"Then you'll have got word from him, one way or another, that the Confederate States are moving troops toward the Potomac," Rosecrans said.
"I had heard this, yes," Schlieffen said, nodding. "I was not going to speak of it if you did not; such is not my place."
"They're moving a good many troops." Rosecrans' voice was sour, heavy. "The railroad makes it easy to move a lot of troops in a hurry— hell of a lot easier than moving 'em on roads knee-deep in mud would be. They aren't coming up toward the border for their amusement, or for ours."
"You are also moving troops, I know," Schlieffen said.
"Oh, yes." The U.S. general-in-chief bobbed his head up and down. "If they hit us, we'll give 'em the best damn fight we can—don't doubt it for a minute, Colonel, the best fight we can. But what you may not have heard"—he was almost whispering now, like a boy talking about some bugbear or hobgoblin—"is that General Jackson is back in Richmond."
"No, I had not heard that," Schlieffen said. On hearing it, he heard also that Rosecrans was a beaten man. No matter how many men the USA moved down to the Potomac, Jackson would find a way to beat them, because Rosecrans thought Jackson would find a way to beat them. Someone—Schlieffen annoyed himself by not recalling whether it was Napoleon or Clausewitz—had wisely said that the moral was to the physical in war as three was to one. As Austrian and Prussian armies had for so long gone into battle against Bonaparte convinced before the fighting started that they would lose, so Rosecrans faced the prospect of confronting Jackson.
"Well, it's true; God damn it to hell, it's true," Rosecrans said.
Schlieffen listened with half an ear, trying to remember which military genius had come up with the maxim. He couldn't. Like a bit of gristle stuck between two back teeth, it would bother him till he did. He became aware that Rosecrans had said something else, something he'd missed entirely. "Excuse me, please?" he said, embarrassed at piling one professional failure on another.
"I said, a few friends in the world sure would come in handy about now," Rosecrans repeated.
"For this war, you have no friends who can give you help," Schlieffen said. "This was, I hear from every American, the idea of your President Washington. This man has not been your president for many years. Maybe it is time to think that matters have perhaps changed since his day."
"I'll tell you what I'm starting to think," Rosecrans said savagely. "I'm starting to think Washington was nothing but a stinking Virginian, and the Rebs can damn well keep him and his ideas both."
Schlieffen did not smile. He made a point of not smiling. Not only would smiling have been against his interest and his country's, he was such a resolutely moderate man that smiling did not come easy to him anyhow. In his usual careful way, he said, "I hope you will also say this to your president and to your foreign minister—no, secretary of state you call him."
"I've been saying it since things started going downhill without any brakes," Rosecrans answered. "I've been saying it to anyone who will listen. Colonel, if you think President Blaine is inclined to listen to me, you had better think again. If you think he's inclined to listen to anybody, you had better think again."
"This is not good," Schlieffen said.
The telephone jangled. Rosecrans jerked as if a horsefly had bitten him. "Guess who that is," he said with a martyred sigh. "He may not listen, but by Jesus he likes to talk."
Schlieffen left the office of the general-in-chief. Behind him, Rosecrans bellowed into the newfangled instrument. As Schlieffen came out into the outer office, Captain Saul Berryman looked up from his paperwork with a martyred expression. "Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Oberst," he said.
"Good-bye, Captain," Schlieffen answered. He had more than a little sympathy for Rosecrans' adjutant, a capable young man trapped in a position where his ability did his nation less good than it might have in the field.
The calendar said spring was only a few days away. Freezing rain pelted down in spite of what the calendar said. Schlieffen hardly noticed as he walked to the carriage waiting for him and climbed in. His mind was elsewhere. Napoleon or Clausewitz? Clausewitz or Napoleon? That he could not make a fact he knew spring up and stand to attention infuriated him.
"Back to the consul's establishment, Colonel?" the driver asked.
"Yes," Schlieffen snapped. He paid no more attention to the driver's chattering teeth than he had to the weather that caused them. The wheels of the carriage slipped a little on the icy paving stones, but then the toe calks on the horse's shoes bit and the carriage began to roll.
Despite the weather, some sort of political demonstration was going on not far from the War Department building. Socialists, Schlieffen thought, seeing the red flags that hung sodden from their staffs. He'd seen more Socialist demonstrations than he liked back in Germany, but never till now one of this size in the United States.
When he reported what he had seen to Kurd von Schlozer, the German minister to the USA nodded. "One faction of Blaine's own party has made common cause with the Socialists," Schlozer said.
"Really? I had not heard." Save as they affected military affairs, Schlieffen paid little attention to politics.
Schlozer gave him a look that said he should have heeded them more closely. "If we have no peace, soon we shall have fighting in the streets. With the Socialists now stronger, we may have revolution, Red revolution," he said. "This is a land of revolution, and the Socialists— the new Socialists, I mean—know it and exploit it."
"God forbid," Schlieffen said. "If they try to raise a revolution, may they be met with iron and blood." After using Bismarck's famous phrase, he nodded to Schlozer. "You know I feel the same about the Socialist movement in the Fatherland."
"Oh, yes, my dear Colonel, of course," Schlozer said. "No man of property, no man of sense, could possibly say otherwise. But too many Americans, like too many Germans, have neither property nor sense. And the leaders of the Socialists here, like the leaders there, have an oversupply of cunning, if not of sense."
"This has not been true in the United States," Schlieffen said. "So much I know—otherwise, the Socialists here would have stirred up far more trouble than they have."
"Now, though, men who really know something of politics have started waving red flags for purposes of their own," the German minister said. "In matters of politics, Blaine is now as dead as a salt herring. Even if he could have been reelected before—which would have taken an act of God—he has no hope whatever with a large part of his party going over to the radicals. He must understand as much."
"This is not good," Schlieffen said, as he had to Rosecrans. "A man without hope will do irrational things. Since Blaine did irrational things even when the situation for himself and his country looked better, who knows how crazy and wild he might become now?"
"We shall see." Kurd von Schlozer sounded less gloomy than Schlieffen would have. Schlieffen wondered if his superior was deluding himself about how sensible President Blaine could be. From what the German military attache had seen, expecting common sense from Americans was like looking for water in a desert: you might find some, but, even if you did, it would be only an oasis in a vast stretch of hot, dry, burning sand.
"Napoleon!" he exclaimed suddenly, and felt much better about the world. Hot sand had made him think of Egypt, which had made him think of Bonaparte's campaign there, which in turn had reminded him of whose adage had crossed his mind during his conversation with Rosecrans.
Kurd von Schlozer gave him a curious look.
A couple of days later, after a cable from Berlin, Schlozer requested an audience with Blaine. When the request was granted, the German minister asked Schlieffen to accompany him. "Of course, Your Excellency," Schlieffen said, "if you think my being there will do some good. If not, I have other matters to occupy my time." He was still refining the plan for movement against France whose basic idea he'd borrowed from Lee's campaign in Pennsylvania. He'd had wires of his own from Berlin; the General Staff was enthusiastic about the outline he'd s
ent.
But Schlozer said, "Military affairs are likely to be discussed, so your place is with me." However much Schlieffen would have liked to go on burrowing through his books—inadequate though his research tools here in Philadelphia were—he could only obey. Hiding a sigh, he set down his pen and, carefully locking the door to his office behind him, followed Schlozer downstairs to the carriage.
Bright sunshine made him blink. The bad weather had blown past Philadelphia the day before; now he could believe spring was at hand. Soon—all too soon—summer would grip the eastern seaboard of the United States in its hot, sweaty fist.
Down from Germantown the carriage made its way, dodging among others like it, rumbling wagons, men on horseback, men on bicycles with improbably high front wheels, and swarms of men and women on foot. And then, as had happened to Schlieffen coming back from the War Department, a political rally snarled traffic that would have been bad without it. Now red flags rippled in a friendly breeze; now not only the most dedicated Socialists, those fearing neither catarrh nor pneumonia, assembled under the flags. Now nervous-looking soldiers helped police route buggies and horses and pedestrians around the streets the demonstrators clogged.
Schlieffen and Schlozer never came within two blocks of the rally. Even so, the Socialists' shouts rose above the clatter of horses' hooves, the rattle of iron tires on paving, and the squeals and groans of axles needing grease. "Can you make out what they are saying, Your Excellency?'' Schlieffen asked.
"I believe the cry is, 'Justice!' " Schlozer clicked his tongue between his teeth. "If I were petitioning the Almighty, or even my government, I would sooner ask for mercy. But then, I am an old man, and well aware of how much I need it. Waving flags in the street is not an old man's sport."
Because of the rally, they got to the Powel House fifteen minutes late. President Blaine brushed aside Kurd von Schlozer's apologies. "Don't trouble yourself about it, Your Excellency," Blaine said. "I want to tell you that I received yesterday a telegram from the U.S. minister in Berlin informing me that his talks with Chancellor Bismarck continue to go well, and that prospects look bright for increased cooperation in all spheres between our two great countries."
"I am delighted to hear this, Mr. President," Schlozer said, and Schlieffen nodded, knowing all spheres included the military. But the German minister looked grim as he continued, "I also received yesterday a telegram from Berlin, whose contents I wish to discuss with you now. I must tell you that the governments of Britain, France, and the Confederate States are most dissatisfied with the dilatory pace of negotiations with your government. Since Germany is neutral in this conflict, they have united in asking Chancellor Bismarck to make me the channel through which they express to you their dissatisfaction. If you refuse to meet their demands, I cannot answer for the consequences."
Blaine flushed. His large, bulbous nose went redder than the rest of his face. "Their demands are outrageous, impossible!" he shouted, as if he were on the rostrum rather than sitting in his office. "How am I to yield so large a portion of my home state to the invaders? How am I to acquiesce in the Confederacy's acquisition of lands to which that nation has no right?"
"If you had yielded Sonora and Chihuahua before, you would not now the loss of part of Maine face," Schlieffen said. "You have lost the war. 'Vae victis,' as Brennus the Gaul said to the Romans he had beaten."
Blaine glared at him. "The Romans ended up whipping the Gauls, so that 'Woe to the conquered' applied to the conquerors. We can fight on, too."
Sadly, Schlieffen shook his head. "No, Your Excellency, not in this war. You are defeated."
Kurd von Schlozer said, "The reason we were tardy, Mr. President, was the large Socialists demonstration that forced traffic to make a detour around it."
Blaine's complexion darkened once more. "Socialists!" he said, as if pronouncing an obscenity. "Most of them are traitors to the Republican Party, nothing else."
"As may be," Schlozer said. "Would you not agree, though, that they leave your own political future more . . . uncertain than it was before the schism in your party took place?"
Now Blaine had heard blunt talk from both the German attaché and the German minister. "You tread close to the edge, sir," he growled. Schlozer sat impassive, waiting for a more responsive answer. At last, obviously hating every word, Blaine said, "You may be right."
That was the response for which Schlozer had waited. "Being now without hope and so without fear, Your Excellency, can you not act as a disinterested statesman and serve with a whole heart the needs of your country? You have the chance, Mr. President, and a rare chance it is for an elected official, to do just that without considering your own future political advantage, for you can have none."
Had Blaine not been in the room, Schlieffen might have smiled. Schlozer could not have urged a more sensible, more logical course on the president of the United States. The only question remaining was whether sense and logic could still reach James G. Blaine.
Schlieffen added a few words of his own: "If you do not do this, Your Excellency, your country will only suffer more. In your heart, you must know this is so."
Again, Blaine stayed silent a long time. At last, very low, he repeated, "You may be right." He let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Making peace with the enemies of my country is like looking into my open grave. But, as you say, I am already dead, so what does it matter how I am buried?"
"Think of your country," Schlozer said.
"Think of the future, and what your country and mine may do there," Schlieffen said. Slowly, Blaine nodded.
****
Philander Snow spat a brown stream into a drift of the stuff whose name he bore. Theodore Roosevelt had changed the calendar from March to April a couple of days before. He'd seen spring snow in New York State; seeing it in Montana Territory did not delight him, but it did not surprise him, either.
His mind had a way of running toward what would be. "We've got to plant as soon as we can, Phil," he said. "We shan't have a long growing season—we never do, not here, but it will be even shorter this year. Everything must be in readiness to move the moment conditions permit."
Snow spat again. "It will be, Colonel." He'd taken to calling Roosevelt that since his boss' return from commanding the Unauthorized Regiment. Having been mustered out of the U.S. Army, Roosevelt no longer had any formal right to the title. The next time he corrected the ranch hand about it would be the first.
"That's good, Phil. That's what I want to hear," he said, now, adding, for about the hundredth time, "I know I can rely on you. If I'd ever had any doubts—which I haven't—the way you and the rest of the hands who didn't join my regiment brought in the harvest last fall would have shot them right between the eyes."
"That's white of you, Colonel. We reckoned it was the least we could do, seein' how you and the Unauthorized Regiment was doin' everything you could to keep them goddamn English bastards from comin' down and burnin' us out." Snow loosed yet another stream of tobacco juice. "Ask you somethin'?"
"You may ask," Roosevelt said. "I don't promise to answer."
"Fair enough." Snow nodded. "All kinds of talk been goin' around about how you'll up and sell this here ranch and go back to New York to do some politicking there. Is it so, or is it a pile of humbug?"
"I'd love to go back to New York and politic there," Roosevelt answered. "The only trouble with the notion is that, in order to run for the State Assembly, I must have attained the twenty-fifth year of my age. I am old enough to have fought for my country and to have commanded men in battle, but not old enough to help legislate for my state."
"Plumb crazy, you ask me," Philander Snow opined. " 'Course, nobody asked me."
"Crazy it may be," Roosevelt said. "The law of the state it is. And so I shall stay here in Montana Territory, here on the ranch, a while longer, at any rate." He did his best to speak lightly, as if that mattered to him only a little. Inside, he seethed with worry lest the fickle populace forget him before he reached the
age where he could offer himself for approval.
"Well, I'm powerful glad to hear that," Snow said. "Powerful glad. I've been pleased with my situation here, and I'd hate to have to go looking for another one on account of you was sellin' the place for no better reason than to go back East and tell lies to people the rest of your days."
"Is that what politics means to you?" Roosevelt demanded. The ranch hand nodded without hesitation. Roosevelt's sigh loosed a cloud of steam into the chilly air. "I give you my solemn word: I shall always tell the truth to the people."
"I've heard a lot of people say that." Snow spoke in ruminative tones. "Maybe you're telling the truth, Colonel. I hope to Jesus you are, matter of fact. But it wouldn't startle me out of my stockings if I found out you wasn't."
"I shall always tell the truth to the people," Roosevelt repeated. "Always. Do not doubt me on this, Phil; I mean every word I say. You are right when you assert that the American people have already heard too many lies."
Snow cocked his head to one side and studied Roosevelt for a while before saying, "It's a young man's promise, Colonel. Maybe there's a reason a fellow has got to be twenty-five before he can run after all. You get older, you figure out there's a deal of gray between black and white."
"A man who will see gray once will see gray all the time." Theodore Roosevelt scornfully tossed his head. "A man who sees gray will never see black, nor white either, even when they are there. That, I think, defines your run-of-the-mill politician to a T. I may be a politician one day—I would be lying if I said I didn't fancy the notion—but, whatever else history may record of me, it shall never say I was run-of-the-mill."
Philander Snow gave him another measuring appraisal, punctuating it by putting another brown spot in the white by his feet. "I don't reckon anyone will call you that. Some other things, maybe, but not that one there."
"I hope no one does," Roosevelt said. "Even those who were great in their time are so easily forgotten. Who now recalls the deeds of Lysander the Spartan or Frederick Barbarossa?"
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