by Ken Follett
Gus told himself he did not care. He loved Caroline and he would rescue her from her husband. He had plenty of money, and when his father died he would be a millionaire. He would find some other career. Perhaps he might become a journalist, reporting from foreign capitals.
All the same he felt a stabbing pain of regret. He had just got a job in the White House, something young men dreamed of. It would be agonizingly hard to give that up, along with all it might lead to.
The phone rang, and Gus was startled by its sudden jangling in the quiet of the West Wing at night. "Oh, my God," he said, staring at it. "Oh, my God, this is it." He hesitated several seconds, then at last picked up the handset. He heard the fruity voice of Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan. "I have Joseph Daniels on the line with me, Gus." Daniels was secretary of the navy. "And the president's secretary is listening on an extension."
"Yes, Mr. Secretary, sir," said Gus. He made his voice calm, but his heart was racing.
"Wake the president, please," said Secretary Bryan.
"Yes, sir."
Gus went through the Oval Office and out into the Rose Garden in the cool night air. He ran across to the old building. A guard let him in. He hurried up the main staircase and across the hall to the bedroom door. He took a deep breath and knocked hard, hurting his knuckles.
After a moment he heard Wilson's voice. "Who is it?"
"Gus Dewar here, Mr. President," he called. "Secretary Bryan and Secretary Daniels are on the telephone."
"Just a minute."
President Wilson came out of the bedroom putting on his rimless glasses, looking vulnerable in pajamas and a dressing gown. He was tall, though not as tall as Gus. At fifty-seven he had dark gray hair. He thought he was ugly, and he was not far wrong. He had a beak of a nose and sticking-out ears, but the thrust of his big chin gave his face a determined look that accurately reflected the strength of character that Gus respected. When he spoke, he showed bad teeth.
"Good morning, Gus," he said amiably. "What's the excitement?"
"They didn't tell me."
"Well, you'd better listen in on the extension next door."
Gus hurried into the next room and picked up the phone.
He heard Bryan's sonorous tones. "The Ypiranga is due to dock at ten this morning."
Gus felt a thrill of apprehension. Surely the Mexican president would cave in now? Otherwise there would be bloodshed.
Bryan read a cable from the American consul in Veracruz. "'Steamer Ypiranga, owned by Hamburg-Amerika line, will arrive tomorrow from Germany with two hundred machine guns and fifteen million cartridges; will go to pier four and start discharging at ten thirty.'"
"Do you realize what this means, Mr. Bryan?" said Wilson, and Gus thought his voice sounded querulous. "Daniels, are you there, Daniels? What do you think?"
Daniels replied: "The munitions should not be permitted to reach Huerta." Gus was surprised at this tough line from the peace-loving navy secretary. "I can wire Admiral Fletcher to prevent it and take the customs house."
There was a long pause. Gus was gripping the phone so hard that his hand hurt. At last the president spoke. "Daniels, send this order to Admiral Fletcher: Take Veracruz at once."
"Yes, Mr. President," said the navy secretary.
And America was at war.
{ III }
Gus did not go to bed that night or the following day.
Shortly after eight thirty, Secretary Daniels brought the news that an American warship had blocked the path of the Ypiranga. The German ship, an unarmed freighter, switched its engines to reverse and left the scene. American marines would go ashore at Veracruz later that morning, Daniels said.
Gus was dismayed by the rapidly developing crisis but thrilled to be at the heart of things.
Woodrow Wilson did not shrink from war. His favorite play was Shakespeare's Henry V, and he liked to quote the line "If it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive."
News came in by wireless and cable, and it was Gus's job to take the messages in to the president. At midday the marines took control of the Veracruz customs house.
Shortly afterward, he was told that there was someone to see him--a Mrs. Wigmore.
Gus frowned worriedly. This was indiscreet. Something must be wrong.
He hurried to the lobby. Caroline looked distraught. Although she wore a neat tweed coat and a plain hat, her hair was untidy and her eyes red with crying. Gus was shocked and distressed to see her in this state. "My darling!" he said in a low voice. "What on earth has happened?"
"This is the end," she said. "I can never see you again. I'm so sorry." She began to cry.
Gus wanted to hug her, but he could not do so there. He had no office of his own. He looked around. The guard at the door was staring at them. There was nowhere they could be private. It was maddening. "Come outside," he said, taking her arm. "We'll walk."
She shook her head. "No. I'll be all right. Stay here."
"What has upset you?"
She would not meet his eye, and looked at the floor. "I must be faithful to my husband. I have obligations."
"Let me be your husband."
She raised her face, and her yearning look broke his heart. "Oh, how I wish I could."
"But you can!"
"I have a husband already."
"He is not faithful to you--why should you be to him?"
She ignored that. "He's accepted a chair at Berkeley. We're moving to California."
"Don't go."
"I've made up my mind."
"Obviously," Gus said flatly. He felt as if he had been knocked down. His chest hurt and he found it hard to breathe. "California," he said. "Hell."
She saw his acceptance of the inevitable, and she began to recover her composure. "This is our last meeting," she said.
"No!"
"Please listen to me. There's something I want to tell you, and this is my only chance."
"All right."
"A month ago I was ready to kill myself. Don't look at me like that, it's true. I thought I was so worthless that no one would care if I died. Then you appeared on my doorstep. You were so affectionate, so courteous, so thoughtful, that you made me think it was worth staying alive. You cherished me." The tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she kept on. "And you were so happy when I kissed you. If I could give someone that much joy, I couldn't be completely useless, I realized; and that thought kept me going. You saved my life, Gus. May God bless you."
He almost felt angry. "What does that leave me with?"
"Memories," she said. "I hope you will treasure them as I will treasure mine."
She turned away. Gus followed her to the door, but she did not look back. She went out, and he let her go.
When she was out of sight he headed automatically for the Oval Office, then changed direction: his mind was in too much of a turmoil for him to be with the president. He went into the men's room for a moment's peace. Fortunately there was no one else there. He washed his face, then looked in the mirror. He saw a thin man with a big head: he was shaped like a lollipop. He had light brown hair and brown eyes, and was not very handsome, but women usually liked him, and Caroline loved him.
Or she had, at least, for a little while.
He should not have let her go. How could he have watched her walk away like that? He should have persuaded her to postpone her decision, think about it, talk to him some more. Perhaps they could have thought of alternatives. But in his heart he knew there were no alternatives. She had already been through all that in her mind, he guessed. She must have lain awake nights, with her husband sleeping beside her, going over and over the situation. She had made up her mind before coming here.
He needed to return to his post. America was at war. But how could he put this out of his mind? When he could not see her, he spent all day looking forward to the next time he could. Now he could not stop thinking about life without her. It already seemed a strange prospect. What would he do?
<
br /> A clerk came into the men's room, and Gus dried his hands on a towel and returned to his station in the study next to the Oval Office.
A few moments later, a messenger brought him a cable from the American consul in Veracruz. Gus looked at it and said: "Oh, no!" It read: FOUR OF OUR MEN KILLED COMMA TWENTY WOUNDED COMMA FIRING ALL AROUND THE CONSULATE STOP.
Four men killed, Gus thought with horror; four good American men with mothers and fathers, and wives or girlfriends. The news seemed to put his sadness in perspective. At least, he thought, Caroline and I are alive.
He tapped on the door of the Oval Office and handed the cable to Wilson. The president read it and went pale.
Gus looked keenly at him. How did he feel, knowing they were dead because of the decision he had made in the middle of the night?
This was not supposed to happen. The Mexicans wanted freedom from tyrannical governments, didn't they? They should have welcomed the Americans as liberators. What had gone wrong?
Bryan and Daniels showed up a few minutes later, followed by the secretary of war, Lindley Garrison, a man normally more belligerent than Wilson, and Robert Lansing, the State Department counselor. They gathered in the Oval Office to wait for more news.
The president was wired tighter than a violin string. Pale, restless, and twitchy, he paced the floor. It was a pity, Gus thought, that Wilson did not smoke--it might have calmed him.
We all knew there might be violence, Gus thought, but somehow the reality is more shocking than we anticipated.
More details came in sporadically, and Gus handed the messages to Wilson. The news was all bad. Mexican troops had resisted, firing on the marines from their fort. The troops were supported by citizens, who took potshots at Americans from their upstairs windows. In retaliation the USS Prairie, anchored offshore, turned its three-inch guns on the city and shelled it.
Casualties mounted: six Americans killed, eight, twelve--and more wounded. But it was a hopelessly unequal contest, and over a hundred Mexicans died.
The president seemed baffled. "We don't want to fight the Mexicans," he said. "We want to serve them, if we can. We want to serve mankind."
For the second time in a day, Gus felt knocked off his feet. The president and his advisers had had nothing but good intentions. How had things gone so wrong? Was it really so difficult to do good in international affairs?
A message came from the State Department. The German ambassador, Count Johann von Bernstorff, had been instructed by the kaiser to call on the secretary of state, and wished to know whether nine o'clock tomorrow morning would be convenient. Unofficially, his staff indicated that the ambassador would be lodging a formal protest against the halting of the Ypiranga.
"A protest?" said Wilson. "What the dickens are they talking about?"
Gus saw immediately that the Germans had international law on their side. "Sir, there had been no declaration of war, nor of a blockade, so, strictly speaking, the Germans are correct."
"What?" Wilson turned to Lansing. "Is that right?"
"We'll double-check, of course," said the State Department counselor. "But I'm pretty sure Gus is right. What we did was contrary to international law."
"So what does that mean?"
"It means we'll have to apologize."
"Never!" said Wilson angrily.
But they did.
{ IV }
Maud Fitzherbert was surprised to find herself in love with Walter von Ulrich. On the other hand, she would have been surprised to find herself in love with any man. She rarely met one she even liked. Plenty had been attracted to her, especially during her first season as a debutante, but most had quickly been repelled by her feminism. Others had planned to take her in hand--like the scruffy Marquis of Lowther, who had told Fitz that she would see the error of her ways when she met a truly masterful man. Poor Lowthie, he had been shown the error of his.
Walter thought she was wonderful the way she was. Whatever she did, he marveled. If she espoused extreme points of view, he was impressed by her arguments; when she shocked society by helping unmarried mothers and their children, he admired her courage; and he loved the way she looked in daring fashions.
Maud was bored by wealthy upper-class Englishmen who thought the way society was currently arranged was pretty satisfactory. Walter was different. Coming as he did from a conservative German family, he was surprisingly radical. From where she sat, in the back row of seats in her brother's box at the opera, she could see Walter in the stalls, with a small group from the German embassy. He did not look like a rebel, with his carefully brushed hair, his trim mustache, and his perfectly fitting evening clothes. Even sitting down, he was upright and straight-shouldered. He looked at the stage with intense concentration as Don Giovanni, accused of trying to rape a simple country girl, brazenly pretended to have caught his servant, Leporello, committing the crime.
In fact, she mused, rebel was not the right word for Walter. Although unusually open-minded, Walter was sometimes conventional. He was proud of the great musical tradition of German-speaking people, and got cross with blase London audiences for arriving late, chatting to their friends during the performance, and leaving early. He would be irritated at Fitz, now, for making comments about the soprano's figure to his pal Bing Westhampton, and at Bea for talking to the Duchess of Sussex about Madame Lucille's shop in Hanover Square, where they bought their gowns. She even knew what Walter would say: "They listen to the music only when they have run out of gossip!"
Maud felt the same, but they were in a minority. For most of London's high society, the opera was just one more opportunity to show off clothes and jewels. However, even they fell silent toward the end of Act 1, as Don Giovanni threatened to kill Leporello, and the orchestra played a thunderstorm on drums and double basses. Then, with characteristic insouciance, Don Giovanni released Leporello and walked jauntily away, defying them all to stop him; and the curtain came down.
Walter stood up immediately, looking toward the box, and waved. Fitz waved back. "That's von Ulrich," he said to Bing. "All those Germans are pleased with themselves because they embarrassed the Americans in Mexico."
Bing was an impish, curly-haired Lothario distantly related to the royal family. He knew little of world affairs, being mainly interested in gambling and drinking in the capital cities of Europe. He frowned and said in puzzlement: "What do the Germans care about Mexico?"
"Good question," Fitz said. "If they think they can win colonies in South America, they're deceiving themselves--the United States will never allow it."
Maud left the box and went down the grand staircase, nodding and smiling to acquaintances. She knew something like half the people there: London society was a surprisingly small set. On the red-carpeted landing she encountered a group surrounding the slight, dapper figure of David Lloyd George, the chancellor of the Exchequer. "Good evening, Lady Maud," he said with the twinkle that appeared in his bright blue eyes whenever he spoke to an attractive woman. "I hear your royal house party went well." He had the nasal accent of North Wales, less musical than the South Wales lilt. "But what a tragedy in the Aberowen pit."
"The bereaved families were much comforted by the king's condolences," Maud said. Among the group was an attractive woman in her twenties. Maud said: "Good evening, Miss Stevenson, how nice to see you again." Lloyd George's political secretary and mistress was a rebel, and Maud felt drawn to her. In addition, a man was always grateful to people who were polite to his mistress.
Lloyd George spoke to the group. "That German ship delivered the guns to Mexico after all. It simply went to another port and quietly unloaded. So nineteen American troops died for nothing. It's a terrible humiliation for Woodrow Wilson."
Maud smiled and touched Lloyd George's arm. "Would you explain something to me, Chancellor?"
"If I can, my dear," he said indulgently. Most men were pleased to be asked to explain things, especially to attractive young women, Maud found.
She said: "Why does anyone ca
re what happens in Mexico?"
"Oil, dear lady," Lloyd George replied. "Oil."
Someone else spoke to him, and he turned away.
Maud spotted Walter. They met at the foot of the staircase. He bowed over her gloved hand, and she had to resist the temptation to touch his fair hair. Her love for Walter had awakened within her a sleeping lion of physical desire, a beast that was both stimulated and tormented by their stolen kisses and furtive fumbles.
"How are you enjoying the opera, Lady Maud?" he said formally, but his hazel eyes said I wish we were alone.
"Very much--the Don has a wonderful voice."
"For me the conductor goes a little too fast."
He was the only person she had ever met who took music as seriously as she did. "I disagree," she said. "It's a comedy, so the melodies need to bounce along."
"But not just a comedy."
"That's true."
"Perhaps he will slow down when things turn nasty in act two."
"You seem to have won some kind of diplomatic coup in Mexico," she said, changing the subject.
"My father is . . . " He searched for words, something that was unusual for him. "Cock-a-hoop," he said after a pause.
"And you are not?"
He frowned. "I worry that the American president may want to get his own back one day."
At that moment Fitz walked past and said: "Hello, von Ulrich, come and join us in our box, we've got a spare seat."
"With pleasure!" said Walter.
Maud was delighted. Fitz was just being hospitable: he did not know his sister was in love with Walter. She would have to bring him up to date soon. She was not sure how he would take the news. Their countries were at odds, and although Fitz regarded Walter as a friend, that was a long step from welcoming him as a brother-in-law.
She and Walter walked up the stairs and along the corridor. The back row in Fitz's box had only two seats with a poor view. Without discussion, Maud and Walter took those seats.
A few minutes later the house lights went down. In the half dark, Maud could almost imagine herself alone with Walter. The second act began with the duet between the Don and Leporello. Maud liked the way Mozart made masters and servants sing together, showing the complex and intimate relationships between upper and lower orders. Many dramas dealt only with the upper classes, and portrayed servants as part of the furniture--as many people wished they were.