“Yes,” Franco called back loudly. “I will pull myself up.” Franco grabbed the rope and began grunting, trying to tug his round body skyward. “It is very difficult, my friend.”
“Use your feet to anchor you. Then climb.”
“Right,” said Franco.
High-pitched whistles began cutting through the darkness. Then a siren screamed out.
“C’mon Franco, ya gotta hurry.”
Franco braced both feet against the wall and, like a mountain climber, began scaling the limestone bricks. “It hurts, Henry, like hell, my foot, it hurts.”
“Keep going, Franco, you’re almost there.”
Franco was straining; his teeth were clenched, his face poured perspiration – partly from the oppressive humidity, partly from the physical strain, but mostly from pure fear. A spotlight from the guard tower began combing the prison yard. “Just a little more Franco,” Henry said, holding out his hand to his friend. But Franco stopped, frozen, five feet from the top.
“I can’t do it, Henry, it is too much.”
“Jus’ keep pullin’ the rope. You can do it, Franco.”
“Yes, I can do it,” Franco said and pulled one more time, hand over hand. Then he stopped again. Henry saw a squad of guards pouring into the prison yard.
“You hafta do it, Franco! Now!”
The roving spotlight found Franco and Henry on the wall.
“Climb, Franco. Climb!!!”
Henry heard a soft sob and noticed Franco, still frozen on the wall, was crying, his tears mixing with the torrents of sweat that were flooding off his face. A shot rang out. “Stop!!” “Halt!!” “Go no further!!”
Henry looked down the far side of the wall. It was a good thirty feet to the railroad tracks – a suicide jump. But he had no choice. Franco held fast to the rope, sobbing uncontrollably, knowing that he had blundered again. Henry didn’t bother to say goodbye. He pushed out into the darkness. While he was falling through mid-air, he prepared for the impact by folding his legs under him to absorb the jolt. He crashed then tumbled forward, trying to stop his momentum. He couldn’t; his head smashed into the ground then whip-lashed back. An excruciating pain exploded through his body, starting from his neck, into his shoulders, hips then shooting down both legs. His hamstrings seized up; his back throbbed as if daggers were plunged along the length of his spine. He was face up on the ground, staring at the stars, thinking he was paralyzed. There was no possible way he could get up. And there was no way he wouldn’t try. Henry grunted, then desperately rolled to one side. He had to stand or else the guards would find him. He forced himself to a sitting position then tried to get his feet under his body. He wavered back, gathered whatever strength he had left and raised himself up. A single step caused him to wobble like a punch-drunk fighter. Still, he lurched ahead, staggering from side to side, trying to get his balance. Henry tottered along the tracks until the high, narrow gully of the prison walls opened up. He knew the river was no more than fifty feet away. He wasn’t aware of the gunshots on the other side of the wall nor did he hear Franco’s screams when the barrage of bullets tore through the young Italian’s body. Henry heard nothing until the splash of water echoed in his ears when he tumbled into the Hudson. Then there was silence. He rolled onto his back and let his light body float atop the waters that carried him down river.
CHAPTER 38
In Washington, the magical mood that blossomed at the Taft’s Silver Anniversary party withered as quickly as it arrived. Archie wrote: “Taft is very much worried over these scandals which Congress has unearthed or which they think they have unearthed. He takes these charges seriously...Roosevelt would have called them all a pack of lies and the public would have accepted his statement.”
Taft traveled to his vacation cottage in Beverly, Massachusetts, in late August, but his stay was short. With his support around the country plummeting, the President’s advisors determined that he should travel on a cross-country barnstorming tour to promote his policies and reinvigorate his popularity. The marathon march began in mid-September. Two months later, Taft was still on the road with Archie along for every grueling step of the way. “We have actually traveled on railroads 25,270 miles and at least 3,000 miles by motor and side trips,” Archie wrote in a letter. “We have been on the go for 58 days, and 14 nights we have spent off the train. We have visited 28 states, entertained as many governors and have been flooded by their ridiculous staffs and yapped at by all the Congressmen and ward politicians from Beverly to the Coast and back again. We have made 220 stops and the President has made 380 speeches. We have carried farther and estimated that he has addressed 1,614,850 persons in auditoriums and halls and from platforms and has been seen by 3,213,600 ear-splitting citizens. Do you wonder that our nerves have been disintegrated and that our innards are all upside down?”
The Presidential entourage finally returned to Washington in late November. Amid the stack of correspondence waiting for Archie was a letter from the Department of War. It concerned Archie’s request for the files of Corporal Michael Shaughnessy. It stated that there were no files. In fact, the letter went on to say, there was no record of any Michael Augustus Shaughnessy serving in the United States Army.
But that’s impossible, there has to be a file. Then it struck Archie; he had seen the file. Not in the War Department, but in the Justice Department, in Stanley Finch’s bony hands. In that case, the only way he would be able to view the contents would be for Finch to allow it. And Archie suspected there was as much chance of that as there was of Mick coming back and clearing up the mystery himself.
* * *
That same November, two months after Henry’s escape, a train sped down the railroad tracks that bordered Sing Sing. It did not slow when it skirted the platform and high walls of the prison. From his first class compartment, George Vanderbilt hardly noticed the dark citadel outside. He was engrossed reading Ethan Frome, Edith Wharton’s new novel. He would occasionally glance up from the pages and glimpse out the window. Long gone were the days of green meadows and fields carpeted with wildflowers. The grass was brown. Dry leaves were falling from the trees.
Vanderbilt’s train traveled along the Hudson River and pulled into the Highland Falls station. A car was waiting to take him to Cragston, the manor of J. Pierpont Morgan. Vanderbilt looked forward to seeing Morgan’s country estate. As some people are connoisseurs of art or wine, Vanderbilt was a connoisseur of manors.
Coming onto the grounds of Cragston, Vanderbilt was impressed. The estate reflected the personality of Morgan: expansive yet controlled; elegant, but not overly fussy. When Morgan bought it in 1872, he clear cut the surrounding forest to create a view of the Hudson River from the house. He built stables and tennis courts, a dock for his yacht, put in ponds and green houses, planted formal gardens along with vineyards and fruit trees. Over the decades he constantly remodeled, bringing in his artifacts and art treasures to fill the rooms and line the walls.
Vanderbilt was shown to his room by the butler and informed that Mr. Morgan would meet him at four for tea. Perfect, thought Vanderbilt, who then loosened his tie, lay back on a large, canopied bed, and slipped off for a brief nap.
Tea was served in an informal dining room that had an unfettered view of the river. Vanderbilt noticed how relaxed Morgan was. Removed from his business environment, Morgan’s imperious demeanor was reigned in. The imposing visage, the preposterous nose, the uneven complexion, all were softened by Morgan’s comfortable manner. It wasn’t that Morgan became a shrinking violet; he still retained an air of absolute self-assurance that came with decades of wealth and power. But in private he happily didn’t have to work at being J. Pierpont Morgan – he just was.
“You know, George, I did business with your father,” Morgan began, puffing on a tremendous black cigar. “Helped him move 50,000 shares of New York Central Railroad. He made a lot of money on that transaction.”
“If I’m not mistaken, so did you.”
Morgan frowned,
not sure if Vanderbilt was taking a veiled shot at him for scooping a healthy percentage off the top. “My father was always appreciative of your involvement in that deal,” Vanderbilt added, smoothing the moment over.
“Your father was a gentle, God-fearing man. Because he had a quiet demeanor, many people believed he was rather dull of mind. But he added how much? A hundred-million dollars to the Vanderbilt fortune?”
“My father always had a way of making money. As did my grandfather. It seems to be the Vanderbilt way.”
“Yes,” smiled Morgan. “You Vanderbilts do have a golden touch. That is one of the reasons why I have taken your proposal so seriously.”
“Its current form owes everything to you, Mr. Morgan. You were the one that suggested the commerce centers. And I must say, it was a brilliant suggestion.”
Morgan grunted at Vanderbilt’s flattery. “There are a lot of obstacles to overcome if it is to be successful.”
Vanderbilt sensed that Morgan was measuring him. “I believe that not to succeed at this project would ultimately handicap American business. And if I might be so bold, I think you see that as well,” Vanderbilt said with resolve.
“Well…” Morgan puffed on his cigar then blew the smoke skyward, “I do see that. Perhaps not in the same way you do though.”
“How does your vision differ?”
Morgan cleared his throat and closed his eyes as if to collect his thoughts. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you, George. I know how the business game is played. And let me tell you, it’s an inefficient, bloody mess. The problem is that no one is in control – the entire system is run on chaos. People don’t understand the benefit of long-term stability. Most of my peers are out to make a quick dollar and damn any consequences. The unions and anarchists want to tear the whole system down so we can all share like children in kindergarten. And the government shackles business so tightly with their rules and regulations that there’s no room for dynamic growth. It begs the question, what kind of system can exist that will provide stable markets without boom and bust cycles, like the one we went through in ’07?” Morgan took another long puff on his cigar. “It’s a bigger issue than just commerce. You do understand that?”
“I’m not sure I do, sir,” Vanderbilt answered, feeling like an overwhelmed freshman being schooled by the Professor Emeritus.
“The value in your plan is that it will impose order,” Morgan stated resolutely. “It’s simple, actually: your plan is to control commerce. And commerce controls business. And business drives America. Your plan will allow the business workings of the country to run at its maximum potential because it puts the control of our economic system into the hands of businessmen who understand the necessity of order and efficiency.”
“But the government ultimately controls the economic system,” Vanderbilt piped in.
“You really believe that, George? What is the government but a collection of bureaucrats and politicians? Despite what they say, they are not beholden to the people, but to a chaotic system of their creation whose sole purpose is to perpetuate their own existence. If the system collapses, especially the economic system, do you think anyone in government, even the President of the United States, would retain a shred of power? No. Their heads would be on pikes in a fortnight.
“The beauty of your plan is that it quietly creates a vehicle for an enlightened group of businessmen to steer the American economy toward maximum efficiency. I do not believe you realize the enormous power that is contained in your plan – but I believe you are right in that it will stoke the fires of business throughout America. There is one problem with it though.”
“What is that, Mr. Morgan?”
“It’s blatantly illegal, a gross violation of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act. You are bringing too many divergent businesses under a single entity. It would trigger alarms in Washington in a second.”
“We’ve recognized this issue,” Vanderbilt countered. “We feel that the current administration looks favorably upon business and, if we worked with the right people within the administration, we would be able to gain their cooperation.”
“Are you referring to Major Butt?”
“Him, yes, among others.”
Morgan shook his head. “No, not good enough. You can’t bring the richest businessmen from diverse industries together in one group and say it’s not creating a monopoly. Especially when it is. And it doesn’t matter how close Major Butt is to Taft, he doesn’t have that much influence over policy. The only way for this project to work is for it to be controlled by just a few individuals cooperating with a single government entity in a very quiet way.
“That’s not how Astor and I structured it, sir. Considering the size and scope of the project, it is our belief that the only way it could gain sufficient funding is to bring together the richest industrialists alive.”
“Your belief is wrong, George,” Morgan said bluntly. “I can make this plan a reality with my resources alone. You should have come to me first.”
“We did, sir,” Vanderbilt replied. “And you turned us down.”
“Touché. I suppose I did.” Morgan cleared his throat. “In any case, I know all of the people you have involved. Some are good people, some aren’t. But you will never get a consensus among them. Once the actual construction begins, it will disintegrate into backbiting, power plays and petty politics until the whole thing unravels. With a project of this scope you need a small group at the top overseeing its implementation.”
“It would be difficult to change course now.”
“Everything in life is difficult,” Morgan snapped, and then smiled. “But if it’s your conviction that’s how it is, then that’s how it should probably remain. For now. And what about Astor?”
“What about him, Mr. Morgan?”
“Why isn’t he here with you today? I wanted to meet with you both.”
Vanderbilt looked out the window and noticed a lone sloop navigating down the river. “Astor had important matters of a personal nature to attend to in New York. He asked me to convey his regrets for not being here.”
“George, it’s just not a good practice to let one’s personal affairs get in the way of business. I never let that happen with me.”
“No, sir,” Vanderbilt said deferentially. “But John Astor has recently married and he has some issues with his new bride that need attention. I hope you would understand and excuse his absence.”
Morgan said nothing. He rose from the table and walked to the window. A late afternoon moon was rising. Morgan stared at it for a long while. Vanderbilt watched, fascinated by Morgan contemplating the scarred face of the moon that, without too much imagination, resembled Morgan’s own scarred face. Morgan then blew one…two…three perfect smoke rings toward the rising moon.
“I’m an old man, George. I move slowly, my mind grows tired, my body aches all over and I don’t have much time left on this earth. I certainly don’t want to needlessly charge at windmills. I like you. I like your project and I like your ambition. But I’m going to be honest: I do not wish to waste my energy or resources on something that will produce only headaches. I’ve worked with Astor before…quite closely and…oh, how can I put this…he has a tendency of being less than dependable. And the one thing I won’t tolerate is doing business with an unreliable partner.”
“All I can say is that this project began with Colonel Astor,” Vanderbilt said defensively. “And while he can be frustrating to work with at times, I find him to be thoroughly creative and engaged.”
“The problem is not Astor’s creativity or level of engagement, but his ability to hold all the elements together over an extended period of time. So here is my proposition: you have four months to demonstrate to me that this project can work with the team you’ve assembled. I want to see land purchases, development plans and I want to have a meeting, a general meeting with every person who is involved so that we might all hammer out a shared vision of how we’ll get this done. If I am satisfied with
this and the team you’ve assembled, I am on board with you. If not, well…” Morgan waved a dismissive hand through the air.
“Four months is very quick to put that all together, sir.”
Morgan puffed on his cigar and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll give you five. Now…” Morgan said, lightening his demeanor, “I know you’re a collector of rare books. I’ve recently purchased an exquisite Caxton.”
“Le Mort d’Arthur. Every book collector in the world knows of your purchase, Mr. Morgan.”
“I have it here in my library. Would you like to see it?” Morgan spoke with the glee of a young child wanting to show off what he got for Christmas.
CHAPTER 39
On December 19, 1911, Archie accompanied Taft for a quick whirlwind of New York political banquets. Because of a severe snowstorm, the Presidential train was delayed for six hours. When Archie finally reached the Waldorf-Astoria at midnight, there was a message waiting for him at the front desk: I MUST SEE YOU STOP IMPORTANT STOP YOUR COBRA.
Belle. That woman never fails to surprise me. He took the elevator to his room, all the while thinking it would be nice to see her, but realizing it was just about impossible – his schedule with Taft was completely full. Stepping into his room he wondered if he should call Belle, but decided it was too late. Then the telephone rang.
“Call for Major Butt from Miss da Costa Greene,” the hotel operator said.
“Put her through.”
The low, sultry voice that came through the receiver was unmistakable. “Archie?”
“So good to hear from you, Belle.”
“If it’s so good, Major, why haven’t you made any attempt to contact me?”
“Haven’t you read the papers? I’ve been gallivanting across the country with the President.”
“That’s no excuse, Archie, especially after what we shared with each other. You could have at least written a passionate letter or two. You don’t have a sweetheart, do you?”
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