Call Down The Hawk

by Richard Folmar

  “I wouldn’t be putting it exactly like that, Mr. President.

  “And just how would you be putting it, Mr. Tumulty?”

  “Not having seen either a copy of the said telegram or the English version of the Mexican paper, I can only relate what he told me.”

  “Which was?”

  “That the commendation was for the Ambassador and staff for their rescue actions during the recent revolution. Undoubtedly that was in reference to the ten days of heavy-street fighting in Mexico City. You will remember the accounts of Ambassador Wilson and members of his staff rushing about in the U.S. flag draped embassy motor car rescuing American citizens.”

  The President, looking thoughtful, removed and rubbed his glasses with a small cleaning cloth. “Yes, yes. That surely must have been Mr. Bryan’s intent but however, well intentioned, I am afraid the telegram was very badly constructed, especially at this critical time. I fear it will be taken by many to be a broad expression of this Administration’s support of the Ambassador or even worse, recognition for the Huerta dictatorship.”

  “As a matter of fact, the Post reporter had wanted to know if the telegram means that this Administration is endorsing Ambassador Wilson and his position on the recognition of General Huerta’s presidency,” Tumulty said.

  “There you are! Just as I feared,” the President abruptly pushed his swivel chair back from his square-topped desk and walked tight-faced to the windows overlooking the south ellipse. He stood there staring unseeing at the Washington Monument. Joe Tumulty, from his many years with Wilson, recognized the signs of his extreme irritation.

  However, when the President turned away from the window, there was no visible indication of irritation. His tone was even mild when he said, “Mr. Tumulty, would you please call the Secretary’s office and see if it will be convenient for Mr. Bryan to drop over and see me at—”

  “You have an open time at 10:30 this morning.”

  “Yes, that will do nicely and when you phone, will you please do Mr. Bryan the courtesy of informing him of the subject I would like to discuss with him?”

  Tumulty left and the President returned to his desk and picked up a report from his Secretary of Treasury McAdoo, on the preparation of tariff reform legislation. After a few paragraphs, he laid it aside and, removing his spectacles massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. What in the world was Bryan thinking when he sent that telegram? Couldn’t he see how it might have been construed? He had made it perfectly clear that there were not to be any official pronouncements concerning Ambassador Wilson or by indirection of the recognition of the Huerta dictatorship, unless he had approved it. He hoped that this wasn’t an example of Bryan’s future performance in the job. Many of his closest advisors had been strongly opposed to his naming the Commoner to the number one post in the cabinet. He had even had to rebuke Bill McCombs, his convention manager, for his vociferous efforts to block the appointment. Undeniably, no person had worked harder and demonstrated more loyalty than Bryan during the convention and the campaign for which he had asked for nothing in the way of an appointment. He had been exceedingly grateful for that, and indeed, relieved. A William Jennings Bryan in opposition could be extremely formidable. So against most of the advice, except that of Colonel House, he had appointed the commoner to be Secretary of State. Afterwards Arthur Mullen, a longtime Nebraska politician, had warned him that when it came to a crisis someday, Bryan would desert him and do it in the name of God. Well, Mullen was a known outspoken opponent of Mr. Bryan and he did not give serious attention to the warning. As for this current matter he felt confident that it would be logically explained when Mr. Bryan came over.

  Over on the second floor of the State Department, Bryan was questioning his secretary, Mr. Davey. Outside the door of his inner office he could hear the noisy reporters who had just shown up requesting an interview about a so-called telegram to Henry Lane Wilson. Making a hasty search of the files, Mr. Davey was able to produce a copy and handed it to Bryan.

  After a careful read, Bryan pointed to the draft. “Mr. Davey, I frankly do not remember seeing this or for that matter signing it. Are you certain that it was my signature that approved the dispatch?”

  Davey, warily defensive, pointed out that as shown by the date and time of the telegram form, he personally had not been in the office. Mr. Sweatly was on duty that afternoon.

  “Ah yes, I remember. Please get him in here and try to get that clamor toned down outside?”

  Sweatly was hastily summoned and after studying the copy of the telegram nodded, “Yes, Mr. Secretary, I do remember it. It was among several documents brought in late Friday. That was the same afternoon you were hurrying to get to the Pan American reception and banquet.”

  Bryan’s mouth clamped into a tight thin line and he reread the offending telegram for the third time. He glared at Sweatly. “To your best recollection sir, did this telegram draft have one of those little red tags?”

  Mr. Sweatly shook his head vigorously. “No, sir. If you remember, you asked about red tags when I brought all those documents to be signed. I told you, and I was correct, that there were no red tags on any of that material. No red tags that afternoon.”

  “Then why in perdition wasn’t there a red tag on that telegram draft? Which division did that come from?”

  “Latin Affairs, sir,” Mr. Davey supplied. “I just called Mr. Wister and he assures me that when it left his office, it had a red tag. It must have fallen off in the transit.”

  Bryan glumly regarded his secretary and nodded. “Yes, that must have been what happened, unfortunately. However, that does not excuse my not reading it carefully.”

  “Do you wish to see Mr. Wister, sir?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Croy Wister, the chief clerk of the division.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Do tell him, as well as all the chief clerks, to make sure those little red tags are securely fastened to the appropriate documents when they send them to me. No—better yet, send out an official memorandum to all divisions to that effect, under my signature.”

  Mr. Davey paused with his hand on the doorknob. “What about those reporters outside, sir?”

  Bryan sighed. “Best you let them in. As you know, I am a journalist myself, but I never realized until I accepted this job, how much they collectively resemble a plague of locusts.”

  Mr. Davey smiled. “Indeed, sir, they do.”

  They spilled into his office, noisy, brash and demanding, all familiar faces. Then of course, there had to be the Faver woman from that German language newspaper. Wearing the famous Commoner smile, he held up both hands to still the barrage of questions. “Gentlemen—and lady, I will endeavor to answer each of your questions as time permits,”

  “Mr. Secretary,” the New York Times led off, “is it true that you sent a telegram to Ambassador Wilson lauding his work?”

  “A telegram was sent commending Ambassador Wilson and his staff for their actions in the so called ten day revolution.”

  The Washington Post asked, “What actions, exactly, were you commending?”

  “Simply that during the tragic violence that occurred in the ten days of fighting, the Ambassador and his staff comported themselves with distinction in saving American lives.”

  Annaliese Faver pushed forward between the Baltimore Sun and the Washington Star and asked, “Cannot it also be read as an endorsement of the Ambassador himself and his position with reference to the recognition of General Huerta as the legitimate government of Mexico?”

  “I see nothing in the telegram that says that. Do you, gentlemen? I am afraid our lady reporter here is getting a mite fanciful.”

  Annaliese flushed with anger as her fellow journalists laughed. No, I’m not going to let you get away with that! “Oh, come now, Mr. Secretary. We all know that diplomatic la
nguage has more levels than the Flatiron Building! (laughter from the other reporters). Isn’t it true the telegram in question is a first move on the part of the Administration to reverse its rumored position on his continuance in the light of his avowed support of Huerta?”

  “It means only what it says” Bryan snapped. “It was only a routine recognition for conduct during a trying time.”

  “Then are we to assume,” The Baltimore Sun interjected, “that it doesn’t actually reflect any administrative position regarding the retention of Ambassador Wilson or essays any comment on the recognition of the Huerta government?”

  “Essentially, that analysis is correct” Bryan answered with a grateful smile, relieved at being freed from that Faver woman. But it was not to happen.

  After two intervening questions from the Star, she returned to the attack. Unfortunately her aggressive and often-impertinent questions had a way of exciting the interest of the other reporters who often reported her outrageous questions and his responses.

  “Excuse me Mr. Secretary, I am confused,” Annaliese said.

  “A condition of which we are all aware, Miss Faver” (More laughter).

  “I am confused,” she persisted, “concerning your explanation of the meaning of this telegram. How can you maintain that it is not laudatory of Ambassador Wilson and his activities during the treacherous unseating of Madero and the following murders?”

  Bryan shook his head in annoyance. “I think I have clearly established what was intended by the telegram, Miss Faver. I do not desire to repeat myself. Now, this interview is at an end. Thank you gentlemen, and Miss Faver.”

  As the reporters reluctantly filed out, Mr. Davey came over and whispered to Bryan, “It’s the White House, sir. The President would like to see you at 10:30 this morning, if it is convenient.”

  “Of course it’s convenient. Did they say what it was about?”

  “This telegram business.”

  The Commoner swallowed hard. This thing was getting out of hand to a degree far exceeding its importance. In truth, of course, it was an administrative foul-up in the procedures of the department; the absence of one of those little red tags. Yes, well, what was he going to do about it? Sending a second telegram rescinding the first to Ambassador Wilson seemed out of the question.

  41

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THE RECIPIENT of Bryan’s controversial telegram sat at late breakfast in the dining room of the American Embassy with his wife Alice and members of the Embassy staff that included Artimus Seyquirt, the First Secretary, Dr. Mason Oliver, special advisor on Latin American affairs, and several others of his staff. The Mexican servant had just cleared most of the breakfast dishes and was pouring second cups of coffee for all but Alice Wilson and Artimus Seyquirt who requested tea by preference.

  Throughout the meal the conversation had dwelt mostly upon President Huerta’s reception held at the Jockey Club the previous evening for the diplomatic community. The consensus, excluding the First Secretary who had not attended, was that it had been moderately successful in spite of El Presidentes over consumption of alcohol and his becoming vitriolic about certain members of the Mexican Congress.

  Ambassador Wilson, a lean-featured man with piercing eyes and an ample moustache, summed up Huerta’s behavior with the comment, “It’s the Indian blood. Those people just can’t seem to hold their liquor. When he is not drinking, he’s entirely different.”

  “Well, I thought Senora Huerta was quite lovely and demonstrated her usually refined demeanor throughout, despite her husband’s behavior,” Alice Wilson commented.

  Dr. Oliver said, “Yes, she is a very handsome woman with the most arresting dark eyes.” Murmurs of agreement from others around the table greeted his appraisal of the First Lady of Mexico.

  Mason Oliver was a graying man in his late forties who had transferred to the Embassy staff from Lima in January at the pay level of Second Secretary. He was considered a thoughtful and competent specialist in Latin American affairs, having served in several embassies in South America.

  The conversation shifted to the specifics of the Ambassador’s schedule for the day only to be interrupted by the arrival of Cyrus Bateman, his personal secretary, with a dispatch from Washington. The Ambassador read it quickly and with a chuckle handed it over to his First Secretary. “Read that, Artimus. Old Bryan seems to have gotten himself into something of a pickle with that commendatory telegram to me the other day”

  With a practiced eye Artimus quickly scanned the dispatch and then passed it over to Dr. Oliver, commenting, “Most irregular.”

  “Show it to Alice, Mason,” the Ambassador said.

  She looked up after reading the dispatch and turned anxiously to her husband. “Henry, is that awful man now saying he wants to recall the first telegram, leaving the impression that you don’t deserve a commendation for risking your life to save our citizens during that horrible time?”

  The Ambassador reached over and took back the dispatch and then placed his hand over his wife’s, which had begun to tremble in agitation. “You must not overly concern yourself, my dear. All this has nothing to do with the actual facts. It is politics pure and simple, colored by the unfortunate reality of having a bumbling incompetent at the helm of our State Department.”

  “But Henry—”

  “It cannot change the actual facts of what happened, which the entire world has been made aware of. Anyway, the withdrawal of the commendation is meaningless with respect to my position here. If the President wants me out, all he has to do is pick up my signed resignation submitted on the day of his election.”

  “Not only that, Mrs. Wilson,” Dr. Oliver added, “this dispatch will prove most embarrassing to the Secretary of State when it is known by the newspapers. There was some bumbling somewhere and undoubtedly the Secretary will have to take some heat from the President.”

  “Yes,” the Ambassador said and smiled. “I should think Woodrow must be more than a little vexed with his Secretary of State about now.”

  Alice spoke up forcefully. “Oh, that man! Who cares what he thinks! Henry, why does that man who bears our same surname, have to be so blind as not to recognize all the good you have done for our country down here?”

  “I choose to believe it’s not personal on his part. It’s just politics, Alice. Now I’m sure you have a multitude of things you desire to attend to this morning. We shouldn’t keep you from them.”

  His wife mumbled something about a luncheon at the Chapultepec Restaurant and leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek, then smiled at the other men at the table, who stood out of courtesy as she rose, and left the room.

  As they resumed their seats, Henry Lane Wilson said, “Now gentlemen, if you will, let’s get back to business. First off, Artimus, I would appreciate it if you would prepare a telegram to be sent over my name to the Honorable William Jennings Bryan.”

  The First Secretary pulled out a small black notebook and fountain pen and looked expectantly at the Ambassador.

  “I want it to say that while I acknowledge the recall of his first telegram of the umpty-month date commending me and my staff for our actions during the recent serious fighting here in Mexico City, I would like to respectfully remind the Secretary of State that its contents have been widely published throughout this city and country and have been made known to the representatives of all the other countries with embassies or missions here. A corresponding publicity of the recalled commendation might prove most embarrassing to our embassy presence here, not to say of our country. I am sure that any act of withdrawal under these circumstances would prove most awkward. I only wish to add that I accepted the intent and sentiments of your first telegram as more of a commendation of my staff than of myself. When you complete the draft, Artimus, let me see it and give it to Mr. Bateman to have typewritten and sent off.” He looked at Dr. Oliver. “That
ought to do it, don’t you think, Mason?”

  “Very nicely, I should imagine sir.”

  “Good. Can you get that taken care of as soon as possible, Artimus?”

  The First Secretary said, ‘Yes sir,” and was almost to the door when the Ambassador said, “A moment, Artimus, are our two so-called agents of Mr. Bryan settled in comfortably?”

  “As you instructed, Ambassador. They have been installed in the room selected by Mrs. Wilson and they breakfasted quite early then departed for the Consulate.”

  “How do you size them up?”

  The First Secretary considered for a moment before answering, “I really have not had much time to observe them but I would say on first impression that Mr. Cane, although untutored in protocol and diplomatic moderation of language, is nobody’s fool. From what I saw on the train, he is quick to respond when he feels an injustice, but upon due reflection is amenable to reason.”

  “And—the other one with that extraordinary name?”

  “Ah, Mr. Handsome Comfort. A rather rough sort. He seems less than an associate and more of a man-servant or perhaps a bodyguard, if you know the type.”

  “I believe that I do and he probably is the latter, a bodyguard.”

  “A bodyguard?” Dr. Oliver exclaimed. “Why in heaven’s name would this Cane fellow need a bodyguard down here? Aren’t they supposed to be here on the claims problems? You think they are after something else?”

  The Ambassador smiled and extinguished his cigar in a bronze ashtray. “I do not have the slightest idea, Mason, but I think it’s time that I meet these two fellows. Artimus, arrange a luncheon for them today at the American Club. You will have to call the Consulate, I expect. Since you have already met them, you come too. It might be most interesting, don’t you agree? Dr. Oliver, I wonder if you might check some of your sources in Washington to find out a bit more on these two chaps?”

  “I’ll attend to it immediately, sir.”