The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  The next day, November 3, 1908, William Howard Taft was elected President, carrying 30 of the 48 states and defeating William Jennings Bryan by over 1.2 million votes. Roosevelt was initially “radiant over Taft’s victory.” He felt it validated his policies and presidency. A burden seemed to have lifted from Roosevelt; he kept repeating how much he was looking forward to a new phase of life. The feeling wouldn’t last long. Within weeks of the election Roosevelt began to have serious misgivings. Publicly he continued to say supportive things about Taft. Privately, his opinion changed like a fickle wind. Roosevelt fretted about every Taft trait, from his conservative instincts to his lethargic energy. Roosevelt’s main fear was that Taft would retrench on the progressive programs Roosevelt had initiated.

  His fears proved right on almost every account. The first signs of a rift came when Taft recanted on his promise to retain most of the people within Roosevelt’s administration. Besides the Secretary of the Navy, the only other person Taft wanted to continue on was the Military Aide, Archie Butt. Archie was not inclined toward a re-appointment – he had tremendous attachment and loyalty to Roosevelt and his opinion of Taft, while respectful, was not enthusiastic. Still, he felt duty bound to stay on through a transition period.

  On March 4, 1909, a day marked by raging blizzards in Washington D.C., William Howard Taft took the oath of office and became the 27th President of the United States. The ceremony had to be moved into the Senate Chamber because the traditional inaugural area in front of the Capitol building was enveloped in a blinding snowstorm.

  Archie was overwhelmed with sadness. “I felt about as depressed as I have ever felt in parting with anyone in my life,” he wrote, “save only my own mother.” Roosevelt tried to comfort his former aide with a curious, enigmatic aside. “It isn’t goodbye,” Roosevelt murmured. “We will meet again, and possibly you will yet serve me in a more important capacity than the one you have now.”

  A tumultuous era had passed. Most people believed that Taft and his prudent manner would usher in calmer waters for the United States. They did not foresee the treacherous rapids ahead.

  CHAPTER 4

  1909

  New York stank. The big, teeming, strapping, brawny city belched out a variety of perfumes. Its universal fragrance arose from the street – a bouquet of horseshit mixed with the noxious fumes spewing from the newfangled automobile. Co-mingled with that base scent were the smells of each specific neighborhood. While along Fifth Avenue the aroma of shit and gasoline was blended with French perfume, travel a few blocks east and the unmistakable odors from the eastside gashouses swirled over the short city blocks. Go south to Second Avenue on the Lower East Side and the stink of an overrun, new world ghetto broiled with the stale stench of sweat-soaked-bodies, standing sewage, and the brine of pickle barrels. Hell’s Kitchen smelled like bloody death from the slaughterhouses that lined 42nd Street and 11th Avenue. The German section on the Upper East Side reeked sickly sweet of fermenting hops and yeast from Adolph Ruppert’s breweries. Wafting through the narrow cobblestone streets of Greenwich Village was the aroma of cigar smoke, coffee and alcohol. While in northern Manhattan, bubbling brooks meandered through verdant farmlands and thick forests, as they did centuries earlier.

  Though many tongues and accents were heard throughout Manhattan, there was one very common language that every New Yorker shared – the language of money. For some, the acquisition of money was the measuring stick of success; for most, it was the thin lifeline of existence. Within the feeding chain of wealth was the criminal element, which asserted its influence from the mean neighborhood streets all the way to City Hall. Crime and corruption were part of daily life, as ubiquitous as the clatter of the new subway. In the Italian districts of East Harlem and Little Italy, the Sicilian Black Hand extorted protection money from local stores and businesses with an unambiguous message of a broken storefront window and a sinister black hand sitting amid the rubble. Jewish gangsters prowled the Lower East Side, making money through prostitution, card games, blackjacking services, burglary and pick pocketing. Irish toughs ruled the streets around Five Points and were locked in a continual war with Italian, German and Jewish gangs.

  It was into this cauldron of greed, crime, corruption and power that Captain Archibald Butt escorted William Howard Taft to his first foray as President into New York in March of 1909.

  It had been just a year since Archie had come to Washington. He never foresaw how close he would become to Roosevelt or the essential position he would assume in the White House. Archie did not anticipate finding himself in the same intimate role with Taft as he did with Roosevelt. For one, what drew he and Roosevelt together was their common love for athletics and manly competition. When William Howard Taft took office he weighed 320 pounds. Archie wrote of Taft, “He moves very slowly, and I defy anyone in the world to hurry him.” Archie did not believe he would be sharing a sporting relationship with the new President.

  As it turned out, Archie was wrong. Taft proved to be a decent horseman – he and Archie would go riding at least three times a week – and an avid golfer. Many believed Taft was more dedicated to his golf game than his Presidency.

  Archie soon grew as close to the new President as he was with the old. Where he was a companion to Roosevelt, he became an all-purpose friend, attendant, escort and confidant to Taft.

  They traveled to New York by train on the morning of March 19, a little more than two weeks after the inauguration. That first evening in New York, Taft gave a speech to sixteen hundred of his fellow Yale alumni at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was an ill-prepared, boring talk. Despite the uninspiring speech, people were anxious to shake the hand of the new President. A reception line was organized. Archie stood a step behind Taft, next to John Wilkie, the Chief of the Secret Service, both keeping a watchful eye toward the President. “For some reason,” Wilkie said to Archie, “the personality of Roosevelt kept away cranks and frightened away anarchists, but the personality of Mr. Taft is that which always seems to invite attacks.” With that, Wilkie and Archie noticed an awkward, uncomfortable man invade Taft’s space. Their protective instincts sprang alert, only to retreat when they saw Taft warmly grasp the man’s hand.

  “And what are you up to these days, Jack?” Taft said.

  “Real estate, Mr. President. And we’re looking for investors. Any interest?”

  Taft laughed a big barrel laugh. “Anything the Astors do is bound to be successful. Good luck with it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Astor said, then stepped to Archie. “Captain Butt,” Astor saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel John Jacob Astor, Cuba, 1898-99.”

  Archie saluted back. “A pleasure, Colonel Astor. Your reputation as a soldier precedes you.”

  “Really? I didn’t exactly see bloody combat. I mainly financed my battalion and loaned them my yacht.”

  “You did your job as a patriot, sir, and that steads you well in my book.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Astor puffed his chest out then saluted again.

  The next morning Taft had a meeting scheduled at the Morgan library. He had known J. Pierpont Morgan for some time and was always impressed by his insight into markets and money. Every time the men met, Morgan lobbied for a Federal Reserve System that would act much like a central bank. Morgan felt that with such a federal system, speculative bubbles, like the one that cause the Panic of ’07, could be avoided.

  Though Taft agreed with many of Morgan’s ideas, he also realized it would be bad politics to be seen too often with the country’s most controversial face of capitalism. So that morning Taft, accompanied only by Archie and two secret service men, slipped from the residence of Henry Taft, the President’s brother, and crossed Manhattan to the Morgan Library.

  A cold winter’s sun shone on Taft and Archie as they treaded past the library’s marble lionesses and into the vaulted rotunda. Seeing the stunning opulence before them, even the breath of President of the United States was taken away. The columns of the rotunda were polish
ed lapis lazuli; the floors were Roman marble. Morgan greeted the President with proper deference, though his manner was one of a long-reigning emperor welcoming a temporal king. “Mr. President, so good to see you again,” Morgan said, clasping Taft’s hand.

  While Archie had seen Morgan before, he was never so close as to explore the formidable landscape of his face. Pictures of the young Pierpont Morgan showed a slim, handsome man with a heavy brush mustache and a serious, but hardly powerful visage. He looked like what he was – an efficient banker. Years of wealth and power transformed the features of this rather gray looking young man into an odd sculpture of magnificence. His face, repulsive in appearance, was absolutely magnetic in character. The large, massive head sat on a large, massive body. The brush mustache was still there, but now white and drooping down the sides of his mouth. His thick brown hair had turned gray and thin, and was parted and combed carefully to cover his head. The high, rounded forehead arched down to a strong brow under which sat Morgan’s famous burning eyes. And then there was the nose: a tremendous lump of red and purple flesh flaming with mountainous carbuncles that gave the appearance of a volcanic lunar landscape. The unfortunate feature was a product of rhinophyma, a skin disease that Morgan developed in his fifties. He was very self-conscious about it and, at the same time, he didn’t give a damn: he was, after all, J. P. Morgan. Stare at your own risk.

  “Come, gentlemen, let me show you my library.” Morgan escorted the President and his small entourage into the East Room. Massive, three-tiered bookcases of bronze and polished wood encircled the entire, colossal room. The library was crowned by a high vaulted ceiling on which was painted constellations of zodiac signs and Roman gods.

  “This is overwhelming, Pierpont,” Taft said to Morgan. “Goddam overwhelming.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. Every piece has a story to it, but for the life of me, I can never remember any of them.”

  The assembled men – Taft, Archie, the secret service agents – laughed on cue.

  “My librarian knows. It’s all pretty interesting. She’ll tell you.” Morgan walked to a nearby desk and pushed a buzzer on a small mahogany box. Within moments the men heard the light clicking of a woman’s heels on the rotunda’s marble floor. Then in walked the librarian.

  Morgan always liked to see the faces of men when they first set eyes on his librarian. He knew what they expected – some pinched-faced middle-aged woman, her graying hair set tightly in bun, peering over heavy glasses.

  Her hair was in a bun, but that was about all that fulfilled the expectation. She was young, spectacularly young, still in her twenties, with dark, radiant hair and deep golden skin. She had a soft, heart-shaped face, full lips that were the color of summer cherries, and lavishly rich brows. Her eyes were hooded under heavy-lids, which gave her an aura of smoky sensuality.

  There was a soft, collective gasp from the men in the room.

  “Mr. President,” Morgan said. “Let me introduce Belle da Costa Greene.”

  Belle held her hand out to Taft. “Miss Greene, a pleasure,” said the President, then trying to think of something appropriate to say but unable to, he fumbled to his right and muttered, “This is my Military Aide, Captain Archibald Butt.” Archie bowed and took the hand she held toward him. As he touched her pliant fingers, his body quivered with an electric charge that he had never experience in his forty-three years of life. Then she raised her eyes to his. They were jade green floating in pools of pearl white.

  “Belle, the President would like to know about the artwork in the room,” Morgan said.

  “Of course,” Belle answered with an enthusiastic flourish. “Isn’t it just spectacular?” She glided away from Archie with all the men’s eyes following her. “The twelve paintings on the ceiling were based on motifs from the Villa Farnesina in Rome, originally designed in the sixteenth century by Raphael for the Italian banker Angostino Chigi.” The easy grace with which Belle spoke only added to her attractiveness. Two of the most powerful men on earth listened like attentive little boys. “The ceiling was created specifically for Mr. Morgan and the constellations are astrologically significant to his life, as are the mythological stories portrayed on the panels. For instance, over the sign of Aries, Mr. Morgan’s sun sign, is Venus and Cupid.”

  “Aren’t those the gods of love, Pierpont?” Taft said.

  Morgan grunted. Seeing her boss’s discomfort, Belle pointed to a large tapestry that hung over the library’s marble mantle. “This is my favorite piece. A sixteenth century tapestry designed by the Brussels artist Pieter Coecke van Aelst from his series of the ‘Seven Deadly Sins’. This one is ‘The Triumph of Avarice’. You see winged Avarice rising from the fire. The Latin inscription on the tapestry reads, ‘As Tantalus ever thirsts in the midst of water, so the miser hungers always for wealth.’ And there’s an angel pointing to the gates to Hell. Thrilling, isn’t it, gentlemen?”

  All the men nodded. It was thrilling. Especially the way Belle talked about it.

  “Now, Mr. President,” Morgan piped in, “shall we go to my private study for our meeting?” Morgan led the way out of East Room and across the rotunda. “With all due respect to the Captain, Mr. President, I should think we might take our meeting in private.”

  “I’m so sorry, Archie,” Taft said. “You could wait outside with the other men. I suppose I really didn’t need you to come with me this morning.”

  Archie was as gracious as ever. “That’s all right, sir, it was a treat to experience Mr. Morgan’s library and hear Miss Greene’s very insightful commentary.”

  “Good, at least it wasn’t a complete waste of your time.” Taft pulled out his pocket watch. “Our train for Washington is at seven. Why don’t you take the day off? See a bit of New York.”

  “Yes. Good suggestion, sir. Thank you.”

  “I’ll call you a cab, Captain.” Belle chimed in.

  “Thank you, Miss Greene. But I prefer to walk. It’s such a beautiful morning.” Archie turned and saluted both men. “Mr. Morgan, Mr. President.”

  “Let me at least escort you out, Captain,” Belle said. She touched his elbow to lead him to the rotunda doors. And it happened again – an electric charge shot through Archie’s body. Far from being uncomfortable, it was one of the more thrilling sensations he had ever felt; a warm rush that surged through him from head to toe. Belle swung the bronze doors open. Light flooded in, enveloping her. She lifted her green eyes. They glistened like emeralds catching the sunlight. “Captain Butt,” she said. “I’m sorry you are leaving so soon. I so enjoyed your Southern manner.”

  “How did you know I was from the South?”

  “It’s difficult to hide that accent of yours. Besides, Northern men are absolute boors next to a well-mannered Southern gentleman. When you return to New York, I’ll give you a proper tour of our library. You’ll give me a call, Captain, yes?”

  “Most certainly, Miss Greene.”

  “You promise now?”

  “A soldier’s word.”

  “Good enough then,” Belle said, holding out her hand. Archie gently took it and shuddered ever so slightly, again feeling a warm electric jolt at the touch of her skin.

  CHAPTER 5

  Late that cold morning of March 20th, a fire broke out at the Belasco Theater on 44th Street. A brigade of horse-drawn fire trucks raced up Fifth Avenue toward the blaze, clanging their bells to clear the street as they went. Archie, who was strolling on the sidewalk, did not notice the racket. Nor did he notice John Jacob Astor IV, whom he passed outside the Waldorf-Astoria while Astor was walking his Airedale, Kitty. He wasn’t aware of the brawl that spilled out from Hennesy’s bar near 51st Street. Nor did he pay any mind to the ukulele player busking a brassy version of My Gal Sal near the Plaza Hotel. Archie was thinking about one thing and one thing only: Belle da Costa Greene. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Not that he wanted to. He saw nothing else, heard nothing else, felt nothing else. He had no idea where he was and it didn’t matter. He was in
toxicated like never before, drunk on something far more powerful than his cherished Kentucky bourbon. In his mind he heard her voice again, which was sweet and effervescent. He felt the touch of her fingers again, re-experienced their softness and electric heat. He recalled her flawless golden skin, the deep crimson of her lips, and those eyes, those mysterious green eyes. He heard her say, “You’ll give me a call, Captain, yes?” He heard her say it again and again. “You’ll give me a call, Captain, yes?”

  He crossed the street to the edge of Central Park. Birds sang, hansom cabs crisscrossed the dirt thoroughfares and lovers strolled hand in hand. An even better place to get lost in this feeling of…what in the world is this feeling? Archie didn’t answer himself as his fevered mind wandered back to Belle. He was so lost in his reverie he didn’t notice a man jump out of a slow moving automobile and come up behind him. Nor did he sense the man’s presence until he felt something steely jab into his back.

  “Don’t say nothin’. Just do what I tell ya.” The voice was a low, rough, New York growl. Archie was confused, lost between his dream of Belle and the suddenness of the intrusion.

  “There’s an automobile by the curb. You’re gonna get in it with me.”

  “What is this?” Archie asked, not able to see the face of the man behind him.

  “Shut up, and get in the automobile.”

  “Is this a robbery? Do you want money?”

  “Com’on, Captain, don’t ya know what an order is?”

  The man was addressing Archie by his rank. It was obviously no robbery.

  “I work for the President of…”

  “Get in the damn car. Now!!” The man pushed Archie into the idling automobile. The driver, who wore an odd chauffeur’s cap pulled low to his eyes, stepped on the gas. The car sped off.