Holstein arched an eyebrow quizzically. “And supplies are now a problem?”
“Not for the military, and certainly not yet. The destruction of so many of our supplies simply means that we cannot afford to feed the Americans within our lines unless their presence outside would be dangerous to us, or if they have skills useful to our effort.”
“They will resist.”
It was Schlieffen’s turn to shrug. “Then they will be shot. We have given them one week to register with us. We will then determine whether they will be expelled or imprisoned. Anyone we find roaming loose after that who is not working for us as a collaborator will be executed as a spy and saboteur. I have given responsibility for the task to General Lothar von Trotha. Do you recall him?”
Holstein shuddered. “Yes. He did some of the kaiser’s best work in China. General von Schlieffen, the man is a butcher. Why not Hindenburg or von Moltke?”
“They declined.”
“General, there will be mistakes,” stated Holstein. “Surely you do not hope to reach every small child or old woman hiding in a slum basement. Would you kill them?”
“And why not?” answered Schlieffen. “The women in America are quite cunning with knives and very supportive of the men. As to children, sir, they are being used as messengers and deliverers of weapons and ammunition. Please do not scold me with prattle about innocent children.”
Holstein did not respond. He was surprised at the kaiser’s actions in expelling all Americans, but he was not shocked. American irregulars behind German lines were causing terrible losses. Schlieffen might try to downgrade the loss of the warehouses in Brooklyn, but they represented two weeks’ worth of food for the German army. It was getting more and more difficult to resupply them, since part of the American navy was now sitting in a rough arc running from Brest in France to Penzance in England; a second group sat off Dover, where the Channel was only a score of miles wide. Every German ship now had to travel by convoy, and each convoy had to fight its way through the American cruiser lines. The result of this had been the slowing down of supplies reaching the army as well as the siphoning off of warships from their coastal defense and fleet duties in order to protect the convoys.
Most of the ships got through, but a surprising percentage did not. The Americans tried to attack with a force larger than the warships shielding the convoy. Thus, although the convoy guards tried to protect themselves and their charges, American ships were almost always available to slip into the convoy and cause damage before being driven off. The Americans seemed to not want a major battle. Rather, they preferred to nip and snap, like a wild dog after a large prey, causing a multitude of small wounds rather than a single large one. Holstein recalled that the Chinese had a name for such a torture. They called it something like the death of a thousand cuts. Well, he sighed, Germany was being sliced and bled by very sharp American scalpels.
“Yet, General, the battles have not all been one-sided,” said Holstein.
“Certainly not. On several occasions, von Tirpitz’s new navy has given a good account of itself. The Yanks are without at least one cruiser, and a couple of others are temporarily out of action. Sadly, we have lost a little bit more heavily than they. The score or so of merchant vessels sunk by them is a matter for concern. So too, by the way, is the question of how they find out about the force and composition of the convoys. It almost seems as though someone is telling them.”
Holstein laughed. “Who would have to? By the time the convoys form off our coast, a thousand eyes have seen them and reported. When they try the Channel off Dover and Cherbourg, they might as well be on display. Better we should eliminate any confusion or mistakes by sending the Yanks our sailing schedules. No, by the time our ships reach Plymouth, the Americans know exactly what is coming at them. I’m surprised we aren’t sending more around Scotland.”
“According to von Tirpitz, it wouldn’t accomplish that much,” explained Schlieffen, “and it would extend the trip at least a week in what are quickly becoming cold and dangerous waters.”
Holstein shuddered. He had seen the North Sea in anger once. It was not a place for any but the strongest sailors. “There is another rumor that you are pulling your soldiers back to a small perimeter in Brooklyn and effectively conceding the rest of Long Island to the Americans.”
“With regrets, that is true,” acknowledged Schlieffen. “With the need to keep so many in the trenches against the Americans, we found ourselves unable to protect our facilities scattered about the area. We are not afraid they will suddenly land an army on Long Island and attack us. Our navy is in complete control of Long Island Sound. I think of it as a consolidation, not a retreat.”
Call it what you will, Holstein thought, but it looks, smells, and sounds like a retreat. Were these fairly innocuous acts the first indication that a crisis was approaching?
Holstein thanked the chief of the Imperial General Staff for his time. Then he sat in his office and brooded.
Johnny Two Dogs watched intently from where he hid in the shrubs as the long line of people walked slowly eastward down the road in the general direction of the American lines in Connecticut. They were still behind the German defenses and had many miles to go. A shame, he thought; so many of these people looked either too old or too young to be out in the open, even though the weather mercifully continued to be mild.
The column, although broken here and there, seemed virtually endless. Only a handful of Germans guarded the forlorn civilians as they shuffled along, their slumped bodies exuding despair. Johnny was puzzled. These people were not a threat. How could this be? Were these the same white tribes that spawned the soldiers who finally took Geronimo? These people were weak and thin, often dressed in tatters, and they carried what they could of their belongings in bags and sacks. He saw few suitcases and no carts or wagons. Reason told him the Germans had confiscated anything that looked like a horse or a cow. He had no way of knowing that these sad-looking people were largely recent immigrants for whom this trek was yet another march away from a tyranny they’d left Europe to escape.
It was hard for Johnny to feel any mercy or regret for the white people parading dismally before him. How many of his people had died when shipped from Arizona and New Mexico to the stinks of Florida and then to Oklahoma? How many of the Cherokee had died in their long march from the white man’s land to Oklahoma in years past? He spat on the ground. The Cherokee dead were no great loss to him. The Cherokee were women. They had sold their souls to the white devils and had adopted many of the white man’s ways, so many they were called the civilized tribes. It didn’t help to be civilized when the whites wanted their land. Later, he knew that many of the Cherokees, Chippewa, and others had picked the losing side when the North fought the South. He wondered if he’d picked the right side in this war and decided he didn’t care. When it was over, he and many of the others had decided they would not return to the hellish conditions on the reservation. They would go elsewhere, somewhere.
One of the Germans grabbed a bundle from an old man and spilled it on the ground. Then he used his booted feet to stir the man’s possessions in a search for valuables. Johnny knew that the soldier was wasting his time. These refugees had already had to surrender much of what they owned at earlier roadblocks set up to ensure that nothing taken from the city could be used against the Germans. He had crept close to one and watched while the Germans stole watches, jewelry, and anything else that took their fancy. That included some of the women, who were taken into tents and raped while their families were held at gunpoint.
The German said something to the old man, who wailed and raised his arms. The soldier reacted quickly and smashed a fist into the man’s face. The old man fell to his knees and the German kicked him in the head. Finally the old man lay still. No one, Johnny mused, had come to help him.
Hell, let them all die. It’s their turn.
In Washington, Theodore Roosevelt was livid with rage. He paced his war room and cursed under his breath. John Hay, who ordinarily felt comfortable dealing with the temperamental man when he was in a foul mood, knew better than to interrupt now.
When Roosevelt finally gathered himself to speak, his voice was high, almost squeaky, with barely contained anger. He was trying mightily not to take it out on the people close to him. His friends were not the ones at fault. “They will pay for this outrage. They will pay dearly. They will not expel our people from their homes as though they were the Israelites being taken into captivity. No, sir, they will not. What a tragedy our country is enduring.”
He sat down in a chair so hard that his feet came off the floor. “They will pay,” he repeated. “This merely strengthens my resolve to defeat them. The devil with Bryan and his peace-loving sheep! How can we ever deal with a country that commits such atrocities?” he asked, his voice now nearly a roar.
John Hay, the presenter of the news that the rumored expulsions were actually taking place, was far more relaxed. “Theodore, it is indeed an awful thing, but let us look at how we can use it to our advantage, and legitimately so. First, although not very many have died en route, some have. We will certainly play up each death as the tragedy it is. The dead all have names and families, and we will remind the press that either they or their forebears came from other lands in search of liberty. Instead, they found this mad kaiser and his army chasing them, hounding them, expelling them from hearth and home, and dooming them to live as refugees. The recently arrived we will describe as being chased from their homelands to the ends of the earth by that madman.” He smiled. “And the best thing is, it’s all true.”
“Humph. That’s not exactly what I had in mind. I want that kaiser bastard in chains.”
That is not very likely to happen, thought Hay. “A worthy goal; however, not a particularly realistic one under the circumstances. The brave kaiser is quite safe in Germany, and he will not leave that land while they are at war. His only real danger lies in being burned by the flames of outrage sweeping Europe. The English and French papers are calling him a despot and comparing him to Attila the Hun. One French paper said Attila was preferable to the kaiser. Even Russia has called for a cessation of the expulsions, and Austria has hinted broadly that they should stop. The kaiser’s reaction, unfortunately, has been to withdraw into a shell. He feels that time will pass and all this will be forgotten. Sadly, he is probably correct.”
“Damn people and their short memories.”
“It also means we are hurting him. The Germans cannot feed and control that large a local population. Our saboteurs are becoming extremely effective. They are denying the Germans a safe haven anywhere on this continent.”
“Sabotage. It all sounds so unsporting.”
“Theodore, this isn’t a baseball game. We are at a serious disadvantage and must use every means at our disposal to win.”
Roosevelt nodded agreement. “You’re right, John, you’re always right.”
“I certainly try to be. Unfortunately, Theodore, that is not the end of the bad news.”
“Spare me; I’ve heard enough for today.”
Hay ignored his request. “As the Germans contracted their perimeter on Long Island and, in effect, gave the Island back to us, they burned or destroyed just about everything they could not use in order to deny it to us. The land is a ruin.”
“Dear Jesus.”
Hay looked at him sadly. “I am truly sorry to report that one of the places destroyed by fire was your home at Sagamore Hill.”
There was a stunned silence for a moment, then Theodore Roosevelt began to weep tears of pain and impotent fury.
T
HE
S
CHUYLER ESTATE
was located about twenty miles south of Albany on the east side of the Hudson. Upon first seeing it, Patrick could readily understand Trina’s description of it as a castle. There was a barbaric splendor about the multistoried stone and brick structure. As he came closer, he saw it was basically a three-level building with a stone turret that carried another two levels into the sky. Using his soldier’s background, he reviewed the place as a fortress and decided it would hold out quite well against light opposition. As he eyed the construction more closely, it became apparent that some of it was quite old and perhaps had been built with defense against Indians in mind.
Trina greeted him at the massive oak door and showed him his quarters, a three-room suite with a view of the forest. He was honored, she assured him; less-favored guests had views, and smells, of the barn and stables in the back.
Later, when he had changed and refreshed himself from the one-day trip, he met her outside for a tour of the grounds. She wanted to show him around while it was still light. The interior of the house could wait until later.
Her choice of clothing shocked him at first, then pleased him. She wore a man’s flannel shirt and denim pants. It was the first time he’d ever seen a woman in pants, and it was a little disconcerting. Because the pants fit quite well, he decided two things: first, she had a delightful figure and, second, the pants had been made especially for her. She confirmed the latter by saying they had been custom tailored for her by Levi Strauss & Company.
Trina took his hand and showed him the buildings around the main house. In addition to the house and a large barn with storage and animals that made the estate almost self-sustaining, there was a stable with a number of horses.
The house, she explained, had been started by an early ancestor in the eighteenth century and added to by succeeding generations of Schuylers. Along with quarters for a half-dozen servants, there were ten bedrooms, living and entertainment areas, kitchens, baths, a ballroom, and a pool. There was also indoor plumbing, electricity run by a generator, and a telephone.
It was impressive and Patrick was a little awed. “Eighteenth century? Does that mean you’re actually related to the Schuylers who fought in the Revolution?”