“Her latest lover,” Belle said about the young man who was now nibbling the hostess’s ear. “Some mad journalist who just got back from covering the revolution in Mexico. He supposedly rode with Pancho Villa.”
“Hmmm,” Archie hummed, unimpressed.
“Belle,” a voice called. Archie turned to see Emma Goldman clumping toward them, smiling like a kindly, middle-aged aunt. “I had no idea you were coming this evening, darling.” Emma kissed Belle on both cheeks then turned to Archie and looked him up and down. Archie bristled at being given the once over by America’s most dangerous anarchist.
“Emma,” she said and held out her hand.
“Archie,” he replied, feeling Emma’s firm grip.
“I haven’t seen you before, Archie. New in town?”
“He’s from Georgia,” Belle interrupted.
“Ah, the South. I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting there, fearing that as a Jew and anarchist I would probably be lynched within a day of crossing the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“You’re being unfair,” Archie replied. “The South is as highly cultured as anywhere in the United States. It has an unfortunate past which many of us Southerners are trying to ameliorate.”
“Here, here, Archie,” Emma said approvingly. “So I take it you are a fellow traveler in the cause?”
“I believe in justice for all men, if that’s what you mean, Miss Goldman.”
“Justice exclusively for men? Are we women to be left out?”
“Of course he’s for suffrage, Emma,” Belle interrupted in an attempt to rescue Archie.
“Are you for equal rights for women, Mr…?” Emma paused. “I didn’t get your last name, Archie.”
“Emma, I am for what is best for all of us,” Archie said tactfully. “And in my case right now, it’s a refreshment. You’ll excuse Belle and me.”
Emma laughed. “You slipped out of that one nicely, Mr. Archie. You should be a politician.”
“Heaven forbid,” Archie said, taking Belle’s arm and walking away.
“She liked you, Archie,” Belle teased. “You’d better watch out. She’s notorious for seducing men.”
“Her?!” Archie glanced back at the short, manly looking anarchist who was now engaged in a conversation with the hostess’s journalist paramour.
“All I’m saying is be careful who you get in bed with.”
“You can trust I am always careful on that account, Miss Greene.”
“Hopefully not too careful,” Belle said coyly, letting her hand brush his. Archie felt that familiar jolt of electricity shoot through his body.
“I’m here to find information about who killed Mick Shaughnessy. That is the only reason I came. It is something you assured me was here. I must ask you to reveal it now or, quite frankly, I should stop wasting my time and leave.”
“You’re free to leave,” Belle said. “But I think if you talked to some of the people here about your friend Mick you would probably find out more than what you might want to know.”
“Who? Who should I talk to?”
Belle looked around. “Well, just about anyone. They all knew him.”
Emma began clinking a knife on the edge of crystal goblet. “Can I have your attention, please,” Emma’s voice boomed above the racket. “Quiet, please. We’re about to start our program now.” No one did quiet. The chatter continued until two small young women in plain dresses entered near the back of the apartment. They looked out of place in the stylish drawing room, like frightened deer that wandered into a banquet of hunters. Their awkward entrance drew people’s attention. By the time the two girls reached Emma, the entire room had fallen silent.
“Friends,” Emma said gently. “Tonight we have two courageous young women who are here to relate a fight for survival which can inspire us all. I know you are all aware of the horrible tragedy of March 25. These girls are here to tell to us first hand of that tragic day at the Triangle Shirtwaist factory. This is the brave young organizer you’ve all heard about, Clara Lemlich.” Emma put her hands on Clara’s shoulders. “And this is her cousin, Dora Rosen, who survived the horrible fire and is here to bear witness for us.”
Clara stepped forward first. She was accustomed to speaking before crowds and spoke with the authority of the righteous in her heavily accented English. “Comrades,” Clara shouted. “Zank you very much from the bottom of our hearts for havin’ us here and lettin’ us tell about our good friends who vasn’t able to make it ‘cause of the fire and how the struggle of us vorkin’ girls continues.”
Everyone in the salon applauded. Clara introduced Dora, who looked uncomfortable having all the eyes focused on her. She started to speak. Her voice quavered. Her body trembled. She had to stop before she could even utter a full sentence. Clara draped a comforting arm over Dora’s shoulders, but Dora shook her away, determined to go on. She closed her eyes and began to relive that day. “It vas a beautiful afternoon and me and my friends vas just gettin’ off work.” In a slow, steady voice, with her eyes still closed, Dora began telling of how the fire started and how it spread to the ninth floor. “I vas near the cloakroom vhen I heard screamin’ and looked up to see Annie Colletti’s dress catch fire and she…” Two tears escaped from the corner of Dora’s closed eyes. She choked out her words. “…and she started burnin’ up…her dress, her hair. Then I saw all these girls and they vere pushin’ at the door but it vasn’t openin’, so I thought maybe to take the elevator ‘cause I knew I had to get outta there quickly. But vhen I ran to the elevator, there vas lotsa other girls and they vas pushin’ and shovin’ and runnin’ all over each other and tryin’ to squeeze in and the elevator operator vas sayin’ that it vas too full and he vas tryin’ to close the door and he looks at me and says ‘sorry, I’ll come back up and get you.’ But I knew he never vould ‘cause the fire vas gettin’ too big. So vhen the elevator started I looked down the shaft and saw it’s only maybe one floor down so I threw my coat into the shaft and it landed on top of the elevator then I jumped and landed on my coat and thanks to God by some miracle I vas still alive. But then I felt a heavy smash, like a big sack o’ potatoes and it’s another girl and she jumped down too and landed on top of me but it didn’t help her ‘cause she hit her head on the elevator cable and died. And then two more girls jumped and they landed on me and I felt my body breakin’ apart ‘cause my ribs were broke and that’s the last thing I remembered ‘til I woke up in the hospital room.”
Dora stopped and gulped a breath, leaving the horrific scene that was seared into her mind. She opened her eyes and saw a roomful of faces with tears pouring down their cheeks. “I vould now like to tell you the names of some of my friends who died in the fire so that their memory may live. Yetta Goldstein vas a gorgeous girl with long red hair and a pretty smile. Ve vould eat together lunch. Annie Colletti, oy, could that girl talk, chattered like magpie…sometimes I just vanted to tell her to shut up…but, oh, I so vish I could hear her voice now. And Sarah Brodsky, I vas to go to her veddin’ that vas to take place a veek ago. Yes, she vas to be married last Sunday. Instead, her sweetheart vas the one who identified her burned body by the gold ring he gave her. She vas buried on her veddin’ day.”
Dora trembled then broke down weeping. Clara embraced her. The people in the room rushed forward and surrounded the girls, giving them sympathetic hugs and slipping dollar bills into their skirt pockets. After a few moments, Clara stepped away and began singing. Emma joined in with her foghorn voice:
Arise, you prisoners of starvation!
Arise, you wretched of the earth!
For justice thunders condemnation:
A better world’s in birth!
It was The Internationale, the hymn of the worldwide workers movement. The singing rippled like a wave through the entire room – writers, painters, anarchists, rich bohemian women and their handsome young lovers, all were bonded by the sad tale of a completely ordinary girl who was made extraordinary by an ill-fated tragedy.
No more tradition’s chai
ns shall bind us,
Arise you slaves, no more in thrall!
The earth shall rise on new foundations:
We have been naught, we shall be all!
The young pianist began banging the staunch melody out on the Steinway, which encouraged the voices to grow even stronger. As the song reverberated through the ornate salon, Archie noticed a large man hanging at the edge of the crowd, singing as heartily as the others. The man’s hair was parted in the middle and fell over his ears. The man looked familiar to Archie, but he couldn’t quite place him.
Tis the final conflict,
Let each stand in his place.
The Internationale
Unites the human race
Then, as the man shook his head with his own passionate singing, his hair slid back to reveal his ears – prominent, jug ears. It hit Archie: the angular face, the hulking body, the ears that stuck out. Except in Archie’s memory the man had a large handlebar mustache. And it wasn’t just one man, but two. Twins. Archie remembered the concussive bursts of gunfire that lit up the subway tunnel. He recalled the features of the men’s faces. And, reverberating though his skull, he heard the horrible screech of metal and the sickening sight of a man crushed under the wheels of the subway car.
Archie blinked and fixed his look on the man again. Yes, it was the second twin. The large man noticed Archie’s hard gaze and met it. He curled his lips upwards. To Archie it was a sinister grin, a mocking grin, a grin drenched in the blood of the twin’s brother and Mick Shaughnessy.
Archie blanched.
So comrades, come rally,
And the last fight let us face.
The Internationale,
Unites the human race!!
The chorus of voices rose in a final, ragged burst of passion and then erupted in a tremendous cheer. Archie staggered away, lost. Belle pushed after him. “Archie, are you alright?” Archie could only shake his head. She took his hand. “Let’s get some air.”
They sat on a bench at the edge Washington Square. Silent. A night breeze slapped at their faces.
“Cold?” Belle asked.
“No,” Archie answered.
“Good.”
They sat.
“Archie, what upset you so much?”
Archie didn’t answer. Minutes passed.
“Miss Greene,” Archie finally said. “I appreciate you bringing me here tonight. You were true to your word, I did find something valuable. But I’m curious. What was so pressing about me coming to New York? It wasn’t just for my benefit. You want something from me.”
“Yes,” Belle said and took his hand and held it. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, but more an affirmation of togetherness. “For some reason, I trust you. And you can trust me, Archie. Please. Trust me.”
“I would like to, Miss Greene.”
Belle waited a moment, knowing she was about to test his trust. “I would like to know the nature of your association with John Astor and George Vanderbilt,” Belle asked delicately.
Archie didn’t answer. How did she know about Astor and Vanderbilt?
“It’s important I know, Archie. Not only for me, but also for you.”
“For me?” Archie’s voice began to rise. “And why is it so important for me? Why is your prying where you have no business important to me? You’ve befriended me for some reason, teased and tantalized me. If you really want to be honest and genuine, if you really are my friend, now is the time to speak up. What is the real truth here, Miss Greene?”
“The real truth is that I am an ally,” Belle answered with a quiet but firm voice. “And at this point, all I can ask is that you trust me on that.”
“Give me a reason to trust you and I will.”
“You are in danger, Archie. You don’t even know the trouble you are stirring up. These people don’t play around.”
“What people, Miss Greene? Tell me. Give me names.”
Belle squeezed Archie’s hand. “Not now. It wouldn’t be wise.”
“Call me when it is wise. I don’t play around either.” Archie released Belle’s hand and stood up. “Goodnight, Miss Greene, and thank you for a stimulating evening.”
CHAPTER 29
Theodore Roosevelt’s house in Oyster Bay overlooked a long sloping lawn that rolled into a forest of pine and maple trees. Its large, rustic rooms were crowded with heavy furniture and filled with rugs, books, paintings, trophies, flags, rifles, animal skins, western sculpture and assorted bric-a-brac. The home had always overflowed with Roosevelt’s hardy vigor. In the spring of 1911 it felt like a mausoleum. The ex-President spent most of his time alone in his study, wavering between messianic visions of a triumphant return to power to moods of dark despair where he felt like a Cassandra in an American desert. As Taft once observed, Roosevelt needed a good fight to shake him up.
Having good luck on his side for most of his life, luck found Theodore Roosevelt when he was at his lowest point. It came in the form of Congressional investigations launched by Democrats to discredit Republicans. A Kentucky Congressman named Augustus O. Stanley initiated a high profile investigation charging that the TC&I deal that was engineered by J. Pierpont Morgan to ostensibly end the Panic of 1907, was really a slick business maneuver that allowed Morgan’s U.S. Steel to gain control of the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company for pure financial gain. The congressman asserted that Roosevelt was bamboozled by robber barons.
Roosevelt was indignant at the allegation. He contended it was more important to retain the stability of the markets than to stop what may or may not have been a shady merger. Roosevelt’s indignation turned to white fury when it was leaked that the Stanley Committee would subpoena the ex-President to publicly prove he was played the fool by Morgan. The great warrior finally had his fight. Roosevelt started calling old friends and rallying new ones to his cause. He began making speeches and writing opinion articles for newspapers and magazines. With his renewed energy and high profile, it was being whispered that Theodore Roosevelt was chomping at the bit to make one last charge to the Presidency.
* * *
In Washington, the White House was excited about one thing and one thing only: the cherry trees were blossoming. Mrs. Taft had new Japanese cherry trees planted the year before in the Capitol’s Tidal Basin and suddenly they were bursting out in bloom. The swaths of pink-tinged blossoms enthralled the entire city. “Even the President waked from his lethargy to show pleasure in them,” Archie wrote. Other than that brief moment of colorful brilliance, the mood in the Capitol was dark gray. Taft’s political fortunes were going from bad to worse. He appeared paralyzed as the world was disintegrating around him, and distressed by the rumblings that Roosevelt was preparing to make a run for the Republican nomination in 1912.
With the pressures of his office closing in, Taft distracted himself by planning a grand party: the June celebration of his Silver Wedding anniversary to his beloved Nellie. It was to be the largest celebration to take place in the White House since Rutherford Hayes’s Silver anniversary party in 1877. Over eight thousand invitations were sent out. Six thousand people responded that they would attend.
* * *
J. Pierpont Morgan traveled overseas in the spring of 1911. He spent the first leg of his trip sailing up the Egyptian Nile. From there he went to Europe to acquire paintings and medieval tapestries. His only bit of business was with J. Bruce Ismay, who was the managing director of International Mercantile Marine (IMM) and chairman of the White Star Line, companies Morgan owned and personally controlled, even in his retirement.
Despite Morgan’s apparent hesitancy to commit to Astor and Vanderbilt’s plan, it was always Morgan’s belief that those who controlled commerce, controlled business. His rambling speculation to Astor and Vanderbilt about commerce centers was not as spontaneous as it seemed. Controlling trade was always central to Morgan’s philosophy of how to build a complete business empire. He held a majority interest in several railroad firms and, in 1901, Morgan’s company purchased Internation
al Mercantile Marine. IMM was an English corporation that owned ships that crisscrossed the Atlantic carrying goods and passengers between Europe and America.
While the purchase made sense for Morgan’s vision of controlling Atlantic shipping lanes, cutthroat competition made IMM a continual money drain. Its White Star Line was always on the short end of a rivalry with the other English passenger line, Cunard. Despite White Star’s large money losses, Morgan was determined to make the company profitable. When Cunard received a low-interest loan from the British government to build sleek new luxury liners, Morgan approved an accelerated effort for White Star to build their own state-of-the-art luxury fleet.
On May 31, 1911, Morgan and Ismay met in Belfast, Ireland, and took part in grand ceremonies that celebrated the launching of the hull of their second new luxury liner. Thousands of people gathered at the Harland and Wolff shipbuilding docks to witness the spectacle. It was a glorious spring day. There were fireworks, music, and then the launch into the water of the massive hull. Morgan vowed to return and sail on that ship’s maiden voyage, which was scheduled for the spring of 1912. As a marketing ploy, all White Star ships were to be “Olympic Class Liners” and end with –ic. Thus, the Olympic, the Majestic, and in the case of the new ship, the Titanic.
CHAPTER 30
When Archie arrived at his office precisely at 6:50 a.m. every morning, the President’s schedule was always waiting for him on his desk. On June 1, 1911, the schedule had Archie escorting Taft on a morning ride. Archie changed into his riding pants and boots then walked from his office, across the green expanse of the Ellipse, to the White House. The President was still in the breakfast room when he arrived.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Archie chirped.
“Archie,” Taft said lethargically. “Why do you have to be so goddam chipper every morning?”
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