The Titanic Plan

PROLOGUE

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1907

It was his favorite hymn: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in Thee… He sang it open-throated and with vigor, hardly caring that his booming voice was decidedly off-key. Let the waters and the blood, From Thy wounded side which flowed… He didn’t hear his coarse singing anyway, all that filled his ears was the harmonious blend of 3,000 fellow Christians finding comfort in God. And he was happily among them, just one of the legions, a foot soldier in Jesus’ army. Marching with these troops there was no weight on his shoulders, no responsibility other than to praise God and bask in his glory. Be of sin the double cure; Save from wrath and make me pure…"

As the swirl of joyous voices echoed through Richmond’s Grand Convention Hall, a young man hurried down the center aisle, stopped at row 17 and handed a telegram to a thin, dry priest on the aisle. Who handed it to his wife next to him, who handed it to a crimson clothed bishop next to her and on down the row until the telegram reached an imposing, white-haired man in the center of the aisle who was so wrapped up in the glory of the hymn that it took his assistant three attempts to get his attention. Disturbed by the intrusion, the imposing, white-haired man glared at his assistant, his ice blue eyes glowering hawk-like over his tremendous strawberry nose. There was no mistaking that look of displeasure. There was no mistaking the man. The last thing J. Pierpont Morgan wanted was to be brought back into the earthly realm when he was dancing so rapturously in the kingdom of God. And so he turned away, closed his eyes and raised his voice even louder. "Foul, I to the fountain fly; Wash me, Savior, or I die."

The message delivered to Morgan was one of alarm. Fear was building within the financial community like a magma dome within a volcano. Perhaps it would deflate itself, perhaps it could be deflated (maybe with Morgan’s help) or, most likely, it would blow up and set in motion a chain of events that would plunge America into economic chaos.

The day the dire telegram was delivered to Morgan, the President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt, was feeling just bully. He was on the move, which was his natural state of being. Earlier that week he had completed a trip down the Mississippi River on a paddle steamer accompanied by twenty state governors. The patriotic and the curious lined the banks of the old river to catch a glimpse and pay their respects to the country’s leader as he passed by. He then headed to the countryside for a hunt. Deep in the Louisiana canebrakes, making a kill of three bears, six deer, one wild turkey, twelve squirrels, one duck, one opossum, and one wildcat, Roosevelt got word of the first hints of a Wall Street panic. If it worried him, he didn’t show it. Wall Street was the domain of the forces he did battle with – the corporate powerhouses, the money trusts, the robber barons. Those money men could take care of themselves, Roosevelt declared to a group of reporters covering his trip.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

The first major crack in the system occurred when overzealous speculators tried to take over a major mining firm, the United Copper Company. To make the deal, the speculators wove together financial backing from a consortium of banks and trusts, including the very prominent and stable Knickerbocker Trust, headed by Morgan’s friend, Charles T. Barney. The takeover bid not only fell apart, but ultimately left the mining company, two brokerage houses and a bank in ruins. When word got out that the Knickerbocker Trust was a major player in the fiasco, the first snowball started rolling. Spooked Knickerbocker depositors began withdrawing their money, money the trust had already speculated on other deals. Many of the Knickerbocker depositors were state and national banks across the country, all uninsured and all bracing for a cash run by their own depositors of everyday Americans.

Trying not to add to the sense of panic, Morgan decided to stay at the Episcopal Convention until it ended on Saturday, October 19. When everyone at the convention joined hands and sang the final hymn, Morgan, as he always did, surrendered to the power of God. He believed he had a bargain with the Lord: Morgan would maintain the stability of America’s financial markets, and God, more often than not, would bless him with a healthy bottom line.

Morgan left for New York that evening. His train was held in Washington D.C. at midnight. Morgan sat alone on the rear platform of his private car, the only light in the night being the glow from the tip of his cigar. Arriving in New York City the next morning, Morgan was rushed by cab to his ivy-covered mansion at the corner of Madison Avenue and 36th Street. He didn’t even change clothes, dashing next door to his library – a solid marble building that resembled an impenetrable fortress guarded by two life-sized stone lions, their haunches taut as if ready to spring on some unsuspecting prey. Waiting for Morgan in the library’s inner sanctum were his closest associates, who laid out a chilling scenario of the unfolding events that would make all previous panics look like child’s play.

Monday morning, October 21, the board of directors of the Knickerbocker Trust met with Morgan at his Wall Street office. They spelled out the dire trouble: they had $60 million on deposit, but only $10 million was fluid cash. If there was a run, the Knickerbocker would fail. They pleaded with Morgan to use his backing to help save the trust. Morgan listened, smoked several cigars, weighed what it would take, reflected on the risk involved, smoked a few more cigars and stared impassively at the desperate directors. The only thing agreed upon was that the Knickerbocker Trust would open for business the next day and try to weather the storm.

Long before dawn a restless crowd began gathering outside the Knickerbocker Trust building at Fifth Avenue and 34th Street. There was a chill in the autumn air. When the doors opened at 8 a.m., jittery depositors pushed into the building, desperate to cash their accounts out. Just over a mile south, on Wall Street, dark suited men, their heads topped by black derbies, waited for the dreaded, inevitable news. As clocks struck noon through Manhattan, the Knickerbocker Trust had paid out $8 million. By 2 p.m. it was over; the last funds were withdrawn; the formidable Knickerbocker Trust had failed. Those who understood the crisis realized that a financial Armageddon was at hand.

Through the next critical days the financial system of the United States teetered on complete ruin. Without any governmental safety net, such as a Federal Reserve Bank, there was no mechanism to end the downward spiral. Banks from around the country were calling in their money from the New York institutions. Stock prices were plummeting. Wall Street was thick with crowds of nervous men milling aimlessly about, praying their life’s savings were not about to evaporate.

Morgan tried to fight the financial fires by continually dousing them with cash. He received a $10 million contribution from a syndicate of bankers that was matched by a government transfer of $25 million to a rescue fund that Morgan controlled. In essence, the United States government had turned over the reins of the country’s economic operations to the very private bankers Roosevelt was battling over anti-trust issues. Despite his bluster, the President realized his administration could do nothing more than try and assure a nervous public that everything would be all right and let the bankers sort out the mess they created.

Throughout the second week of the panic there were runs on banks across the nation. Some smaller banks and trusts failed. People lost their life savings. Businesses were driven into bankruptcy. Stories of personal despair and desperation were reported from all corners of the country. From a banker’s point of view though, it was manageable – the major markets were holding and that’s all that really mattered. Morgan and his team of bankers and financiers continued to prop up banks with cash to instill confidence and keep the Stock Exchange level. It appeared the end of the crisis was in sight. Then a whole new firestorm unexpectedly erupted.

Next to J. P. Morgan & Company, the largest and most prestigious brokerage house in America was the firm of Moore & Schley. Among its largest assets was a southern steel company called Tennessee Coal & Iron Company, known simply as TC&I. It was a solid, though hardly spectacular, business. The problem was that the firm’s head, Grant Schley, was using TC&I as collateral for speculative loans. With the panic, those loans were called. Schley needed to come up with over $35 million dollars worth of cash or else his brokerage house would also collapse. And with that collapse, all the hard work Morgan had done would come crashing down in a sudden heap. Morgan was deemed the only person who could save the situation. But to do so, he would have to purchase TC&I. The problem was, Morgan already owned America’s largest steel company, U.S. Steel. If a deal was put together, an anti-trust suit would surely come from Roosevelt. Morgan weighed his options, the most important factor being not to rekindle the panic into a full-fledged wildfire.

Morgan carefully put the pieces in place, twisting arms and creating a complicated stock swap that would have TC&I merge, rather than be purchased outright, with U.S. Steel. Still, there was one last obstacle: Roosevelt.

On November 4, 1907, Elbert Gary and Henry Clay Frick, two steel magnates who helped Morgan work out the TC&I-U.S Steel deal, went to the White House for breakfast. They outlined the terms of the merger to Roosevelt over eggs and flapjacks. They stressed the consequences of another panic if the deal fell through and made sure Roosevelt was aware of the extraordinary effort Morgan made in order to protect the financial foundation of the country. Roosevelt, the battling trustbuster, the tormentor of corporations, the robber barons great foe, docilely acquiesced and approved the merger he would have never agreed to under normal circumstances.

At four minutes to ten that Monday morning, Morgan’s office received a call from the White House relaying Roosevelt’s approval of the deal. With that, the crisis officially ended. The stock market shot up. At the lunch hour, an exhausted 70-year-old man stepped down his office’s short shelf of steps to a waiting cab. He was showered with thunderous cheers from the crowd that had gathered outside 23 Wall Street. Morgan was being hailed as the single greatest economic force in American history. He alone had wrestled back the explosive forces that threatened to ruin the U.S. economy. Morgan knew he had won. And he vowed to himself that he would do whatever it takes to prevent anything like the Panic of ’07 from ever happening again.

On Thursday, November 14, 1907, less than a month after the first hint of trouble, Charles Barney, Morgan’s friend and the former head of the Knickerbocker Trust, the institution whose insolvency touched off the panic, pressed a gun barrel to his abdomen and pulled the trigger. The bullet traveled upward into his neck. He died later that day.

CHAPTER 1

DECEMBER 31, 1907

They would be arriving soon, those that were still alive. Coming up Fifth Avenue in their horse drawn carriages, they would ignore the vulgar coughs and spits of the automobiles that motored by. The carriages would pull up to the corner at 65th Street. Horses would restlessly snort steam in the chill evening air. And then a woman would emerge.

Stepping down, she would lift the hem of her bejeweled ball gown and take the arm of her ancient husband. The couple would disappear into the gray limestone chateau that would have been more appropriate in 16th Century Paris than 20th Century Manhattan. Inside they would be announced in a grand ritual that made them who they were – a Vanderbilt or an Astor or a Waldorf or a Winthrop. And the others at the party would turn just oh-so-slightly to notice, sizing up the family and status, the scandals and rumors, the glow or sallow of the skin, the clearness or fogginess in the eye.

Yes, they would be arriving soon, thought John Jacob Astor IV as he scuttled about to make sure the house was ready. The table for 400 was set, the orchestra was in place, the servants – all 70 of them – stood stiffly like soldiers at their stations. Astor scurried up the foyer’s staircase to his mother’s room for one final check. He was, after all, throwing this New Year’s Ball for her; it was his way of letting her once more be who she was: The Mrs. Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor – the greatest, most revered woman in American society.

The Mrs. Astor was splayed across her bed when her diligent son John walked in. Two maids and a dresser were rolling and tugging her over the huge mattress so she might be maneuvered into her ball gown.

Mother? he asked.

Yes, James, she answered as the servants hoisted her into a strategic upright position, allowing them to draw the gown over her head.

It’s John, mother. James is your son-in-law.

The Mrs. Astor squealed, Aaaaooowwwww!! as one of the maids tucked her hands under Mrs. Astor’s armpits to hoist her up.

They’ll be arriving soon, Astor muttered to no one in particular. We’ll bring her out maybe an hour after it starts. I’ll let you know.

None of the help acknowledge him, they were too busy working Mrs. Astor into her dress. Astor shuffled over to his mother. He stroked the few long gray hairs that remained on her nearly bald head and kissed it tenderly.

***

There was another man tending to his old mother that night. Far south of Manhattan, he was in a large, white gabled house near the Savannah riverbank in Augusta, Georgia. Outside a soft breeze whispered through the naked magnolia branches. Inside the man was tipping a decanter of aged bourbon into two finely cut crystal tumblers, then precisely diluting it with an equal amount of water. He placed the glasses on a tray next to two carefully folded linen napkins and walked the drinks into the living room, setting them in front of the shrunken woman seated before the fire.

Mother, your drink. His drawl was smooth and easy.

Thank you, Archie. Her honeyed speech was even more drawn out – she was a true daughter of Dixie.

They sat by the fire listening to a grandfather clock tick away the seconds of 1907, not exchanging a word. Archie glanced at the woman he loved more than anyone in the world. He observed how frail she was and knew this might be their last New Year’s together. He took an inventory of her as she sipped her drink, making a mental photograph that he might retain forever. Her skin was a creamy pink, unblemished, marked only by the brush of age. Her silken hair, once golden and now a shimmering ivory, was fixed in a loose bun in the fashion of her youth. Her eyes were pools of jade offset by surrounding pearl white. She blinked serenely, felt his eyes upon her and reached her thin hand out to take his.

Archie, she said in a low voice, this drink is mixed in a fine and proper manner, but may leave me a touch intoxicated before the midnight chime arrives.

Then just sip it judiciously, mother.

Come now, have you ever known me to be judicious about fine bourbon?

No, and that’s one of the reasons why I love you.

Of course you realize I may drop off and begin snorin’ like a hibernatin’ bear before the celebratin’ begins.

Music to my ears, mother.

If my snorin’ is sweet music to your ears, then I have my doubts that I raised you properly.

They both laughed. You raised me properly, mother. Trust me on that.

She squeezed his hand. I know I did, son. Praise the Lord.

* * *

John Astor surveyed the guests as they streamed into the ballroom below him. As the room filled, Astor had his mother wheeled in her chair to the edge of the second floor balustrade. In the misty glow of candlelight, with a dark wig of gentle curls that tumbled onto her shoulders, Mrs. Caroline Astor looked like a regal mistress peering down on the American aristocracy that was primarily her invention. Everyone in the ballroom stopped, gazed up at her imperial face and broke into applause. The Mrs. Astor waved her white-gloved hand and smiled sweetly, mouthing words the guests couldn’t hear from below. Which was fortunate, because she was spouting a stream of senile foulness about the unworthiness of the entire group of old, white-hair poseurs and wondering where her beautiful, refined friends were.

Her son John, who was by her side, did not bother to tell her that those white-haired poseurs below were what remained of her beautiful, refined friends. As Mrs. Astor continued to smile and wave and mutter a stream of vileness, John itched for fresh air and a cigarette. Take her back to her room then bring her out near midnight, he said to the maid, then headed down the stairs. On his way through a back hallway he spotted his wife Ava laughing with a tall, dark-eyed man whom he didn’t recognize.

Oh, hello Jack, Ava said dryly. Having fun?

Astor twitched his mustache. Yes. You?

Ava took a sip of champagne and shook her head of graying hair. Even middle age did not diminish her ravishing beauty. Mmmmm. Oh, I haven’t introduced you. This is Mr. Daniels. Mr. Daniels, my husband, John Astor.

Astor nodded ever so slightly. Sir. Then Astor dared to ask: I don’t recall you on the invitation list, Mr. Daniels. You were invited by…?

Me, darling, Ava piped up. Mr. Daniels and I play bridge together.

Oh, I see. Well, I trust you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Daniels?

Daniels looked at the floor, his eyes darting uncomfortably about. Ava leveled a look at her husband. He’s having a divine time and truly appreciates your hospitality.

It’s nice to be appreciated, Astor muttered then pulled out his pocket watch. I expect you by my side at midnight to wish our guests a good New Year.

Of course, darling.

Astor nodded to his wife and Daniels then scurried away.

* * *

She was snoring. And it was music to Archie’s ears. He glanced over at the grandfather clock. 11:27. He decided to tend the fire before waking her. Archie lifted his tall frame from the deep chair and bent near the woodpile. He examined the split logs, searching for a nice birch that would blast the room with a New Year’s light then quickly fade so that they both might retire soon after the glass of champagne. Finding just the right log, Archie threw it on the fire. The log slid into a slot between the fading embers and began to crackle. Maybe another log. He straightened, only to be stopped by his image in the mirror over the mantle.

As the birch caught fire and began spreading its brightness, Archie took a long look at his reflection. At forty-three, he still cut a dashing figure. Maybe not conventionally handsome – the jowls were a little too full, the blue eyes a tad small, the forehead a bit high. But his short brown hair had a healthy sheen to it, and his mustache, full and neatly-trimmed, framed the corners of his mouth making a no-nonsense statement: here is a man who takes care of his appearance, not for vanity, but for properness. A man should look good because a man should look good.

Aren’t we the peacock? his old mother said behind him.

Archie whirled. No, mother, I was just…

Admirin’ yourself. Nothin’ wrong with it. You’re a very good lookin’ boy and for the life of me I don’t understand why some woman hasn’t snatched you up.

You know a military career sometimes makes that difficult.

Your father was a military man, as was his father, and my father. They all seemed to find wives and produce progeny.

They weren’t stationed in the Philippines.

No, they weren’t. They suffered by fighting for a lost cause.

Mother, I wanted to tell you before midnight, surprise you actually. I have been re-assigned again. To a new post. And I am very excited about it.

You’ll be leavin’ me?

I hope to move you into an apartment nearby when I settle in.

Away from the South?

Washington D.C., mother. Your son has been appointed Military Aide to the President of the United States.

Archie’s mother leaned back in her chair, taking in the full significance of the news her son just delivered. To Roosevelt?! she exclaimed. That half-blind, blow-hard Yankee!?

"He is President of the United States."

Only because McKinley got himself shot by some anarchist. There’s a lesson for you. Watch out for those anarchists.

Mother, it will be my highest privilege to serve in the White House.

Of course it will be, Archie. I just don’t like that man. But maybe he has some Christian values I have yet to see. I am very happy for you and I trust you will always act with a sense of honor and courage that would make your mother proud. Come here. Let me give you a kiss.

Archie bent on one knee, allowing his mother to cup his head in her hands. She kissed his forehead and gave him a sweet hug, whispering in his ear, Perhaps you can teach that old windbag some Southern manners. Lord knows, he could use some.

* * *

Astor drew deeply on his cigarette and watched the smoke curl into the cold December air. What in God’s name was I thinking? he muttered.

A good question, Jack…

A small, startled yelp escaped Astor’s lips. He turned to see George Vanderbilt standing in the shadows just a few feet from him, also smoking a cigarette.

I didn’t notice you, George.

Obviously not, Vanderbilt said, dragging on his cigarette then flicking the ash. He was a slight, pale man with deep, dewy eyes and an elegantly thin mustache. But the question is still out there. What the hell were you thinking when you put on this ball? Show them an Astor still has what it takes?

Of course an Astor still has what it takes. Doesn’t a Vanderbilt?

Not me, not in this way. Does this kind of party really give you pleasure?

Astor thought for a moment. It used to.

When we were in our twenties, maybe. But we’re in our forties now, old boy. We’re men of accomplishment. Our worth comes from what we’ve built, not from dressing up for silly balls.

You shouldn’t be so critical, George. Everyone needs recreation now and then.

All I’m saying is it’s a changing world, Jack. Do you know what they’re doing for New Year’s at Times Square tonight?

Astor shook his head. Haven’t the slightest.

Over ten thousand people are gathering there. At the stroke of midnight a six foot wooden ball studded with a hundred incandescent bulbs is going to descend a pole atop the Times building.

Astor contemplated the scene. Good god why? It seems absolutely pointless.

Maybe, Vanderbilt said. But it’s something new. And that’s the future, Jack. As Astors and Vanderbilts, that’s where our sights should be set. On the new horizon in front of us, not the old one behind.

You’re right about the future, George. But dropping a ball down a flagpole? I don’t understand that.

Vanderbilt waved his hand. It’s just a silly novelty. They’ll think of something else come 1909. Let’s go inside, it’s freezing out here.

Time is gauged differently with every new age. Though the 20th Century was at the threshold of just its eighth year, the nature of time had already changed. Technology was pushing it forward with the runaway speed of electricity. Time was now measured in the rumble of the automobile, the staccato pulse of the wireless, the sputtering of the aeroplane, the syncopated rhythm of ragtime.

For this one night though, under the gold-leafed ceiling of the Astor ballroom, time was still being measured in an elegant three-fourths tempo. A waltz. With a hundred couples pinwheeling over the dance floor like graceful galaxies through the heavens. One-two-three, one-two-three...

Astor watched impassively from the edge of the orchestra with Ava by his side. Why did you invite him? Astor asked flatly.

Who? replied Ava.

You know, that man you were with in the hallway.

My bridge partner? Jack, I needed someone to amuse me this evening. It’s a job you abdicated long ago.

You could have had the decency…

Ava cut him off. Why don’t you have the decency to divorce me and you wouldn’t need to get so upset about these things.

No divorce until mother is gone. It would break her heart and you know it. We agreed, no divorce.

We didn’t agree that I couldn’t have fun.

But tonight? At my party? You’re still an Astor, you know. You’re still my wife.

Yes, Ava said pointedly. That is one thing I am unable to forget.

One-two-three, one-two-three… The music lilted out. The dancers glided to a stop. John Astor took his wife’s hand. They both put on a smile as the assembled guests applauded their appearance. Thank you…thank you all for coming, Astor spoke haltingly. He was not good at this sort of thing, giving a speech before a large, formal group.

A small army of waiters entered the ballroom in perfect formation, carrying trays filled with glasses of champagne. They quickly distributed the champagne to the guests. Astor took a glass and raised it. As there is… he glanced to a large golden clock that was strategically placed by the side of the orchestra, …two minutes left to 1907, I’d like to make a brief toast. To all of you, our dear friends, and to the wonderful world we have made. To our lasting bonds and eternal friendships. Astor coughed and searched for words. "So let us…let me toast you, yes, let me toast you, the guardians of what is most precious in this civilized world. And I’d also like to honor, most of all…" Astor lifted his gaze to the second floor balustrade where the Mrs. Astor once again sat, looking down at the shiny faces below like an empress looking down on her serfs …my mother, Mrs. Caroline Schermerhorn Astor, whom, I think we all agree, is the greatest woman who ever lived. Happy New Year.

Astor rushed to finish before midnight struck. Just as he stopped, the clock began tolling. It was 1908. A cheer went up through the ballroom. Everyone chimed Happy New Year and sipped their champagne. The orchestra began playing Auld Lang Syne and the 400 guests all sang with sentimental gusto. On the second floor the old tune seemed to penetrate the fog that was floating in Mrs. Astor’s head. She tried to mumble along.

Husbands leaned to their wives and pecked a kiss, then turned toward those closest to them and wished Happy New Year. The orchestra struck up The Radetzky March.

Amid the genteel good cheer, the ballroom shuddered. Slightly at first, like a birth pang announcing what was to come. And come it did, a millisecond later. The room shook with a tremendous jolt. A deafening explosion of sound drowned out the orchestra. Chunks of the gold-leafed ceiling began plummeting down. A swirl of plaster-dust enveloped the room like a thick fog. Any semblance of civilized behavior quickly vanished. Screams replaced the orchestra’s melody. There was a mad, chaotic scramble as the men in their black tuxedoes flailed their elbows, using them as weapons to carve a path to the doorways for themselves and their wives.

Astor’s eyes went upwards, trying to find his mother through the haze that hung over the room. As everyone was shoving to get out, Astor pushed against the crowd. Coughing and gasping for breath, he raced up the staircase, leaving a trail of red footprints in the fine layer of white dust that was now covering the carpet. Reaching the top of the stairs, Astor spotted the silhouette of his mother through the haze. She was still sitting in her chair by the rail. Alone. Her maids had obviously abandoned her.

Mother, are you alright? Astor said, dashing to her.

A weak, low gurgle emerged from her throat.

Mother, can you breathe?

She continued to choke out the strange, guttural sound. Astor began to panic. He brought his face close to hers, felt her weak breath on his skin. She was struggling to say something.

What is it, mother, what is it?

Barely audible, she labored to mumble over and over, We’ll…stake a cup o’ kindness yet…for…auld…lang…syne. Then Astor noticed tributaries of tears streaming down through the chalk white dust that layered her face.

A large chunk of plaster plummeted from the ceiling, smashing with an explosive thud next to Mrs. Astor’s chair. We’re leaving, mother, Astor said, gently maneuvering her feather-light body over his shoulder. Pellets of plaster continued to rain down. Sulfurous smoke poured from the vents throughout the house.

At the front entrance the partygoers pushed their way through the elegant doors, unhinging them in their panic. Astor moved into the foyer with his mother. He noticed Ava being escorted out by her bridge partner, who was guiding her with his firm hand on her behind. Mrs. Astor noticed it too, startling her back to the present. Isn’t that your wife? she asked.

Astor didn’t answer. Instead, he re-adjusted his mother over his shoulder, causing her wig of curls to slide sideways over her bald head.

Into the chill of the night the cream of New York society poured onto Fifth Avenue, looking like shell-shocked refugees. The clanging of bells from the arriving fire brigade mixed with the cacophony of firecrackers and shouts of Happy New Year that echoed along the avenues. Astor took his mother across the street and set her down against a tree. He began adjusting her wig back into place. Down the block a high-pitched whistle pierced the air and then a twisting firework flared into a starburst of color.

Ooohhhh, Mrs. Astor cried out. It’s a sign!

Astor continued to fiddle with the wig. A sign for what, mother?

That God loves us. God loves the Astors.

CHAPTER 2

1908

On Monday, April 11, 1908, a bright spring morning in Washington D.C., Captain Archibald Butt walked through a guard gate and onto the White House grounds to start his new job. He wrote to his mother that evening, telling how he was greeted by the President with a most hearty welcome…Roosevelt came into the office, laid one hand on my shoulder and with the other wrung my own…

More than any other President, Theodore Roosevelt reveled in activity. He rode horses, he played tennis, he hiked, he chopped trees, he camped, he hunted, he swam, he golfed, he fished, he was a man fully engaged in life. That’s what attracted people to him. Big, brash, and bold, Theodore Roosevelt was America.

Not only could Archie keep up with Roosevelt, he could challenge the President. He was a better horseman, marksman, and natural athlete. And a good challenge invigorated Roosevelt like nothing else. Archie knew his part and played it perfectly. He quickly became Roosevelt’s closest companion, always one step behind the President, the trusted soldier and aide, ready at the President’s beckon call.

On July 24th, Archie traveled to the Roosevelt home at Sagamore Hill in Oyster Bay, New York, to join the President and his family for a brief summer’s getaway. Archie recorded the daily routine: a hearty breakfast (eggs, pancakes, toast and several cups of coffee), two hours of work, then sailing, swimming or games with the Roosevelt children. In the evening, before dinner, the men would sit on the broad veranda to smoke and chat on a hundred different subjects. On one occasion, near the end of Archie’s visit, Roosevelt became emotional and expressed regret over the impulsive promise he made after the 1904 election – that he would serve out his new term and no more. Roosevelt loved being President and deep in his heart believed he was still the best man to lead the country. He professed affection for William Howard Taft, his handpicked successor, then expressed concern: I do not think he will be as aggressive as I’ve been. Still, Roosevelt had promised to retire and he was a man of his word. I’m going to leave for an African safari right after the inauguration, Roosevelt said, explaining that he didn’t want to be a distraction to the new President. And with that news, the men fell silent and watched the summer sun send its last golden rays over Sagamore Hill.

The day Archie returned to Washington D.C., he received an urgent message from Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. That evening Archie walked the few blocks from the White House to an old brick office building that housed the Department of Justice. A military guard met him in the building’s large foyer and escorted him through a maze of corridors to Bonaparte’s office.

Bonaparte was seated behind an enormous cherry wood desk. Dark and heavy-set, he had thick-lidded eyes and a few strategically combed strands of hair covering his balding head. When Archie entered, Bonaparte was talking with a small, sober-faced man who clutched a large white envelope. Captain Butt, Bonaparte hoisted himself from his chair. Thank you for coming at such short notice.

Whatever you need, Mr. Attorney General, I am at you service.

Charlie, call me Charlie, please. Let me introduce you to Stanley Finch. I’ve just appointed him to head our new investigative division. Examiner Finch may appear to be a baby-faced angel, but look out, he’s as tenacious as a bulldog.

Captain.... Finch said tightly.

A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Finch. Archie shook Finch’s hand. It was thin and bony.

I hear you’ve been with the President, Bonaparte said, moving around the desk to Archie. He’s well, I trust?

In fine spirits, as usual. I must admit, it’s hard keeping up with him. The President has remarkable energy.

I’ve known him for over a decade now and I think he’s gained a step, not lost one. Bonaparte pulled at the short hairs of his mustache then touched Archie’s shoulder in an awkward gesture, Listen, Archie, if you don’t mind, I need your help. It may be a little delicate. Bonaparte then nodded to Finch, who carefully opened the envelope he was holding. He removed a picture, laid it on the desk then spread his bony fingers over the photo and rotated it toward Archie. Bonaparte and Finch watched Archie to see if there was a reaction. There was. Archie’s lips curled into a smile.

You cut a handsome figure, Captain, Bonaparte said.

Thank you, sir, but I was ten years younger.

Archie studied the sepia-toned image of himself as a young colonel. He was in full-military dress. Two small war medals were pinned on his chest and a short brimmed cap sat squarely on his head in a proud, formal way.

I was thinner then, Archie said. That’s what war does to you. Keeps you thin.

And you recognize the other man? Bonaparte asked.

Of course Archie did. The soldier posed next to him was also in an ornate dress uniform, but the effect was different. This soldier’s posture was not ramrod straight like Archie’s, but looser-limbed. His dress uniform looked molded on his muscular body and his soldier’s cap was cocked slightly in a rakish manner. His look was direct; his coal black eyes glared straight into the camera. The intensity of his gaze was offset by a sly, confident grin that added a touch of lightness to his handsome face.

Corporal Michael Shaughnessy, Archie muttered.

Also known as Mick? asked Bonaparte.

Mick. Yes. Good old crazy Mick.

He wasn’t mentally stable?

Sir, he was the most stable man I ever met. And the best soldier I ever served with. He admired the warriors of ancient Rome and strove to emulate their fierceness and loyalty. He told me that when he was young he became an altar boy to learn Latin so he might read Tacitus’ war histories of Rome.

Then why did you call him ‘crazy Mick’?

Because he was fearless. He would just as soon walk into an enemy’s gun nest as he would a saloon. And he’d wreak havoc in both places. The army tries to teach men bravery, but I do not believe it is something one can acquire. True bravery is something you must be born with. Mick Shaughnessy was born with bravery in every bone of his body. In the Philippines he single-handedly freed a group of Americans from an enemy hideout. Must have killed at least fifteen men without any loss of life on our side.

You considered him a patriot then?

A patriot and a hero. Why do you ask?

Because… the Attorney General cleared his throat then looked directly at Archie, …he is suspected of a New Year’s Eve bombing at the home of John Jacob Astor.

Bonaparte dropped the bit of news dramatically, expecting Archie to react with surprise. But he didn’t. Didn’t the newspapers report that a furnace exploded? Archie quietly answered.