The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  Archie walked the halls and decks of the Titanic for two more hours, searching everywhere, from the engine rooms deep in the ship’s interior to the top deck near the wheelhouse. There was no sign of Henry. Exhausted, Archie finally wandered to the ship’s bow and leaned over the railing. It was three in the morning. The Titanic was making its way up the Irish coast. The squall had long since died. Archie felt the chill air on his face. It refreshed him. He turned his gaze up into the ink black sky that glittered with a million stars. A sense of calm came over Archie that he couldn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was exhaustion; perhaps it was the tranquil blanket of the night. The moment was broken by a dog’s bark. Archie jumped and whirled to see John Astor, in his pajamas and robe, being pulled along the deck by a brown, shorthaired Airedale. “Quiet, Kitty,” Astor commanded. “Quiet! Sit!” But Kitty wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. Archie opened his palm – an invitation. Kitty wagged her tail and pushed forward to be scratched behind the ears. “She’s always agitated the first day at sea,” Astor said tightly, seeming far more distressed than his dog. Archie noticed Astor was dripping perspiration even in the cool air.

  “Colonel Astor, is there something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Astor snapped. “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just…”

  “Yes, there’s something wrong! As a matter of fact, everything is wrong.”

  Archie was taken aback by Astor’s outburst. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Archie said.

  “Vanderbilt didn’t board. He’s not on the ship.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Astor nodded. “His valet boarded. His luggage boarded. But George Vanderbilt?” Astor shook his head. “Not a trace.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “Morgan didn’t board either, neither did Henry Frick,” Astor said, ignoring Archie’s question. “What am I to do?”

  “Do as far as what?”

  “The meeting.”

  “What were you going to do in the first place?”

  “You know damn well what we were going to do,” Astor snarled, getting more hysterical by the moment.

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it. In any case, why don’t you just go ahead and start the ball rolling. I’m sure the gentlemen at the meeting will understand,” Archie said, trying to calm Astor.

  “I’m not prepared to ‘start the ball rolling.’ That was George’s job,” Astor answered, having none of Archie’s consoling.

  “Maybe I can help…”

  “No, no one could help,” Astor moaned. “Vanderbilt reserved the reading room on A-Deck. 3 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Who knows, maybe George and Morgan will magically arrive by aeroplane. It could land on the deck right here,” Astor sighed, resigned. “Come on, Kitty,” he said, tugging at the leash. Dog and master turned and traipsed back along the deck, away from Archie and into the night.

  The next morning the Titanic sailed past Cork, Ireland and put down anchor in the Queenstown harbor. Two tenders met the ship to load mail and 130 new passengers. Because it was cold and blustery, most of the passengers remained inside. Archie watched the boarding while sipping coffee with Millet in the protected deck of the Café Parisienne. He didn’t mention anything about the previous night to Millet – not Henry’s disappearance or Astor’s troubles. They planned a bridge game for late morning.

  The Titanic left Queenstown in mid-afternoon, heading toward the open sea.

  CHAPTER 56

  There were eight men around the polished wood table in the private A-deck Lounge. Eight men, different in age, background, personality and demeanor. At 67, Isador Straus was the oldest – a gentle, prudent soul, who made his fortune growing Macy’s into the largest department store in the world. George Wiedner’s money came through owning streetcar companies. He was with his son, Harry, whose interest lay more in books than the streetcar empire his father was pushing him toward. Charles Hays ran the Wabash Railroad before being hired as President of Canada’s Grand Trunk Railroad. Beside him sat his good friend John Thayer, who was vice-president of Pennsylvania Railroad. Washington Roebling III represented the Roebling family, whose company designed and built America’s great bridges, including the Brooklyn Bridge. Benjamin Guggenheim had gotten the blessing of his brothers to represent the Guggenheim family on the project. With the exception of Archie, these men were all wealthy beyond comprehension. At 3:20 p.m. on April 11, 1912, they were in a very good mood, telling jokes, drinking coffee, smoking cigars and waiting for the richest of them all.

  When John Astor finally floated in a half hour late, he took his place at the head of the table. He was followed by three waiters. One waiter went about setting champagne glasses before the men. The second waiter filled the glasses with 1907 Perrier-Jouet. The third waiter was carrying two extra ice buckets stocked with several more champagne bottles.

  “Gentlemen,” Astor said right after gulping his entire glass of champagne and motioning for a refill. “I would like to thank you all for being here and joining a project that I believe will be the single greatest achievement of the 20th Century.” Archie noticed that Astor’s manner had changed. Gone was the hand-wringing fusspot of the previous evening, replaced by a man who seemed to be relaxed and confident before the group. Astor, who was always nervous and awkward, seemed as cool and calm as a backwoods pond. “Unfortunately, we’re missing several members of our group. Henry Clay Frick supposedly hurt his ankle and missed the boarding. I received a Marconigram this morning from George Vanderbilt who could not be here because his wife fell ill. And Pierpont Morgan, well, I don’t know what the hell happened to him, this is his ship after all.” Astor clapped his hands together, emptied his glass of champagne then poured himself another, his third in less than three minutes. It then struck Archie how Astor had miraculously transformed himself – he was flat-out drunk!

  “So, let me fill you all in,” Astor chirped, then wavered on his feet. His eyes rolled in his head and he tipped backwards like a leaning tower about to tumble. But then he righted himself, sniffed the air and carefully spread his feet under his body for balance. “Gentlemen,” Astor started again. “As we embark on this grand enterprise, it is my fervent wish that the success we will enjoy is equal to the good we will do for our country. Yes, this plan will make everyone around this table money. Lots of money. But, of course, it’s not just about money. We will make commerce more efficient and create a new business environment for growth and prosperity in America.”

  Astor’s words were not the loose ramblings of a drunk, but rather, of a man who seemed not only coherent, but engaging. The alcohol had freed his tongue. And the more he spoke, the more riveting he became. Most of the men at the table had never seen this Astor – the awkward bumbler they knew had a comprehensive grasp of every fact and detail of The Plan. He went on to speak for 3 hours uninterrupted – except by champagne refreshers – going into specifics about construction and land purchases, costs and timetables. He explained about the flow of goods in America and exactly how the strategic centers would grow market share. He gave an exact accounting of the land that had been purchased and when construction would begin. As the men listened it became evident to all at the table that it was Astor who was the real architect and genius behind the project. Vanderbilt may have been the driving force to put the team of builders and businessmen together – the salesman – but it was obviously Astor, with all his quirks and dreadful social skills, who was the visionary. When he finally finished talking, everyone around the table stood up and broke into applause.

  Archie sat stunned. For the first time he realized the full scope of what was taking shape. It was brilliant – and absolutely illegal – a monopoly that would have these businessmen regulate the ebb and flow of goods and capital. These men would have the capacity to determine which regions in America would prosper and which ones would struggle. By controlling commerce, they would have the power to decide which companies would succeed and whic
h ones fail. Ultimately, this group could, if they desired, control the purse strings of America.

  A loud pop shook Archie’s attention back to the meeting room. He looked up to see Astor uncorking another champagne bottle and walking around the table, filling each man’s glass himself. When he finished, all lifted their glasses for a toast. “To success,” Astor simply said. The businessmen at the table enthusiastically joined in: “To success!”

  Archie walked back to his stateroom now understanding why the President sent him on this mission. He even began to reevaluate Finch and his motives. Perhaps the little man did have a genuine insight into illegal activities. And perhaps he was sincere about rooting out those who would assault the financial foundation of America. Whatever it was, Archie realized this mission was far more important than he imagined.

  Reaching his stateroom, he unlocked the door and stepped in. It felt empty without Henry. The boy’s on the ship, he’ll turn up. Archie started toward the sink to wash when he noticed a small note on the floor. It was a card that was slipped under the door. Its letterhead read: The Marconi International Marine Communication Company. A handwritten message said a Marconigram awaited Archie at the Inquiry Office on C-Deck.

  * * *

  Cargo Hold 3 was dark and icy, a perfect place to disappear. And that was Henry’s plan, to disappear. He was curled into a ball, burrowed under a mountain of wood crates, his coat bunched over his shoulders in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. He shared the room with a jumble of crates, packages and boxes, all of which were being shipped across the ocean. No one bothered Henry there; he was an island unto himself, self-sufficient as he had always been. The solitude, the isolation, even the cold, was comfortingly familiar. Who did he take himself to be, foolishly trying to play rich? That was not his world; it was as foreign to him as the moon. To kill the hours in the freezing cargo room, he imagined his homecoming. Spring was approaching. He’d return to his old, carefree life: swiping food when he was hungry, jumping in the Hudson River when he needed a wash, sleeping under the stars when he was tired. Henry needed nothing and no one. When he dropped into a chilled sleep, he dreamed of New York, of towering buildings and street corner frankfurters, clanking streetcars and honking automobiles. And he dreamed of New Yorkers – scurrying, pushing, cursing, laughing, and scraping to survive. In those cold, lonely hours in the Titanic’s chilly cargo hold, he dreamed of home.

  CHAPTER 57

  Archie had to wait until 8 the next morning for the Inquiry Office to open. The small office was where passengers went to settle any White Star accounts, including the sending or receiving of telegrams. Archie stepped out of the cold morning and presented the card to a young clerk behind the counter. The clerk nudged the glasses on the bridge of his nose then turned to a bank of neatly organized compartments and retrieved a yellow Marconigram. He handed it to Archie, who read the typed message: “MORGAN NOT BOARDING TITANIC. WAS DELIVERY MADE? YOUR COBRA.”

  “That is 12 shillings, sixpence, sir,” the clerk said. “Shall I put that on your bill?”

  “Yes, please. And could you see that any other messages are brought directly to my room,” Archie said, then was struck by something on the Marconigram’s upper right hand corner. “Excuse me, but this message is stamped April 10. Today is the 12th. Why wasn’t it delivered to me before?”

  “Yes, sir, and we do apologize. It was relayed from Southampton where the transmission was initially received. That’s the reason for the delay.”

  “Why wasn’t this given to me there? When I was boarding?”

  “It should have been, sir. It must have gotten misplaced in the tumult of the day. We would gladly offer to send a Marconigram for you with our company’s compliments as a way of making amends for this late delivery.”

  “Thank you, but…” Archie shook his head, then stopped. “Actually, I believe I will take you up on that, young man.”

  “Very good, sir,” the clerk said and pushed a form across the counter. “Fill this out with your message and where you would like it delivered and I will make sure it is sent via our wireless post haste.”

  The address Archie wrote on the form was simple: Morgan Library, New York City. The addressee: Belle da Costa Greene. Archie tapped the pencil, trying to think of the right response. He finally began writing: In Mid-Atlantic. Unable to make delivery to Morgan. Arrive in NY on 17th. See you dockside? Your Fakir.

  * * *

  J. P. Morgan had left Rome on April 6 to travel to Southampton and board the Titanic for her maiden voyage. The three finest suites on the ship were reserved for him. Somewhere in France, Morgan’s private railroad car took a detour. He wired Belle that he had a sudden interest in a set of medieval tapestries that depicted scenes from the Third Crusades. He wrote that he needed to determine if he should purchase them. So he canceled his trip on the Titanic’s maiden voyage, a trip he been promising to take for over a year, and traveled to Paris instead.

  George Vanderbilt had departed Rome under the cover of darkness on March 31. He took an overnight train through France then sped to England, where he boarded a ship back to America. He arrived safely at New York Harbor on April 10.

  At the Morgan Library, Belle da Costa Greene was sitting for a photo portrait when a messenger arrived with the Marconigram from Archie. She stopped the shoot to read Archie’s reply then asked the messenger to wait so that she might compose a message to send back to him. She scribbled it quickly then gave the boy a dollar tip and requested that he personally see that her message was sent as soon as possible.

  * * *

  Belle’s reply to Archie reached the Titanic’s Wireless Room the next morning. The message of dots and dashes was decoded by Harold Bride, a 22 year old Londoner who was the junior wireless operator on the voyage. The communiqué was only one of hundreds he was receiving daily. He quickly scribbled the message on a standard tablet-sized Marconigram form and put it in the “out” stack, to be typed then sent through a pneumatic tube to the Inquiry Office. By mid-morning the Marconigram was slipped under Archie’s stateroom door, waiting on the floor when Archie returned from breakfast. He eagerly tore the envelope open, guessing it was Belle’s reply. It wasn’t the kind of message he was expecting. It was short and to the point with none of the playfulness of their previous exchanges. “OPEN MORGAN’S BOX NOW!” the message read, followed by an enigmatic coda: “GOD BLESS YOU ARCHIE. BELLE.”

  Why would she wish God to bless me? It wasn’t exactly the kind of sentiment that usually came from Belle. Despite his puzzlement, he went directly to his steamer trunk and snapped open the latches. The bronze box was near the top, right where he had left it. He lifted it out. His eye caught Belle’s command again: “OPEN MORGAN’S BOX NOW!” Its urgency hit him. He went back to his steamer trunk and sifted through its soft cloth contents until his fingers struck cold metal. Like a fisherman reeling in his catch, Archie brought up the gun he had packed. His first thought was to shoot the lock off, obliterate it and find out what the box contained. But he reasoned that shooting a gun on the ship might not be the wisest thing to do. He brought the box to the end of the table then tilted it forward, so the small gold lock dangled over the table’s edge. Whack! He struck the gun handle into the lock’s weakest spot, its golden center. Snap. The antique lock split open. Archie flipped the box’s lid and the unknown treasure revealed itself: cigars – a single row of tightly packed Havanas with red personalized bands around the center of each cigar that proclaimed in gold letters: ‘J.P.M.’ “That’s it? Morgan’s cigars?!” Archie muttered aloud, picking out a cigar from the stack. It was a thing of beauty, long and tightly rolled in a single black tobacco leaf. Still, the insistence of Belle’s message hardly warranted the discovery of cigars. Then Archie noticed that, with one of the cigars removed, the tight stack had loosened. And there was something underneath. He quickly lifted out the other cigars. At first glance, what was revealed was no more startling than the cigars. It was a stack of bound papers, a report of some sort.
Archie took the papers from the box. The top sheet was imprinted with an International Mercantile Marine letterhead and stamped “Confidential.” Underneath the stamp was a typed title: “A Nationwide Commerce Network – Study and Analysis.” Archie flipped the top sheet and began skimming the pages. He quickly realized the report was an analysis of The Plan. He assumed it was done for Morgan, probably by a team of his advisors. The writing was thick and obtuse; it reminded him of bills sent to the President by Congress. It was full of drawings and charts, numerical calculations and technical information. The thick report detailed every problem that would be faced and every challenge that needed to be surmounted. It did it in a cold, analytical way that, while hardly inspiring, was impressive in its comprehensiveness.