The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  “I’ve been informed that you have a prisoner here that is being held for the murder of Mick Shaughnessy.”

  The cop looked Archie up and down. “First off,” the cop asserted with authority, “I couldn’t let you see a prisoner without some written permission. So tell you what: why don’t you go home, get out of the party costume, sleep off what you need to sleep off and come back tomorrow during business hours and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Though completely exhausted, Archie maintained his diplomatic cool. “Officer, my name is Archibald Butt. I am the Chief Military Aide to the President of the United States. And I am requesting to see the prisoner as part of those duties.”

  The cop just stared at Archie. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  “Listen buddy, come back tomorrow. That way you can talk to the head of the precinct and keep everything kosher, y’understand?”

  “Everything is kosher, officer,” Archie said, getting a little annoyed. “And I can’t come tomorrow as I am to accompany the President on rounds in your city.”

  “Oh, right,” the cop said, humoring Archie. “But y’know, it’s four in the mornin’ and I can’t just let you go seein’ someone we may or may not have in our jail ‘cause you may or may not work for the President of the United States.”

  “Shall I call the President and have him order you to do this?”

  “Yeah, sure, call him. I’d love to speak to ol’ man Taft. Give him a piece of my mind. Though how would I know it’s the President I’m speakin’ to and not some crooked uncle of yours?”

  Archie ran his hand over his tired face and gazed around the police station. He noticed pictures of the mayor, governor, and President on the wall. “Do you have today’s newspaper?” Archie asked.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “Might I look at one?”

  “It’s old news already. New ones should hit the street right about now.”

  “If you could just get a newspaper, I’d like to take a look at the front page then I promise to leave you.”

  “You promise to leave if I show you the front page?”

  “Promise.”

  The cop opened a desk drawer and began rummaging through it. It didn’t take very long before he shouted, “Bingo! You want the Times or the Sun?”

  “Either will do,” Archie said.

  “The Times,” the cop said and laid it on top of his desk. Archie didn’t hesitate; he turned the paper so the cop could see it. The headline read: “THE PRESIDENT IN NEW YORK.” Below it was a picture of Taft waving to a crowd as he stepped from his railway car. Archie lifted his index finger and landed it on the image of the uniformed man leading the way in front of Taft. He said nothing; he didn’t have to. The cop glanced at the picture, glanced to Archie, back to the picture, then back to Archie.

  “Alright, now what prisoner did you want to see?”

  The jail guard’s kerosene lantern sent a yellow spray of light into the cells where the prisoners slept. Archie followed the guard to a cell at the end of the corridor. “That’s him,” the guard said, swinging his lantern close to the bars. The invasion of light caused the man inside on the cot to lift his blanket over his head.

  “Hey, you’ve got a visitor, get up,” the guard barked.

  The man stirred and poked his head out from under the thin blanket. Archie saw only an emerging mess of tangled hair.

  “Sir,” Archie spoke politely, even though addressing a killer. “I need a word with you.”

  The man moaned.

  “I would like to talk with you,” said Archie, louder.

  The man sat up on the edge of his cot. In the dim lantern light Archie could see the man’s scuffed, dirty face grimace in pain. He rose to his feet and limped toward the bars. The man had an ugly swollen eye and enormous lip that was caked with dried blood. The more light fell on the man’s face, the more Archie noticed that beneath the scruffy appearance, the man’s face was smooth and peach-fuzzed. He was hardly a man at all.

  “Captain! It’s you, ain’t it?!”

  Archie knew that rough New York voice. He had heard it before. In Central Park. That time, a gun was pushed into his ribs. “Henry?” Archie said, stunned at who stood before him as Mick’s murderer.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Captain! Henry! Did they call you? Are you gonna get me outta here?”

  “Do you know why you’re in jail, Henry?”

  “They said I killed Mick. They’ve been grillin’ me for days, tryin’ to make me say I blew him up.”

  “Did you, Henry?”

  “Did I what?” Henry said, irritated that Archie would even ask such a question.

  “Have something to do with Mick’s death?”

  “Are you kiddin’? Why would I want to kill the only man who ever helped me in my life? ‘Course I didn’t kill him,” Henry sniffled. “I loved him, Captain…I loved him.” And he broke down, trying to gulp breaths between the sobs. Archie put his arms through the bars, awkwardly wrapping them around Henry’s slight body. “I know this man,” Archie said to the guard. “I would like to go into the cell and talk with him.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but that would be against regulations.”

  “By the authority of the President of the United States, I am ordering you to let me in that cell, officer. I will take responsibility for any breach of regulations.”

  The guard hesitated and looked around to make sure no one was watching him break the rules at four in the morning by unlocking the cell door. Once in, Archie moved the tearful boy to the jail cot and sat beside him.

  “If what you’re telling me is the truth,” Archie said quietly, “no harm will come to you. Justice will prevail.”

  “Justice, right,” Henry sneered. “They got me and don’t seem to wanna let go, Captain.”

  “There must have been some reason to arrest you, Henry.”

  “I wasn’t even near the explosion. They don’t have any evidence. How could they? Mick wanted to protect me. He knew somethin’ was rotten. That whole day wasn’t right.”

  “What day?”

  “The last day, Captain. I’d change everything about it if I could.”

  “Why, Henry? What happened?”

  “What didn’t happen? First off, we shoulda never gone to see that sonuvabitch Astor.”

  “Astor?! Not John Astor?”

  “I dunno his first name. Mick just called him Astor.”

  “Did you see this Astor?”

  “Not that day.”

  “But you’ve seen him before?”

  Henry nodded. “Yeah, I seen him before.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Rich. Snooty. Stuck up.”

  “That’s not much of a description, Henry.”

  “I only seen him from far away when I drove Mick to have a talk with him.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I was waitin’ in the car. I don’t know.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  Henry shrugged. “Not sure.”

  “Henry,” Archie said with a hint of annoyance. “If you want me to help you, you can’t be holding back. You have to tell me everything. Now, how long did Mick stay with Astor?”

  “’Bout a half-hour, maybe a little longer.” Henry started nervously pulling at his fingers.

  “And that was it?”

  “With Astor, that was it. Then Mick has me drive downtown to this big buildin’, y’know, the kind with columns and Mick tells me that if he ain’t out of the building in a half hour I should take off and lay low in Brooklyn and if anybody should ask if I know him, tell ‘em no, I never heard of Mick Shaughnessy. So I wait. Fifteen minutes goes by, then twenty, then twenty five and then half an hour and I ain’t sure if I should leave or not when Mick finally does come out. But he don’t come out alone – he’s with this little, scrawny guy and they’re havin’ this nasty argument and the little guy is screamin’ and pushin’ his finger into Mick�
��s chest and I could tell Mick wants to haul off and smack him good in the face but instead Mick jus’ turns away and strolls back to the car nice and easy. It was kinda great, really, ‘cause it got the little guy even angrier, but once Mick got in the car I could see he was agitated too ‘cause he was shakin’.”

  “Did you know the man he was arguing with?”

  “No. Never saw the guy in my life.”

  “Did Mick say anything?”

  Henry didn’t answer. Tugged harder at his fingers. “He just told me to head home.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About what time was this?”

  “I dunno. It was rainin’ and dark all day. Like I sez, Mick was agitated so I got him back to Hell’s Kitchen then he sez he had someone else to meet. When we get back he finds this long overcoat and he tucks his hair under a hat and puts two guns into his belt and we drive to the Cooper Union and he tells me to pull over and without sayin’ another word he gets outta the car and tugs the brim of his cap down over his face and jus’ yells, ‘Go, Henry, go.’”

  “Did you do what he said?”

  “Well…Not really. I was curious so I drive around the block then come back to the Cooper Union and see him meet this guy in the square.”

  “Do you know who the other man was?”

  Henry shook his head. “I was too far away.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Nice. Grey suit. Black bowler. And he had a red carnation in his buttonhole.”

  Archie realized that Henry was describing him. “Did they argue?”

  “No. They talked for a few minutes then that guy left and Mick took off runnin’ again.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I just watched him disappear,” Henry sniffled. “That was the last time I ever seen him.” Henry choked back his tears.

  “It’s okay, Henry.” Archie said, and then put his arm over Henry’s shoulder until Henry grew calm.

  “It’s a total frame job on me. But you’re gonna get to the bottom of this, ain’t ya Captain?”

  “I’ll do what I can, Henry.”

  Henry grabbed Archie’s arm and clutched it. “You’re gonna find out the truth. Not just for me, but for Mick too. God bless you, Captain. God bless you.”

  Archie grew uncomfortable with Henry’s pleas. “I’ll do what I can,” Archie repeated, then patted the boy on the head. “Take care of yourself, son,” Archie said while twisting out of Henry’s tight grip.

  Just before dawn Archie sat on the edge of his luxurious bed in his suite in the Waldorf-Astoria, feeling like hell warmed over. Naked, except for his white boxers, Archie caught a glimpse of himself in the wardrobe mirror. His handsome face was puffy, his always carefully groomed hair stood on end, his jowls drooped, and twin dark crevices hung under his bloodshot eyes like saggy half-moons. He glanced at the clock on the wall. In a little more than two hours he was to escort the President of the United States through another whirlwind day in New York. Never one to become too reflective or depressed, Archie grew both reflective and depressed. He felt calamity was circling over his head like a flock of vultures. His boss, President William Howard Taft, was despairing and ineffectual. The man he most admired in life, Theodore Roosevelt, was isolated and despondent in Oyster Bay. His great friend died in an explosion under very mysterious circumstances. If Henry wasn’t responsible for Mick’s death, then who was? And why? And why was it his duty to find out? It wasn’t, Archie reasoned. It wasn’t.

  He lay back, hoping to maybe get an hour of sleep. He closed his eyes, waiting for sweet relief. All that came was a jumble of thoughts that caused him to toss and turn for a half hour. Sleepless, he got up and showered, followed by a long, soothing shave.

  Archie knew what he had to do and was reluctant. So he fussed combing his hair, took his time dressing, packed and repacked his minimal luggage, called room service for coffee, then finally, picked up the telephone.

  “Operator,” the efficient voice said.

  Archie cleared his throat. “I’d like to be connected to the office of John Astor. This is Captain Archibald Butt.”

  “One moment, please, Captain Butt,” the operator politely said.

  Archie waited as the connection was made. “You may go ahead with your call,” the operator said. Then came Astor’s tenuous voice. “Captain Butt, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  “Your business proposition,” said Archie, foregoing any small talk. “I’m curious and would like to hear more about it.”

  “Well, Captain, I never imagined you would come around. You seemed so determined to remain an impoverished military man.”

  “Circumstances have changed. And I would like to find out more about the project.”

  “You’re in luck. We are having a small gathering of gentlemen who have expressed interest in the project. I believe you will find the group quite impressive. Why don’t you join us?”

  “That would be fine,” Archie said. “But I’d like to spend some time alone with you as well.”

  “Of course,” Astor answered. “We’re meeting on April seventh, a Friday. I’ll have a formal invitation sent to you. I am so glad you called, Captain.”

  “Yes, so am I, Colonel Astor. I will see you then.”

  * * *

  On March 23, 1911, William Howard Taft called Archie into the Oval Office. He had a surprise for him. Captain Butt was to be promoted to the rank of Army Major. Taft signed the new commission with the surprised Captain looking on. The President’s photographer snapped three pictures of the intimate ceremony. While Archie downplayed the promotion, saying it affected absolutely nothing in his life, he always kept one of the photographs in his wallet. It showed a beaming Taft pinning a new service bar onto Archie’s uniform blouse. In the picture, Archie stood ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead, looking to be the perfect soldier.

  CHAPTER 25

  The morning of March 25, 1911 dawned beautiful in New York. A cold, crisp, Saturday morning. The subways were empty and the only people on the sidewalks were the pushcart merchants setting up their improvised street markets. There was no hint that this splendid day would change the course of history in America.

  The spark that lit the fuse was, literally, a spark. It happened in the afternoon. No one was exactly sure where it came from – an electric motor or an errant match or cigarette. Whatever the cause, a small ember kindled in the wooden bin under Isadore Abramowitz’s fabric cutting table on the 8th floor of the Ashe Building, where the Triangle Shirtwaist Company had its manufacturing facilities. The factory floor was crowded, sweatshop style, with mostly immigrant women hunched over sewing machines, just finishing their day’s work.

  When the small fire was first noticed, three of the supervising men filled red fire pails with water and splashed the flames. Rather than dousing it, the water stirred the fire. It exploded from the bin and within seconds began consuming every bit of flammable material until the entire room became an inferno. Sam Bernstein, the floor foreman, leapt on a cutting table and screamed to the girls, “For God’s sake, get out of here as quick as you can!” Fire alarm bells started ringing throughout the building. A hot fire wind spread the blaze onto the bundled blouses, the hanging paper patterns, the wicker waste baskets, the wood tables, the raw bundles of material, the cotton floor scraps. The conflagration traveled quickly up the airshaft and spread to the floor above. Clusters of panicked girls raced about both floors, looking for ways to escape the flames. One group scrambled toward the stairway door, crushing a girl who was fighting to open the door. It hardly mattered, that exit was locked.

  Another group of girls ran for the fire escape, which led down an outside airshaft to a back basement skylight. They charged onto it, with the stronger girls shoving past the slower, weaker ones. The fire escape of the Asch Building creaked and swayed under the weight of so many desperate people. Then, like a twisting spring, the flimsy fire escape uncoiled from its moorings, sling
ing people into the air. Several girls plummeted through the basement skylight below. Some were impaled on the spiked iron fence that was at the bottom of the airshaft.

  On the street below a crowd began gathering. Flames were shooting out the windows. At 4:55, only fifteen minutes after the fire had begun, two fire teams had arrived. Firemen raised their ladders, but they only reached six floors up, not eight. The crowd on the street noticed a dark bale come out the window. One man shouted, “Someone is in there all right. He’s trying to save the best cloth.” A gust of wind caught the bundle and spread the cloth. It wasn’t a bundle, but a young girl plunging nine stories to the sidewalk. She hit with a sickening thud. People started screaming.

  More men and women began jumping out of the window, trading a painful, fiery death for quick extinction. Within 10 minutes, 54 broken bodies lay dead on the sidewalk. By 5:15 the fire brigades had gotten the entire fire under control. By 6:10 the fire was completely out. 146 people died. 123 women and 23 men.

  The next day word of the tragedy screamed from newspaper headlines across the nation. As Americans read the personal stories of the girls that were incinerated in a fire that could have been prevented with better workplace conditions, attitudes began to change. The young workers that perished in the fire and leapt to their deaths were not being looked upon as aliens from other countries unable to adapt to the American way of life, but as poor, hardworking immigrants scraping to create their American dream. The outsiders were now being embraced, as were the ideas of safer working places and fairer wages.

  The city declared an official day of mourning on Wednesday, April 5, 1911. It was a cold, depressing day marked by a continuous downpour. A funeral procession wound through the city streets. Black was the color of the day – black suits, black derbies, black bunting on buildings, black umbrellas. Over 100,000 New Yorkers marched with the coffins through the Manhattan neighborhoods. Another quarter of a million people lined the route to witness the procession and express their solidarity with the immigrant labor community. Until another devastating disaster 90 years later, those 350,000 people would represent the single greatest public outpouring of pain and anguish the citizens of New York would ever demonstrate.