The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  “Mother, your drink.” His drawl was smooth and easy.

  “Thank you, Archie.” Her honeyed speech was even more drawn out – she was a true daughter of Dixie.

  They sat by the fire listening to a grandfather clock tick away the seconds of 1907, not exchanging a word. Archie glanced at the woman he loved more than anyone in the world. He observed how frail she was and knew this might be their last New Year’s together. He took an inventory of her as she sipped her drink, making a mental photograph that he might retain forever. Her skin was a creamy pink, unblemished, marked only by the brush of age. Her silken hair, once golden and now a shimmering ivory, was fixed in a loose bun in the fashion of her youth. Her eyes were pools of jade offset by surrounding pearl white. She blinked serenely, felt his eyes upon her and reached her thin hand out to take his.

  “Archie,” she said in a low voice, “this drink is mixed in a fine and proper manner, but may leave me a touch intoxicated before the midnight chime arrives.”

  “Then just sip it judiciously, mother.”

  “Come now, have you ever known me to be judicious about fine bourbon?”

  “No, and that’s one of the reasons why I love you.”

  “Of course you realize I may drop off and begin snorin’ like a hibernatin’ bear before the celebratin’ begins.”

  “Music to my ears, mother.”

  “If my snorin’ is sweet music to your ears, then I have my doubts that I raised you properly.”

  They both laughed. “You raised me properly, mother. Trust me on that.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I know I did, son. Praise the Lord.”

  * * *

  John Astor surveyed the guests as they streamed into the ballroom below him. As the room filled, Astor had his mother wheeled in her chair to the edge of the second floor balustrade. In the misty glow of candlelight, with a dark wig of gentle curls that tumbled onto her shoulders, Mrs. Caroline Astor looked like a regal mistress peering down on the American aristocracy that was primarily her invention. Everyone in the ballroom stopped, gazed up at her imperial face and broke into applause. The Mrs. Astor waved her white-gloved hand and smiled sweetly, mouthing words the guests couldn’t hear from below. Which was fortunate, because she was spouting a stream of senile foulness about the unworthiness of the entire group of old, white-hair poseurs and wondering where her beautiful, refined friends were.

  Her son John, who was by her side, did not bother to tell her that those white-haired poseurs below were what remained of her beautiful, refined friends. As Mrs. Astor continued to smile and wave and mutter a stream of vileness, John itched for fresh air and a cigarette. “Take her back to her room then bring her out near midnight,” he said to the maid, then headed down the stairs. On his way through a back hallway he spotted his wife Ava laughing with a tall, dark-eyed man whom he didn’t recognize.

  “Oh, hello Jack,” Ava said dryly. “Having fun?”

  Astor twitched his mustache. “Yes. You?”

  Ava took a sip of champagne and shook her head of graying hair. Even middle age did not diminish her ravishing beauty. “Mmmmm. Oh, I haven’t introduced you. This is Mr. Daniels. Mr. Daniels, my husband, John Astor.”

  Astor nodded ever so slightly. “Sir.” Then Astor dared to ask: “I don’t recall you on the invitation list, Mr. Daniels. You were invited by…?”

  “Me, darling,” Ava piped up. “Mr. Daniels and I play bridge together.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I trust you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Daniels?”

  Daniels looked at the floor, his eyes darting uncomfortably about. Ava leveled a look at her husband. “He’s having a divine time and truly appreciates your hospitality.”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated,” Astor muttered then pulled out his pocket watch. “I expect you by my side at midnight to wish our guests a good New Year.”

  “Of course, darling.”

  Astor nodded to his wife and Daniels then scurried away.

  * * *

  She was snoring. And it was music to Archie’s ears. He glanced over at the grandfather clock. 11:27. He decided to tend the fire before waking her. Archie lifted his tall frame from the deep chair and bent near the woodpile. He examined the split logs, searching for a nice birch that would blast the room with a New Year’s light then quickly fade so that they both might retire soon after the glass of champagne. Finding just the right log, Archie threw it on the fire. The log slid into a slot between the fading embers and began to crackle. Maybe another log. He straightened, only to be stopped by his image in the mirror over the mantle.

  As the birch caught fire and began spreading its brightness, Archie took a long look at his reflection. At forty-three, he still cut a dashing figure. Maybe not conventionally handsome – the jowls were a little too full, the blue eyes a tad small, the forehead a bit high. But his short brown hair had a healthy sheen to it, and his mustache, full and neatly-trimmed, framed the corners of his mouth making a no-nonsense statement: here is a man who takes care of his appearance, not for vanity, but for properness. A man should look good because a man should look good.

  “Aren’t we the peacock?” his old mother said behind him.

  Archie whirled. “No, mother, I was just…”

  “Admirin’ yourself. Nothin’ wrong with it. You’re a very good lookin’ boy and for the life of me I don’t understand why some woman hasn’t snatched you up.”

  “You know a military career sometimes makes that difficult.”

  “Your father was a military man, as was his father, and my father. They all seemed to find wives and produce progeny.”

  “They weren’t stationed in the Philippines.”

  “No, they weren’t. They suffered by fighting for a lost cause.”

  “Mother, I wanted to tell you before midnight, surprise you actually. I have been re-assigned again. To a new post. And I am very excited about it.”

  “You’ll be leavin’ me?”

  “I hope to move you into an apartment nearby when I settle in.”

  “Away from the South?”

  “Washington D.C., mother. Your son has been appointed Military Aide to the President of the United States.”

  Archie’s mother leaned back in her chair, taking in the full significance of the news her son just delivered. “To Roosevelt?!” she exclaimed. “That half-blind, blow-hard Yankee!?”

  “He is President of the United States.”

  “Only because McKinley got himself shot by some anarchist. There’s a lesson for you. Watch out for those anarchists.”

  “Mother, it will be my highest privilege to serve in the White House.”

  “Of course it will be, Archie. I just don’t like that man. But maybe he has some Christian values I have yet to see. I am very happy for you and I trust you will always act with a sense of honor and courage that would make your mother proud. Come here. Let me give you a kiss.”

  Archie bent on one knee, allowing his mother to cup his head in her hands. She kissed his forehead and gave him a sweet hug, whispering in his ear, “Perhaps you can teach that old windbag some Southern manners. Lord knows, he could use some.”

  * * *

  Astor drew deeply on his cigarette and watched the smoke curl into the cold December air. “What in God’s name was I thinking?” he muttered.

  “A good question, Jack…”

  A small, startled yelp escaped Astor’s lips. He turned to see George Vanderbilt standing in the shadows just a few feet from him, also smoking a cigarette.

  “I didn’t notice you, George.”

  “Obviously not,” Vanderbilt said, dragging on his cigarette then flicking the ash. He was a slight, pale man with deep, dewy eyes and an elegantly thin mustache. “But the question is still out there. What the hell were you thinking when you put on this ball? Show them an Astor still has what it takes?”

  “Of course an Astor still has what it takes. Doesn’t a Vanderbilt?”

  “Not me, not in this way. Does this kind o
f party really give you pleasure?”

  Astor thought for a moment. “It used to.”

  “When we were in our twenties, maybe. But we’re in our forties now, old boy. We’re men of accomplishment. Our worth comes from what we’ve built, not from dressing up for silly balls.”

  “You shouldn’t be so critical, George. Everyone needs recreation now and then.”

  “All I’m saying is it’s a changing world, Jack. Do you know what they’re doing for New Year’s at Times Square tonight?”

  Astor shook his head. “Haven’t the slightest.”

  “Over ten thousand people are gathering there. At the stroke of midnight a six foot wooden ball studded with a hundred incandescent bulbs is going to descend a pole atop the Times building.”

  Astor contemplated the scene. “Good god why? It seems absolutely pointless.”

  “Maybe,” Vanderbilt said. “But it’s something new. And that’s the future, Jack. As Astors and Vanderbilts, that’s where our sights should be set. On the new horizon in front of us, not the old one behind.”

  “You’re right about the future, George. But dropping a ball down a flagpole? I don’t understand that.”

  Vanderbilt waved his hand. “It’s just a silly novelty. They’ll think of something else come 1909. Let’s go inside, it’s freezing out here.”

  Time is gauged differently with every new age. Though the 20th Century was at the threshold of just its eighth year, the nature of time had already changed. Technology was pushing it forward with the runaway speed of electricity. Time was now measured in the rumble of the automobile, the staccato pulse of the wireless, the sputtering of the aeroplane, the syncopated rhythm of ragtime.

  For this one night though, under the gold-leafed ceiling of the Astor ballroom, time was still being measured in an elegant three-fourths tempo. A waltz. With a hundred couples pinwheeling over the dance floor like graceful galaxies through the heavens. One-two-three, one-two-three...

  Astor watched impassively from the edge of the orchestra with Ava by his side. “Why did you invite him?” Astor asked flatly.

  “Who?” replied Ava.

  “You know, that man you were with in the hallway.”

  “My bridge partner? Jack, I needed someone to amuse me this evening. It’s a job you abdicated long ago.”

  “You could have had the decency…”

  Ava cut him off. “Why don’t you have the decency to divorce me and you wouldn’t need to get so upset about these things.”

  “No divorce until mother is gone. It would break her heart and you know it. We agreed, no divorce.”

  “We didn’t agree that I couldn’t have fun.”

  “But tonight? At my party? You’re still an Astor, you know. You’re still my wife.”

  “Yes,” Ava said pointedly. “That is one thing I am unable to forget.”

  One-two-three, one-two-three… The music lilted out. The dancers glided to a stop. John Astor took his wife’s hand. They both put on a smile as the assembled guests applauded their appearance. “Thank you…thank you all for coming,” Astor spoke haltingly. He was not good at this sort of thing, giving a speech before a large, formal group.

  A small army of waiters entered the ballroom in perfect formation, carrying trays filled with glasses of champagne. They quickly distributed the champagne to the guests. Astor took a glass and raised it. “As there is…” he glanced to a large golden clock that was strategically placed by the side of the orchestra, “…two minutes left to 1907, I’d like to make a brief toast. To all of you, our dear friends, and to the wonderful world we have made. To our lasting bonds and eternal friendships.” Astor coughed and searched for words. “So let us…let me toast you, yes, let me toast you, the guardians of what is most precious in this civilized world. And I’d also like to honor, most of all…” Astor lifted his gaze to the second floor balustrade where the Mrs. Astor once again sat, looking down at the shiny faces below like an empress looking down on her serfs “…my mother, Mrs. Caroline Schermerhorn Astor, whom, I think we all agree, is the greatest woman who ever lived. Happy New Year.”

  Astor rushed to finish before midnight struck. Just as he stopped, the clock began tolling. It was 1908. A cheer went up through the ballroom. Everyone chimed “Happy New Year” and sipped their champagne. The orchestra began playing Auld Lang Syne and the 400 guests all sang with sentimental gusto. On the second floor the old tune seemed to penetrate the fog that was floating in Mrs. Astor’s head. She tried to mumble along.

  Husbands leaned to their wives and pecked a kiss, then turned toward those closest to them and wished “Happy New Year.” The orchestra struck up The Radetzky March.

  Amid the genteel good cheer, the ballroom shuddered. Slightly at first, like a birth pang announcing what was to come. And come it did, a millisecond later. The room shook with a tremendous jolt. A deafening explosion of sound drowned out the orchestra. Chunks of the gold-leafed ceiling began plummeting down. A swirl of plaster-dust enveloped the room like a thick fog. Any semblance of civilized behavior quickly vanished. Screams replaced the orchestra’s melody. There was a mad, chaotic scramble as the men in their black tuxedoes flailed their elbows, using them as weapons to carve a path to the doorways for themselves and their wives.

  Astor’s eyes went upwards, trying to find his mother through the haze that hung over the room. As everyone was shoving to get out, Astor pushed against the crowd. Coughing and gasping for breath, he raced up the staircase, leaving a trail of red footprints in the fine layer of white dust that was now covering the carpet. Reaching the top of the stairs, Astor spotted the silhouette of his mother through the haze. She was still sitting in her chair by the rail. Alone. Her maids had obviously abandoned her.

  “Mother, are you alright?” Astor said, dashing to her.

  A weak, low gurgle emerged from her throat.

  “Mother, can you breathe?”

  She continued to choke out the strange, guttural sound. Astor began to panic. He brought his face close to hers, felt her weak breath on his skin. She was struggling to say something.

  “What is it, mother, what is it?”

  Barely audible, she labored to mumble over and over, “We’ll…stake a cup o’ kindness yet…for…auld…lang…syne.” Then Astor noticed tributaries of tears streaming down through the chalk white dust that layered her face.

  A large chunk of plaster plummeted from the ceiling, smashing with an explosive thud next to Mrs. Astor’s chair. “We’re leaving, mother,” Astor said, gently maneuvering her feather-light body over his shoulder. Pellets of plaster continued to rain down. Sulfurous smoke poured from the vents throughout the house.

  At the front entrance the partygoers pushed their way through the elegant doors, unhinging them in their panic. Astor moved into the foyer with his mother. He noticed Ava being escorted out by her bridge partner, who was guiding her with his firm hand on her behind. Mrs. Astor noticed it too, startling her back to the present. “Isn’t that your wife?” she asked.

  Astor didn’t answer. Instead, he re-adjusted his mother over his shoulder, causing her wig of curls to slide sideways over her bald head.

  Into the chill of the night the cream of New York society poured onto Fifth Avenue, looking like shell-shocked refugees. The clanging of bells from the arriving fire brigade mixed with the cacophony of firecrackers and shouts of “Happy New Year” that echoed along the avenues. Astor took his mother across the street and set her down against a tree. He began adjusting her wig back into place. Down the block a high-pitched whistle pierced the air and then a twisting firework flared into a starburst of color.

  “Ooohhhh,” Mrs. Astor cried out. “It’s a sign!”

  Astor continued to fiddle with the wig. “A sign for what, mother?”

  “That God loves us. God loves the Astors.”

  CHAPTER 2

  1908

  On Monday, April 11, 1908, a bright spring morning in Washington D.C., Captain Archibald Butt walked through a gu
ard gate and onto the White House grounds to start his new job. He wrote to his mother that evening, telling how he was greeted by the President with “a most hearty welcome…Roosevelt came into the office, laid one hand on my shoulder and with the other wrung my own…”

  More than any other President, Theodore Roosevelt reveled in activity. He rode horses, he played tennis, he hiked, he chopped trees, he camped, he hunted, he swam, he golfed, he fished, he was a man fully engaged in life. That’s what attracted people to him. Big, brash, and bold, Theodore Roosevelt was America.

  Not only could Archie keep up with Roosevelt, he could challenge the President. He was a better horseman, marksman, and natural athlete. And a good challenge invigorated Roosevelt like nothing else. Archie knew his part and played it perfectly. He quickly became Roosevelt’s closest companion, always one step behind the President, the trusted soldier and aide, ready at the President’s beckon call.

  On July 24th, Archie traveled to the Roosevelt home at Sagamore Hill in Oyster Bay, New York, to join the President and his family for a brief summer’s getaway. Archie recorded the daily routine: a hearty breakfast (eggs, pancakes, toast and several cups of coffee), two hours of work, then sailing, swimming or games with the Roosevelt children. In the evening, before dinner, the men would sit on the broad veranda to “smoke and chat on a hundred different subjects.” On one occasion, near the end of Archie’s visit, Roosevelt became emotional and expressed regret over the impulsive promise he made after the 1904 election – that he would serve out his new term and no more. Roosevelt loved being President and deep in his heart believed he was still the best man to lead the country. He professed affection for William Howard Taft, his handpicked successor, then expressed concern: “I do not think he will be as aggressive as I’ve been.” Still, Roosevelt had promised to retire and he was a man of his word. “I’m going to leave for an African safari right after the inauguration,” Roosevelt said, explaining that he didn’t want to be a distraction to the new President. And with that news, the men fell silent and watched the summer sun send its last golden rays over Sagamore Hill.