They had walked to a different portion of the field. Now it no longer looked like Maryland. The farm grass had been replaced by thicker and more luxuriant vegetation, more evocative of the Tropics. And these dead wore white and had sombreros and darker, Latin skins. But they were just as dead, just as maimed.
Then it dawned on him. He was dreaming. He laughed. A dream. Of course. Dreams were often terrible things and this certainly was one of the worst he’d had since he’d been a lad in Ohio.
“William, the Germans are coming.”
Despite himself, he started. “Where?” Then he saw the line of men clad in dark gray that was almost black. They wore funny helmets with spear points on the top and they were marching toward him rapidly.
“William, run! Hurry! Run!”
McKinley tried to turn but his legs wouldn’t respond. He knew the unreasoning panic of a nightmare when the evil cannot be avoided. The line of Germans was only yards away, and one man in particular had his bayoneted rifle pointed directly at him. He tried again to run but his legs were leaden and unresponsive. A dream, he thought, it is a dream! This creature, now upon him and grinning, cannot hurt. Despite this thought, he screamed and tried to thrash himself free. It’s a dream, he said, as the bayonet entered his chest. It cannot hurt me.
The pain began in the center of his body and it felt as if his chest would explode. The German was gone, replaced by visual waves of red ocean that sought to engulf him. It can’t hurt, he continued to think as further torrents of agony continued to rack his body. It’s a dream. It can’t be hurting, he continued as the red waves were replaced by black. After a bit, he could no longer hear his own voice protesting that it was only a dream.
They stood around the table in the Red Room, a shocked and confused group. Theodore Roosevelt entered and nervously took the place of honor at the head of the table. His normally ruddy complexion was pale, and he looked as if he might have been crying.
“We shall begin,” he said, “with a moment of silence for the soul of the late William McKinley. Although many of us, myself included, disagreed with him, often vehemently, we all respected him. His untimely death this afternoon leaves a void that will be difficult to fill. For those who did not witness it, I was sworn in just a few moments ago by Chief Justice Fuller. The late president will lie in state in the rotunda for two days; then he will return to Ohio, where his widow says he will be interred. Canton, I believe.”
After McKinley had gone to his rooms for a short nap, Hay and Roosevelt grew concerned when he did not return at the scheduled time. Thinking that he had overslept—a logical assumption because of the strain he’d been under—they waited a little longer to allow the man to rest. When he still didn’t come out, they had one of the servants enter the president’s private quarters to awaken him. That poor man’s screams sent them running down the hallway, where they found McKinley dead on the floor, his face blue. He was the victim of an apparent heart attack, doubtless brought on by the stress of the situation.
Now Theodore Roosevelt, at age forty-two, was the twenty-sixth and youngest-ever president of the United States, and he fervently prayed for guidance. It was one thing, he realized ruefully, to be the vice president, the gadfly, the tormentor. Now he had to make the decisions, and he was more than a little frightened. The fate of the nation was his to decide. As he prayed, he begged the Almighty for the guidance to do the right thing, and to do it bravely and well.
Roosevelt raised his head and the others followed suit, unconsciously affirming his primacy. He had a war to plan.
“Gentlemen, now to the task at hand. Today is Tuesday, the eleventh of June, and we have been at war for a little more than a week—a week during which, I might add, we have accomplished damn little.” His voice was harsh. “First, General Miles, what is the latest situation in and around New York?”
Miles seemed oblivious to the implied criticism. “As expected and anticipated by Colonel Mahan’s reports, the Germans have indeed moved off Long Island. The massive fires in Brooklyn may have delayed them a day or so, but a large contingent, perhaps a division, has moved toward White Plains and is likely to cross the border into Connecticut in a couple of days. They have met virtually no opposition, nor are they likely to. They have also moved a blocking force on the north side of the Harlem River. Thus, with naval units in the Hudson as well, Manhattan is now cut off and under a state of siege. The Germans have called for its surrender.”
“Mr. President,” interrupted Elihu Root, the secretary of war, “there are at least three regiments of New York National Guard trapped on Manhattan Island. If they surrender, which I’m afraid is inevitable, the Germans will have at least five thousand of our boys as prisoners, not to mention possession of the largest and most important city in the United States.”
Roosevelt nodded. There was nothing he could say at this time. “And the war at sea?” he asked as he turned to the secretary of the navy, John Long, who was present with his intelligence expert, Capt. Charles Sigsbee.
“Sir,” responded Long, “we have been inundated with ship sightings in such copious quantities as to make one believe the Spanish armada was off our shores. Quite frankly, every old lady who sees a fishing boat has reported it as a German battleship, creating panic everywhere along the coast. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff has been difficult, but we now estimate at least six German battleships and twenty or so light and heavy cruisers in and about New York harbor. Although that itself is not a huge fleet, we assume there are other vessels out of sight of land and, since our navy is nowhere near, it might as well be the Spanish armada.”
“Are you trying to gather our fleet?”
“Yes. However, there are several difficulties. First, the problem of notifying those ships currently at sea that hostilities have commenced. We will have to wait until many of them reach port or are hailed by another ship that is aware of the war. Even for those we can reach, there is another problem: what specifically do we ask them to do? Gather certainly, but where and for what purpose? Frankly, sir, we need not only direction in that regard but a safe haven for the fleet to gather. A sanctuary, if you will.”
There was a buzz of general agreement. An army could be accumulated in safety almost anyplace on the continent. A navy, however, needed ports. Safe ports. If the fleet were forced to do battle piecemeal, it would be destroyed piecemeal. No, the fleet had to be gathered in its entirety. There was no answer, so they settled for a compromise in which those ships currently in American ports would remain where they were until they received further instructions, along with those that would subsequently return to the United States as word of the war spread. Somehow they had to find sanctuary.
However, the army could be gathered. Directions were given that the scattered regular units would be brought eastward together from the dusty forts and camps they’d occupied in the West for more than half a century of warfare against the Indians. Even though the Indians were long subdued, no one had ever thought to move the army. It would have cost money.
“Mr. President.”
“Yes, Elihu.”
“Guard and militia units from a number of states are accumulating around the New York area. For all intents and purposes, they are leaderless, as each consists of an independent brigade or regiment. There is no cohesion, no direction. I suggest that you appoint regular army generals for that area and make them responsible for the gathering up of those units before disaster strikes. For a start, I recommend simply establishing geographic lines of demarcation and control and letting our generals sort out who’s in their area.”
“Who do you have in mind? General Miles?”
Root smiled. “No, sir, he’s much too valuable right here.” A small sop. Root neither liked nor trusted Gen. Nelson Miles. “I propose sending Joe Wheeler and Fitzhugh Lee up there immediately. They are in town and I’ve got them standing by. Baldy Smith has been contacted. He will get there in a little while and, with your concurrence, will assume tactical command for the time being.”
John Hay leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling in mock prayer. “My lord, our first line of defense is two aging Confederates to be followed as soon as possible by an old Union general.”
Roosevelt hushed him. “It could be worse. At least they’re skilled soldiers.” There was a pause as a messenger entered with a sheet of paper. Roosevelt scanned it and looked up. “Well, Congress didn’t dally. They’ve approved a declaration of war and given me control over state units.”
“Well, sir,” said Hay, “where does that put us regarding a response to the German ultimatum?”
“Tell them,” Miles snarled, “to shove it up their Teutonic asses!”
Roosevelt laughed and slapped the table. The irascible and unpleasant Nelson Miles, who had spent much of his career fighting rivals for his own personal glory, had focused on yet a new enemy and this time the correct one. Bully! thought Roosevelt. “Well, General, I think Mr. Hay and I can formulate a response that will convey the sense of what you just said.”
Miles handed Roosevelt a thick envelope, bypassing the very surprised Elihu Root. “Sir, since we are going to war with a major European power, it will necessitate a major increase in the size of the American army. I have some thoughts and recommendations I am confident you will find interesting.”
Roosevelt took the envelope and tried not to look at Root, who glared at Miles and appeared as though he wished to strangle the man. “I think we have accomplished much that is necessary here today, and we will accomplish much more in the days to come. We must make an army and gather our fleet. Then we will wring that puffed-up little bastard kaiser’s neck.”
To a chorus of “hear, hear” they started to rise in dismissal, but the young lieutenant who’d been overseeing the telegraph operations in the war room above burst through the door. “Mr. President,” he gasped. “There’s been a battle!”
P
ATRICK
M
AHAN REGRETTED
the delay in his journey to the front, but there was little he could do. With the death of the two servants in the attempted robbery, he had assumed responsibility for Katrina Schuyler and the refugee, Molly Duggan. The first thing to do was see to Molly’s health. They found a doctor who treated her physical wounds and assured them she would be all right with time. What mental wounds she’d incurred were beyond anyone’s estimate. It sometimes seemed to Patrick and Katrina that the whole ugly incident with the German soldier had been blotted from Molly’s mind once she told them of it. But then something about Germany or the Germans would arise in conversation and they could see her hatred. Nevertheless, with the resilience of a youth who was still almost a child, she soon became relatively cheerful and talkative, and assumed the role of assistant to Katrina. Patrick almost thought of her as Katrina’s maid, but that wasn’t quite right. The girl was very bright and reasonably literate, considering her tough urban background and her history as an immigrant. Until recently, she had been well cared for.
Katrina accepted the inevitability of the situation and seemed to enjoy Molly’s company. Although Katrina had been shaken by the attempted robbery, she seemed to have put it behind her. She was, however, aware that she was growing more and more dependent on Patrick, and she wondered about it. He certainly did not resemble what she had once thought a knight-errant should look like, but he was quite attractive. He was tall, about six feet, and surprisingly muscular. And, as befits an officer, he had a commanding presence. But it quickly melted when they talked quietly together. He had a slightly receding hairline, and she imagined he would be bald in a decade or two and decided it might suit him. There was a small scar on his cheek and she wondered what caused it. A Spanish bayonet? She was also pleased and surprised to find him almost as well traveled and educated as she was. She had a strong dislike for stupid men and men who thought Katrina Schuyler was stupid. Patrick Mahan did not possess either flaw.
All three of them, while relieved to find the escape portion of their journey over, were saddened at breaking up. The women would stay behind while Patrick rode on to find the armies. To no one’s surprise, there was a Red Cross camp north of Stamford, Connecticut, where Katrina’s and Molly’s services were gratefully accepted. When they parted, Molly gave Patrick an impulsive hug, and Katrina felt compelled to follow suit. Although amused at Molly’s embrace, Patrick seemed a little taken aback at Katrina’s. His response amused her. Brave soldier!
Patrick was thinking of that hug and the surprising warmth and strength of Katrina’s slender body, and how involuntarily monastic a soldier’s life often is, while he rode westward alone toward White Plains, New York. He halted as the distant sound of thunder rumbled from the hills to his front.
Thunder? Thunder, hell! That was artillery! He spurred his horse to a gallop and rode in what he thought was the right direction. What had Napoleon said? Ride to the sound of the guns! At least and for once, he was wearing a proper uniform.
He had heard disturbing information that a number of militia units had been called up by the governors of at least three states and were converging westward in the general direction of the rumored location of German outposts, just east of White Plains. What in God’s name, he asked himself, were they going to attempt? Was there a plan? A leader? He doubted the existence of either. If the militia’s dismal performance in the Spanish war was any indicator, the best that could occur would be chaos, and the worst, disaster.
Patrick had passed a number of poorly armed and poorly dressed militia units heading in the same direction as he was, but he had also seen others heading north, which further reinforced his conclusion that no one was in charge and that there was no coherent plan.
After a while, he slowed his horse to a trot and listened as the cannonading became sharper and was punctuated by the distant rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire. Then it seemed to cease altogether and the land became eerily silent as the sounds of birds and buzzing insects returned.