The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  It was the magician George Vanderbilt and John Astor marveled at as they watched Morgan pour over the plan they had worked on since their summer meeting at Newport. Now they needed partners. They presented their project to Morgan as the most ambitious civic undertaking since the founding of the Republic.

  Outside Morgan’s office an occasional firecracker and shouts of “Happy Halloween” and “Trick or Treat” floated through the chilly New York night. The firecrackers set Astor’s nerves on edge, triggering frightful memories of his New Year’s Eve Ball, even though it was almost two years since that debacle. Astor dug his manicured nails into the heavy armrest of his chair as another small explosion went off outside. He looked down to notice the delicate carvings that crowned the armrests: lions, their manes thick, their gaping mouths frozen in a carved wooden roar. How appropriate for Morgan. He wanted to light a cigarette. But no, now was not a good time. He stroked his mustache to calm himself, glanced to Vanderbilt, who was looking on in wide-eyed wonder at the legend as he worked.

  Morgan’s power of concentration was astonishing. He twitched his massive nose and his eyes beamed like twin headlights as they riveted onto the pages that were spread before him. There were graphs and charts, columns for monetary outlays and projected revenues. Morgan worked his own page, scraping his fountain pen against the paper. His penmanship was neat and precise: seventy million for construction, forty-two million for transportation, ninety-seven million for materials. Watching Morgan work numbers was like watching a master alchemist measure out simple elements to transmute into gold. And there was no doubt that, in his way, Morgan was the master alchemist of the age, a modern Midas.

  Morgan coughed then lifted his look from the page. “It doesn’t add up, gentlemen,” Morgan spoke bluntly. “Too much capital, too many obstacles, too much risk.”

  It was not the answer Astor was hoping to hear. He and Vanderbilt had worked for months on this proposal. It was his grand vision and, after all, he was the Architect of the Future. Astor blinked his soft eyes and croaked, “But…”

  “But…” was never response a good response to J. P. Morgan. “No, Jack, it’s just impractical. First off, you’d have to invest a massive outlay of cash without any guarantee that people would move to these new cities. And why should businesses relocate there? They would have to spend millions to move without any good reason; their workforce is already populated around them. What incentive is there for U.S. Steel to move from Pittsburgh or Ford from Detroit? And you’d have to buy the land, prepare building plans, coordinate the construction, create the infrastructure. It’s a hundred year project. And even if it were successful, there would be no return on investment for at least that long. That’s not even mentioning the government cooperation you would need. No, it’s too big a project to even contemplate. The only thing I can offer is to wish you good luck.”

  Morgan hoisted his imposing frame up from the chair when George Vanderbilt’s reedy voice piped up, “You’re wrong, Mr. Morgan.”

  Morgan stopped before he was even fully standing. His ears grew red, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they had just heard. “Excuse me, sir?” Morgan said, searing a hard look into Vanderbilt’s delicate face. If nothing else, Vanderbilt had awakened the lion.

  “Forgive my impudence, Mr. Morgan, but I find it hard to believe that a man as distinguished as you would retreat from the greatest challenge he could ever face.”

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Vanderbilt? This isn’t a challenge, this is a recipe for disaster. I thought I made that clear.”

  Vanderbilt rose to his feet. “With all due respect, let me relate why our plan is so important and why the involvement of J. Pierpont Morgan is essential.” Morgan assented with a slight nod. Vanderbilt began slowly: “We are a decade into the new century, Mr. Morgan, and from what I see, the great days of America are behind her. We are a country being strangled by fear. Where is the boldness of the men who created the railroads? Where is the courage of the visionaries who opened the west? Where is the foresight of the men who built our industries?”

  Vanderbilt paused, seeming to surprise himself with his soaring words. “America must not be allowed to slide into the morass it is heading for. And I’m afraid we can’t trust those in government to stop the slide. Our plan is not just about real estate, it’s a way to ignite the fire of free enterprise again. We businessmen, as caretakers of the American way of life, must take action. We have no choice, sir. We cannot leave it to the politicians in Washington. I believe if your legacy is to survive as one of the most distinguished Americans who has ever lived, you must join us in this enterprise to reenergize our ship of state. It is not a battle the great J. P. Morgan should run from, but rather, should run toward. Thank you, sir.”

  Silence, cold and heavy, descended over Morgan’s office. Morgan didn’t move a muscle. His mighty stare stayed fixed on Vanderbilt until, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke: “All well and good, Mr. Vanderbilt, but no matter how eloquently you might say it, your vision as presented is still mortally flawed.”

  Morgan looked at the papers strewn over his desk then peered back at Vanderbilt and Astor. “Now, I will offer you both some basic business advice. The key to success of any venture is adaptability. Your proposal is much too unwieldy, as I have pointed out. Can this problem be rectified? Perhaps, but not if your thinking is rigid. I would look at the goal of your proposed enterprise. Is it for financial gain? Or is it, as you have so grandly stated, to reignite the great engine of American enterprise? Let us assume that it is both. Firstly, building a city from scratch is absolutely impossible. But if you scaled down versions of those centers, then it could be financially feasible to build. But what would be the purpose to create them if not for new development? And how would one make a profit and also serve American industry? It certainly wouldn’t make its money as a major population center. Looking at it logically, the only place where physical location is important to American business is in commerce. So, if you created new centers in desirable locations of commerce, then perhaps you could make a healthy profit and have significant impact on American business. In fact…” Morgan glanced down at the presentation again. His words began to grow spirited, “…in fact, if you could create efficient hubs of commerce throughout strategic locations across the country, you would probably be able to replace the inefficient modes of commerce that have evolved to date with each different industry. You would make inordinate profits and you would also, in essence, be able to improve and grow American business with your efficient system.”

  Morgan’s look grew distant and his voice trailed low, as if now talking with himself. “And because you would be regulating a significant portion of the country’s commerce, you would, in essence, be the most powerful force in American business…” Morgan drifted a moment, trailing into some sort of personal reverie. He caught himself and gazed back to Astor and Vanderbilt. “There you have it, gentlemen, some flights of fancy from an old banker. Again, good luck to you.” He started toward the door and, as he passed them, he lifted his thick arm and gently, paternally, clapped Vanderbilt on the shoulder before leaving the room.

  Vanderbilt was stunned. He had never witnessed anything as creatively brilliant as Morgan’s analysis. Not only had he spotted the flaws in their plan, but his astonishingly nimble mind came up with a spontaneous idea that was so visionary in its design and so far reaching in its scope that its brilliance shook Vanderbilt to his core.

  Astor looked more confused than impressed. “What was that about?” he said after Morgan had left the room.

  “Jack,” Vanderbilt turned to Astor. “That really was the future.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Archie stood under the trestles of the Third Avenue El trying to protect himself from the freezing rain. Across the way the old bricks of the Cooper Union building glistened a dull wet red. He watched the herd of New Yorkers bustle home from work with their umbrellas open, looking like a field of black mushrooms scutt
ling over the sidewalks. Archie didn’t want to be there. He had received a phone call from Mick Shaughnessy three days earlier in his office. He was ready to hang up, the bitter taste from their visit to the Liberal Club lingered with him. But Mick sounded different this time. There was no bravado in his voice. He simply told Archie he needed to see him, that it was important. And then he evoked the one thing Archie could not refuse: “You owe me a beer, Captain.”

  “I never thought you’d call that drink in,” Archie answered.

  “There’s a time for everything. Now is that time. I’ll meet you in front of the Cooper Union. Thursday at five.”

  Archie knew he had no choice but to go to New York. He had to buy the drink. It was a solemnly promised repayment of a long ago debt.

  “One more thing, Captain. Don’t tell Finch this time.”

  It was not that Archie wanted to tell Finch anything. He had a deep dislike for the strutting little bantam rooster. But to not tell Finch would be disregarding his duty. For a soldier like Archie, that would be tantamount to treason. “I’ll see you on Thursday, Mick,” Archie said and hung up.

  The El train rumbled overhead, shaking the ground and jolting loose a torrent of water that had collected on the tracks. The downpour splotched Archie’s gray suit. He pulled his bowler down then ran toward the Cooper Union to escape the deluge. A man whose face was hidden under the brim of a derby grabbed him in mid-stride.

  “Leaving already?” the man asked.

  Archie bent to see the man’s face. It was Mick. Like a chameleon, he looked different again. He was not the ragged anarchist Archie encountered in Hell’s Kitchen, nor the romantic poet of Greenwich Village. With his long hair pulled under the derby and wearing a knee-length overcoat, Mick appeared like every other New York businessman on his way home from the office. “You’re looking elegant today, Captain,” Mick said, pointing to the red carnation that poked out from Archie’s lapel.

  “I thought it was right for the occasion,” Archie said.

  “Well, I’m thirsty and I know a particularly fine watering hole just around the corner,” Mick answered, taking Archie’s arm. After two steps, Mick stopped cold. His eyes darted to two hulking men standing beside the marble statue of Peter Cooper. The men were copies of each other – each wore long black coats, black vests and western style hats. Their faces were sharp and angular and their ears stuck out like jug handles. Identical handlebar mustaches curled above their lips.

  “Captain, I must ask you to leave for the pub alone. I want you to loudly say, ‘Sorry, but you are mistaken, I don’t know you,’ then cross under the tracks to Seventh Avenue until you come to McSorley’s Old Ale House. Go in, tell them you’re my friend and ask to be seated in the back room.”

  Archie hesitated, confused by Mick’s strange request.

  “Now, Captain!” Mick snapped.

  Archie stepped back and loudly said, “I’m sorry, but you’re are mistaken, sir. I don’t know you.” He tipped his hat, then noticed Mick reach for a small pistol tucked in his belt. Archie turned and walked quickly under the trestles toward the corner of Seventh Street. When he looked back, Mick was sprinting in the opposite direction. Then he saw another figure emerge from the far side of the square and follow Mick into the surrounding narrow streets. The hulking men by the statue didn’t seem to pay Mick any mind at all. One nonchalantly pulled out a pocket-watch to check the time.

  A blast of humidity greeted Archie when he stepped into McSorley’s. The smell of malt and hops and wet wool permeated the old pub. Faces quickly turned to Archie as he entered and just as quickly turned away when they didn’t recognize him. Archie made his way across the sawdust-covered floor. An old man with huge white muttonchops greeted Archie from behind the bar. “What’ll it be?” the old man said in a thick Irish brogue.

  “I’m a friend of Mick Shaughnessy and I’d like a seat in the back room,” answered Archie.

  The old man looked Archie over. “That’s fine, but what’ll it be?”

  “Jim Beam?”

  “This is a corner of Ireland, friend. Bushmills. Jamesons.”

  “Either would be fine.”

  The old man nodded and poured a hefty tumbler of golden Irish whiskey then stepped out from behind the bar, indicating Archie should follow. A fire in the wood stove crackled in the dark back room, sending out a weak orange glow. The old man led Archie to a small table near the stove and set the drink down next to a plate of cheese and crackers.

  “You say Mick Shaughnessy is a friend of yours?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, any friend of Mick’s is a friend John McSorley,” the old man said, extending his hand.

  “Archie. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “No last name? An Irishman likes to know who he’s talking to,” McSorley persisted. Archie hesitated, took a bite of cheese and didn’t say a word. McSorley got the hint. “If you need a refill, you know where to find me, Archie.” He turned and walked back into the front room.

  Archie glanced at an old Claddagh clock that hung over the door. Fifteen minutes ticked by. Then thirty. Archie nursed his whiskey. The Irish crafted theirs dry and smoky. He preferred the full flavor of bourbon – the hint of sweetness that soothed the fire of alcohol. After forty-five minutes, McSorley poked his head in and ambled up to Archie. “How we doin,’ lad? Time for another round?”

  Before Archie could answer, McSorley tipped the bottle and began refilling Archie’s glass. A voice crackled across the room. “John, I see you’ve met Captain Butt.” Mick strode in and clapped a friendly hand on McSorley’s shoulder. “Can you get me a Guinness and put it on his tab.”

  “Will do, Mick,” McSorley said, stepping away.

  Mick pulled up a chair and sat across from Archie. His manner seemed boldly confident as always, but Archie noticed Mick was breathing quickly and full of nervous energy. “Why am I here?” Archie asked.

  “To buy me a drink, Captain. To repay a debt.”

  “A drink could never repay that debt, Mick. Just the same, I’d have you know that I do not think these reunions of ours are helping you or me.”

  “I can assure you, Captain, after today I will never contact you again. I will disappear from your life. Poof!” Mick snapped his fingers. “However, if you ever have the desire to reach out to me, I will always be there for you.”

  Archie nodded politely. “Are you still married, Mick?”

  The sadness Mick was carrying bubbled to the surface. “You remembered I left the army for a woman. I guess I was exchanging one war for another.”

  “A tall draft of Guinness for a good son of Erin,” John McSorley announced, bringing Mick his drink.

  “Thanks, John.” Mick took his mug and raised it. “Here’s to you, Captain, and your honor. A rare thing in this hard world.” Mick drank the bitter black liquid as if it was water. When finished, he slammed the mug down, wiped his lips and turned to McSorley. “How ‘bout another round, John? For both of us.”

  “I don’t need another whiskey, Mick, I just got a refill.”

  “You can’t be nursing your drink in an Irish bar. It’s against the rules.” Mick turned back to McSorley. “Make it a full round, John.” The old man hustled away.

  “What’s wrong, Mick?”

  “Why do ask that?”

  “You bolted from the Cooper Union like a nervous rabbit. You’re carrying a pistol in your waistband and you seem to have it in your mind to get as drunk as you possibly can.”

  The quick jolt of alcohol was now hitting Mick. He started muttering, “What’s wrong? The Captain wants to know what’s wrong.” He jerked his head up to meet Archie’s eyes square on. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, sir. This soldier’s been in the field a little too long and has seen too many disturbing things.”

  “War is never pleasant, Mick.”

  “I know that. It’s what I didn’t know that has me bothered. Let me ask you, Captain, does a soldier always have to believe in what he’s
fighting for?”

  “It helps.”

  “Did you believe what we were fighting for in the Philippines?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what exactly were we were fighting for?”

  “For the United States of America.”

  “But for what?” Mick pressed. “What cause?”

  “For our country’s cause. A soldier’s only code is to follow the orders given him.”

  “But what if those orders are immoral, Captain? Is it still a soldier’s obligation to follow them?”

  “That’s a situation I have yet to experience.”

  “Perhaps because your eyes have not been open wide enough.”

  “Or they’re not as jaded as yours.”

  McSorley arrived with the new round of drinks. Mick didn’t gulp this one immediately. Instead he reached across the table and took Archie’s second whiskey – the first glass was still barely touched – and shot back the drink then guzzled his Guinness as a chaser.

  “My eyes are not jaded,” Mick said, slurring his words with the infusion of whiskey. “Have you ever heard of Catilina?”

  “The island?”

  “The soldier. A courageous soldier. And a traitor. You should brush up on your Cicero, Captain. Roman history has a lot to teach us.” Mick rose on the balls of his feet and leaned his body across the table, drawing within inches of Archie’s face. “It’s all rotten. And do me a favor, report that back to Finch,” Mick said emphatically, wagging his finger in Archie’s face before losing his balance and tumbling onto the table, sending the mugs and drinks crashing to the floor, followed by his own twisting body. Archie leapt to help him.

  “Thank you, Captain. But you don’t have to.”

  “Perhaps we should get you home, Mick.”

  “To Hell’s Kitchen? Amid my people? My people who I’ve let down.”