“All the things you can do,” Archie interrupted.
“Yes,” Belle said with a tinge of sadness, “all the things I can do. I believe in the causes my father does, but I do not believe we have to blow apart our world to rebuild it. Besides, I’m cynical enough to think that whatever is built anew would probably end up looking much like the world we live in now – just different people would be oppressed by different oppressors. And so I go to those anarchist meetings to protect my father from being taken advantage of. Emma Goldman and Bill Haywood despise me because I will not let my father join them and become a full fledged anarchist.”
“So they’re your enemy?”
“No, Archie. I try not to have enemies. Like I said, I’m a librarian. I live in a world of old manuscripts and medieval paintings. That’s where my heart lies. My work allows me to see the beauty that the human race is able to create. I love my father and will protect him at all costs. But his fight is not mine.” A smile crossed her face. “I have enough problems dealing with Mr. Morgan.”
“Aren’t you worried they will expose you?”
“You mean, let it be known that I’m not Portuguese?”
“Yes.”
Belle shook her head. “As long as they want my father, they won’t touch me. Because if they did, my father would repudiate them in no uncertain terms. And if that happens, it would spoil any chance they have to make gains with Negroes. That’s why they sent you to the Marshall’s Hotel. They thought that you might feel betrayed and expose me. They were hoping you would do their dirty work. But you wouldn’t do that, Archie.”
Archie reached for his drink. “How could you be so sure?”
“Because you’re just as idealistic as my father. You put your faith in things like honor and integrity.”
“It sounds like you think I’m naïve.”
“In a way, you are,” she smiled. “And that’s a compliment.”
“I’ve worked for two Presidents, Miss Greene. I have seen politics at their dirtiest.”
“And you still believe that justice and truth will ultimately triumph, don’t you?”
Archie felt reluctant to acknowledge it, as if admitting to a dewy-eyed view of the world. But then something changed; he softened. His protective armor began falling away. “Yes, I do. I still do believe in goodness and truth.”
“I rest my case,” Belle grinned. “And now that you know all my secrets, I must ask you something.”
“I’m not sure I know all of your secrets, Miss Greene.”
Belle rocked forward in the chair and rose to her feet. “You’re right, Archie, you do not know all my secrets,” she said, then walked around the coffee table and sat on the sofa next to him. “Now I must ask you why it’s so important that you know who caused the death of Mick Shaughnessy?”
Archie slid away from Belle. He looked down into his bourbon, swirled it in the glass then took a long sip. He closed his eyes and savored the sweet smoky flavor the drink delivered. “Because Mick Shaughnessy is the only reason I am talking to you now.”
“Why do you say that?”
When Archie opened his eyes he stared past Belle. “In 1901 the war with Spain was over. But we still had 70,000 men in the Philippines fighting Filipino insurgents. And they were far more brutal than the Spanish ever were. I was a chief livery officer. Mick was in my command. My job was to bring livestock across the Pacific. I never saw combat, never fired a gun in battle. My specialty was organization – that’s what I am good at: organization. My crowning achievement was when I transported five hundred and fifty-seven horses and mules from Portland, Oregon to Manila. I was supposed to stop in Hawaii for provisions, but I knew our troops were in desperate need of the horses so I ordered my ship to bypass Honolulu and proceed directly to the Philippines. We sailed quickly and I rationed the livestock’s feed. My cargo arrived healthy and ready for war. I saved the army time and money and was rewarded for my “daring feat” with a promotion to assistant Quartermaster. I was happy with my assignment. I was doing my patriotic duty. I loved the army life. And I was recognized as the best caretaker of livestock the Army had.
“On the other hand, my junior officer, Corporal Michael Shaughnessy, hated the work. He joined the army to defend America and kill the enemy. He was always putting in for a transfer to a combat unit and he was always being denied. It drove him crazy. He said he would be the best soldier the army could wish for if they would give him a chance to fight. He didn’t understand why they wouldn’t give him that chance. But I knew, I saw the reports. They thought he was a loose cannon. And, to be honest, they were right. Mick Shaughnessy would be the first to disregard orders if he felt there was a better way to do things. And so we served together and became best of friends even as we were so different.
“One evening, when I was ashore in Manila eating a quiet meal in a quiet restaurant, a brigade of Filipino guerillas burst in and took me and twenty other American soldiers hostage. They marched us through a maze of streets and locked us in an old slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Manila. The slaughterhouse stank of stale blood.
“They dispatched word to the American command that they wanted to trade us for Filipino prisoners. To demonstrate they were serious, they shot three of our men and sent their heads back with the terms. The American commanders refused to negotiate with the enemy, believing that if they gave into their demands, there would be more kidnappings. After a week our captors began executing one American every day. We were all dead men, we knew that. But when you’re still breathing, hope lives. We’d tell each other that our commanders wouldn’t let us die, that they’d come with a squadron and rescue us. The fact was, our commanders had already given us up for dead. My superior officer had already chosen my replacement: my junior officer, Mick Shaughnessy.
“Late one Sunday morning – I remember it was Sunday because church bells woke us all up – a Filipino soldier came in to choose who would be executed that evening. There were nine of us left alive. I was the one chosen. You don’t know how you’ll really meet death until you come face to face with your moment. I always believed I would meet that moment with honor. My father was a soldier, and so were my uncles and both my grandfathers. I believed honor and bravery flowed through my veins as naturally as water flows down a mountainside. I confess to you now, Miss Greene, that bravery and honor abandoned me at that moment. When the Filipino soldier fingered me to be executed, it was as if a horrible bolt of lightning exploded through my body. My head began to throb, the entire room went white, I felt hot, then cold. Sweat was pouring from my forehead even as I was shivering. Finally, I began to wail and broke down in tears. I spent the next two hours weeping like a fainthearted woman. My fellow soldiers tried to comfort me, but I kept seeing the image of my bloody head being sent to my American commanders in a box, then to my mother back home in the states.
“The Filipinos prepared for their executions by having a loud drinking party and getting good and drunk before slaughtering their victim. We never saw any of our friends being killed; we just heard their screams as they were being tortured in the room next to ours. The screaming always ended with gunshots. Then silence. Then the drunken laughter of the executioners.
“That morning most of them went to church before coming back to drink. By late afternoon, we heard their whoops and shouts and I knew they would come for me any moment. By that time my tears had dried up. I was numb, having surrendered to the fact that my life was about to end. The door opened and there was my Filipino executioner. He pointed to me with a machete and waved that I should follow him.
“Then, from the other room, came loud yelling and a volley of gunshots. I thought it was the insurgents whipping themselves into a frenzy, preparing for my beheading. The executioner turned to see what the ruckus was behind him when he suddenly stumbled backwards as if hit in the chest with a brick. Thick smoke curled into the room. Running through the smoke was my junior officer, Mick Shaughnessy. His eyes were animal wild. He held a pistol in eac
h of his hands and he was firing away at the Filipinos. He yelled for us to follow him and we did. I stumbled over my executioner, who was twitching and screaming. Blood was gushing from a wound in his chest. We scrambled through the door of our slaughterhouse cell and into the main room. It was filled with an acrid cloud of smoke. Bodies of dead Filipino insurgents were scattered over the floor.
“As Mick led us through the room, I asked him if the rest of the American squad was outside. ‘The whole squad is right here!’ he yelled and fired a shot into the air. I was confused at first, but then realized he was doing this all by himself. He led us through back alleyways and dark streets, past insurgent barricades and finally back to the American sector.
“As you can imagine, I was incredibly grateful to him and asked him how I could repay him for saving my life. Mick asked only that he be transferred to a combat unit. I recommended the transfer, but the high command felt that he should be not rewarded for disobeying orders, even though he single-handedly saved ten American lives. When I told him he would not get the transfer, he just shrugged and said that I owed him a drink. I bought him that drink his last night alive.” Archie rolled his tumbler of bourbon between the palms of his hand then lifted the glass and took a long, deep, swallow.
“Have you ever told anyone this?” Belle asked. Archie shook his head. “Then thank you for telling me,” Belle said quietly.
“Telling you what? That I was a coward when I faced death?”
“No,” Belle said, then reached out with both of her hands and grabbed his face, forcing him to look directly into her eyes. “Thank you for showing me your good and decent soul.”
“But not a brave soul. Not like Mick Shaughnessy’s.”
“Better than Mick Shaughnessy’s.”
“You think a coward is better than a hero?”
“You’re no coward, Archie. You were frightened. You had no guns. You were locked in a room. You acted how most of us would act.” Belle reached down and clasped Archie’s hands in hers. “Don’t compare yourself to Mick.”
“Why not?” Archie cried. “He was the brave one. He was always the brave one. I’m surprised you were never involved with him. He liked women like you – bold women. You were the type he went after.”
“I never said he didn’t go after me,” Belle laughed. “I told you, I liked Mick. Very much. But I would never have him as a lover. We were too alike. I knew the mad impulses that drove him, I knew his demons and I knew his magic. But I would never sleep with him no matter how wonderfully charming he was.”
“No?” Archie said, suddenly aware of his hands being caressed by Belle.
“No,” she answered. “For some reason I’m attracted to men who are less flamboyant. Men who don’t have to demonstrate how wonderful they are. Men who carry strength and dignity and don’t have to show it off. Men like my father…or like you, Archie.”
Belle inched closer on the sofa. Archie shivered from a jolt of electricity that bolted from Belle’s hands into his. She leaned close, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face.
“Emma Goldman said you were as dangerous as a cobra,” Archie muttered.
“And what if I am? A cobra can be tamed. The fakir does it all the time. Do you know how?”
“I suspect you’re going to tell me, Miss Greene.”
“Trust. He trusts the cobra won’t strike out at him and it never does. They have a mutual bond of trust neither will break. I need you to trust me, Archie, and I promise I won’t strike out.” Belle moved her face to within inches of his.
“I’m not sure I can,” Archie said.
“Is it because of who I am? Because I’m…”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what, Archie? What?”
Belle waited for his answer. But Archie didn’t speak. Instead, he lowered his head until his lips tentatively met hers. She could feel his whole body trembling. Then something strange happened – an electric charge shot through her, stunning her with a vibrating rush of energy. She started trembling like him. It was like a sunburst in their kiss, warming their entire beings. She had to pull back.
“My god, Archie,” she whispered. “My god…”
Archie wrapped his arms around her and pressed her close. She put her head on his shoulder. “What just happened, Archie?”
“The cobra and her fakir finally met,” he said, then lifted his head to look at her. Her face was luminous. “It’s late, Belle. Would you like to spend the evening here?”
“It’s almost morning, Archie. I have spent the evening here.”
He smiled and reclined back on the sofa, taking her more tightly in his embrace. The warmth of her body against his, the weight of her head near his chest, filled him with an overwhelming joy. He felt her relax. Her breathing slowed into long, peaceful exhales. He closed his eyes and let himself drift with her; it was like the first time he had met her. Nothing else in the world existed – he could see nothing else, hear nothing else, feel nothing else, experience nothing else – only Belle da Costa Greene. In his arms. Belle da Costa Greene…
“His files,” Belle mumbled through her sleepiness.
“Hmmm?”
Belle lifted her head. “Have you looked in his files, Archie?”
“Whose files?”
“Mick’s. That’s where librarians always start – a file. The army has to have files on him. Maybe the police do too.”
“I’ve never even thought of that.”
Belle put her head back down and snuggled into the crook of Archie’s arm. “That’s why you need a cobra,” Belle whispered before drifting back to sleep.
* * *
On June 20, 1911, a formal request was received at the Department of War for the Army file of Corporal Michael Shaughnessy. The written requisition was from the White House. It was signed by Major Archibald Butt.
CHAPTER 35
It was all too familiar to Henry: a cold cell of brick and concrete, a foul smelling bucket for a toilet and a bed constructed of a gas-piping frame topped with a razor thin mattress. Like before, Henry shared his cell with a large, extended family of rats. Unlike before, he also shared the cell with another human being. Franco Bonini was from New York by way of Rome. At 19, Franco was not much older than Henry. But at five foot eleven, he towered above his tiny cellmate who looked like he had barely reached puberty. Far from being a dark, handsome Italian, Franco had pale skin, dirty blond hair, blue eyes and a soft roll of fat around his middle that gave him the appearance of a walking pyramid. He was doing time for theft. “I steal a roast for mama ‘cause we hafta eat,” Franco moaned to Henry. “The butcher catch me and I hand him the roast back, no problem, eh? The sonuvabitch gets the police anyway.”
Franco was serving an eight-year sentence. On separate occasions he had been caught stealing seven apples, an overcoat, a box of cigars, a sewing machine and the roast. Franco was a kind and gentle soul and an incredibly lousy thief. He treated Henry like a little brother, offering him support when Henry became discouraged. “Don’t worry, my friend, you’ll be out soon. In Italy they throw you in a dungeon and you’re never heard from again. But in America they no throw you in jail for long without a reason. Too many lawyers here.”
Henry wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here,” Henry lamented to Franco. That wasn’t entirely true. Henry had an inkling why he was in prison. He was accused of murdering Mick though he had never been charged with the crime, never saw a lawyer, never stood before a judge, never declared his innocence to a jury. Henry told Franco, “I’m not sure they will ever let me out, ‘cause no one even knows I am here.”
Sing Sing had the reputation of being the worst prison in America. A grand jury was appointed in 1911 to investigate the appalling conditions at the prison. The grand jury’s report noted: “The eighty-year old cells are unfit for the housing of animals, much less human beings…the cell block is infested with disease-carrying vermin which it is impossible to eradicate. Vermin swa
rm in every corner of the cells… the bed space is grossly inadequate, the ventilation is insufficient, the close contact of prisoners is demoralizing. Immorality abounds, disease is fostered, criminal propensities cultivated and inculcated. Half the showers don’t work and sometimes as many as twelve prisoners, the diseased and the healthy, crowd under one shower. The steam conditions allow perverts, thus screened from observations, to practice acts of sexual degeneracy.”
Henry was well aware of the dangers that lurked in the showers. He had witnessed men preying on each other first hand. Though he had the appearance of an innocent choirboy, his innocence was tempered by the grim reality of living on the street for years.
Thursday morning was shower day for Henry’s wing. The guards marched him and Franco and 60 other prisoners to the shower area. The prisoners disrobed in a large dressing area then shuffled naked into the steamy shower room, away from the guards’ eyes. The guards didn’t care what went on in the showers. As long as the same number of men who walked in, walked out twenty minutes later, their job was complete.
Henry always stood away from the men who jostled to wash under the streams of hot water. The water usually turned cold halfway through the shower period. Henry liked cold showers. It was a preference he picked up winter bathing in the Hudson River. He usually dashed under the water in the last few minutes of the shower period, gave himself a quick and efficient scrub then dashed to dry himself off. Whatever unseemliness occurred in the foggy mist before he showered, he was more than happy to miss.
The Titanic Plan Page 22
