by John Jakes
Roosevelt pulled off his eyeglasses, the better to convey his seriousness. “I am frankly fearful of our friend the Kaiser. His policy is expansionist. He believes in the doctrine of a two-ocean navy. It’s my theory that he’s maneuvering in this hemisphere because he wants a coaling station in the West Indies. One day, soon or late, we’ll have to show our aces and call his bluff. That may cause suffering for decent German-Americans whose only feeling for their homeland is an understandable, nonpolitical affection. People such as yourself.”
It was a new thought, and dispiriting. Yet not all that new either, he realized a second later, when he recalled the unpleasant arguments with Oskar Hexhammer.
“So you really think we face a challenge from Germany, Theodore?”
“I do unless the Kaiser changes course. Which is another compelling reason for a demonstration of American resolve and strength in Cuba.” He noticed Joe’s plate. “You’ve hardly touched your meal. What’s wrong?”
“Not hungry. Anxious about tonight, I suppose.”
“You’re due over there when?”
“Eight sharp.”
“At least it’ll be quiet. I hate that place during the day. Supplicants, applicants, tourists roaming wherever they please, poking at the Tiffany screens and bouncing on the ottomans in the East Room—we have to do something about that. After we fry the hash of Generalissimo Weyler,” Roosevelt added with another of those canine grins.
Striving for his best military posture, Joe marched into the Executive Mansion. In front of the tall, colorful Tiffany glass screens in the vestibule, he presented the appointment card to a guard, who said, “Staircase on your left.”
Upstairs, in the corridor of the East Wing, an elderly doorkeeper stepped forward. “Good evening, sir. Please have a seat, the President will be with you soon.” He pointed to a closed door. “In there, the Cabinet Room. It’s his informal office.”
The doorkeeper trundled down the dim hall lined with scarred wooden benches and chairs, presumably for all the job and favor seekers who packed the mansion at busier times. Joe polished his small bronze lapel badge with his suit cuff. He’d worn it because he knew McKinley too was a G.A.R. loyalist.
He fingered the boar’s tooth a while. A young man came out of an office, whistling. He wore a suit of summer linen and a straw hat with a ticket in the band marked Press. He looked up from his little notebook to give Joe a stare, then went on to the creaky stairs, whistling. The new Sousa march again.
A door opened nearby. A clerk beckoned. “Mr. Crown? If you please.”
And thus Joseph Crown, immigrant and citizen, entered into the presence of the highest officer of the land. His head swam with excitement.
The Cabinet Room resembled the boardroom of a seedy bank in a country town. Old portraits of unfamiliar men hung on the walls. The furniture was dark, heavy, ordinary. Beneath a large but tarnished brass chandelier, William McKinley, twenty-fifth President of the United States, had established a small work area at one end of the conference table. Spread before him were pens and inkstands, a large stained blotter, a holder for stationery.
McKinley rose quickly. He looked better in person than in his pictures, which emphasized his blunt, blocky chin, his thickening jowls, his sleek hair. He had a warm, forthright air, lively gray eyes, a smile that seemed genuine. He shook Joe’s hand energetically.
“Mr. Crown. Welcome, sir. Your fine products are well known here, even to those of us who are abstemious.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. President.” Joe found his nervousness abating. The situation was not unlike that on a battlefield. Once in combat, you were much too busy to worry about death.
Two men stood behind the President, one in full uniform and braid. McKinley turned to them. “May I present Secretary of War Alger and General Miles, commanding general of the Army. Gentlemen, Mr. Joseph Crown, of Chicago.”
“How do you do, General, Mr. Secretary.” Joe knew quite a lot about Nelson Miles, and almost nothing about the civilian. Miles was a big, sturdy man in his late fifties. He had a ruddy face and a splendid mustache curved like the horns on a Texas steer. Though not a graduate of the U.S. Military Academy, he’d worn Army blue since the war and had fought successfully against Rebs, Comanches, and Apaches.
Miles greeted Joe enthusiastically, Alger with reserve. The secretary was slightly older than the general; a fine-boned, graceful man. He was a lumber tycoon and a former governor of Michigan. A pure white mustache and goatee hid most of the lower part of his face. His eyes lacked warmth. He had a folder on which Joe could see his own name written large.
“Do sit down and let’s get to the matter,” McKinley said. “We have less than sixty days to organize the most massive military expedition in the history of this country.”
General Miles said to Joe, “Sixty days because that brings us right to the start of the rainy season, and yellow fever.”
McKinley turned to Alger. “Do you have Mr. Crown’s tender-of-service letter, Russell?”
“Right here, Mr. President.” Alger slid the folder across the table. McKinley took out Joe’s letter, scanned it quickly, turned it face down. Next he studied a number of rectangular cards and letter-size sheets clipped together in the file. Joe recognized his own medical and pay cards from the war, as well as field reports he’d written.
“An admirable record here, Mr. Crown.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Fifth Ohio Volunteer Cavalry. Cincinnati boys.” The President closed the folder. “What prompts you to step forward to serve your country again?”
“I have had experience, this land has been very good to me since I emigrated many years ago, my brewery is doing well and I can easily absent myself for a while. Altogether, Mr. President, I believe I am qualified. Further, I believe in this war—in America’s taking up the burden of liberating less fortunate peoples. And I have read, sir, repeatedly, that men are needed.”
“God knows that’s true,” Miles grumbled. The President frowned at the invocation of the Deity. He was known to pride himself on being a Christian gentleman; no intoxicants, no swearing, no immoral behavior. Miles missed the reaction completely and continued: “When the war resolution came down from the Hill, we had approximately twenty-six thousand troops in the peacetime Army and slightly more than two thousand officers, chiefly out West. You can imagine the difficulty of mobilizing in two months.”
“Yes, I can certainly—”
Alger interrupted. “Are you fit for duty, Mr. Crown? No health problems?”
“None that I am aware of.”
“Cuba is a pesthole in summer. We would require that you have a medical examination.”
“I will do it at once, if that’s the only thing barring me from consideration.”
“Not the only thing, sir. Not quite.” Alger’s smile was small and supercilious; Joe much preferred General Miles and the President, although the secretary probably thought himself superior to both.
The President said, “You stand favorably in our eyes, Mr. Crown. I have received strong endorsements of your character from Representative Cannon of Illinois and Assistant Navy Secretary Roosevelt, who as you know will be taking a volunteer commission soon. I have also heard from the Honorable Carl Schurz. Mr. Schurz does not support the action of this government in Cuba”—Alger touched his nose, an eloquent and disdainful gesture—“but his regard for you, and your qualifications, could not be higher. I see a rare opportunity in your application.”
The last remark mystified Joe. McKinley glanced pointedly at Miles, who said, “The President’s correct, your qualifications are outstanding. If your health matches up, you would stand an excellent chance of receiving a commission. First, however, we must satisfy ourselves in regard to one crucial question. Would you be willing to serve under a former Confederate?”
Joe was so surprised, he couldn’t answer immediately. Alger leaned back and folded his arms, amused. “An Alabama Reb likewise named Joe,” he said.
Nettled, General Miles said, “The secretary refers to Congressman Joe Wheeler. He too is desirous of serving his country. He will be commissioned major general of volunteers.”
“You know his war record, I presume,” Alger said.
“I know he graduated from West Point but changed sides. He led Confederate cavalry through the whole war.”
“Indeed he did, right down to the final hours, when he was chasing Jeff Davis through the Carolinas, hoping to escort him to some safe haven. Davis was apprehended in Georgia before he could escape, then the Federals caught Wheeler.”
“I personally wrote the order sending Wheeler to prison at Fort Delaware,” Miles said. He gave an ironic laugh. “Now here we are, eagerly sanctioning his return to Union blue.”
Alger rested folded hands on the table. “We are doing the same for our consul general in Cuba, Fitzhugh Lee. Robert E. Lee’s nephew.”
“I know Mr. Lee’s background,” Joe said, perhaps too brusquely, but Alger’s condescension grated.
If the secretary noticed, he didn’t react. “Mr. Lee has also accepted a commission as major general of volunteers. It probably wasn’t as hard on him as joining the State Department, to work for the brother of General Sherman.”
McKinley took charge. “There we are coming to the heart of it, Mr. Crown. The reason for the question. You see, in this war we have something beyond an opportunity to restore freedom to Cubans who have been unduly oppressed and abused by their Spanish masters. I do not minimize the moral worth of that, not in the least. But I also recognize a high opportunity to unite the men and women of America as they haven’t been united for thirty-three years. The blue and the gray, together. That’s why we ask you to search your conscience. You fought against the Confederacy. Could you now submerge any lingering feelings of hatred and serve with men who rebelled against the Union? Men who bear at least a marginal responsibility for the deaths of your friends and comrades?”
Joe didn’t want to sound pompous or insincere when he replied. At the same time he wanted to speak his heart. He said, “Mr. President, I fought for freedom then, freedom for the Negro. I would be privileged to fight for freedom for Cuba now.”
Alger said, “Yes, but under Joe Wheeler?”
“Fighting Joe Wheeler had an outstanding reputation. I don’t know the man personally, but I know how highly he was regarded. He was at Shiloh and so was I. After more than thirty years, we surely—”
Alger interrupted. “Is it yes or no, Mr. Crown?”
Joe laid his hat on the table. His heart thundered in his chest. “Yes, Mr. Secretary.” He quickly turned toward the others, a small but clear suggestion that he was dismissing Alger. “Yes, General. Yes, Mr. President. Are those answers satisfactory?”
McKinley jumped to his feet for one of those vigorous handshakes politicians reserved for favored constituents.
“Eminently, Mr. Crown. Eminently!”
At last Commodore George Dewey signaled Washington. Early on May 1, his Asiatic Squadron had entered Manila Bay. Six United States ships in line, commanded by Dewey from his flagship, the armored cruiser Olympia, had defeated seven Spanish vessels likewise coming out in line. The battle began at 5:41 in the morning, with an order that catapulted the commodore into overnight fame: “You may fire when you are ready, Gridley.”
The American fleet destroyed a total of ten Spanish vessels and captured the Cavite navy yard without serious damage to any United States ship. Dewey became the hero of the hour. Newspapers put his engraved portrait on front pages. Songwriters rushed to compose ballads. Politicians called him presidential timber. America rode a cresting wave of triumph.
So did Joe. Nine days after his return from Washington, following delivery to the War Department of the results of his medical examination in Chicago, he received a letter from Secretary Russell A. Alger, informing him that he would be commissioned brigadier general of volunteers.
86
Paul
THE WAR DEPARTMENT ASKED for a hundred and twenty-five thousand men; a million wanted to join, even though there was a gold rush drawing thousands up to the Yukon.
The yellow press exulted. Flags and bunting appeared on public buildings, glowing in the sunshine, rippling in the wind. Concert bands and symphony orchestras substituted matches for waltzes and concertos. A few antiwar voices were heard, but the protesters were damned in the press, even threatened with lynching. What kind of patriotism could you expect from socialist college professors from New York and New England, and shorthaired women who endorsed free love?
A sudden panic engulfed the East Coast. Somewhere in the Atlantic, Admiral Cervera’s Spanish naval squadron was roaming. Savannah and other seaboard cities demanded protection against invasion. The Navy sent some of its creaky old monitors, which looked like the original one that had fought the Merrimac.
When Shadow informed Jimmy that he and Paul would be leaving for a war zone, Jimmy’s face purpled, but he didn’t explode until he was alone with Paul.
“He said you’re the one who sold him on this damn lousy scheme. Are you nuts?”
“Come on, it’ll be an adventure. Maybe the adventure of a lifetime.”
“Not if some spic shoots me. You may be going by yourself.”
But Jimmy didn’t make good on that threat either, for the reason Shadow had predicted:
“I told Honey about the damn trip. She practically wet her pants.” He mimicked her high voice. “ ‘Ooo, Florida. It’s so warm, a regular resort.’ I told her we weren’t going to hang around the fucking beach, we were going to Cuba. Bullets! Fighting! I said I damn well didn’t want to go. Big mistake. She said she wouldn’t look up to me if I shirked my duty. Jesus Christ. She’s got to look up to me before I can get her down on her back. You crazy kraut,” he said with a shake of his head and a malevolent glare.
On the first of May, Sunday, Paul and Jimmy prepared to leave for Tampa, where the Army was marshaling. They packed camera, tripod, reflectors, and stands in two wooden crates whose estimated freight charges very nearly had Shadow gibbering. Each crate carried a black stenciled legend.
FRAGILE!
Moving Picture Equipment
property of:
AMERICAN NATIONAL LUXOGRAPH CO.,
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
How much equipment they would be able to transport into Cuba Paul couldn’t say.
Shadow gave him a packet of fifty calling cards, produced by the cheapest job printer the colonel could find. All the cards used Paul’s nickname as well as his given name. Mary got hold of one of the cards and foolishly showed it to Jimmy, didn’t he think it looked nice? That night in their room, Jimmy jabbed the card under Paul’s nose. “What’s this Chief Operator shit?”
“Not my idea. Ask the colonel.” Paul pulled off his shirt, tired and ready for bed.
“Ask the colonel, huh? Sure I will. If I can find five minutes when you aren’t kissing his ass.”
Paul wheeled and grabbed him by both shoulders. “If you don’t like the card, stay here, God damn it.”
He expected Jimmy to throw a punch when he laid hands on him. Instead, Jimmy’s jaw dropped. A feeble smile crept onto his face. “Leggo. C’mon. Jesus, Dutch, I didn’t know you had a temper. I never saw you mad before.”
“Keep this up, you will see it all the time.” Paul stormed past the hanging sheet, yanked it across the wire and lay down to rest.
Rest? He was taut as a violin string. He heard Jimmy grumbling and swearing in his part of the room and was suddenly, unexpectedly reminded of Jimmy’s birthday. April first.
The day of Judas.
They were to leave on Tuesday morning. The night before, Jimmy went out with Honey. At supper Mary surprised Paul with a gift. A braided straw hat with a wide and rakish roll brim and a ribbon band of royal blue.
“Can’t have our chief operator looking shabby down there with all those generals,” she said with a warm look. Shadow mumbled agreement.
Paul was tou
ched. “It’s a fine hat. It will keep the sun off very well.”
“I have another for Jimmy,” Mary said. “Not as nice, but I couldn’t leave him out.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. It will save me a lot of trouble.”
Shadow said, “Bad blood between you two.” The very words that had leaped to Paul’s mind months ago.
Paul nodded. “Sometimes. Not this trip, I hope.”
No one offered encouragement on that point.
After supper Paul went to the cellar, where the colonel kept paint for lettering the company name on projector cabinets. He took the can of red enamel and a two-inch brush upstairs and carefully painted a red dot on the globe, at a spot Shadow had identified as the approximate location of Tampa.
He replaced the paint and returned to pack a small grip. All at once he grew sad. This wasn’t a home. It was just a room—cheap, dingy, squalid. Would his home always be like this, the place he was at the moment, nothing more?
He pulled down the stereopticon card, yellowing badly now. He knew Joe Junior had told him the truth, America wasn’t quite the paradise dreamed of by immigrants. At least part of what the baker of Wuppertal had said was right. Still, one of his dreams in Berlin had been realized, and at times it all seemed an unfathomable miracle, meeting Wex Rooney, then Shadow, and finding another miracle enfolding all three of them. The miracle of photography. Which was just one of countless miracles of a new age coming …
He was embarking on a great adventure; despair had no place in it. He looked at the card one last time and put it in his grip.