The Titanic Plan
Page 7
Archie sat serenely still, not being drawn into Finch’s rising dramatics. “That you did, sir,” Archie said calmly. “That you did.”
“Well?”
“I’m a very busy man serving the President, Mr.…or rather, Director Finch. Your request must have slipped my mind. My sincere apologies.”
“You met with Mr. Shaughnessy on one occasion and he contacted you within the month. Have these occurrences also slipped your mind?”
Archie was astonished by what Finch knew. The insolent little upstart was obviously very good at his job. “Shall I share with you what Mr. Shaughnessy was contacting me about?” Archie said.
“We already know that too, Captain.”
“Then what was your purpose of me reporting these things to you?”
“To see if we could depend on you. And while your actions have cast doubt on your dependability…” Finch was now pacing the room like a bantam rooster, “…I am willing to forego my better judgment and take a chance on you.”
“Take a chance on me for what?!”
“A very crucial assignment.”
“Sir, I do not work for your agency. I take orders from one man and one man only – the President of the United States. And I believe, as your agency is part of the executive branch, he is your boss too.”
“I am well aware of that. And the President has been informed of this agency’s request for your service.”
Archie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What do you want of me?”
“Simply, to do what Mick Shaughnessy wishes you to do. We want you to contact him, find out what his plans are, what he’s saying, what he’s doing, where he lives, and then we want you to report everything you’ve found back to us.”
“You want me to become a spy for you? That is not what I do.”
“You’ve taken an oath to be loyal to the United States of America. Not to your anarchist friends.”
“I do not think I’d be very good a spy, Mr. Finch. I’m a lousy liar and I believe it is one of the job requirements.”
“You were unscrupulous enough not to have informed this agency of your contacts with Mick Shaughnessy.”
“That was wrong.”
“Then goddam rectify your mistake, Captain!”
“Mick Shaughnessy is not stupid. He’ll know what I’m up to.”
“Then we’ll teach you to become a better liar. Would that ease your mind about this assignment?” Finch snapped in frustration.
“My choice would be not to do this.”
“Honestly,” Finch spat, “you do not have that choice. You will continue on in your role as Military Aide to the President. You will have minimal contact with our agency. You must, of course, be protective of your identity when you are with Mr. Shaughnessy, but you must be conscious to gather any and all information about him and his activities and then report it back to us. Is that clear, Captain?”
“And the President has approved this?”
“Do you want the official or unofficial answer?”
“Both.”
“Unofficially, the Executive office has approved this. Officially, the Executive office has no idea of this meeting or that your assignment has ever taken place. And it must remain that way.”
CHAPTER 10
"What shall we call you, Captain?” Mick said. “How about Archibald Davis? A distant cousin of your South’s beloved Jeff Davis.”
Archie grunted. He didn’t think it was funny. He didn’t think any of this was funny. He was sitting in the same back seat he was shoved into when kidnapped at Central Park. This time Mick was beside him and young Henry was at the wheel. Mick had cleaned himself up. His hair still flowed long, but it was trimmed and brushed back, giving him the look of a romantic poet rather than an emaciated radical.
Archie looked different too. Out of uniform, in a dark suit and vest, Archie looked like a bank clerk or insurance salesman. He pulled his black bowler low to further obscure his identity.
“You’re going to have to get rid of that hat, Captain. It would draw attention to you in this crowd. And you can’t walk in as the military aide to Taft, that’s for sure. How about becoming a champion of the Working Man? A laborer from the peanut farms of Georgia who fought for a twelve-hour day. Hey, don’t look so gloomy. This evening is going to be a helluva lot more interesting than those awful society parties you have to attend.”
“At least those people are not trying to bring down our country,” Archie answered.
“These people are not trying to bring down the country either. Just its government.” Mick leaned forward toward the front seat. “Why don’t you let us out here, Henry. Some fresh air will do us good.”
Archie felt wary walking through Washington Square. He had passed Sanford White’s victory arch that honored George Washington many times in the Presidential coach. But he had never walked through it, never crossed the wide expanse that led into Greenwich Village. A thick fog had enveloped the square. He and Mick seemed alone, joined only by a symphony of disembodied noises and voices that floated through the mist: a lover’s quarrel, the clanging of a street car, a violinist playing a Bach partita, a dog barking. By the time they reached Thompson Street, Archie felt as if he had crossed the river Styx and was now entering some sort of American Hades.
“This way,” Mick said, guiding Archie through a tangle of narrow streets and alleyways to a row of ramshackle brownstones on MacDougal Street. He stopped in front of number 137. There was a noisy restaurant on the first floor the likes of which Archie had never seen. Men were screaming and waving their arms at their meal companions; women smoked cigarettes and yelled and waved their arms as wildly as the men. A whiskered waiter dropped a plate of pork chops before one diner and screamed, “Cooked pig for a bourgeois pig.”
Mick paid it no notice, ushering Archie into the building where they climbed a dark stairway to the second floor. There was a small hand-lettered sign at the entrance of their destination: “The Liberal Club – The Meeting Place for Those Interested in New Ideas.” Archie surmised he was the only card carrying Republican in the building.
Stepping into the large meeting room, Archie’s first thought was of the Tower of Babel, with its thousands of builders all squawking in different languages. This did seem like Babylon. The room was crowded with exotics – Negroes, Orientals, dark skinned South Americans, heavily bearded Russians, Indian women in saris, and Americans, some wearing well-pressed suits, some in dirty trousers and heavy work boots. The women were neither as fashionable nor refined as the women Archie was used to. Most wore loose cotton dresses that clung sensually to their bodies. They all smoked cigarettes and their manners were as aggressive as the men.
“Mick, sweetheart!” a woman’s voice called out. Archie and Mick turned to see a stunning young woman in a slinky green dress cut low in back walking toward them. Mick grinned; Archie froze. He couldn’t believe who he was seeing. Though he had met her only once, he knew her face, every feature of it. In idle moments at the White House he would dream about seeing her again. He fantasized being with her at some great diplomatic event where he was in full splendor beside the President. He never imagined their paths would cross in a dingy meeting room at an anarchists’ gathering in Greenwich Village.
“You look ravishing as always, Belle,” Mick said, suavely kissing both her cheeks. “Though your dress might be a bit provocative for the proletariat tonight.”
Seeing Archie, Belle became awkward. She took a step back, trying to distance herself from Mick’s attentions.
“Archie, this is the most enchanting woman you will encounter this evening, Belle da Costa Greene. Belle, this is Archie Davis, an old Army buddy of mine.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Greene,” Archie said stiffly.
“ Yes. A pleasure. Mr. Davis is it?” Belle replied.
Archie nodded weakly. “Mr. Davis.”
“What are you doing after the meeting, Belle?” Mick asked. “I was thinking about taking Archie to th
e Brevoort for a drink. Show him how we have fun in Greenwich Village.”
“If that’s an invitation, thank you, but I’m busy,” Belle answered coolly.
There was an uncomfortable quiet between the three, then Belle spoke up, “Is this the first meeting you’ve been to, Mr. Davis?”
“Yes,” said Archie. “It’s a very interesting group of people. It seems to be a place of many surprises.”
“It never ceases to surprise me,” Belle added.
At the front of the room a short, squat woman began calling for people to take their seats. Unlike the pretty women who were flitting around the room, this woman wore a cheap, dowdy dress that only accentuated her heavy, almost masculine features. “Friends, please, sit down, will you? We have one of the most enthralling men in America today who is going to stir you with his knowledge and passion. Come on, take your seats now.”
The crowd was like a pack of wild animals not wanting to be herded. “Come on now!” the woman pleaded. “The revolution can’t start until you take your seats.”
“We’re anarchists, Emma,” a man shouted. “The revolution will start only when we’re good and ready.”
“When you’re good and ready, Mr. Eastman, the revolution will have long passed by.” The crowd laughed and began filing into the rows of wooden chairs.
“I best get to my seat,” Belle said quickly. “Mick, always a pleasure. And nice meeting you, Mr. Davis.”
“And you too, Miss Greene.” Archie bowed slightly.
Both watched Belle cross the room to join a handsome Negro with a regal bearing. The black man sported a carefully trimmed, salt and pepper beard and mustache, and wore expensive gold-rim glasses. Archie kept his eyes glued to Belle, noticing the Negro’s familiarly with her; how he stepped close until his body touched hers, how he placed his hand on the bare skin of her back and led her to a seat.
The woman at the front of the hall kept urging everyone to find seats. Hearing her speech tinged with a Russian accent, Archie realized that this small, motherly, bespectacled woman they called Emma was, in fact, the most notorious anarchist in America, Emma Goldman. Mick pulled Archie to a seat on the aisle near the back.
“Friends…comrades…” Emma started. “Good to see so many familiar faces here tonight.” A serious expression then spread over her face. “Now we all know the history of human development is the history of the terrible struggle of every new idea heralding the approach of a brighter dawn. In its tenacious hold on tradition, the Old has never hesitated to make use of the foulest and cruelest means to stay the advent of the New, in whatever form or period the latter may have asserted itself.”
Emma quickly enthralled Archie. She was absolutely magnetic. He had never seen a woman so unattractive and yet so self-assured. “Today we have with us a man who is at the vanguard of the New,” Emma said. “He is a champion of working people everywhere. His inspiring words serve as a clarion call to fight the injustice of an unequal society. He is a giant among men and it is my honor to introduce a great friend and comrade, Bill Haywood.”
The crowd rose in unison and broke into shouts and loud applause. Haywood got up from a chair and shambled his large frame to the lectern. He did not wave or smile; he just stoically surveyed the crowd with his one good eye. The other eye was dead – a dull black marble covered with a thick, milky film. Haywood didn’t bother to wear a patch over it; rather, he exposed it for all the world to see, knowing full well it would only add to his image as one tough-as-nails sonuvabitch. Not that he really needed to bolster his reputation: Big Bill Haywood was one tough-as-nails sonuvabitch. Six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds, forced to work in the Idaho silver mines at age nine just so his family could eat, Bill Haywood grew to become as fierce as a human being could be. His life was one single-minded furious fight against what he saw as his oppressors. And he backed down from no one.
Haywood glared at the worshipful crowd. He cared nothing for the adoration. The balm for his soul was his indignant fury. He opened his mouth and began thundering: “Comrades – In the United States 30 million people work for other people. These people produce more wealth in one year than was ever produced in the world’s history. But these workers are becoming thinner, shorter, weaker and have less a lifespan than the American people of fifty years ago.”
For all his explosive passion, Haywood did not impress Archie the way Emma did. She had a quick mind and eloquent tongue. He was a sledgehammer that pounded away.
“In the United States, 750,000 workers are killed and wounded in the shops and mines and on the railroads every year. The vast majority of the toilers in the United States die premature deaths of diseases caused by overwork, by underfeeding, by dirt in the air, dirt in the drinking water, dirt and poison in the workers’ food.”
Loud applause broke out. Haywood held up his hands for quiet. “Meanwhile… meanwhile the idle rich of the United States waste more wealth than any other idle rich class have wasted in the history of the world. For all their money they produce nothing! Their time is occupied spending the millions others have produced!! The working people are sweating, starving and dying while the great wealth of the United States is being wasted by its idlers!!”
The crowd at the Liberal Club stood and roared its approval. Haywood may not have been the most gifted speaker, but he knew how to breathe fire. Archie squirmed in his seat. What at first seemed like a quaint and curious evening with some eastern radicals was becoming increasingly ugly listening to Haywood’s wrath.
Haywood pointed a finger out toward the audience. “And for all the traitors here tonight. Yes, we know you are here. You vermin spies, you representatives of the ruling elite who are at every venue I speak, I want you to note down these words: the time will come when the working people will rise up and take what is rightfully theirs. And I promise you will have to answer for all the injustices you and your rotten capitalist system have wrought!”
The crowd leapt up again, hollering and clapping. Archie clenched his jaw; his teeth were grinding and the muscles in his face twitched with tension. Mick leaned over and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
As the crowd’s frenzy grew and Haywood began calling for a new revolution in America, Mick and Archie slipped out the rear door and hurried down the stairs into the foggy night. They walked in silence for a long block until Mick muttered, “I’m sorry, Archie.”
“Why did you bring me here?!” Archie shot back angrily.
“I wanted you to meet these people. They want to build a better world than what we have now.”
“No. They want to destroy what I…and you…risked our lives for in battle. Did you tip them off I was there?”
“No, that spy talk had nothing to do with you. There are always spies at the meetings. We know they’re there. We don’t fear the government. The government fears us.” Mick paused for a long moment, then said pointedly, “And that’s why you are going to report back everything about this evening to Finch at the Justice Department.”
Archie stopped in his tracks.
“Oh, don’t be so surprised,” Mick continued. “I know you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t cleared. Of course you’re going to tell your superiors about everything you’ve seen and heard. It’s all part of the game, soldier.”
“And what game is that, Mick? What kind of silly game are you playing?”
Mick leaned close. “It’s not silly at all, Captain. It’s the one for America’s soul.”
Two days later Archie went to the Justice Department and did tell Finch what transpired. He reported that Emma Goldman impressed him. “She is very smart and it’s her brains that make her a leader in that crowd.” He also told Finch that he thought Bill Haywood was a dangerous fanatic. He didn’t tell him about Belle. Nor did he relate Mick’s knowledge that he’d be reporting back to Finch. Archie let it be known that he had no desire to visit that world again.
Finch didn’t thank Archie. He just said that he would be back in touch soon.
By 1909, J. Pierpont Morgan was officially in retirement. He was seventy-two years old and had turned over all his business concerns, including the chairmanship of J. Pierpont Morgan & Company, to his son Jack. Pierpont Morgan had no official job; he was a retiree whose passion was purchasing art. He had a wife he had hardly seen in years, preferring to spend his time with his long-time mistress, Adelaide Townsend Douglas – a formidable society matron whose attraction lay not in her beauty (she wasn’t very good looking), or her age (she was almost as old as Morgan), but that she was his equal – a mirror with whom he could relax and be himself.
Despite his formal retirement, Morgan wielded more power than he ever had. Free from the day-to-day activity of running his financial empire, he was holding court (and sway) with Presidents, kings, and power brokers. Now he was playing on the grandest scale he could design for himself, controlling entire industries and influencing policy in order to forge the world into his vision of capitalism and profit, still mostly for himself.
For all his grandness, Morgan continued to be, at heart, a conservative banker. He weighed all his decisions carefully, taking every factor into account and accessing their risks versus potential reward. And he was, above all else, still a magician with numbers.