The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  Archie leveled the gun at Wheeler. “They will be lowering this boat in a moment, sir. It will be either with your dead body, which they will throw over the side, or it will be free of your weight, as you will be standing here besides me. Your choice.”

  Wheeler stared at Archie, daring him to pull the trigger. Archie drew the hammer back. Everyone was screaming – some at Wheeler to leave the boat, some at Archie to just let him go. Then Archie shot. The bullet flew over Wheeler’s shoulder. Archie cocked his gun again then leveled it at Wheeler’s heart. “Now!” was all Archie said. Wheeler stared into Archie’s face and knew that if he didn’t leave, he would be dead within seconds. And so he climbed out of the lifeboat and moved beside Archie, who kept the gun trained on him.

  “Why?” Archie asked.

  “Why what?” Wheeler growled back.

  “Why all this? This madness. It wasn’t an accident and you know it,” Archie challenged.

  Wheeler shrugged cynically, a sneer on his face. “The Titanic hit an iceberg,” he said. “What else can you call it?”

  “Cold blooded murder. Planned and executed so cleverly that it would seem like an accident. I’m going to ask you again: Why?”

  Wheeler turned his face away from Archie and looked out over the ocean. It was beautiful – dark, placid, peaceful – a striking contrast to the noise and panic behind him. “Because that’s just the way it is,” Wheeler said, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Seeing my brother being cut in two by a subway train bothered me. What difference does it make if it’s one or one thousand? Death is death. No, it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  “Who is responsible for this? Who ordered you to do it?”

  “No one ordered me,” Wheeler sniffed. “I got paid.”

  “Then who paid you? Morgan? Vanderbilt?”

  “Among others.”

  “Who else? Tell me who!?”

  “The United States Bureau of Investigation and Director Finch provide me with a fine salary. You know, I originally came to Rome to assassinate you. Almost got you in the Forum, but my gun jammed.”

  “But why?” Archie cried. “It doesn’t make sense!”

  “Sure it does. Assassinating you makes sense. Bringing down the ship makes sense. To the men who pay me, it all makes sense. You just have to look at it from their point of view.”

  “What insane point of view is that?”

  “The point of view from the top, the very top. The point of view of power. Of privilege. It’s a very intoxicating view, Major. And none of them have any problem killing to get there or stay there. Or killing to climb even higher.”

  Archie tore his look away from Wheeler and bent down. “Did you hear what he said, Henry?”

  “Yeah. Sounds nuts to me.”

  “But you heard him?”

  “Every word.”

  “Good. Now get into the boat.”

  “No, I’m stayin’ here with you.”

  “You’re getting in the boat, Henry.”

  “Women and children only. And I ain’t a child. I’m a man.”

  “Yes, you are a man. And because you are, you will leave me and get into this lifeboat. And if…when you are rescued, you will go to President Taft and tell him exactly what took place here and what this man said. Explain that you are carrying out an order directly from me. And tell him that I loved you as I would love a son.” Tears suddenly filled Archie’s eyes; the swiftness of the emotion took him by surprise. “That’s what you must do, Henry,” Archie choked. “And you must do it now.”

  “No, Captain, no. I won’t leave you,” Henry cried and lunged forward to throw his small arms around Archie’s neck. But Archie stepped back and caught the boy, then put something in Henry’s hand.

  “Your gun?” Henry questioned, perplexed.

  “Mick’s gun.”

  Henry squinted at the inscription Mick scratched into the gun handle: Veritas. Virtus. Libertas. Corporal Mick Shaughnessy 1903

  “What does it mean, Captain?”

  “I don’t know, Henry. Find out for me, will you? Now go. Go!” Archie turned to Lightoller. “Let him on,” Archie ordered.

  As the last lifeboat was lowered, two Swedish men took flying leaps from the ship and landed safely on the laps of four women. Many of those remaining on the Titanic desperately searched for some way to save themselves. A few jumped into the icy water and tried to swim to the lifeboats. Others tore chunks from the ornate doors and wood paneling of the Titanic so they might have something to float on.

  Archie made no move to save himself. He stood by the rail and watched Henry take up an oar and help stroke the lifeboat away. Astor moved beside Archie, as did Ben Guggenheim and George and Harry Widener and the rest of the men who boarded the Titanic filled with dreams of unbounded power and riches.

  From his lifeboat, Henry was able to see the men at the railing. There was no panic. They appeared to be chatting amiably among themselves, as if they were at a Sunday polo match. The rear of the Titanic started to lift out of the water. Henry saw Archie grip the railing, then do something curious: he took his officer’s cap off and waved it. “Good bye,” Henry thought he heard Archie call. Then Archie waved his cap again, this time vigorously, and cried out in a strong, emphatic voice, as if he was heralding the President: “Good bye – Good luck. Good luck to you all!”

  CHAPTER 65

  The Carpathia sped toward the coordinates it had received at 17 knots, some 3 knots faster than it had ever gone. At 4 a.m., a green flare from a lifeboat was spotted; it was just over an hour and a half after the Titanic plunged beneath the ocean’s surface. The lifeboat was secured 10 minutes later, its passengers rescued as dawn was beginning to brighten the sky. When the sun finally rose, the entire scene seemed hauntingly unreal. There was little debris – a deckchair or two, some cork, only one body. What were abundant were icebergs, a minefield of more than two dozen of them, some towering 100 feet above the water.

  It took four hours to locate and secure all the lifeboats. By 8:10 in the morning the last survivor of the Titanic, the man who was in charge of loading the lifeboats, Second Officer Charles Lightoller, climbed up a netting along the side of the Carpathia, to safety.

  Collapsible lifeboat D, Henry’s lifeboat, had tied itself to several others within an hour of the sinking. The collection of lifeboats floated aimlessly until the Carpathia hauled each boat from the sea. Later, the names of those in the lifeboats were taken and checked against a passenger manifest. Henry’s name was not on the manifest and he did not bother to explain how he came to be traveling on the Titanic. Because of this, he was listed only as “stowaway.”

  From the moment the saga of the Titanic became known, the world was caught up in the drama. Reporters besieged the White Star Line offices in Manhattan and London. At first, the company’s vice president, Phillip Franklin, denied there had been an accident or loss of life, even though he knew differently. It wasn’t until late Monday that White Star confirmed the sinking, but not the magnitude of the disaster.

  In Aix-les-Bains, J. Pierpont Morgan was preparing for the celebration of his 75th birthday, which was to take place on Wednesday, April 17, when he got word of the catastrophe. He wired the White Star office that he was “greatly upset by loss of Titanic.”

  A reporter from the New York Times who was sent to cover the birthday celebration, caught up with Morgan that same day and reported, “Mr. Morgan was looking wonderfully well and very sun burnt… At present he is taking sulfur baths and massages every morning, and occasionally the Nauheim treatment, which is given here.”

  When President Taft found out about the sinking, he became distraught and grew desperate for information, especially about Archie. He sent a personal wire to the White Star Line: “Have you any information concerning Major Butt? If you communicate at once I will greatly appreciate it. WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT.”

  White Star’s Phillip Franklin wired back: “Sorry to say
we have no definite information. Soon as we receive it, will notify you.”

  By April 16, over 15,000 people had gathered outside the White Star offices at 9 Broadway. There was still no definitive list of victims or survivors. By April 17, the crowd had grown to 30,000 – relatives, friends, politicians, reporters, photographers, onlookers – it seemed like all of New York was besieging the office.

  Florette Guggenheim visited the White Star offices each of those days, demanding information and threatening lawsuits if she wasn’t informed of Benjamin’s fate. She was told nothing – especially not the fact that Benjamin was last seen putting his mistress in a lifeboat. The only information anyone got was that the Carpathia had been delayed by squalls and fog, and would not arrive in New York harbor until the next day.

  Thursday, April 18, was a wet, miserable day. New York City braced itself for an onslaught of crowds, the size of which had not been seen since the funeral procession for the victims of the Triangle fire. Only the immediate relatives were allowed into the special landing terminal. Reporters tried working a variety of schemes to wheedle their way into the restricted area.

  The Carpathia entered the port of New York in the early evening. Thousands stood in the rain at Battery Park and watched her being escorted by a small armada of boats to the mid-Manhattan docks. The ship stopped briefly at White Star’s pier 59 and unloaded the Titanic’s lifeboats, then proceeded to the Cunard pier where she docked in the darkness. It was 9:30 at night.

  After the Carpathia’s passengers left the ship, the Titanic’s surviving 1st class passengers came down the forward gangway and stepped into the Cunard terminal, which was under extremely tight security. They were met by shouts and tears from their waiting relatives. They were followed by Second, then Third Class passengers. Outside the terminal were an estimated 30,000 people eager to get a glimpse of the world’s most famous survivors. As they were escorted into public view, the survivors were besieged by shouted questions from an aggressive press corps that was held at bay behind a rope. Most of the First and Second class passengers had accommodations already arranged. Those without a place to stay were provided rooms in hostels, courtesy of New York City.

  Senator William Alden Smith met Bruce Ismay almost the moment he stepped off the Carpathia. It was not a gracious welcome. For escaping in a lifeboat while hundreds of men, women and children died, Ismay was portrayed as a villain in newspapers around the world. Just two days after the disaster, the United States Senate created a sub-committee to immediately investigate the sinking. Ismay had originally arranged for the crew of the Titanic to be sent back to Great Britain the morning after the Carpathia docked. For many, this appeared hasty, as if Ismay was trying to hide something. So Smith subpoenaed Ismay and the crew to appear at the hearing, which, for convenience’s sake, was to convene the next day in the East Room of the Waldorf-Astoria. The irony of meeting at that grand hotel, built and owned by John Astor, was lost on most everyone.

  Without papers or parents, Custom Officers took Henry Kosinski to a New York hostel with the other steerage passengers. Because he was listed as a stowaway, he was locked and secured in a room through the night, to be picked up the next morning for further processing. That never happened. When the door was unlocked at 6 a.m., officials found an empty room and a sheet rope hanging through the open third floor window.

  For three agonizing days President Taft used every means available to find out Archie’s fate. An April 17 New York Times article was headlined: Chance of Major’s Safety a Faint One, but President Holds to It.

  It wasn’t until the Carpathia docked in New York and the revised list of survivors was released that Taft finally came to grips with the fact that his closest friend and confidant was gone. The President issued a long statement on April 19, which, in part, read: “Major Archie Butt was my military aide. He was like a member of my family, and I feel his loss as if he had been a younger brother. The chief trait of his character was loyalty to his ideals, his cloth, and his friends…He was gentle and considerate to everyone, high and low. He was a soldier, every inch of him …He leaves the widest circle of friends, whose memory of him is sweet in every particular.”

  From the campaign trail in Lindsberg, Kansas, where he was campaigning against Taft, Theodore Roosevelt released his own statement: “Major Butt was the highest type of officer and gentleman. He met his end as an officer and gentleman, giving up his own life that others might be saved. I and my family all loved him sincerely.”

  The next Sunday, April 22, there was a disturbance at the All Souls Unitarian Church when Taft made his weekly church visit. As usual, a crowd of parishioners waited at the Church’s entrance to greet the President with applause. When the Presidential car rolled to the curbside, Jimmie Sloan, the head of the Secret Service detail, helped Taft out of the car. As Sloan escorted the President into the church, a young boy in ill-fitting clothes emerged from the crowd and rushed toward the President. A journalist for the Washington Herald, who was a member of the church, reported that Sloan grabbed the boy before he could reach the President and pushed him aside. He quickly frisked the boy and pulled a gun from the boy’s pocket.

  The boy began emphatically explaining something when, according to the reporter, he called out the name “Archie Butt” to the President. Whatever more the boy said, it stopped Taft in his tracks. He signaled to Sloan to let the boy approach and, after a few more words were exchanged, the President draped his arm over the boy’s shoulder and led him to a far corner of the church’s vestibule.

  While the rest of the congregation filed into the church, the reporter hung back, watching Taft and the boy engage in what appeared to be a very emotion filled conversation. The reporter tried to angle close, but was shooed away by Sloan. After fifteen minutes, the boy went back to Sloan, grabbed his gun and advanced on the President. He did it so quickly that there was a sudden moment of tension, broken only when the boy put the gun in the President’s hand. Taft began to cry and embraced the boy. After a few long, tearful moments, the boy stepped back from the President, who was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, and headed out of the church.

  The reporter called out to the boy and asked to speak to him. The boy turned for just an instant, flashed a gap-toothed grin, and then ran away, limping in obvious pain, before disappearing into the cloud-filled Washington morning.

  EPILOGUE

  In late April of 1912, Director Stanley Finch was summoned to a meeting with President Taft at the White House. Hours later, the first head of the FBI abruptly resigned his prestigious position. Finch was initially given a job as the Special Commissioner for the Suppression of White Slavery. Within a year, he was out of government, manufacturing novelties.

  J. Pierpont Morgan remained in Europe through July of 1912, safely away from new and aggressive government investigations into him and his business practices. Upon his return to America, Morgan was subpoenaed to appear before Congress to testify about a host of dealings – including the TC&I deal that ended the Panic of 1907. In late December, 1912, Morgan made a much publicized appearance before the Pujo Committee, a House subcommittee that was investigating America’s “Money trust” (i.e. Wall Street bankers and Morgan) and the influence and control these financiers had over America. Morgan’s allies judged his testimony to be one of his finest hours, as he successfully parried every hostile question with concise, insightful, if not combative, answers. The committee felt differently, and in its majority report pointed a finger at a cabal of bankers, led by Morgan, who abused the public trust by attempting to monopolize industries and gain a controlling influence over the nation’s financial sector.

  While Morgan appeared to be in good spirits after his congressional appearance, it was obvious that the ordeals he was going through exhausted him. He left for a trip to Egypt in late January. Within weeks, his health took a precipitous dive. Morgan began suffering fevers, nightmares, depression, and then paranoid delusions. From Egypt he traveled to Rome, where he was ensconced i
n his usual suite at the Grand Hotel. He would get no further. J. Pierpont Morgan died on March 31, 1913, at the age of 75. His funeral took place in New York two weeks later, on April 14 – one year to the day that the Titanic struck the iceberg. In his honor, the New York Stock Exchange remained closed until noon.

  With Astor and Morgan both dead and his money woes growing, George Vanderbilt spent most of his time devising new schemes to raise funds for his first love, Biltmore. Nearly two years after the Titanic’s sinking, in March of 1914, Vanderbilt traveled to Washington D.C. where he entered a local hospital for an appendectomy. He had a heart attack after the operation and died at the age of 51. After his death, Vanderbilt’s widow, Edith, negotiated the sale of 80,000 acres of forest surrounding Biltmore to the federal government. With that land America’s first national forest was created. Biltmore continues to be a privately held family estate, but it is now open to the public as one of North Carolina’s most popular tourist destinations, operating as a hotel and available for tours, weddings, and special corporate events.

  Morgan’s death brought uncertainty to Belle da Costa Greene and her status with the library; the decision to retain her was entirely up to Morgan’s son, Jack. Initially, he asked her to stay on for only a short time to take inventory and suggest works that might be sold. After a year, Belle and Jack decided to go forward together – she would have almost complete autonomy in shaping and growing the library and he would reap the benefits of being its titular head. The library became her life’s work. Belle remained at her position until her retirement in 1948 at age 65. By that time, she was recognized as the premier librarian in America. Time magazine featured her in an article in 1949 entitled Belle of the Books. Belle da Costa Greene died of cancer on May 10, 1950. The secret of her heritage and the fact that she was the daughter of one of the most prominent African-Americans of the late 19th Century never became known during her lifetime, only to be uncovered and revealed nearly 50 years after her death.