The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  “You are hardly useless, Mr. Carnegie,” Vanderbilt said.

  “Ach, people flock to me now only because I’m tossin’ great bundles of cash every which way. I’m not so naïve to think they actually make their pilgrimage because they adore m’charming Scottish countenance.” Carnegie laughed then said pointedly, “so…how can I help you gentlemen?”

  Vanderbilt caught the subtle message: Carnegie expected to be asked for money. So rather than pitching the old Scotsman for an investment, Vanderbilt laid out the possibility of providing America with a more efficient commerce system. “It will be a boon to business and worker alike,” Vanderbilt said, playing to Carnegie’s current social conscience. “By lowering the cost of transporting goods and having it reflected in better living costs for the average American citizen, it will revolutionize and revitalize the American economy.”

  “Big plans…very nice, very nice,” Carnegie said at the end of Vanderbilt’s presentation. “But I hope you gentlemen are not asking for my participation in this project as I am in the process of giving my money away, not looking to invest. The good Lord knows I have plenty of money as it is.”

  Astor spoke up, reiterating how much good this project would do for all people when Carnegie held up his hand. He started to speak, but before he could utter a word, his eyes reddened and grew misty. “Gentlemen, I am seventy-two years old. I have an eleven-year-old daughter and a beautiful wife that provides me with more gifts than I deserve. Before God takes my tired soul, my purpose in life is to use the money I have made so that it might help others. And while your project seems worthy, it is business, and as such, it is something I have vowed to stay away from.” Suddenly clear-eyed again, Carnegie hopped to his feet and extended his hand. “Good luck to you, good luck to both of you on your endeavors.”

  They had been with Carnegie for no more than fifteen minutes and it was over. Astor and Vanderbilt were stunned by how easily Carnegie dispatched them. The butler, who materialized the moment Carnegie sprang up, ushered them out.

  Over steaks at Delmonico’s the two men conducted a post-mortem of the evening. Long suppressed doubts about the project emerged. Perhaps they missed something. Was such a large project practical? Could it really be accomplished? Was it worth the time and money? Was it even really a good idea?

  They took separate cabs home that evening and did not see each other for ten days. When they did get back together, it was to attend a performance of Madam Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera House. They sat in stony silence in the Astor box, absently listening to Enrico Caruso and Geraldine Ferrar sing while their minds drifted to commerce centers that would dot America’s landscape. When the Met’s golden curtain descended at the end of Act II, Astor jumped up. “Off to the Men’s Lounge,” Astor said, then quickly scurried from the box. Vanderbilt strolled to a dark corner near the lobby for a private smoke. It wasn’t more than a minute when he heard someone addressing him. “Excuse me, but can I ask you a question?”

  Annoyed, Vanderbilt glanced up to see a doughy faced middle-aged man staring intently at him. “Did you say something?” Vanderbilt replied, not wanting to engage the stranger.

  “I just noticed your ring,” the man said, pointing to Vanderbilt’s gold ring with a rough cross of garnet and mother of pearl. “I believe it’s quite rare. Ancient Frankish, yes? If I might ask, how did you obtain such a treasure?”

  “There’s only one way to get a ring like this. Outbid everyone else and pay top dollar for it.”

  “So you must be George Vanderbilt.”

  “I am. And how did you guess that?”

  “Because you were the bastard who outbid me for it,” the man grinned and held out his hand. “Benjamin Guggenheim.”

  “Guggenheim,” Vanderbilt said softly, and then smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Guggenheim. I’m here with John Astor.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m unaccompanied this evening,” Guggenheim said.

  “Perhaps you’d like to join us in our box?”

  “I would love to, Mr. Vanderbilt. Thank you. What a fortuitous happenstance to have run into you.”

  “Yes,” Vanderbilt said. “Fortuitous.”

  The Guggenheims were on the list of people to be approached. Not Benjamin, but Daniel, his brother. Daniel was the Guggenheim who headed the business empire, inheriting that position from their father. Benjamin was the black sheep of six brothers. Though he was educated in all aspects of the family business – mining and smelting – he lacked the financial acumen of his brothers. Benjamin found a number of ways to squander vast quantities of the Guggenheim money. The only area Benjamin excelled in was charming the ladies. He married a wealthy banker’s daughter then, after siring three daughters – Benita, Peggy, and Hazel – devoted most of his time to a series of beautiful mistresses.

  After the opera, Vanderbilt and Astor took Guggenheim for drinks at the Waldorf. They guided the conversation toward their new business project. By the second glass of champagne, Guggenheim was intrigued. By the fourth glass, his face was red with excitement. By the seventh glass of champagne, he had promised to deliver all the copper needed for construction. By the ninth glass all of them were ready to begin construction that night. The Plan offered more to Benjamin Guggenheim than either Vanderbilt or Astor realized. For Benjamin Guggenheim, bringing such a momentous project to his brothers might put him back in the family’s good graces. That was what he desired more than anything: to be accepted as a full-fledged Guggenheim and not as an outcast brother.

  As the evening wound down and they all staggered to their cabs, George Vanderbilt, John Astor, and Benjamin Guggenheim threw their arms around each other and congratulated themselves on the great success that was to be theirs.

  CHAPTER 18

  It was nearing eight a.m., June 18, 1910. Archie sat in a small, private launch, bobbing in the middle of New York’s Upper Bay. The launch carried a delegation of Washington politicians waiting to welcome Theodore Roosevelt home. The S.S. Kaiserins August Victoria sailed into the bay escorted by six battleships, a torpedo boat, several destroyers and numerous private yachts. A thunder and lightning storm had blown through New York early in the morning, leaving behind hot, charged air that matched the excitement of the day.

  The launch pulled alongside the liner to deposit its esteemed guests but there was a problem: the only way to board the imposing ship was by rope ladder. It was a perilous climb straight up the 40-foot hull, but the old politicians were determined to greet their old boss. Sixty-year-old Senator Henry Cabot Lodge was first up, followed by the eighty- year-old Agriculture Secretary, James Wilson, who struggled up the rungs, then teetered near the top, appearing to lose his balance. Archie was seized with a dread feeling that the old man was about to fall and “that would have been the end of him.” The Secretary held on for dear life for several torturous minutes before finishing the climb. Then Archie clambered up. He was carrying two letters in his bootleg. One was from Taft to Roosevelt, formally welcoming the ex-President back. The other was from Mrs. Taft, who wrote a polite note to Mrs. Roosevelt, a women she absolutely despised.

  Once onboard, the group was ushered into the stateroom where Roosevelt greeted each man with a hearty handshake. Then he spotted Archie. “Oh, Archie, but this is fine!”

  “Mr. President,” Archie said, saluting. “I have a letter from the President which I am charged to deliver at once, and a duplicate of the one he wrote to you in London, if you had not already received it.”

  Roosevelt took Archie’s hand. “Please say to the President that I greatly appreciate this letter and that I shall answer it later; also say to him that I am deeply touched that he has chosen to send it by you.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt came in. “Come here Theodore, and see your children. They are of far greater importance than politics or anything else.” Roosevelt went out to the deck to greet his children and an assortment of other relatives that came to welcome him home, including his niece Eleanor and her fresh-faced husband, Frank
lin.

  That day in New York, Roosevelt was celebrated as a conquering hero. After a welcoming ceremony, Roosevelt climbed into a carriage and was given a five-mile parade through midtown Manhattan. Archie, in his gleaming white uniform, had the honor of riding in the second carriage, just behind Roosevelt’s. Every inch of sidewalk along the parade route was packed with hollering, flag-waving New Yorkers. Archie noted, “The drive up Broadway and Fifth Avenue was one constant heartfelt ovation. I have never witnessed anything like it, and when it was to see just one man in a frock suit, it was simply marvelous.”

  Later that evening Archie accompanied Roosevelt and his huge entourage to a private reception. Roosevelt was besieged with questions, not about his yearlong safari, but about his opinions of Taft. He diplomatically said nothing. Archie made sure Roosevelt saw a water pitcher that Taft sent as a gift. Roosevelt nodded, then quietly said, “Captain, I have heard much that has distressed me, but I will not be led into any criticism or comment nor utter a word on politics for at least two months. You can relate that to the President.”

  “I will,” said Archie.

  Then Roosevelt touched Archie on the shoulder. “It’s just bully to see you, Archie. Just bully.”

  Another thunder and lightning storm blew into New York that evening, cooling what had been a stiflingly hot and humid day. Archie was driven to the Waldorf-Astoria and retired to his room relatively early. He wanted to record the events of the day while they were fresh in his mind. He started writing a letter to his sister-in-law, Clara Butt, but didn’t feel he was capturing the historic grandeur of Roosevelt’s return. Archie always fancied himself a sharp observer. He worked as a journalist before joining the Army. But the words weren’t coming. He grew tired.

  Outside, the driving wind and rain lashed his hotel window. Archie turned out the lights, opened the blinds, and eased onto the bed to watch the electric skies. There was no let up. His room flickered with blue-white flashes then shook from concussive claps of thunder. Watching the spectacle, his eyes began to close. He entered an unsettled sleep, the thunderous explosions and quick bursts of light created a hazy dream.

  He was on a battlefield. Bombs were splintering the night air and soldiers were stumbling through clouds of acrid yellow smoke. The soldiers were in gray uniforms. Many were lying on the ground, the life having already left their twisted bodies. Others were wandering aimlessly over a battlefield that was scorched and smoking. Every one of them was horribly wounded and they were crying out to Jesus or Mother or God for some sort of merciful intervention. Archie looked at their faces but could see no features – they were completely blown away. He saw bloody stumps where muscled arms had been. His ears rang with the soul-curdling screams of those who realized that death was tapping them on their shoulder. Archie felt faint. He was choking on the sickening air that was heavy with the odor of blood. He stumbled through the battleground onto a high cliff from where he could see an ocean below. His face was hit with a blast of cold, crystalline sea air. There was no moon. The smooth surface of the water was a mirror of black satin. The coolness of salt air refreshed him. He wanted to jump into the icy water that was far below, if only to escape the hell that was behind him. Just as he was about to leap off the cliff, a hand grabbed him on the shoulder. Archie turned to see Mick – a young, handsome, clean-cut Mick – in a battle-torn uniform.

  “Captain, we have to go,” Mick said.

  Archie did not answer. Though he had no desire to leave his cool perch, he let Mick lead him back across the hellish terrain.

  “There’s a nest of Filipinos holding our men prisoners. Over there. We can take it,” Mick said, pointing to a trench on the far side of the field. Rifles poked above the lip of the trench.

  “It’s suicide,” Archie said.

  “Perhaps. But we can rescue all of our men,” Mick answered, then started forward. Archie followed. The guns guarding the trench began sending volleys of bullets toward them. Archie was sure this was the end.

  “Come on, Captain. Nothing can harm you,” Mick yelled over the barrage. The bullets were flying by – streaks of sizzling metal whizzing close, but never finding their mark. It was as if they were walking between drops of rain but never getting wet. Archie began to feel it was preordained that the bullets would miss. He knew, he absolutely knew, he wasn’t going to get hit. And so he wasn’t. They reached the gun nest and raised their rifles. There were twenty American soldiers tied and blindfolded near the back of the trench. The Filipinos cowered.

  “Shoot them, Captain. Take them out. They’re the enemy. They must be killed if we are to win this war.” Archie had no desire to shoot the terrified Filipinos. “Shoot, Captain. Kill. It’s the only way to get rid of the bastards.”

  The Filipinos, realizing their executioner was having second thoughts, raised their own rifles and aimed. Archie no longer felt invincible, no longer confident that the bullets would miss. The Filipinos pulled their triggers, releasing a barrage at Mick and Archie. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Archie twisted over the bed. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he kept hearing the blasts of Filipino rifles. Boom. Boom. Boom. As he emerged into consciousness and slit open his eyes, he realized that he was not on a horrific battlefield, but sweating and fully clothed, on his bed in the Waldorf. The loud booming was echoing through the room. Someone was knocking on the door.

  The room clock showed 5:30. It was still raining, though the sky was beginning to brighten with the dawn. Archie went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “I must talk with you,” a voice answered with a lilting Irish accent. He cracked the door open and saw a tall, pale woman with deep blue eyes and long red hair that was wet and matted against her face. “May I come in?” the woman said, pushing the door open and stepping in without Archie’s invitation. “I need your help.”

  “I don’t know who you are, Madam,” Archie said, but even as he spoke the words, he sensed otherwise.

  “You must help me,” she said, direct and demanding.

  “I’m, sorry,” Archie answered. “But…”

  “My husband often spoke of you. If there was anyone he would trust with his life, he said it was you. Please, if his life meant anything to you, you must help find out the truth of his death, Captain.”

  With the word “Captain,” Archie realized where he had seen her. Never in the flesh, but in a black and white photo six years earlier. She was the woman Mick Shaughnessy left the army to marry. And despite her disheveled appearance, Archie could see she was as beautiful as her image in that photograph.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Shaughnessy. It was my loss too. But your husband was mixed up with some very dangerous people.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “When you become an anarchist, I’m sorry to say, you put yourself at grave risk.”

  “But he wasn’t an anarchist.”

  “I beg to differ with you. Your husband and I had several long discussions on the subject.”

  “I beg to differ with you. My husband was never anything but a patriotic soldier who loved the country he served.”

  “Working with people who want to overthrow the government is neither patriotic nor serving one’s country.”

  “Captain Butt,” Mrs. Shaughnessy said, annunciating each word slowly. “My husband was working for the Department of Justice.” Archie looked confused. He heard her words just fine, but they didn’t quite sink in. Mrs. Shaughnessy continued: “He was recruited to gather information on subversive groups working within the United States. In order for him to maintain his cover he could not contact any member of the Justice Department. But you were an old friend. I know you did not realize this, but he passed his information to the Justice Department through you.”

  Archie turned away. He felt a knot in his stomach. “They used me,” Archie muttered.

  “Mick had nothing but respect and admiration for you. He felt you would understand. He was doing his duty, as you were.”

  “Well then, that�
�s why he was killed. There’s your answer, Mrs. Shaughnessy. Anarchists are not people you want to betray. Someone found out he was a spy and they killed him.”

  “I don’t believe it was that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  A small, knowing smile curled her lips. “Because nothing Mick Shaughnessy did was ever that simple. The police say it was an accident. The Justice Department won’t even talk to me. Do you think it was an accident, Captain?”

  Again, Archie said nothing.

  “I know he was to meet you that evening. What happened, Captain Butt? Was he murdered?”

  “Quite honestly, I don’t know,” Archie said, now perspiring uncomfortably in the humid air.

  “It’s your job to do everything you can for a fellow soldier. That’s the code of honor soldiers are bound to. Am I right?”

  Archie shifted nervously. He wanted to change the subject. “Have you ever heard of someone named Sue Mann?”

  “Why?” Mrs. Shaughnessy asked, puzzled.

  “Mick mentioned her. I don’t know why?”

  Mick’s wife’s face tensed; she snorted angrily. “Were those his last words? Another woman’s name?”

  Archie tried to backpedal. “Mick is dead, Mrs. Shaughnessy. There’s nothing I can do about it. It is the responsibility of the proper authorities to pursue the matter.”

  “Do you trust those proper authorities to find the truth?”

  “I cannot help you,” was all Archie could answer. “You must believe me when I say that.”

  “But…”