The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  “And you’re angry at him for this, Mrs. Shaughnessy?”

  “I try not to be,” she said, calming herself. “I understand Mick believed in his dreams. And because it was so exhilarating, because he was so exhilarating, we were all taken in. And he did do good. He saved your life in the Philippines. He provided for his daughter and me. And he helped those poor people who so desperately needed help. So however much I hated him for the lies he told me and the fantasy world he created for himself, I also loved him for everything that he was and the joy he brought to my life.”

  “Yes, I did too, Mrs. Shaughnessy. I loved him very much.”

  “Of course you did…we all did.” They lingered in the warm, shared moment then Mrs. Shaughnessy quickly stood up. “Thank you for your concern, Major. That’s all I can help you with.” She extended her hand, letting Archie know it was time for him to leave.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shaughnessy, for your honesty and candor,” he said, rising from the chair. She nodded and began leading him to the door. “One thing I’m still not clear about though. Mick hasn’t been here to arrange things for almost two years. How can you still afford this house?”

  Mrs. Shaughnessy stopped and slit her eyes at Archie. “I’ve said enough as it is. I’d appreciate you honor my desire to leave this all behind.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Shaughnessy, while you’ve revealed much to me, I do not believe you’ve been completely candid.”

  Her eyes explored Archie’s earnest face. Perhaps she had underestimated him. “Alright, Captain, I’ll answer your question,” she said with her soft Irish lilt. “I have no idea how it all works. Mick arranged everything. Even from the grave he seems to have taken care of all our family matters.”

  “How so?”

  “I get money. Enough for me and my daughter to live comfortably.”

  “Who from?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. $200 arrives in my mail every month. It’s like a gift from heaven. Mick’s little gift to keep his family alive.”

  “Who signs the check?”

  “No check. Cash. In an envelope that has no return address.”

  “And you’re never curious who is sending it?”

  “I’m always curious. I tried to find out once. I did a little probing, asked a few questions here and there. Then I got a note warning me that if I wished to continue receiving the money, I should leave well enough alone.”

  “Do you have any of the envelopes, Mrs. Shaughnessy?”

  “No.”

  “The note?”

  Mrs. Shaughnessy hesitated just long enough. “I’d like to see that note,” Archie quickly jumped in.

  “It’s just a short message,” Mrs. Shaughnessy uttered tentatively. “And I told you exactly what it says.”

  “You are not breaking any trust by allowing me to see it. I will do nothing to jeopardize your payment. I promise,” Archie said in the most assuring voice he could muster. Mrs. Shaughnessy hesitated before realizing that Archie wouldn’t leave until he saw the note. She crossed the room to a side table and opened the top drawer, removing a small, neatly folded bit of stationary and handed it to Archie. He unfolded it and read: “Dear Mrs. Shaughnessy, If you wish to continue receiving these payments, please honor your husband’s wishes that they be sent anonymously.”

  “You see,” Mrs. Shaughnessy said. “There is no clue there, just a little message that I intend to respect.”

  “Just a little message,” Archie repeated. Mrs. Shaughnessy was wrong though, there was a clue: the short sentence was written in a tight, precise hand that Archie had seen before and recognized immediately: Finch.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shaughnessy,” Archie said, handing the letter back to her. “I’ll leave you now, as that’s what you want.”

  “Yes, that is what I want. And please, don’t come back. It’s best for my daughter and me. Please. Stay away.”

  Archie gave a quick nod, committing to nothing, then headed out the door. Crossing the street, he noticed his car’s side door hanging open and the driver’s seat empty. “Henry?” Archie said, rushing to the car. “Henry!” Archie called louder, not seeing him anywhere. “Henry!!” Archie called one more time, looking down the quiet street for any sign of the boy. There was none.

  CHAPTER 48

  On the night of February 20, 1912, Theodore Roosevelt delivered a speech to a state constitutional convention at Columbus, Ohio. It was a controversial speech on a controversial subject: the recall of judges. Unlike Taft, who had been a judge for a number of years before his political career, Roosevelt had a less than stellar opinion of the judiciary. He had seen progressive legislation he championed, such as child labor laws, health and safety legislation, and regulation to curb corporate abuse, overturned by judges who declared those laws unconstitutional because they infringed on individual and corporate liberty.

  That evening, Roosevelt gave an impassioned address that attacked Taft’s positions. The atmosphere at the convention hall was electric. Roosevelt received a thunderous ovation after he finished. When he started away from the podium, a reporter shouted at him, “Are you a candidate for President?” Off the cuff, an emboldened Roosevelt shouted back a response that had its origins in barroom boxing challenges: “My hat is in the ring!”

  The next afternoon, February 21, Archie was summoned to the Oval Office. Taft wanted to take a walk even though the weather was wet and nasty. The two men started strolling around the White House when the President, nervous and agitated, led Archie off the grounds. Taft picked up the pace, walking through the nearby streets in brooding silence until he erupted in a bitter diatribe against Roosevelt and his speech the previous evening. Taft was furious at Roosevelt for not only announcing that he would oppose him for the Republican nomination, but entering the race in Ohio, Taft’s home state. “I have a strong feeling that the Colonel is going to beat me in the Convention,” Taft stated with certainty.

  “I don’t think so,” Archie said, trying to cheer his boss up. “I think that whatever esteem people hold for Roosevelt, they know his time has passed.”

  “I just believe that Theodore has gone too far,” Taft grumbled. “He has leaped far ahead of the most radical leaders. He will either be a hopeless failure if elected or destroy his own reputation.”

  Archie became more distraught than ever by the whole situation. He loved both men. It was his duty not to abandon his Commander-In-Chief in this time of need. But neither did he want to alienate Roosevelt, the man he felt tremendously close to and who was probably more capable of leading the country out of its morass.

  The next day, worn and still conflicted, Archie purchased his ticket on the S.S. Berlin to sail to Naples, though second thoughts were already creeping in. He sent a letter to his sister-in-law expressing his dilemma. “I lay awake a long time last night, trying to make up my mind as to what my duty was in regard to this trip to Italy. I really can’t bear to leave the President just now.”

  Archie woke up the next morning and cancelled his ticket. Blurry-eyed from lack of sleep, he marched into the Oval Office and told Taft that he had decided not to travel to Italy, but to stay in Washington D.C. to be by the President’s side. “You will do no such thing, Major,” Taft replied. “You will be on the ship.” Then Taft grew serious. “I will need you soon enough, Archie…Go to Rome, relax, take care of the little business we discussed, meet the Pope, then come back rested and ready to be at my side for the battle.”

  Archie agreed. That night though, he was again invaded by a deep feeling of dread. He re-experienced the icy chill of a premonition. The next day he decided to make a will for the first time in his life. He wrote to his sister-in-law again that evening: “I have come to the conclusion that if I am to go through this frightful summer I must rest now. Don’t forget that all my papers are in the storage warehouse, and if the old ship goes down you will find my affairs in shipshape condition. As I always write you in this way whenever I go anywhere, you will not be bothered by prese
ntiments now.”

  * * *

  On March 2, 1912, Archie climbed the boarding ramp of the S.S. Berlin. As was the custom, the deck of the ship was crowded with friends and relatives of the passengers bidding them bon voyage. There was also a gang of reporters from the New York dailies whose beat it was to cover the goings and comings of famous passengers. On that day, the Military Aide to the President qualified as famous. A report of Archie’s departure appeared in the March 3rd edition of the New York Times. “Major Archibald Butt, Military Aide to the President of the United States, sailed yesterday for Europe on the North German Lloyd liner Berlin for a rest in a suit of clothes that won the admiration of every passenger on the deck of the liner, including a deaf and dumb Greek sponge merchant from Patras. His cambric handkerchief was tucked up his left sleeve like Kipling’s pukka Indian soldier man. He wore a bright copper-colored Norfolk jacket fastened by big ball-shaped buttons of red porcelain, a lavender tie, tall bay-wing collar, trousers of the same material as the coat, a derby hat with a broad, flat brim, and patent leather shoes with white tops. The Major had a bunch of lilies in his buttonhole, and appeared to be delighted at the prospect of going away.”

  The reporters bantered with Archie who, despite the stiff wind that was gusting across the harbor and right into his face, seemed to enjoy the spotlight. “How’s Taft holding out?” a reporter shouted. “Just fine,” Archie answered. “It’s me who’s lost 20 pounds.” “Rumor has it you’re engaged to be married, Major.” “I wish it were true,” Archie shot back. “This bachelorhood is a miserable existence.”

  As questions came flying his way, Archie noticed a woman staring at him from beyond the cluster of reporters. Her collar was pulled high against her face and her hair coiled like a whirly-top in the wind. The focus of her gaze made Archie uneasy and he was about to glance away when the woman turned her face and it caught the light. Belle.

  “Excuse me,” Archie said striding through the reporters and motioning to Belle to step around the corner, out of view of the press.

  “What are you doing here?” Archie asked her when they finally found a quiet spot near the ship’s stern.

  “I’ve decided to join you on your voyage to Italy,” Belle said with a straight face, only to break into a throaty laugh when she saw Archie’s expression grow slack. “Oh, don’t worry, Archie, I wouldn’t put you under the pressure of having a woman by your side, though it would probably do you some good.”

  “Depends on the woman,” Archie retorted, then added, “It would be a pleasure to have you by my side, Belle.”

  Belle leaned forward and kissed Archie on the cheek. “You do possess a genuine Southern charm, Major, whether you’re telling the truth or not.”

  “Southern charm is always genuine, whether it is the truth or not.”

  “I need to ask a favor of you, Archie,” Belle said as she pulled an ornate bronze box from beneath her coat. It was about the size of a cigar-box and locked with a small golden padlock. “Mr. Morgan will be in Rome when you are and I suspect your paths will cross. I wonder if you could deliver this to him. It’s very important.”

  “You came all this way to ask me to play messenger boy?”

  Belle ran her hand through her wind-blown hair, trying to push the chaos back into place. “There’s something more.”

  “Tell me.”

  She turned away from him and looked out over the harbor. “I don’t know. I just want you to be careful. Will you promise me that?”

  “If you tell me what I should be careful of, I will make that promise.”

  “I’m not sure, Archie. If I knew, I’d tell you. But John Astor, George Vanderbilt, and, yes, Mr. Morgan, they are very willful men. You have to be on your guard when you deal with them.”

  “How do you know I’m dealing with those gentlemen?”

  “I’m a cobra, remember?” Belle said with her coy smile. “And a cobra in the grass knows everything.”

  Before Archie could answer, the shrill horn of the S.S. Berlin cut through the air. “Time for visitors to leave, Belle.”

  “Will you wire me that everything is okay in Italy?”

  “I’ll wire you that I’m having the time of my life and there’s nothing to worry about.”

  The ship’s horn sounded again. Belle reached into her purse and dug out a silver dollar. “Throw this coin in a Roman fountain and think of me when you do. For luck.”

  “Will do,” Archie said, feeling the coin drop heavily into his hand.

  “And wire me the date of your return. I’ll come meet the ship.” She hesitated for a moment then pressed her thumb onto his chin and tilted his head down so his blue eyes could meet her jade ones. “Thank you, Archie.”

  “For what?”

  She didn’t answer, but rather, rose to her tiptoes and pressed close. Archie could feel the sweet crackle of electricity when her lips touched his.

  CHAPTER 49

  Entering his stateroom, Archie was greeted with a hardy embrace from Frank Millet. “Get you out of those dreadful uniforms, Arch, and you look like a civilized human being,” Millet said, then scrutinized Archie’s gaudy suit. “Well, maybe semi-civilized.”

  Frank Millet was always a breath of fresh air. 20 years older than Archie, Millet was a man of high spirits and an ebullient personality – part big brother to Archie, part provocateur, part drinking buddy and part card partner. He was a boy drummer in the Civil War who went on to become a journalist and war correspondent, only to transform himself into a painter who was put on par with America’s most celebrated artist, John Singer Sargent. By 1912, Millet was in his mid-sixties and capping his career as the Director of the American Academy of Art in Rome. It was Academy business that required him to travel to Italy.

  “I always get compliments on my style, Frank,” Archie responded to Millet’s backhanded compliment about his suit.

  “Did I say you weren’t stylish? You will be the talk of Rome with those lilies in your buttonhole. How about a bon voyage drink? Start the vacation on a proper note.” Millet was already pouring champagne into two goblets. “Major…” Millet held out the sparkling glass of wine, “here’s to calm seas, warm breezes and the beauty of Italy.”

  “Here’s to you, Frank, for helping to get me out of the damn drama of my life.”

  They both downed their glasses quickly. Millet raised his eyebrows and picked up the bottle. “Another?”

  ***

  The S.S. Berlin was the second ship by that name owned by the North German Lloyd Line. The first S.S. Berlin sank off the coast of Holland in 1907, killing 142 people. The new S.S. Berlin was a two funnel, state-of-the-art liner with a capacity for 3,212 passengers, most of whom traveled in third class. Archie and Frank Millet were among the 200 first class passengers who had their own exclusive dining room, promenade deck and lounges.

  The first morning at sea Archie rose early and took a stroll, starting along the first class deck then descending to the promenade. He walked along its length, stopping near the bow to lean over the railing. Peering down at the water, Archie became mesmerized by the small white waves slapping against the boat’s hull. A cold ocean spray misted over his face. He felt his body relax. It had been so long, years maybe, since he had experienced such calm. Then, through the wash of water, he thought he heard a voice calling him. “Captain,” the voice cried, thin and distant. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not. “Captain,” the voice called again. Archie turned and saw a small figure dressed in a suit, approach. “Henry?” Archie said in disbelief.

  “Hiya, Captain,” Henry said through an enormous grin. “Surprised to see me?”

  More than surprised, Archie was in shock. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sailin’ to Italy, like you,” Henry answered, reveling in Archie’s bafflement.

  “Did you stowaway, Henry? Because if you did, I will have to turn you in.”

  “Aw, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, of course I would. It’s aga
inst the law to sneak on board and stowaway.”

  “But I wanted to go to Italy with you,” Henry said, trying hard to suppress his glee.

  “I’m sorry, Henry, but I’m going to have to take you to the ship’s authorities.” Archie reached out and took Henry’s small wrist.

  “But Captain,” Henry said, starting to laugh, “I got a ticket.”

  “How could you have gotten a ticket?”

  “I bought one.”

  “With money?!”

  “Yeah, with money,” Henry said. “I always have ways to get money if I have to.”

  Archie shook his head, not sure whether to believe Henry or not. “Why did you leave me in New York?” Archie asked.

  “’Cause you wanted me to. You didn’t want to take me to Italy.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “’Cause you need me.”

  “I don’t need you, Henry.”

  “Yeah you do.”

  “Why in the world would you say that?”

  “Well, com’on to my cabin and find out,” Henry said with a calm certainty.

  Descending to the third class section was like entering another world, a mysterious nether-universe whose existence was unknown to those traveling in first-class. Here the ceiling was low and the hallway narrow. It reminded Archie of the ships on which he transported horses to the Philippines. He peered into the tight sleeping berths teeming with a stew of immigrants leaving America, having failed to find their pot of gold.

  “This way, Captain,” Henry said, leading Archie into his tight cabin. Five bunks were squeezed into the claustrophobic room. Henry went to his lower bunk and ruffled the blanket then reached under the pillow. He removed what seemed to be a large, square lump of coal and held it out to Archie as if he was presenting the Holy Grail. “For you, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Henry. But what is it?”

  “Mick’s diary,” Henry said solemnly.