“I cannot help you,” Archie repeated. “I wish I could, but I cannot. Please understand.”
Mick Shaughnessy’s wife nodded. She let out a resigned sigh then reached into her bag and pulled out something that caught a glint of dawn light. It was a battered, nickel-plated pistol. “He always said that if something ever happened to him, I was to search you out and give this to you.”
“.38 caliber Colt Peacemaker. Standard Army issue,” Archie murmured. “I can’t take this, Mrs. Shaughnessy. It’s not mine. It was his.”
“It doesn’t mean anything to you?”
Archie stared at the pistol. It meant everything to him. His eyes grew wet even as he tried to hold back the tears.
“My husband is dead, Captain. He struggled very hard to live life as an honorable man. Sometimes he fell short, but I loved him even as he struggled. It was his request that you have this gun. I ask you to honor his memory.” She pushed the gun into Archie’s hand. He turned it over, examining each nick and scratch, caressing the pistol as he would a sacred talisman. There was something etched on the gun’s worn handle. The words were hard to read, almost completely rubbed off: Veritas. Virtus. Libertas. Corporal Mick Shaughnessy 1903.
“Did Mick tell you what the Latin meant?” Archie said, lifting his look to Mrs. Shaughnessy. The door was ajar; she had left. Archie was alone.
CHAPTER 19
The West was still wild in 1910, or so those living in the East believed. The popular mythology of the West was created by Buffalo Bill and his Wild West Show – a land as sophisticated as a dusty saloon, as tasteful as the parlor of a bordello. Western towns were thought to be lonely outposts amid a tumbleweed wilderness. The cities were exotic settlements built by rough and tumble pioneers.
John Astor hated the West. He hated the wind, the dirt, the heat, the wide-open spaces that invited only chaos. Traveling in his private railroad car, looking out over the vast expanse of nothingness, Astor yearned for the busy avenues of New York City, for the restaurants, the culture, the comfort of an ordered civilization.
The West offered nothing, absolutely nothing – except land. Miles upon miles of land available for pennies an acre. Perfect for the commerce centers. And while John Astor hated everything about the West, he knew great real estate opportunities when he saw them.
By late May of 1910 Astor was deep into a grand tour of the West, leaving the luxury of his private rail car only to survey property and negotiate terms with land owners. In Eastern Utah, Astor found a 30,000-acre plot of land along the Green River – a perfect location to build a commerce gateway to the West. He came upon 27,000 acres of timberland for sale outside of Walla Walla, Washington. In California, he struck real estate gold, putting a down payment on swampy delta land along the Sacramento River, a waterway that led right into the San Francisco Bay. Southeast of Los Angeles he found 15,000 acres of high desert scrubland near a town called Escondido, situated between the growing metropolis of Los Angeles, the sleepy port of San Diego, with easy access to Mexico and the Pacific Ocean. He wired Vanderbilt about his successes.
Vanderbilt had stayed east, pitching tycoons on the new venture. He didn’t divulge much, telling them that the specifics would be revealed during a private gathering. But he dangled enough promises of power and riches that he enticed an impressive roster of men. If Carnegie wasn’t interested, his old partner Henry Clay Frick was. And so was George Weidner, the Philadelphia streetcar mogul. And Charlie Hays and John Thayer, twin giants of the railroad industry. And Isador Straus of Macys, the bridge building Roebling family, and Ben Guggenheim. Everything was falling into place. The careful foundation Astor and Vanderbilt were laying was becoming a reality. Neither man had felt so alive in years.
* * *
On the morning of June 17, Archie entered the building that housed the Justice Department, saluted an Army sentry who stood guard in the lobby, then marched through the maze of corridors to the outer office of the Bureau of Investigation’s Director, Stanley Finch. “Captain Butt!” Finch’s secretary exclaimed, and then looked down to an appointment book. “I don’t believe you were scheduled…”
“I’m not scheduled. But I must talk with Director Finch,” Archie said politely.
The secretary continued to scrutinize the appointment book. “Perhaps we can make some time available this afternoon?”
“Now,” Archie answered insistently. “It’s important.”
“Let me see what I can do,” she said, moving to Finch’s door and knocking.
“Yeah?” Finch yelled. The secretary went in, closing the door behind her.
Archie peered out the window, catching sight of the Washington Monument in the distance. Why in the world would they erect such a strange object? No great words, no statue, no explanation – just an ugly marble shaft that cut into the sky like a knife. If a foreign visitor knew nothing of George Washington, they would view the massive pillar as curiously as Archie viewed ancient Egyptian obelisks that honored rulers long forgotten by the world.
The door opened and the secretary came out. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but Director Finch is quite busy, he suggested you schedule an appointment sometime next month when he has enough time for you.”
“Thank you,” Archie said, and then walked right past the young woman into Finch’s office. Finch was sitting behind a gigantic mahogany desk, smoking a cigar, hunched over paperwork. “I don’t have time for you now, Captain,” Finch barked, not even looking up.
Archie walked to the desk and stamped his hand over Finch’s pile of papers. “On the contrary, Mr. Finch, I believe you have time for an emissary of the President of the United States.”
Finch lifted his head and whistled a stream of cigar smoke over Archie’s shoulder. “Captain Butt, there are protocols.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Mick Shaughnessy was working for you?” Archie said tightly, trying to restrain his fury.
Finch looked unperturbed. He chewed on the end of his cigar, turned his gaze up to the ceiling, and chose his words carefully. “Well…that…would…have…ruined… everything.”
Archie exploded. “You lied to me and used me and you had no right to, sir!!”
The muscles in Finch’s face constricted. “Captain Butt, I head a bureau whose mission is to investigate dangers to our country. I take my responsibilities seriously. We are the last line of defense against those who would like to destroy our way of life. It is my constitutional duty to take any action I deem necessary to do my job. Any action!”
Finch rose and walked around his huge desk until he was face to face with Archie. “If you think about it for one goddamn moment you would realize there is no way we would have been able to place Agent Shaughnessy within the subversive groups he infiltrated if he had any traceable contact with our office. Using you, an old friend, as a go-between, was the best way we could receive information from him. The fact that you had no idea you were passing information protected yourself and Agent Shaughnessy. It was the right method of operation and I do not have to defend it to you.”
“I believe you head an investigative department, sir, not the secret police,” Archie snapped back. “As far as I know, we have laws regarding people’s rights. And you certainly cannot use individuals without their knowledge to do your dirty work. Especially if those people happen to work for the President. It’s just not the way we do things in this country, Mr. Finch.”
Finch grew agitated. He began pacing across his office in short, choppy steps while sucking on his cigar. “Captain, there are dangerous criminals in our midst. They are working to undermine the foundations of the country. They prey upon the poor, the weak, those easily influenced by subversive ideas. They target the workers who are building our economy. Need I remind you of the horrible strife our nation has seen because of these agitators? The Homestead Strike, the Pullman Strike, the Lattimer Strike, the U.S. Steel Strike, the Anthracite Coal Strike. This year a group of silly young girls practically ruined our entire garment and text
ile industry with a strike. They called it ‘The Uprising of 20,000.’ These are anarchists, socialists and foreign criminals trying to tear apart our democratic system. Only nine years ago a foreign anarchist assassinated President McKinley. What did the sonuvabitch say as he was about to be executed? ‘I killed the President because he was the enemy of the good people, the good working people. I am not sorry for my crime.’ This is our enemy, Captain and they will stop at nothing in their war against us. So, as I am sworn to be a defender of America, I will stop at nothing in my war against them. And if it means using all available resources, including you, to root out these bastards and destroy them before they destroy us, I will do that and I will not apologize for my actions.”
Finch looked defiantly at Archie to challenge him. Archie could not; he was deflated. Finch had invoked the deepest form of patriotism, protection of the republic, to justify his actions. All Archie could respond with was a quiet, “Do you know who killed Mick Shaughnessy?”
Finch softened. “It’s under investigation. Mick Shaughnessy served his country and this agency as a brave and courageous fighter. His death will not be in vain. You have my promise on that.” Finch then reached out and placed a sympathetic hand on Archie’s arm. “Trust me when I say that we are on the same team fighting the same battle. Let me handle the investigation of Agent Shaughnessy’s death. Will you do that for me, Captain? Take care of your duties with the President and trust me that justice will be done.”
“I will not interfere, Director Finch. I just hope your agency’s efforts prove to be as effective as your words.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Finch smiled. “And give my regards to the President, won’t you?” Finch then did something that struck Archie odd: he saluted. It was a sloppy, lazy salute of someone who had never been in the military. Nonetheless, Archie saluted back. “Now you must excuse me, Captain, I have work to do.” Finch turned completely away, leaving Archie to stand awkwardly in the center of the office before marching out.
CHAPTER 20
Big Bill Haywood stood on the second-class deck of the Lusitania, watching the ship’s bow cut through waters of the Atlantic. It made him nervous. He had never been on a ship before. He was 41 years old and had never set foot outside of the United States. Despite being famous, Haywood insisted that he not be booked in first class, preferring to be among the common people in second class. He was traveling to Europe to meet the great revolutionaries of the day at the International Socialist Congress in Copenhagen, Denmark. He was growing more optimistic about the real possibility of revolution. America was convulsing with unrest. Along with the usual hotbeds of rabble-rousing activity, there were large rallies and regular confrontations between union members and police in such conservative towns as Spokane and Fresno. In urban areas, workers were rising up en masse. The streetcar workers of Philadelphia’s Rapid Transit Company challenged its owners, the Weidner family, over hours and wages. The ensuing battle enveloped almost all of Philadelphia’s trade workers. A general strike was called for March 5, 1910. That day 50,000 workers walked off their jobs in the city of Brotherly Love. The second day of the strike saw 50,000 more workers – over 100,000 total – paralyze the city. The police stormed a massive demonstration in Independence Square and a violent confrontation occurred. The strike lasted three weeks and left bitter feelings on both sides.
The grand climax to the labor unrest of 1910 took place on October 1, when the Los Angeles Times building was dynamited and twenty-one people were killed. The notoriously anti-union Times, without any hard evidence, immediately blamed the bombing on the unions that were trying to organize the Times shop laborers.
The city of Los Angeles hired an anti-unionist detective agency to investigate. It claimed to have found a trail to James McNamara and his brother John, a high-profile union leader who helped organize workers against J. Pierpont Morgan’s U.S. Steel. Both brothers were arrested for the bombing. Organized labor, sensing a case similar to Bill Haywood’s frame-up five years earlier, swung into action, asking tens of thousands of union members to give money and support for the McNamara’s defense.
On the deck of the Lusitania, Big Bill Haywood saw America’s labor unrest as part of a grand struggle that was boiling into a global workers revolution.
At the International Socialist Congress in Copenhagen, Haywood met with the most prominent revolutionaries of the day, including a cerebral socialist theoretician named Vladimir Lenin. When the Congress concluded, Haywood was more convinced than ever that the arrival of a worldwide revolution was imminent. He saw it as his mission to bring that revolution to America.
CHAPTER 21
In Bar Harbor, Maine, William Howard Taft was having a bad day on the golf course. He had traveled to the Kebo Valley Country Club to play one of the oldest and most elegant golf courses in America. But on the par four 17th hole, he was having a nightmare. Hitting the ball in the rough, and then the sand, and then the water hazard. When he addressed the ball for his 11th stroke on the hole, Archie tried to calm him. “Mr. President, you don’t have to…”
“Don’t say a word,” Taft cut him off. “Let me play it out.
“But…”
“I shall play it out,” Taft said emphatically, and then proceeded to swing, hack, slash, chop, strike and flail until, after twenty-seven agonizing strokes, he putted the ball into the cup. It was hardly a triumph.
Coincidentally, John Astor was playing three holes behind the Presidential party. Astor had come to Bar Harbor that summer to escape the stifling social scene of Newport. He sailed into the town’s port on his yacht Nourmahal, with his son Vincent. From his vantage point on the golf course, Astor was able to catch glimpses of the President and his entourage. He couldn’t help but notice Taft’s frustrations. He also could see Captain Butt soothing Taft, trying to take the President’s mind off the miserable hole he was having.
Back at the Kebo Clubhouse a small group of people was waiting for the President to finish his round so they might shake his hand. Taft was in no mood to shake anyone’s hand. Flanked by Archie, he strode quickly past the well-wishers into a private locker room. “Keep them away, Archie,” were the only words he muttered as he shut the door to brood alone.
Archie stood outside the door, turning the people away by saying that the President was not feeling well, which wasn’t exactly a lie – Taft was sick about his golfing. After a half hour the area had cleared out. Archie was waiting for the President to emerge when a man approached. “Captain Butt!” the man called. “So good to see you again.” Archie couldn’t place the face until the man saluted.
“Colonel Astor. Why, hello.” Archie saluted back.
“I saw you and the President on the links today. I trust you had an enjoyable time?”
“It’s a beautiful golf course,” Archie answered diplomatically.
“It’s very challenging,” Astor said, being equally diplomatic. “Especially the 17th. I noticed the President struggled with the hole.”
“A bit,” Archie added in understatement.
“And I also noticed how good you were with him.”
“Thank you for saying that, Colonel,” Archie said coolly, not wishing to engage Astor.
“Captain, don’t think I haven’t noticed the skills you have with people. They like you. Trust you. Listen, have you thought of what you might do after this is all over?”
“After what is all over?”
“You and the President. Your White House position. Administrations don’t last forever, you know.”
“I really haven’t given it much thought.”
“Well…” Astor stuttered a little, sensing Archie’s irritation. “I have a project. Not just me, George Vanderbilt and me and a number of other businessmen. It’s a very important project. If you were ever thinking about returning to civilian life…”
Archie cut him off. “I’m a lifelong soldier. I love serving my country.”
“Of course you do,” Astor said. “We all love serving
this country. But that’s why this project is so important. All I’m saying is that perhaps one day you might like to explore the opportunities that private business can offer. A man with your talents could do very well. Quite honestly, you could be a terrific liaison with the government. Do some very important work. Especially with the contacts you have established.”
The door opened and Taft emerged. His eyes looked tired and defeated. He glanced at Astor then turned away without saying a word.
“Thank you for the conversation, Colonel Astor. It’s time for the President to go,” Archie said.
Astor turned toward Taft. “An honor to see you again, Mr. President. I remain your great admirer.” Taft nodded slightly, pursed his lips and looked away.
* * *
Meeting Archie and the President was not the most eventful moment of John Astor’s week at Bar Harbor. That happened the next morning on the Kebo Country Club’s tennis courts. He was playing a set with his son Vincent, who was running Astor ragged. At age eighteen, Vincent was emerging from his awkward adolescence. While he would never be mistaken for a handsome, graceful young man, he began to exude a confidence that came with growing up. On the grass tennis courts he cut a noticeable figure in his pressed tennis whites and dark, slicked back hair. On one hand, Astor was very proud that Vincent was finally coming into his own. On the other hand, he was feeling his age and hated losing to his son.
“One more game and I’ve had it,” Astor called out.
“But we’ve only played a set,” Vincent replied. “Three sets to a match.”
Astor said nothing, just served the ball. Vincent lobbed it back softly, taking it easy on his father. After a long rally, Vincent hit the ball into the net, giving Astor a small victory. A loud “awwww” rose from behind him and Vincent noticed four young girls, all his age, watching them play. He smiled, gave them a little nod then waited for his father to serve again. It took a moment. Astor had noticed the teenaged girls as well.
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