The ferries that transported mobs of people from Manhattan Island to New Jersey had to return to pick up more passengers, so finding transportation across the river was no great chore. Once Patrick was on Manhattan, however, getting to his destination-the residence of Jacob Schuyler-proved impossible until the driver of a carriage succumbed to the temptation of a ten-dollar gold piece. For the duration of the ride, Patrick sat in the back with his right hand firmly around the handle of a revolver, which he let the driver glimpse on more than one occasion.
The narrow city streets were filled with angry, sullen people, and fights broke out frequently. The carriage wheels crunched through broken glass; many store windows had been smashed and shops plundered. He was glad he had not worn his uniform. It likely would have made him a focus of the crowd’s anger, which, justifiably, centered on the government’s inability to prevent the travesty occurring before their eyes.
He saw a body lying facedown in a puddle. Two small children stood by, fascinated. “Looter,” said the driver.
“Where in God’s name are the police?” Patrick asked.
“Protectin’ the rich people. Where the hell else would they be?” He laughed harshly. “Don’t worry none. You’ll be safe where you’re goin’.”
When Patrick had arrived the night before at the Schuyler apartments, armed with a letter of introduction from their good friend Theodore Roosevelt, he was disappointed to find that Jacob Schuyler was out of town. His daughter, Katrina, was at home and assigned him a room that overlooked the East River. When he was told the Schuylers had apartments, he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly not the thirty rooms they occupied, along with their several servants.
Nor was Katrina what he had expected, given such a totally Dutch name. He’d thought of her as a blond dumpling with blue eyes and a vapid, giggly personality. But instead of being plump, Katrina was slender, almost thin. She stood slightly over average height but appeared taller because of her thinness and because she carried herself very straight, with almost military precision, and dressed quite primly. She was also a little older than he had expected. He guessed that she was in her late twenties or early thirties, a spinster and well over marriage age. She appeared distraught, tired, alone, and concerned.
At least he’d been right about the blond hair and the bluish eyes, Patrick thought as he sipped his morning coffee and wondered what the new day would bring.
“Good morning, Colonel. Is the view to your satisfaction?”
Patrick placed his coffee cup on a table and turned. “Hardly, Miss Schuyler. I find it most depressing.”
She nodded. “Now you know how I’ve found it over the past couple of days. To be honest, I am delighted you are here even though I might not have shown it very well last night. There was that horrid feeling that we-that is, everyone in New York-had been abandoned. What with the explosions of Sunday night and the invasions and the mobs of looters, my world has been a nightmare.”
Of course, he thought, and that would have accounted for her distracted and confused behavior of yesterday. He had to admit she looked far less unattractive, although now, rested and under control, there was an air of formidability that he hadn’t noticed. While she was far from a beauty-her face was thin, her nose a little long, and he hadn’t yet seen her smile-he found her looks interesting. Interesting-now there’s a word to be damned with, he thought.
“And what ship is that?” she asked, looking at the German cruiser.
“Her name is the Hela, a small cruiser.”
“Not a battleship? Are we so insignificant that we don’t even rate a battleship?”
He told her the larger ships were doubtless out at sea or in the harbor keeping a watch for the American navy.
She gestured to the table. “You’ve read the morning papers, I see. Anything of note?”
“Other than a level of vitriol against things German, there is a wide divergence of opinion. The Hearst paper wants us to invade Germany, while the others call for the army to do its job immediately. They seem to forget we don’t have that much of an army. There are hints that McKinley should resign or be impeached for letting this happen to us.”
She pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to him. “This is for you.”
Surprised, he opened it. Inside were the insignia of a colonel in the U.S. Army. “They belong to my father,” she explained. “He wore them against Spain, although he never left the city.” She laughed, and he saw she did have nice teeth and a pleasant smile. “You said last night how quickly you’d been rushed here, and I thought you might find these useful when it comes time to show your true colors.”
He stammered his thanks.
“So, sir, now that the army’s here and in full control, what are your plans for disarming the Germans and driving them off? I wish to tell Mr. Hearst.”
Damn, was she making fun of him? Her mouth was set again but her eyes were laughing. He drew himself to his full height and stood at attention. “Miss Schuyler, I intend to rent a small boat, paddle over, and inform them that they must leave or pay the consequences. The American army shall not be trifled with.
“Seriously, my plans are to go to the waterfront and observe what I can. I will be leaving shortly and, with your permission, hope to return early this afternoon. I already used your telephone to contact my superiors in Washington.”
“Is that safe? Using the phone, I mean. Couldn’t an operator overhear you?”
“Yes, but it’s a chance we have to take. There were some precautions to at least forestall that. For instance, the number I call is answered as the Windsor Hotel, even though it goes directly to the White House war room.”
That struck both of them as just a little funny under the circumstances. Katrina, however, became serious very quickly. “When you go observing, I will go with you.” When he started to protest, she waved him silent. “Please note that I am not asking your permission, Colonel, I am telling you what I will do. We will take my carriage, and two of my servants, armed, for additional protection. Believe me, sir, it is very important that I see what is actually happening. My family has been in this town, in this area, for many, many generations. I feel so angry that I will not be deterred.”
Patrick resigned himself to her company and, shortly, they began moving down streets that paralleled the East River. He was gratified to see that the hysteria of the preceding day had subsided and that the crowds, although excited, were not in a state of panic. It was also, he realized, far too early in the day for them to be liquored up.
A number of armed men in uniform, obviously local militia, had taken control of the streets and were enforcing order. A couple of quick conversations between Katrina and officers whom she appeared to know told them both that at least three regiments were bivouacking in Central Park and were trying to anticipate the Germans’ next move. One young officer also added that many heavy wagons were being assembled and, once loaded, would be sent under the heaviest possible guard to the ferries and across to safety in New Jersey. Their contents would be the money and bullion from the banks as well as the stocks and other valuables necessary to keep America’s financial world operating.
The officer was not thrilled at the prospect. “I’m afraid the same people who’ve done so much looting will realize what’s in the wagons, and a mob will try to overwhelm them.” He shook his head. “Even though the governor has ordered at least one regiment to guard the wagons, I’m afraid there will be fighting and rioting before we get them to safety. A lot of people could be killed.”
Patrick agreed. “But we can’t leave all this for the Germans to take if they come across or decide to seal off the island, can we?” responded Patrick, who was appalled that a junior officer knew of the plans and was so blithely informing people of them. There was no secrecy.
“No, we can’t, mister. Lord, what a mess.” With that, he excused himself and let Patrick and Katrina continue on.
The first point of note was, of course, the Brooklyn Br
idge, which connected Manhattan to the very place where the Germans were landing. The Manhattan side was barricaded by a miscellany of carriages, carts, barrels, and anything else that could be put in place quickly. What appeared to be several hundred policemen were augmented by a horde of civilians and others in militia and National Guard uniforms. There were even several old men in what could only have been Civil War uniforms. Patrick again was glad he hadn’t worn his own uniform. Despite that, there were a number of hollered requests for him and Katrina’s two servants to join the defenders. He lied easily, saying they’d be back later when they returned the lady to safety. For her part, Katrina smiled demurely and they drove on.
Pathetic, Patrick thought, that a few hundred unarmed or half-armed and undisciplined men could even think of halting the German army should it decide to cross the bridge. They’d be brushed aside in minutes and the lucky ones merely humiliated.
Finally they reached a point near decrepit old Battery Park, near the stinking and immigrant-filled slums of the Lower East Side where they had a good view of the harbor. Before them lay the vast panorama of invasion. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other New Yorkers gathered to watch, mainly in silence. Stretched to the horizon were scores of freighters and ocean liners waiting to disembark their cargo, human and materiel, at the Brooklyn docks. Protecting and screening them were at least a dozen large warships, which, thank God, appeared to be unconcerned about the crowds of spectators watching the show.
After a while, Patrick, Katrina, and the two servants went to the roof of a building and observed further. Using field glasses, Patrick could easily see the lines of gray-clad soldiers leaving the ships and marching inland. It was a precise and awesome performance. On a nearby rooftop, he noticed two men with what he recognized as a movie camera, probably from Mr. Edison’s Biograph Laboratory in New Jersey. He wondered what they would do with the pictures, where they would show them. After observing for a while, Patrick suggested they leave. Saddened and silent, they returned to the Schuyler home.
Once there, he excused himself to use the telephone and, to his surprise, had little trouble getting through to the “Windsor Hotel” for his report.
A moment after he disconnected, Katrina tapped on the door, entered, and took a seat on a luxurious couch. Yesterday’s look of anguish had returned, and she appeared to have been crying. “What now, Colonel?”
“I’m going north and east across the Hudson before Manhattan is cut off.” Patrick shrugged and smiled wanly. “I wouldn’t be able to do much observing as a prisoner, would I?”
She paled. “You think that will happen?”
He explained to her calmly that cutting off Manhattan was very likely, that indeed it was the only logical thing for the Germans to do. They had, he estimated, landed the better part of an entire division and appeared to be picking up the pace. They could land about five to six thousand men a day, with their heavy equipment taking a little longer.
He told her to visualize the area. Manhattan, as so many seem to forget, is indeed an island, even though the Harlem River to the north is not much of a barrier to traffic or commerce and is crossed at a number of points. However, a military force could turn it into an extremely effective moat. Thus, he explained further, the Germans would likely head north and off Long Island, which would logically carry them along the Harlem River, thereby severing Manhattan from the rest of the world. The city would then be under siege and easily invested. Sieges, he told her, were grim and cruel events. He quickly recounted the horrors of the siege of Paris by the Germans in 1871 and, of course, Vicksburg and Petersburg in the Civil War. As sieges inevitably wore on, the besieged were always confronted by disease, starvation, and the likelihood of sudden and violent death. Death, he told her, was often preferable to being wounded in such an environment.
“I’ve only read about sieges, I’ve never actually seen one. And, Miss Schuyler, I don’t ever wish to. What I’ve read of them is enough. Starvation and disease are the rule, not the exception.”
“The Germans would do this?”
“They really have no choice. They came here for a purpose, and that purpose is not to sit on Long Island and be trapped there by an American army. No, they will move off to the interior as soon as they are strong enough. It would not surprise me at all if advance units have already taken some of the crossing points. Therefore, I must get out of here as quickly as possible.” He looked at an ornate bronze clock on the mantle and automatically wondered how much it cost. More importantly, it told him it was just after noon. He would have thought it much later. “With regrets, I will leave very soon.”
“Again, I will come with you.”
He started to object and changed his mind. Why shouldn’t she flee the horrors of siege and conquest? “All right. Be ready quickly and be prepared to travel light. Will your two hired hands be available? We may need them.”
They would. She quickly explained that they could take a carriage or horses north over the Harlem River where it met the Hudson and continue north from there. They both agreed that horses would be more advantageous than a carriage simply because a horse could go so many more places. With the possibility that roads might be blocked, the ability to travel cross-country might prove important.
“Colonel, since we are going to be traveling companions, I would appreciate your calling me Katrina, or Trina. Miss Schuyler sounds as though I am your teacher. And I will call you Pat or Patrick. Which do you prefer?”
“Either, but most wind up calling me Patrick. Now, what will you do when we reach what we feel is safety?”
“Simple. With all the refugees and a war on, there will be many opportunities to help. I’m certain the Red Cross will be out in force and I will volunteer to help them. Who knows, perhaps Miss Barton herself will be there.”
He winced again. She was correct in her implication that the Red Cross would be on duty well before the army could even dream of arriving.
She left and returned in a few moments with a small traveling bag full of clothing and other essentials. “For your information, Patrick, we also have a home in Albany. If volunteering is not an answer, I will go there.”
He was about to say something when a series of loud noises and explosions shook the room and jostled vases on the shelves. They ran to the nearest window and looked out. Along with the explosions there was what Patrick quickly recognized as the distinctive rattle and pop of rifle and machine-gun fire. Were the Germans attacking and crossing the bridge?
Mercifully, whatever was occurring could not be seen from their observation point, although clouds of dark smoke quickly emerged from the Brooklyn side.
“Patrick, what has happened?”
“Who knows? Anything and everything. Perhaps some well-intentioned fools made an attack on the Germans.”
The cannonading continued with a fury like nothing he’d ever heard and without letup for the better part of an hour. By this time plumes of smoke trailed into the sky from many points, and it was obvious that a number of major fires had started.
“Katrina, we must leave right now.” When she started to say something, he stopped her. “Look at the fires. Who on earth is going to put them out? That is a catastrophe beginning over there and nothing can stop it! There are going to be more refugees than you ever thought possible as soon as they figure out that running is better than being shot or burned to death.” She swallowed and concurred.
When they left the apartments, the streets were filling rapidly, and many other people were headed north. Some were grim-faced and determined; others showed signs of panic. A cart in front of them overturned and they were forced to urge their horses over someone’s well-kept lawn in order to pass it. Free of the obstruction, Patrick looked behind and saw his worst fears confirmed. The multitude of individual fires across the East River had coalesced into one great cloud of smoke through which he could see occasional tongues of flame.
“Patrick,” Katrina said, “check the wind.”
He
did and nodded confirmation. It was from the west. No ashes would fly over and onto Manhattan, but Brooklyn would doubtless be scorched.
When they finally reached the Harlem River, it was a scene from Dante. Mobs of people, rich and poor, walking and in wagons or carriages, pushed or were trying to push their way onto the bridges that connected Manhattan with the Bronx. Even on a good day, the traffic was heavy; this day it was impossible. The river was little more than a narrow and muddy stream, but it was not crossable by foot. Scores of boats of all sizes ferried people back and forth, and Patrick and Katrina saw riders and their horses swimming the muck. At Patrick’s urging the four of them formed a compact mass and pushed their way through the mob, oblivious to the curses hurled at them. Finally they reached a small boat whose owner, a grinning little man in filthy clothes, demanded fifty dollars to take them across. Patrick thought about arguing, but others behind him were shouting that they would pay. Patrick handed over the money and the four were ferried across with the guards holding the reins of the horses, which swam easily alongside.
They had barely remounted when they heard the sound of shots and screams. An expensive carriage with a well-dressed family had tried to bully its way onto a bridge and had run someone over. Friends of the injured person then stormed the carriage and shot the driver, who was dragged bleeding from his seat and disappeared into the crowd. While they watched in horror, the mob turned on the family inside, plucked them out one by one, and hurled them into the river, where they were pelted with rocks and debris until they disappeared under the dark water.
Katrina’s mouth was open in shock at the sudden violence. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it in their lives. “We’ve become animals,” she said finally.
With much of the fleeing throng still trapped on the wrong side of the river, the roads were not crowded and they were able to urge their horses to a trot. They had barely gone a mile when they saw a score of horsemen in dark gray uniforms. The Germans rode with the insolence of conquerors as they idly scattered the refugees in their path like a flock of chickens.
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