The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  “The lecture is in our other room, sir,” the doorman said, gently tugging Archie’s arm.

  “Yes,” Archie replied absently. “The other room.”

  The doorman led Archie across the way and opened the door to a second room. It was a large restaurant rearranged to serve as a lecture hall. The room was full of Negro men and women, mostly middle aged, and dressed in sensible suits and dresses. They were listening to a tall, distinguished black man who spoke with a charismatic passion. “…Yes, we hear calls to turn our attentions toward Mother Africa,” the man said in a rich, rumbling baritone voice. “Yes, we are beckoned by the birthplace of our proud and great race, called to return as a long lost orphan is summoned home. But, my friends, I believe however proud we should be of our noble heritage and the trials we have survived as a people, these beckoning calls from that great continent reach us only as echoes across the centuries. We hear them as romantic clarions of a great African culture that has, like a powerful tree, spread its seeds to take firm root in new soil.”

  Archie was overwhelmed by the power with which the man spoke. He seemed familiar, but Archie didn’t recognize him as any famous Negro leader. Then the realization dawned: the man at the lectern was the same man he had seen with Belle at the Liberal Club.

  “It is my fervent belief,” the man continued, “that the task of the responsible Negro in America today is not to look back to Africa, but to work for the day when the panoply of American races and cultures fully accepts and includes the colored man as it includes the Italian, the Irishman, the German and the Jew.

  “Many of you know I have had a fortunate life. I have been privileged, born in the North of free parents and sponsored to be one of the few of our race to attend a University. I was the first colored man to graduate from Harvard. I have been a professor, a lawyer, and honored to serve as Dean of the Howard University law school. I have also worked in government, serving overseas as a representative of America.

  “I talk of myself, not out of pride, but from the perspective of a Negro who has tasted some of the rewards America has to offer. Still, because of the color of my skin, I cannot eat at certain restaurants, I am not welcome to rest my weary head in certain hotels – the Marshall’s truly being the exception – and, despite my achievements, I cannot gain employment in the majority of respectable businesses, private or public.

  “It is my contention, my friends, that America can realize the great ideals it was founded on only when it taps the lifeblood of our colored race. Our great race must be recognized as what it is: a strong, beautiful tree in America’s vast and varied forest. And just as a great tree can offer cover and abundance, so our race can, has, is, and will continue to be, one of the great assets to this country. We are out of Africa, my brothers and sisters, but we are no longer of Africa. The American Negro is just that: American. It is here we were born and where we live; it is here we will fight until we gain full freedom and equality. And it is here, in this land, we will flourish. As the good Lord is my witness, I have dedicated the rest of my living breath to see that the Negro race will be accorded its proper status as good and proud Americans. Thank you.”

  The man bowed his head slightly. The audience jumped to their feet and broke into wild, enthusiastic applause. The doorman was carried away and shouted, “Yessir, that’s right,” as he clapped. Archie too applauded and at the same time thought that, despite his color, of course Belle would be drawn to this obviously brilliant and dynamic Negro.

  “What’s his name?” Archie asked the doorman.

  “Richard Theodore Greener,” the doorman said, pronouncing the name carefully, “Ain’t he somethin’?”

  “Yes,” Archie agreed. “He is something.”

  The applause died down. Greener was surrounded by a mob of admirers. He was comfortable within the tight crowd, modest without being meek, friendly without being overly solicitous. Archie was a little jealous. He knew that the only thing that held this brilliant man back from achieving even greater things was the color of his skin. Archie wanted to approach Greener and offer his own congratulations. But he felt out of place, like an interloper who had stumbled into a secret society that wasn’t meant for him.

  “I’d like to meet him,” Archie said to the doorman.

  “He’s right there,” the doorman answered, pointing to the front of the room.

  “I’m not sure that would be appropriate. Perhaps I can have a word with him in private.”

  The doorman nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  There was a flurry of “Good-byes” from the front of the room and Greener quickly exited through a rear door that went through the kitchen.

  “I’ll find out what room he’s in, sir. Perhaps you can have a word with him there,” the doorman said.

  At the reception desk, Archie again grew intoxicated by the lobby’s spirited atmosphere. If only the White House had this much energy, the President wouldn’t be in so much trouble.

  “Room 271, sir,” the doorman said. “I’ll show you the way.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll go myself.”

  “As you wish. Up the stairs two flights and half way down the hall.”

  “Thank you again,” Archie said and reached into his pocket. He took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to the doorman. “You have been most kind and helpful.”

  The doorman reacted quietly to the generous tip. “Whatever you’re here for, I hope you find it.”

  “Me too.” Archie smiled and affectionately lifted his hand to rub the doorman’s head. The doorman instinctively stepped back, not allowing Archie’s hand to touch him.

  “I can tell you’re a southern gentleman, sir,” the doorman said. “And you mean well. But with all respect, not here, not in New York City and certainly not in the Marshall’s Hotel.”

  “My apologies. I only meant it as a sign of friendship.”

  “Then shake my hand as a man, sir,” the doorman said, opening his palm and holding it out.

  And Archie did.

  Climbing the stairs, Archie mulled what to say to Greener. Should he begin by telling how impressed he was by the speech? Should he inquire about the man’s government service? Should he invite him to the White House where someone of his intelligence could be an asset to Taft in reaching out to Negroes? Then, Archie wondered why he really want to talk to the man at all? What was his connection to Haywood or Emma Goldman? They were the ones that sent him to this lecture.

  Voices interrupted Archie’s inner musings. He looked down the hallway and was staggered. There, standing outside room 271, was Greener with a dazzling, young white woman who was laughing at something he had said. She threw her arms around his waist and pressed closely to him. It was Belle.

  Greener smiled broadly and kissed Belle’s forehead. Horrified that he might be spotted, Archie searched for a quick way out. There was no nearby exit. But a few yards from him was a small alcove where he might not be seen. Archie tiptoed toward it, hoping the loving couple would be so occupied with each other, they wouldn’t notice him. He heard his every footstep scuffle along the carpet and was aware of every muffled breath he took. When he finally reached the alcove, he pressed himself into its curved back wall, out of their sight. Still, after a relieved moment, he couldn’t help himself – he leaned forward and peeked around the alcove’s edge. A morbid curiosity compelled him to gaze at the lovers.

  Greener and Belle were still in the embrace, talking low and sweetly to each other. Greener reached out and softly stroked Belle’s face. It was done with so much affection that Archie felt like an embarrassed voyeur. “Goodbye, my darling,” he heard Greener say, peering straight into Belle’s eyes. “I will count the moments until next time.”

  Archie heard sniffling and saw that Belle was weeping. She hugged Greener tightly. “I love you so much,” she said. He gently released his embrace and stepped back. She touched her fingers to her lips, pressed a kiss onto them then placed them on his lips. “Goodbye,” she said, then turn
ed and started down the hallway toward the alcove where Archie had hidden himself.

  Panicked, Archie crushed against the wall, wishing himself invisible. He heard Belle’s footsteps draw close then saw her move into view, no more than two feet away. She looked luminous; her face glowed even as the tear streaks remained wet on her cheeks.

  Please God, let her pass without turning, Archie silently prayed.

  His prayers were answered. Though the torturous moments seemed to stretch through an eternity, Belle finally disappeared from his view. Only when he heard her footsteps grow distant on the hardwood staircase did he breath a deep, relieved sigh.

  “Excuse me,” a voice broke in. “Excuse me!” It was Greener, who, while stepping out from his doorway to see Belle off, had spotted Archie hidden in the alcove. He walked over, puzzled by the hidden man, a white man no less.

  “While it may be none of my business,” Greener said in his deep voice, “I find it curious, sir, that you are hidden in such a place. Are you from the government? Are you spying on me?”

  Archie didn’t quite know how to answer. “No, I am not spying on you,” Archie stammered. “I caught the end of your lecture and, well, I must say, it was one of the most powerful speeches I have had the honor to hear, and I have heard some great orators in my day, and I wanted to congratulate you on it so I came up to see you in your room and, unfortunately, caught you in an obviously intimate moment with the woman who just left and I did not want to intrude.”

  Greener wasn’t quite sure what to make of this agitated man’s rambling. “Well,” he said, holding out his hand, “if what you say is true, then thank you for your kind words. Richard Greener.”

  Archie took the large hand and shook it. “Archibald Butt.”

  Greener cocked his head to one side. “Archie Butt?” Greener repeated, somewhat puzzled. “Archie Butt?!”

  “Yes, sir,” Archie answered. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course I know who you are. Belle has talked a lot about you.”

  This threw Archie for a loop. Women usually don’t talk about other men to their lovers. But Belle was such an unusual woman, Archie reasoned; he wouldn’t put anything past her. “What exactly did Belle tell you about me?”

  “Mostly she said good things. But felt you had a rather old fashioned Southern attitude about race.”

  Archie squirmed uncomfortably. “As I explained to her, the only problem I have is with the mixing of races. I do not believe in the superiority of one race over another, but it doesn’t strike me as practical or moral for the races to mix. However, I did witness Belle’s great affection for you and I must say it looked as loving and natural as two people of any race.”

  “I should hope so, sir,” Greener said.

  “So I may have to reevaluate my ideas about the mixing of races. You two make a lovely couple.”

  Greener squinted his eyes and looked at Archie strangely before breaking into a gale of deep laughs. “Oh,” he said, holding his belly to stop his spasms of laughter. “Wait’ll Belle hears this. She’ll get a kick out of what you said, Mr. Butt, yes, she will.” Then, trying to regain his composure, Greener returned his attention to Archie. “I wish I had a sweetheart as enchanting as Belle, but she does not serve that role with me.”

  “But…but you two were so intimate. She is not… your…?” Archie hesitated, searching for the most tactful word.

  “Paramour? No,” Greener said softly.

  “I’m confused then. The way she said she loved you. Her tears. I have never seen Belle like that. If the love she expressed to you were not so genuine, I would believe what you say. But I saw that love with my own eyes.”

  “That you did, Mr. Butt. The love between us is as genuine as nature, but it is not the love of sweethearts. No.” Greener then said proudly, “That wonderful girl is my daughter.”

  It took a moment for Archie to register Greener’s words. Up close, Archie could see that Greener was a good deal older than Belle. Still, there was one inescapable fact: “But you’re a Negro,” Archie said. “And she is…”

  “A Negress,” Greener responded clearly, making sure Archie understood him. “Her blood is as black as Africa, even though her skin is light.”

  “But her mother must have been…?”

  “Also colored.”

  Archie looked away, grappling to make sense of what Greener was saying.

  “Sadly, there is still a stigma attached to being of the Negro race in America,” Greener continued. “My own experiences have borne that out. The greater my success, the more I was attacked by those who couldn’t stand to see an intelligent Negro achieve extraordinary things. I was accused of being an alcoholic, though I do not have a palate for drink. I was labeled a troublemaker, though all I ever spoke was the truth. When my wife, my beautiful light-skinned wife, decided that she didn’t want to live her life in an oppressed manner, persecuted every day for the sole reason that she was labeled ‘colored,’ I understood it. The simple solution for her was to become white. And as she and all of our children could pass, she left me and changed her name. ‘Da Costa Greene’ does sound more enticing than Greener. Do you think the rich and powerful J. P. Morgan would have hired Belle Marion Greener, a little colored girl, to be his personal librarian? No, of course not. But he would hire a Portuguese beauty with golden skin who is sharp as a whip and not afraid to speak her mind. My Belle can mix in the rarified air of the rich and powerful white world, a world where I cannot go, no matter how great my accomplishments. She’s allowed there because she claims her ancestry as European. But I assure you, sir, Belle da Costa Greene and her four brothers and sisters are as full blooded Negroes as I am, Richard Greener, their proud father.”

  “And you should be proud, Mr. Greener. Belle is a spectacular woman.”

  “She is that, Mr. Butt. She is that,” Greener said, then tugged at a thin gold chain and pulled a watch from his vest pocket. “I have a late train to catch to Chicago, where I live. You’ll excuse me, but I must take my leave. It was a pleasure meeting you, even if the circumstances were a bit strange.”

  Greener turned away, then stopped. “If it means anything to you, I rarely see or speak with my darling Belle. It is better that she live in her world and I live in mine. I am grateful for such occasions as tonight, but, in all probability, we will not see each other again for some time. You understand, she has too much to lose if it were known she is my daughter and colored. I ask you to keep that secret to yourself, as I will keep the news of our encounter to myself. Do you think that’s a good idea, Mr. Butt?”

  “I do. I will not reveal to anyone that Belle is...” Archie hesitated.

  “…Beautiful?” Greener laughed his rich, regal laugh again. “I’m sure her secret will be safe with you. Good evening, then.”

  CHAPTER 33

  For the Christmas holidays of 1877, President Rutherford B. Hayes (known to his friends as “Ruddy”) invited John Herron, a former law partner from his hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio, to Washington D.C. Along with his wife, Herron brought four of their eight children, including their precocious seventeen year-old daughter, Nellie. Stepping into the White House, the impressionable young girl believed she had entered the home of her dreams. She swooned at the sight of Ruddy and his wife formally greeting thousands of admiring citizens at the grand celebration of their Silver Wedding Anniversary on December 30, 1877. It was then and there that young Nellie decided her goal in life was to marry a man destined to be President of the United States and hold dazzling parties in the White House just like the one she was attending.

  On June 19, 1911, Nellie Herron Taft was to celebrate her own twenty-five years of marriage to the man she chose to fulfill her destiny. It was to be the grandest celebration the White House had seen since Rutherford Hayes and his bride commemorated their Silver Anniversary. Rarely is anyone so fortunate to realize such wild fantasies as becoming the First Lady of the United States. Fortune can be a cruel trickster through. Nellie was living i
n the White House, the fantasy house she wished for as a teenager, but for most of that time she had been debilitated by her stroke, unable to enjoy or even participate in the duties of a First Lady.

  As the grand anniversary approached, it seemed Nellie would finally be able to bask in the glory. Her health was improving. She was able to walk normally and, despite a somewhat thick tongue, was growing downright chatty. Then cruel fortune intervened again. Nellie Taft collapsed attending a New York dinner with her husband. Like before, the initial diagnosis was an attack of nerves. The following morning doctors reexamined her and decided it was another stroke, though far less serious than her initial stroke two years earlier. It was determined that she should not overexcite herself at the party. The White House announced that Mrs. Taft would not be present at the Silver Anniversary festivities and that her daughter Helen would substitute for her.

  Eighty police stood guard when the White House gates opened at 6 p.m., Monday, June 19. Normal citizens gathered on the sidewalk to watch the aristocracy of politics and society arrive in their coaches and limousines. By 7 o’clock the White House lawn was crawling with women in evening gowns and men in tuxedoes. A dance band on the lawn was playing popular tunes. The sun put on an eye-catching show as it set, sending fiery red beams through threatening thunderclouds. When darkness did descend, thousands of glimmering lights began to twinkle on, creating a fantasy fairyland on the White House grounds. Hundreds of Japanese paper lanterns glowed red, hanging from the trees and bushes, and a giant red, white and blue electric light flag flashed every few seconds from the portico. Another string of white lights formed the Taft’s anniversary dates, “1886-1911.”

  In the relative quiet of the White House living quarters, Archie was readying the President and his family for their grand entrance. At 9 o’clock he guided the entourage down the elevator, through the White House’s formal rooms and onto the South Portico. The band stopped playing Wild Cherries Rag and broke into a brassy rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. That was followed by Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Taft began walking slowly down the portico stairs. His daughter was to be on his arm. But the massive crowd noticed it was not Helen, but Nellie herself, whom the President escorted down the stairs. Both were beaming. The crowd broke into wild cheers and applause.