The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  The keys to the building were in his pocket. As Chief Military Aide to the President, it wasn’t hard to get them. He crossed the street and walked up to the building’s bronze doors. He replayed the argument for breaking in one more time: that this was a minor moral infraction, overridden by the need to get to the bottom of a murder, Mick Shaughnessy’s murder. He slid the key into the lock. The heavy bronze door opened easily, leading into a cavernous foyer that was dark and freezing cold. Archie took a step in then stopped. Second thoughts flooded through his mind. He could easily turn back and abort this late-night mission.

  “Excuse me,” a clipped voice cut the air. Archie whirled. A young soldier stood at the edge of the foyer, his hand poised near his revolver. “What is your business here?”

  “Official business,” Archie said weakly, like a little boy who was caught sneaking into the candy store.

  “This building is closed.”

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Archie fumbled. “I could leave and perhaps come back when the building is open in the morning?”

  “That would probably be best,” the soldier said.

  Archie seemed relieved. He grasped the door handle, ready to pull it, but didn’t. Instead, he spun and met the young soldier’s gaze. “I have instructions from the President of the United States to access important information. While I can do it tomorrow morning, it would be best for me to accomplish the mission this evening. I am Major Archibald Butt, Chief Military Aide to President Taft. I trust you know of me.”

  The soldier stared at Archie, combing the features of his face. Then saluted. “My apologies, Major Butt. I have seen you many times by the President’s side. I didn’t recognize you without your uniform. I was just following procedure.”

  Archie saluted back. “And you did well, young man. Now, I shall proceed and we need not bother each other again.”

  Archie quickly made his way through the dark corridors to an office near the back of the building. The stencil on the door’s pebbled glass window read: Director Stanley Finch – Bureau of Investigation. Archie took a second key from his pocket, unlocked the door and entered. He walked through the outer office into Finch’s inner sanctum. It had been over a year since he had last been in the office. It had grown even more ostentatious. The heavy blue drapes were drawn. There was a couch on one side of the room that was bracketed by end tables on which stood two bronze eagles. Eagles were the overriding motif of the office – sculpted, cast and painted. A line of the stuffed birds was even perched along the top of the large wooden filing cabinet, peering over the office like vigilant sentries.

  Archie made his way to that cabinet. He remembered the exact drawer that Finch had taken Mick’s file from – first column, third drawer down. He grabbed the handle and tugged. The drawer didn’t budge. “Damn,” Archie muttered. Then his memory sharpened. He recalled a large key ring with countless keys. He remembered how exacting Finch was in finding the right key then sliding it into the barrel lock.

  Maybe the desk, that would be a logical place to keep the keys. He walked around the large desk, slightly unsettled by the stuffed eagles that seemed to be watching him with their glinting glass eyes. He pulled open the desk’s top drawer. Inside was a neatly arranged set of fountain pens, a stack of paper with Finch’s letterhead splashed across the top in bold letters, and a small, snub-nosed pistol. No keys. Archie rubbed his face and pulled out his pocket watch. 2:15. He rummaged through the drawer again, hoping against hope that maybe he missed something. He didn’t. He was about to close the drawer, but instead, reached for the pistol. The small gun felt light in his hand. He snapped opened the barrel. All the five chambers held bullets. He drew the gun up and examined its pearl handle.

  The image of Mick, his gun held high over his head while bursting into the Manila slaughterhouse, came to Archie’s mind. He re-gripped the pistol and walked to the file cabinet. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, Archie wrapped it around the barrel then raised the gun inches from the lock. “This is insane,” Archie said for the second time that early morning while taking dead aim. Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger. He expected a modest pop from the tiny gun, especially with the handkerchief wrapped around it. But in the still of the night, the gunshot exploded like a cannon. The barrel lock twisted into a lump of metal. Archie tugged the drawer open and peered in, half expecting to find it empty. It wasn’t; it was full of neatly arranged folders labeled with names familiar to him – politicians, civil servants, financiers, businessmen, even foreign ambassadors. One file immediately drew his attention: “John Pierpoint Morgan.” He pulled it out and began reading. The report detailed every bit of nasty gossip and rumor ever spoken about Morgan. Having no desire to learn of Morgan’s many mistresses, he returned the file then continued looking through the drawer, thumbing toward the back for the name he was after. Salinger… Sands… Seely… Seltzer…Shaughnessy. There it was! He lifted out the thick file then quickly moved to Finch’s desk and sat in the leather chair.

  Mick’s file contained three folders. In the first folder were his Army records: standard recruitment forms, results of enlistment tests, his induction dates and postings. There was a memo from his basic training Sergeant commending Mick on his “physical prowess and superior intelligence.” The same memo also noted that “Private Shaughnessy has difficulty with authority and despite his excellent soldierly traits, is sometimes deficient in his ability to follow orders.”

  Then he saw the picture that Finch had showed him before, of Mick and him together in their dress uniforms. Archie remembered that it was taken on a summer’s evening in Manila. Mick had high hopes of being transferred to a combat unit and suggested they get a picture together “in case either of us make the ultimate sacrifice of a soldier.” Archie told Mick that, as an officer in charge of livestock, it was doubtful he would be in mortal danger. “You never know, Captain,” was Mick’s reply. The next day Archie was kidnapped.

  Archie was so caught up in the report he didn’t hear the guard coming into the room. “Sir!” the soldier said.

  Startled, Archie looked up. “Yes? What is it?” Archie answered, all the while noticing the soldier taking in the scene, scrutinizing the spread of folders and papers over Finch’s desk.

  “I heard a gunshot,” the soldier said. “I thought there may have been some trouble.”

  “No trouble. You can return to your post, private.”

  The soldier’s look wandered to the filing cabinet with the lock blown open.

  “You can return to your post, private!” Archie repeated firmly.

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier answered.

  Archie waited for him to step out of the office and listened for his footsteps to recede. He opened the thin second folder. It chronicled Mick’s activities after he left the Army. There was a picture of a wedding party – eight men and a woman, stiffly posed in an old, country church. The names of the people were written over their images in fading black ink: Mick Shaughnessy, Bridget Murphy, Arthur Griffith, Seamus Deakin, Eamon de Valera, Cathal Brugha, Neal O’Boyal, John Mulholland, Patrick Pearse. Written on the back of the picture, in tight, precise handwriting, was a note: August 24, 1905, Michael Shaughnessy marries Bridget Murphy, daughter of Charles Murphy, in Cork County, Ireland.

  A hand written report followed the picture. “Shaughnessy has attached himself to the leadership of Irish agitators and is currently training Irish rebel forces, including members of the Fenian Brotherhood, Gaelic League and the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Shaughnessy is a former U.S. Army officer. His knowledge of military strategies and tactics are considered formidable, as is his dedication to the causes he champions. It is recommended that his activities be held under surveillance.”

  Following that page was a series of reports detailing Mick’s experiences in Ireland. Though the language was dry and matter of fact, the reports read like adventure stories. Mick had allied himself with
rebels that were conspiring to fight England for Irish home rule. Because his activities put him in danger, Mick sent his pregnant wife to America in 1906. One of the reports noted, “Shaughnessy leads his life recklessly, drinking and womanizing as he pursues his radical activities.”

  Mick was arrested by the Irish Provincial police in a room above Davy Byrne’s public house in Dublin. He was found next to a printing press and a stack of pamphlets promoting Irish revolution. He attempted to escape by breaking a window and was shot in the shoulder. Ireland deported Shaughnessy back to the United States in March of 1907. The Justice Department official who wrote the reports signed it with the same tight handwriting: Agent Stanley Finch.

  Archie peered at the ticking clock on Finch’s desk: 4:13. He was exhausted, yet compelled by Mick’s story. He pulled out the last folder. In the first report, Finch wrote of visiting Mick in an Ellis Island detention cell. “The detainee was offered the Justice Department’s conditions for non-prosecution. It was made clear to him that if he did not cooperate, he would be remanded for trial. The detainee said that he did not break any laws of the United States then stated, ‘You bloody go to hell.’”

  After several more contentious encounters in the detention cell, Finch tried a new tactic. “I showed the detainee documents written by radicals and subversives that advocated a violent revolution in America. I pointed out that he could save countless lives by working with us.”

  Mick refused at first, and then had a sudden change of heart. “Shaughnessy indicated that he was willing to cooperate with the Justice Department’s request if certain requisites for his collaboration were met. His terms included autonomy within the parameters of the Justice Department’s assignments, a specified time limit in which he would carry out his assignments, resettlement after this time limit, and a pension for his wife and child should he be disabled or killed while carrying out his assignments.”

  According to Finch’s report, Mick Shaughnessy went to work as a spy to “infiltrate the anarchist circles of the United States” on October 27, 1907. His reputation as an Irish revolutionary allowed him to gain entrance into the inner world of the radical movement. He began by going to meetings in Greenwich Village and was immediately accepted as a compatriot. Mick submitted short reports to Finch, which were included in the file. “There appears to be no coherent plan within the movement for the overthrow of the government,” Mick wrote in an early report. “Each separate organization within the radical circles has its own agenda with their own schemes and strategies, ranging from peaceful political protest to violent confrontation. Not only is there no coordination between the organizations, but there is continual dissension, jealousies and animosities that render a significant threat against the U.S. government minimal.”

  Finch had scribbled in the margins, Could this be misleading? noting his suspicion of Mick’s information.

  Captivated, Archie turned to the next report and was shaken when he saw a new person profiled in the pages: “Captain Archibald Butt, the Chief Military Aide to the President, is Shaughnessy’s former commanding officer. This office believes that Butt could gain Shaughnessy’s trust and would be an ideal person to observe and convey Shaughnessy’s activities back to us. Butt is a loyal and rather innocuous functionary.”

  Archie grew distressed as he continued to read. The report gave a detailed account his life – his upbringing, his parents, his close relationship with his mother, his life in the Army, his friendship with Mick and his service in the White House with Roosevelt and Taft. It even recounted every type of wild rumor and gossip about him. Archie read a rumor that had him as an agent of the Freemasons who wanted to subvert the worship of the Christian God in America; another bit of hearsay reported that Archie was unmarried because he was actually a homosexual.

  Archie began shaking with anger, trying to make some sense of it all when he heard a sharp rap. He looked up and saw the backlit silhouette of a short man pointing a revolver at him from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing, Butt?” Stanley Finch spat, his voice full of contempt. Stunned, Archie couldn’t utter a word. “The guard called me after you’d been shooting guns off in my office,” Finch continued. “You’ve just thrown your career away, you know that? You’re done.”

  “I don’t think so,” Archie said hoarsely, finding his voice.

  “I’m seeing a list of criminal charges right in front of me. Forcible entry of federal property, theft of confidential documents. You’re looking at years of prison.”

  “I think you may be speaking about yourself,” Archie said, his speech growing steadier.

  “What are you talking about?” Finch snorted.

  “The files in your cabinet. You’re spying on Americans.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re just standard background portfolios. We’re fulfilling the mandate of this agency.”

  “Is that so?” Archie said aggressively. “Standard background portfolios are not filled with every sort of personal information.”

  Finch’s lips moved into a wry smile. “My agency does a good job. That’s why the files are confidential and locked in my office. It is part of this agency’s responsibilities.”

  “To invade people’s privacy? I believe that right is protected in the Constitution, sir.”

  “This agency’s mandate is to uphold the Constitution and protect America from its enemies. And we have a right to do whatever is necessary to carry out the agency’s mandate. This office is the last line of defense of those who would destroy our republic,” Finch said, his hand gripping his gun tighter. “And as you have illegally broken into this office and shot your way into these classified files, that makes you a criminal and an enemy of the republic.”

  “You’re crazy!” Archie blurted.

  Finch bit his lower lip, trying hard to restrain himself. “I’m perfectly in my rights to put an end to you right now. Who’s to say you didn’t try firing at me?”

  Archie saw in Finch’s agitated face the real possibility that he could pull the trigger. “You wouldn’t do that,” Archie said calmly. “It would be a mess to kill me in your office. There would be publicity. An investigation. In fact, even arresting me would be messy. I would reveal everything about the files. My career would be finished, you’re right about that. But so would yours. Everything you worked so hard to create would be gone in a sensational, scandalous mess.”

  Finch cast his eyes down and chewed on Archie’s words. He knew Archie was right and he wasn’t happy about it. “Okay, Butt,” Finch grumbled. “You’ll just have to resign and go quietly into the night.”

  “I don’t think so. I have the President’s ear.”

  “You don’t know whose ear I have,” Finch trumpeted with chilly bravado. The two stared at each other like gunslingers from the old west – Finch clutching his pistol; Archie trying to remain calm in the face of the gun barrel. “I’d get rid of all these files if I were you,” Archie said.

  “But you’re not me,” Finch growled. “And we both must be patriots. I won’t say a word about what happened here tonight and neither will you. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Archie continued to stare down Finch for a long, defiant moment before slowly turning to leave.

  Opening the heavy door of the building and stepping outside, Archie was surprised by the freezing morning that greeted him. He entered the building in darkness and expected darkness when he exited. Instead, he was met by the brightening light of the rising winter sun. He felt weary and took a gulp of the bracing air. Gazing across the city’s horizon, he was struck by the sight of the Washington Monument. Sunlight shimmered along one side of the white obelisk so that a long morning shadow was cast over the city. It struck Archie that the towering monolith was like the gleaming blade of a giant sundial cutting into the boundless sky. The monument that Archie always felt was oddly useless, now seemed to gain a purpose: it was a reminder to the powerful men who inhabited the city below that they were strutting across this seeming momentous s
tage for only a brief instant of time and that their importance would evaporate as quickly as the shadow the monument cast.

  CHAPTER 42

  As 1911 drew to an end, the labor movement suffered a significant setback. In Los Angeles, the McNamara brothers, who were held up as brave (and innocent) warriors in the labor struggle, suddenly plead guilty to the bombing of the L.A. Times and the deaths of 14 Times workers. Reaction to the plea reversal was strong and swift. Newspaper editorials proclaimed the labor movement dangerous to the country. Labor leaders were portrayed as unrepentant radicals whose real goal was the violent overthrow of the government.

  In Big Bill Haywood’s case, it was true. His goal was a workers uprising, violent or not, he really didn’t care as long as it was successful. As public sentiment turned away from the worker’s movement, Haywood became even more obsessed with igniting the fire of revolution any way he could. Barnstorming the country, Haywood delivered one incendiary speech after another, speeches that denounced the capitalist system and offered a militant socialist vision as the only alternative. He stopped short of publicly calling for revolution in the streets, knowing that would get him a quick trip to prison.

  Haywood spoke 5 times a week, 52 weeks a year, to any size crowd that would listen. He spoke to coal miners and shoe cobblers, textile laborers and farmers, steelworkers and printers, preaching the gospel of radical change. All during his travels Haywood was on the lookout for another event that would swing the country’s sympathies back behind working men and women.

  He found that event when the Massachusetts State legislature passed a mild labor reform bill that cut the work week for women and children from fifty-six hours to fifty-four hours. The mill owners were infuriated. “Government interference!” they protested and looked for ways to retaliate against the new law.