days. Did you know I raised him when his parents died?”
Lansing did, of course. She’d mentioned it at least a dozen times. Mrs. Tuttle was a spinster and raising the boy was the high point of her life. After he had grown, she’d moved to Washington and gotten the job as his secretary through the simple expedient of answering an ad.
“Tell you what, Mrs. Tuttle. I would like to come over and meet him. Why don’t I drop by about eight?”
Hedda Tuttle was quite surprised and flustered. “That would be such an honor.”
“And I might just bring another friend with me. Please tell the lieutenant to be in civilian clothes, and I know I can trust your discretion not to tell anyone of this, ah, little tryst.”
* * *
A thoroughly puzzled Luke Martel sat in Hedda Tuttle’s pleasantly cluttered living room. Until his arrival from out west, he’d never seen the place. She lived in a little cottage about a mile from the State Department office where she
worked. She walked to work every day, regardless of the weather.
Hedda hadn’t begun her government work until after Luke had run off and enlisted. Her early letters had deplored his actions, but then, after he’d been promoted to sergeant and later awarded the Medal of Honor as well as promotion to lieutenant, her tone had changed. She was proud of him.
Luke knew he’d disappointed her by enlisting, but it seemed like the only thing to do at that time. She and he were dirt poor and he was a financial burden to her. He was deeply fond of her and wondered just what the hell was going on this evening. Sit still and wait, were her instructions.
Like most people, Cousin Hedda had no phone. Instructions had come by courier and caught him just as he’d returned from a pleasant day of sightseeing at the Smithsonian. Two important but unnamed people were going to visit him. He was to wear civilian clothes. He was to greet them warmly and neither stand at attention nor salute where anyone could see him. He was to do nothing that would draw the attention of nosy neighbors to their guests. If anybody was watching, their arrival just after nightfall was to look like the reunion of old friends.
Okay, he laughed. Washington was a city of plots and secrets, so why should he be surprised at anything?
At eight in the evening, a car pulled up and two men got out with the driver remaining behind the wheel. Martel went to the door and, despite instructions, had to fight the urge to snap to attention. Instead, he calmly gestured them to come in and closed the door behind them.
“Mr. Vice President or do you prefer Mr. Secretary?” he looked to Lansing and then, “Sir,” to Lieutenant General Peyton March, the commanding general of the United States Army.
Lansing took the lead. “Even though the election is formally over and I am now the vice president elect, I will continue to be the Secretary of State until my inauguration in March. Just call me sir, it’s easier.” He handed Martel a sheet of paper. “Read this, Lieutenant.”
It was only a few paragraphs, and Luke read it quickly. His eyes widened and he swallowed. The contents were dynamite, but were they true? “With respect, General, do you have the message in the original German?”
March smiled slightly and handed over another sheet of paper while Lansing raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. Luke handed it back a moment later. “Thank you, sir.”
“And what do both documents say, Lieutenant?” Lansing asked.
“Sir, they are a message from the German Foreign Minister, Arthur Zimmerman, to their ambassador to Mexico, Heinrich von Eckhardt. It says that the German Army in Mexico is directed to attack and invade California on November 18 of this year.”
“Very good,” said Lansing with only a hint of sarcasm. “And, just out of curiosity, where did you learn to read German?”
“Sir, a long time ago I thought things would go bad with the Kaiser, so I taught myself. And I was helped along by a couple of guys I served with who were German immigrants themselves. I don’t think I speak the cultured High German, but I can make myself understood and I can read it quite well.”
Lansing actually smiled. “And what other languages do you have?”
“Well, Spanish of course, sir. I learned that on the border and with Pershing in Mexico.”
March interjected. “Which is where the lieutenant was wounded, won the Medal, and where he got a battlefield commission.”
“Excellent,” said Lansing, visibly impressed. “Any other languages?”
“I can get by in French, sir.”
“And where, pray tell, did you find time to learn that?” asked Lansing.
Now it was Luke’s turn to grin. “I learned it from a girl in San Francisco, sir.”
Lansing laughed like it felt good to laugh, and even the normally formal General March chuckled. “Mr. Secretary,” Luke said, “the Zimmerman message is damning, but is it true?”
“A good question indeed,” said Lansing with an audible sigh. “And, yes, we believe the message is true. We have been able to verify it through a number of sources, including British intelligence and a drunken German diplomat who apparently didn’t give a care what we thought. Tomorrow, you will carry this news as quickly as possible to General Liggett in California so he can do whatever can be done to stop the Germans.”
Luke turned to General March who shook his head and added. “Yes, Lieutenant, telephone or telegram would be much, much faster, but we have no way of sending it in code and any message sent in the clear would cause a panic if it was overheard or seen by an operator. You are to deliver the information by hand to General Liggett and he will also be informed that it is to be kept extremely confidential while we try to make plans to either forestall the attack or, in General Liggett’s case, try to defend against it.”
“Sir, it’ll still take me a week to get to San Francisco, even by the fastest train.”
Lansing chuckled, “Hardly. In the guise of a test of the reliability of airplane travel, General March has been setting up a series of airplanes for you. If all goes well, you’ll leave at dawn and be at the Presidio with General Liggett in a couple of days at the most.”
Martel gulped. If all didn’t go well, he might be part of a failed experiment. He had never been in an airplane and hadn’t counted on taking a crash course on their capabilities, no pun intended.
March smiled slightly. “You are packed, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, I am, and I was traveling light anyhow. May I ask why you’ve chosen me for this assignment?”
Lansing smiled. “Because you’re here and because Mrs. Tuttle vouches for you.”
March continued, “That and the fact that General Liggett also knows you and trusts you. You understand the situation, and you’ve seen the German Army rather up close if I recall correctly.”
Martel relaxed. “I think I’m honored, General, Mr. Vice President. However, may I suggest we forewarn General Liggett by an innocuous telephone call or an equally innocuous telegram from, say, me, to a third party, like Captain Eisenhower or Patton? It could for instance, say something suggesting an ‘imminent storm coming from the south?’”
Even though long-distance phone calls from Washington to California had been established in 1915, the quality was inconsistent and there were always wires going down. And there was always the possibility of operators listening in on a conversation from the White House. The use of a pair of third parties to give at least a broad warning to Liggett was intriguing and Lansing concurred with Martel’s suggestion. That way, General Liggett wouldn’t be totally ambushed.
Lansing patted him on the shoulder. “Get your bags. Mrs. Tuttle knows you’re leaving with us. We have one other thing for you to see so General Liggett will understand what we’re up against.” Lansing smiled grimly. “Lieutenant, we’re going to the White House to see the president.”
* * *
It was almost ten by the time they arrived at the darkened White House and it took a few more minutes to get through the uniformed Secret Service guards, even though their boss, the Secretary of the Treasury, had briefed them on their pending arrival. The Secret Service had only begun protecting the president after the assassination of President McKinley in 1901, and were very serious about the job. The White House’s Chief Usher, Ike Hoover, was not present.
Two other men met them. One was Supreme Court Chief Justice Edward Douglas White, an old and frail Louisianian who’d been appointed by President Taft in 1910, two years before Wilson’s first term.
The second was the president’s personal physician, Dr. Cary Grayson. He was also a navy admiral. To Martel’s astonishment, Grayson quietly and reluctantly admitted that he hadn’t seen Wilson in a couple of weeks either.
They went upstairs to the second level, the private quarters of the president. They informed a Negro servant that they’d arrived, and that it was imperative that they see President Wilson immediately.
A few moments later, an unkempt woman in a long robe emerged and glared at them. “You may not see my husband. How dare you
come here unannounced at this time of night? The president is ill and needs all the rest he can get.”
Lansing handed Edith Wilson a copy of the German message. “Please read it.”
She scanned it quickly and returned it. “Rubbish. All lies and filth designed to upset my husband and to disparage his achievements. The Germans have signed a peace treaty and they will live up to it.”
“Madame,” said General March firmly, “the Germans have a history of aggression and we must prepare for it. We may be at war with Kaiser Wilhelm in a very short while. The president must know of this so we can begin to plan.”
Edith Wilson would have none of it. “My husband kept us out of the war of 1914 and he negotiated the peace treaty that guarantees peace, perhaps forever. He won the Nobel Prize for his efforts, and you have the audacity to bring these lies to disturb him?” She turned and backed away. “No, you will leave.”
Lansing winced. Woodrow Wilson had been co-winner of the Nobel along with the humanitarian Herbert Hoover. Hoover had won because of his efforts to feed the starving in Europe during and following the war. Rumor had it that Wilson had been furious at having to share the honor with a man he considered a rude engineer.
“No we will not leave,” said Justice White as he pulled a document out of his jacket. “This order requires you to admit us to his presence or you will be found in contempt of court. It also authorizes us to use whatever force is necessary to see the president and that the Secret Service is to assist us. There is considerable doubt that the president is up to fulfilling his Constitutional duties, in which case, something must be done to protect the nation.”
1920: America's Great War-eARC Page 3
