The day Archie returned to Washington D.C., he received an urgent message from Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. That evening Archie walked the few blocks from the White House to an old brick office building that housed the Department of Justice. A military guard met him in the building’s large foyer and escorted him through a maze of corridors to Bonaparte’s office.
Bonaparte was seated behind an enormous cherry wood desk. Dark and heavy-set, he had thick-lidded eyes and a few strategically combed strands of hair covering his balding head. When Archie entered, Bonaparte was talking with a small, sober-faced man who clutched a large white envelope. “Captain Butt,” Bonaparte hoisted himself from his chair. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“Whatever you need, Mr. Attorney General, I am at you service.”
“Charlie, call me Charlie, please. Let me introduce you to Stanley Finch. I’ve just appointed him to head our new investigative division. Examiner Finch may appear to be a baby-faced angel, but look out, he’s as tenacious as a bulldog.”
“Captain....” Finch said tightly.
“A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Finch.” Archie shook Finch’s hand. It was thin and bony.
“I hear you’ve been with the President,” Bonaparte said, moving around the desk to Archie. “He’s well, I trust?”
“In fine spirits, as usual. I must admit, it’s hard keeping up with him. The President has remarkable energy.”
“I’ve known him for over a decade now and I think he’s gained a step, not lost one.” Bonaparte pulled at the short hairs of his mustache then touched Archie’s shoulder in an awkward gesture, “Listen, Archie, if you don’t mind, I need your help. It may be a little delicate.” Bonaparte then nodded to Finch, who carefully opened the envelope he was holding. He removed a picture, laid it on the desk then spread his bony fingers over the photo and rotated it toward Archie. Bonaparte and Finch watched Archie to see if there was a reaction. There was. Archie’s lips curled into a smile.
“You cut a handsome figure, Captain,” Bonaparte said.
“Thank you, sir, but I was ten years younger.”
Archie studied the sepia-toned image of himself as a young colonel. He was in full-military dress. Two small war medals were pinned on his chest and a short brimmed cap sat squarely on his head in a proud, formal way.
“I was thinner then,” Archie said. “That’s what war does to you. Keeps you thin.”
“And you recognize the other man?” Bonaparte asked.
Of course Archie did. The soldier posed next to him was also in an ornate dress uniform, but the effect was different. This soldier’s posture was not ramrod straight like Archie’s, but looser-limbed. His dress uniform looked molded on his muscular body and his soldier’s cap was cocked slightly in a rakish manner. His look was direct; his coal black eyes glared straight into the camera. The intensity of his gaze was offset by a sly, confident grin that added a touch of lightness to his handsome face.
“Corporal Michael Shaughnessy,” Archie muttered.
“Also known as Mick?” asked Bonaparte.
“Mick. Yes. Good old crazy Mick.”
“He wasn’t mentally stable?”
“Sir, he was the most stable man I ever met. And the best soldier I ever served with. He admired the warriors of ancient Rome and strove to emulate their fierceness and loyalty. He told me that when he was young he became an altar boy to learn Latin so he might read Tacitus’ war histories of Rome.”
“Then why did you call him ‘crazy Mick’?”
“Because he was fearless. He would just as soon walk into an enemy’s gun nest as he would a saloon. And he’d wreak havoc in both places. The army tries to teach men bravery, but I do not believe it is something one can acquire. True bravery is something you must be born with. Mick Shaughnessy was born with bravery in every bone of his body. In the Philippines he single-handedly freed a group of Americans from an enemy hideout. Must have killed at least fifteen men without any loss of life on our side.”
“You considered him a patriot then?”
“A patriot and a hero. Why do you ask?”
“Because…” the Attorney General cleared his throat then looked directly at Archie, “…he is suspected of a New Year’s Eve bombing at the home of John Jacob Astor.”
Bonaparte dropped the bit of news dramatically, expecting Archie to react with surprise. But he didn’t. “Didn’t the newspapers report that a furnace exploded?” Archie quietly answered.
“We have strong evidence it was a bomb. And Michael Shaughnessy was involved in planting it,” Bonaparte responded.
“With all due respect, sir, the only way I could believe that to be true is if Mick Shaughnessy told me himself. And even then I’m not sure I would take him at his word. He was a soldier of the highest order, willing to give his life for his country.”
Bonaparte glanced down at the picture, meeting Mick Shaughnessy’s fierce gaze. “Then he must have changed.”
“No,” said Archie. “He would not have changed in that way.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Nineteen hundred and four. We were still in the Philippines. He told me he was leaving the army to get married. He showed me a photograph of perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I wished him well, he wished me well. And like soldiers, we parted with a salute. That is the last I heard of him until this moment.”
Bonaparte tugged at the hairs of his mustache again. “Thank you, Captain Butt. I request that if you should hear from him, you would report it directly to me or Mr. Finch.”
Archie was puzzled. “I see no reason why I would ever hear from Mick Shaughnessy.”
“I understand. But if you should, you will let us know. Yes, Captain?” Bonaparte reached out his hand to shake with Archie.
“Of course, sir. Absolutely.”
CHAPTER 3
It was an age of wonders. An age of dreamers. An age where anything and everything was possible. In 50 short years – from 1860 to 1910 – civilization went from horse and buggy to automobile, earthbound to airplane, concert hall to phonograph, live theater to moving picture, candle to light bulb, pony express to wireless telegraph, and, not the least significant, cannon ball and rifle to dynamite and machine gun.
John Jacob Astor IV was one of those who had the fever to invent. Despite the blue blood that ran through his veins, Astor had the heart and mind of an engineer. Awkward and bumbling around people, especially people of his own privileged class, in his workshop he was an accomplished master. Amid his machines, drafting table, blueprints and models, John Astor felt comfortably at home. And he had some success as an inventor. His Pneumatic Road Improver, a machine that blew dirt off roads, was awarded first prize at the Chicago World’s Colombian Exposition in 1893. In 1898 Astor patented a solid tire bicycle brake that was sold worldwide. His love for all things mechanical, especially cars, was legendary.
By 1908, Astor’s youthful passion for inventing was waning. He tinkered in his workshops on various engines for his boats and cars, but that was all. With his marriage in shambles, his mother slipping deeper into senility, and his house still undergoing repairs from the New Year’s Eve disaster, John Astor was feeling like a man whose burdens were beginning to weigh him down.
On the morning of September 17, 1908, he had a splitting headache on top of everything else. And he had a lunch appointment he dreaded keeping. It was with King Camp Gillette. What does he want to try and sell me this time? Astor thought. That’s all the boorish man does: sell, sell, sell. You’d think, having made millions, he might have garnered a touch of class.
Class was very important to Astor. It wasn’t to King Gillette. He was a self-made millionaire, a traveling salesman who one morning had a revelation while shaving with his straight razor and came up with the idea for the disposable safety blade. Class had nothing to do with his riches. Charm, enthusiasm and persistence, especially persistence, were the keys to success for Gillette. Like any good sa
lesman, he was fairly oblivious to what people thought of him. He just charged happily forward.
They were to meet in the Men’s Cafe of the Waldorf-Astoria. Gillette arrived first. He waited at the bar sipping lemonade and marveling at the opulence that surrounded him. Even the beer taps were of inlaid pearl.
Astor shambled in and greeted Gillette. “Let’s go back to my private dining room,” he said quickly.
“Great,” enthused Gillette. “And what a great place you’ve got here, Jack. I’ve seen the pyramids, I’ve seen the Colosseum, and let me tell you, your hotel has got ‘em all beat. You’re a great builder, Jack. This is one of the wonders of the world.”
The exchange took less than a minute and Astor was already fed up with Gillette’s sunny enthusiasm. He wished he could ditch the salesman right then and there. But he was a cultivated gentleman, even if Gillette was not.
Astor had two private dining rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria. He took Gillette into the more intimate one. Oysters were already on ice in a giant half shell. A bottle of Veuve Cliquot was chilling in a bucket. Astor gestured for Gillette to have a seat.
“It’s good to see you, Jack. I have some very exciting things to talk about with you,” Gillette said.
“Oh, God help me,” Astor muttered under his breath. Then aloud: “Champagne?”
“No, thank you. I have my lemonade, which is doing me just fine.”
“Suit yourself,” Astor said and poured himself a glass of champagne, which he drank quickly then refilled his glass.
“Tell me Jack, wouldn’t you like to create something even greater than this hotel?”
“I’m always looking for new business ventures, but right now I have a splitting headache. Can we talk about this some other time?”
“I’ll be brief, Jack. This is so exciting it’ll make your headache go away.”
Astor raised a dubious eyebrow and braced himself for the sales pitch he knew was coming. Gillette leaned down, opened his soft leather bag and started whistling. Astor wanted to throttle him; instead, he clutched the stem of the champagne glass and drank. From his bag Gillette pulled out a thin, leather bound book. Astor noticed the gold-embossed title: The Human Drift. Gillette took a fountain pen from his coat pocket, unscrewed the top, snapped the pen twice to get the ink flowing, then began inscribing the title page: “To John Jacob Astor IV, a man of vision and foresight. The future is ours. Your friend, King Camp Gillette.” He blew the ink dry then slid the book across the table.
“For you, Jack.”
“Thank you. What is it?”
“The blueprint of the future.”
“Okay.” Astor’s impatience was becoming evident. “But what is it?”
Gillette leaned close, affecting an almost conspiratorial posture. It was an instinctive move – after so many years of door-to-door sales, Gillette knew all the tricks of drawing people in. He lowered his voice. “It is the greatest building project mankind has ever known.” Gillette tilted back. He smiled. His eyes twinkled. “It is a plan to take humanity out of the darkness it suffers and into paradise, where all men and women will live happy, fulfilling lives. It’s a plan to build one large city, a Metropolis, where mankind can labor together and then enjoy the highest expressions of culture and art. It would be a place of true sharing, where greed and crime and jealousy would cease to exist because we would be satisfied with the riches all around us.”
Gillette opened the book for Astor. He showed him the carefully drawn plans of thousands of skyscraper apartments geometrically placed amid an intersection of avenues, lawns and gardens. “Can you imagine the endless beauty of a conception like this?” Gillette continued. “I envision in this city sixty million souls, fifteen thousand miles of main avenues, every foot of which would be a continuous change of beauty.”
Gillette blazed as he laid out his utopian vision. “We would build it in the only possible place on the American continent: Niagara Falls – a source of everlasting power.” He flipped a page and pointed to a map. “The manufacturing center would be across the river and would be connected to the city by great bridges over which railroads would run.
“Once it is demonstrated that within this Metropolis the citizens have achieved a level of happiness never experienced by men before, I envision similar great cities being erected throughout the world, and all of humankind truly entering a golden age.” Gillette glowed beatifically seeing his vision of a modern day Eden. “So what do you think?”
Astor thought he was mad. “Interesting,” said Astor. “But I imagine it would take vast sums of money to build your Metropolis?”
“That’s why I’m here, Jack. You’re an inventor, a visionary who desires the highest aspirations for mankind. You are the type of man that would join with me in providing the needed wealth.”
“Even my riches would be a drop in the bucket to what you need for such an undertaking,” Astor said to Gillette.
“Yes, of course, I am a practical man, after all. My plan is to start small. Build several Metropolis’ on a limited scale.”
“How would people within these cities make a living?”
“That’s the great beauty of it: everything will be self-contained, from shops to groceries to amusement. Work would only be for the greater good of the Metropolis and ones fellow man. I believe we can never achieve the perfect social system until money and everything of material value is swept from the face of the earth.”
“Am I understanding you correctly?” Astor asked, puzzled. “You are soliciting me to invest capital without any profit motive whatsoever?”
“Your profit motive would be bringing mankind into its golden age. You would be remembered as one of the greatest men who ever lived.”
He’s not just mad, Astor thought, he’s a stark raving lunatic.
“It is a very interesting concept, King, and I am flattered that you approached me with your proposition,” Astor said, and then swallowed the rest of his champagne. “Let me read your book and ponder your extraordinary idea and I will get back to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my head is throbbing and I must get something for it.”
King Gillette jumped up, still burning with passion, and pumped Astor’s hand. “John Astor you have demonstrated that you are truly the sage I believed you were.”
Astor kept trying to pull his hand away. “Yes. Thank you, King. Forgive me for having to leave. I’ll take a look at your book this evening. Good afternoon.”
He finally wrenched his hand from Gillette and scampered out of the room.
Astor did crack the book open that evening. He found it obtuse, grandiose, preposterous, and silly. And it fascinated him to no end. For all its outlandish plans and proposals, Astor saw the spark of a brilliant idea. Not in Gillette’s naïve scheme for a grand utopia, but in the way he laid out the details of a new type of centralized real estate development. John Astor saw what the entire Astor family had a talent for seeing: money.
The next morning Astor mailed the book to George Vanderbilt at his estate in North Carolina. The note accompanying it simply read: “What do you think?” Vanderbilt read Gillette’s book immediately. He wrote back: “Absolutely batty.” Astor replied: “I believe something is there.” Vanderbilt wrote back: “Of course something is there. It’s called socialism.” Astor answered him: “No, George. It’s called the future.”
* * *
On October 27, 1908 Mrs. Caroline Astor suffered a major heart attack. She had four previous “heart episodes” that month. Her physician, Dr. Austin Flint, remained at her side for three days, as did her diligent son John and his wife Ava. The Mrs. Astor died early on the night of October 30. The next morning’s headline in The New York Times plainly announced: “MRS. ASTOR DIES AT HER CITY HOME.”
Her funeral took place on November 1 at Trinity Church in Lower Manhattan. It was a simple ceremony. Beside her coffin was a wreath of lilies, provided by her son John, a six-foot long cross made up of 10,000 violets, and her favorite carved chair in which she alw
ays sat when receiving guests. 1,500 people attended. John Astor wept throughout the entire service.
Her death and the opening of probate records provided a glimpse into the world in which Mrs. Astor inhabited. Apparently, as her health declined, so did her riches. Newspapers ran breathless stories about her diminished fortune – less than two million dollars – and the disheveled state of her mansion, which she never left after the traumatic New Year’s Eve Ball of 1908.
* * *
There was another funeral just a day before the Astor service. It was smaller, attended by a handful of people in a small churchyard in Augusta, Georgia. Another faithful son had lost his beloved mother, who died suddenly on October 29, 1908. Captain Archibald Butt was heartbroken by his loss. On a cool, misty autumn morning, Archie stood beside the simple pine casket that held his mother. “Today four children are tragically orphaned,” Archie began, his voice unsteady with grief. “It doesn’t matter that they are well into adulthood, because losing the most precious thing in one’s life is a tragedy at any age. Our priceless jewel, our guiding light, our mother, Pamela Roberson Butt, has been taken from us. She has gone home to the Lord she put so much faith in. Heaven’s gain leaves us with heavy hearts and a very sorrowful burden to bear.” Archie stopped, choking back tears. “She was everything to me.”
That evening Archie traveled back to Washington by train. Ever the faithful soldier, he went to work the next morning. Roosevelt told him to take the day off, suggesting he take a Potomac cruise on the presidential yacht with Mrs. Roosevelt. Archie replied that it would be best to resign his post, as “I should not intrude my grief into the White House.” The President would not hear of such a thing.
The Titanic Plan Page 3
