1901 (21 page)

It was dark in the president’s office. No light had been turned on to dispel the gloom of the darkening summer night. Obviously, that was the way Roosevelt wished it as he sat there, brooding silently in the shadows. Patrick tapped on the door and entered. Without saying a word or receiving one, he sat and waited. Minutes stretched out. Roosevelt’s face was hard to read in the shadow, but Patrick sensed the man was on the verge of tears. Perhaps he had already been crying.

Finally, the president spoke. “Patrick, what happened? What went wrong?”

Patrick took a deep breath. “Sir, where would you like me to begin?”

“Anywhere you wish, just don’t sugarcoat it. Don’t pander to me. Just give me the straight answers I’ll need tomorrow when I have to confront Congress and the press. Yesterday, I had a fine new army going into battle to save our nation. Today that army is in ruins. What happened?”

Where to begin indeed? Patrick thought. “Sir, it was a poor plan, poorly conceived, and even more poorly executed.” There, he’d said it.

Surprisingly, a low chuckle rumbled from Roosevelt. It dripped bitterness. “And where is General Miles? I assume the plan and the conception were his, were they not?”

“Yes, sir, they were. I believe the general is in Boston, under a doctor’s care. He may have suffered a nervous collapse.” For the first time, he felt sympathy for General Miles. A brave and honest man, he’d had a long and distinguished career even though he often behaved as a paranoid dictator. The totality of the defeat had crushed him. “Sir, he was in well over his head.”

Roosevelt moaned. “And I put him there. Gave him the go-ahead and urged him to strike. Where does that put me?”

“Sir, you are the commander in chief. If you are blaming yourself, you’re at least partially right.”

There was a strained silence. “Patrick, in the last minute you’ve criticized both your commanding general and your president. Although I know I asked for frankness, I’m a little surprised at how much I’m actually getting.”

“Mr. President, if you’re thinking my candor might end my military career, don’t worry about it. When this war is over I will resign my commission. Enough is enough.” Too many wars, he thought, and too many dead.

“And I will respect that decision. Now, please tell me what you saw.”

Freed of the burden of having to be tactful, Patrick described the battle in detail. He reminded the president that the German lines ran from a point on the Hudson just above Peekskill, through a tangle of lakes, ponds, and bogs, stopping short of the Housatonic River, near Danbury. From there they ran generally south to Long Island Sound, a little more than twenty miles away. This twenty-odd-mile front was the only area that could be assaulted by a major force because of the lakes and bad ground to the north, which could be infiltrated only by smaller units. It was, therefore, the area most heavily fortified. Conversely, it was the place deemed most likely for the Germans to attack, so the constraints of geography placed the fighting bulk of both the opposing armies at that point.

“The Germans built about a dozen forts, each containing a regiment and some artillery. They numbered about fifteen thousand men in total, although we think they had another five thousand men in reserve. The forts were so situated that artillery fire from one could help the others on either side. The line of forts was between ten and fifteen miles from the American lines, which ran north-south on the west side of the Housatonic River.”

Roosevelt nodded. There was nothing new in what was being said.

“Yesterday, and with very little planning or preparation, between fifty and seventy thousand American soldiers in four divisions and two corps attacked those fortified Germans.”

Roosevelt was incredulous. “And failed? How? You’re saying we outnumbered them at least four to one!”

“They never had a chance. At least not a real one. I said there was no preparation. They all managed to leave their lines at about the same time, and all were scheduled to launch their attacks at seven in the morning. General Miles’s plans, such as they were, totally ignored the fact that the units were at different distances from the Germans and each confronted unique problems in getting there. There were no good roads, maps were poor, and, in trying to reach their objectives in the night, people simply got lost. Not one regiment made the start time. Some few actually did attack before nine, but many didn’t start their assaults until early afternoon. By that time, of course, the Germans were fully alert.”

“Dear God.”

Patrick continued. “The German forts communicated with each other by means of telephone and telegraph. There was no attempt to cut those lines. Thus all of them knew within minutes of the first attack that something was happening.”

Roosevelt sagged. Poor Miles. Didn’t he understand these things? Was he so far behind the times?

“Sir, General Miles was indeed a brave man of his time, but his time was the nineteenth century, and this, 1901, is the dawn of the twentieth.

“Mr. President, General Miles was so out of date that, until recently, he wouldn’t permit the army to acquire rifles with magazines like the Germans have. I was told he felt it would cause men to fire inaccurately and waste ammunition. Therefore, too many of our men did not have the new weapons with which to confront the Germans, which canceled our advantage in raw numbers.”

“Lord.” Roosevelt’s voice was almost a cry.

“It does not get better, sir. Prior to the attacks there was no attempt to concentrate in overwhelming force at any point or points. The army simply surged forward in great, but not decisive, numbers all along the line. Had we concentrated our numbers at selected places, we might have achieved a breach in their lines, and additional forces could have moved into their rear and overwhelmed their reserves, who would then be out in the open. Even though the Germans in the forts could communicate with each other, they were still relatively immobile, so I think this could have been done.”

“Did anyone try to tell this to General Miles?”

Patrick didn’t know, as he had not been privy to all of the higher councils of war. He did remind the president that Miles did not accept criticism. “Sir, even so, he almost pulled it off. With no coordination, no artillery preparation or support, and no logic, we almost overran several of their strongpoints and did get in the rear of their lines in a couple of places, only to be driven off by their reserves. Those reserves were not numerous, but they were strong enough to take on our unsupported attackers. Thanks to the rain we were able to close on them without too many casualties. Unfortunately, our infantry tactics were out of date even before the Civil War. We have to do something better than mass formations moving slowly forward and firing as they go. The casualties would have been much, much higher if the weather hadn’t been on our side.”

“Patrick, you know General Shafter’s dead, don’t you?”

Patrick thought of the aging, overweight caricature of a general who’d been so sick in Cuba he’d had to leave for health reasons. Miles had given him command of the second corps and he’d died of a heart attack while viewing the retreat. “Yes, sir. And Pershing’s wounded.”

“Fortunately, not seriously. I have a feeling we’re going to need a lot of strong, young fighters like him. Do you have any good news at all?”

Patrick sighed. “We did hurt them, sir, more than they anticipated. From a percentage standpoint, I wouldn’t be surprised if they suffered almost as badly as we did. Looking at numbers only, our losses were staggering. Wheeler and Smith estimate at least seven thousand dead and twelve thousand wounded. Another thousand or so are missing. So much of the new equipment we’d been getting from the British was lost or damaged that virtually the entire army will have to be reequipped. But there were about five to eight thousand total German casualties. At least we know that the Germans will not be able to move on us either.”

“You heard what they did to the prisoners?”

“Only rumors.”

“They shot the ones who were German-born, as if they could somehow tell. The kaiser says they are all traitors for fighting against him. He has also announced that American-born sons of German immigrants will be transported to Germany for induction in their army. If they refuse, they too will be murdered.”

Patrick was shocked. He immediately thought of Heinz and so many others like him. What would be their reaction? What about other Americans not of German ancestry or several generations removed? His own reaction was revulsion. “The man is a savage.”

Roosevelt smiled grimly. “He is an animal, a mad dog, and he will be stopped.” Again he smiled, totally devoid of mirth. “And he may have given us the weapons we need to use against him. Certainly it will now be clear to those who pressured me to authorize the attack that victory will not be so easy. With these atrocities, it is evident that we cannot negotiate with a madman.”

“With respect, sir, what pressures?”

Roosevelt stood and waved his arms. “Anyone in this beloved land of ours with an interest or an opinion. The financial world is strained because the Germans now occupy Wall Street and the banks. The stock exchanges, by the way, have moved their operations to Pittsburgh and hate it. The shipping people say they are near economic collapse because the harbor is closed. Two million refugees are crying out because they can’t go home, and the millions of other people who have to help them find themselves grossly inconvenienced. Then, of course, we have the superpatriots—and, yes, Patrick, I know I am often among them—who think that one American is worth ten Germans, and just what on earth is the problem with beating them? Well, now they know. This latest battle was the reenactment of the Civil War slaughters at Fredericksburg or Cold Harbor, wasn’t it?” Patrick nodded and Roosevelt continued. “Well, now they know the truth as do I. It will be a long and hard fight, but we will prevail.”

Roosevelt walked around his desk and put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I will accept your resignation, but, as you stated, not until this crisis is over. You’ve done your best for me and your country, and I will not forget it. Nor,” he said, laughing, this time genuinely, “your damned insubordinate candor. Should you be punished for it? Or rewarded?”

“Sir, I’d like a command. Later you can tell me whether it is reward or punishment.”

Father Walter McCluskey shifted his ample bulk on the hard wooden bench in a vain attempt to ease the pain emanating from his tortured buttocks. He was proud that he didn’t stoop to using a cushion like that prissy and skinny little dago fanatic, Father Rosselli. Besides, he sometimes needed a jolt of agony to keep him awake during the monotony of these Saturday confessions.

Only half his mind at best was paying attention to the verbal meanderings of the old woman who was so distressed because she had been ill and missed Mass last Sunday, and who was so tired at night that she often fell asleep during her evening prayers. Poor dear.

Gently, he told her it was all right to miss Mass if you are sick—as if, he thought but refrained from saying, God wanted her breathing her own unique brand of plague on the rest of the faithful. As to her nightly prayers, a merciful and benevolent god would surely understand that her daily exertions caused nightly fatigue and, besides, wasn’t it more important to live like a Catholic than to pray like one? He doubted she accepted that piece of theology. She liked the routine of prayer, but not necessarily the substance.

He gave her a nominal penance, which seemed to please her, as it acknowledged she had sinned, however slightly, and she departed. She would be back in a week, as would dozens like her. It was frustrating some days. It would be so nice to actually assist someone truly in need of help to leave a sinful life. Unfortunately, he sighed, those were the ones least likely to come to confession.

Father McCluskey deftly closed one sliding panel and opened the other. The part of his brain that had been ignoring the old lady had decided that this next person, still invisible, was also female, although quite a bit younger. He had deciphered this from the fact that he heard the rustling of a dress, and the person had not wheezed or groaned upon kneeling. It was a game he sometimes played to keep himself interested.

He waited. Instead of the opening request to be acknowledged as a sinner who needs forgiving, there was silence. Through the screen he could see the shadow of the woman. The silence continued and his senses came alert. Finally, he took the initiative.

“My child, how can I help you?”

The response was a whisper. “I don’t know.”

He caught the accent. The girl was Irish. “Have you sinned?” he asked gently.

“Some say I have. I don’t think so.” The girl started sobbing quietly.

“Talk to me, my child.”

Molly leaned forward so her head touched the screen and her words tumbled out. “I went to that other priest to ask him why I hated all Germans for what one had done to me, and when he asked what caused my hate and I told him how one had raped me, he told me it was my fault.”

She related how she had told the other priest of her standing on the barricade and being chased down and attacked by the German. “He said it was my fault for tormenting the man and leading him on. He said that what I did proved I was a loose woman and that no good Catholic would have been on the streets like that. He said I had brought that man into an occasion of sin by my disgraceful behavior.”

Father McCluskey put his head in his hands. Damn Rosselli.

The girl continued. “Did I sin, Father?”

Time to be tactful, McCluskey thought. “No, child, you did not sin. I think the other priest might have misunderstood you.” He also thought Father Rosselli would make a good missionary to the Eskimos, and would soon be one if he could swing it with the bishop. “You did the right thing by standing there to proclaim your right to be free. That is why we came to this land, is it not?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And as to your actions being responsible for the attack upon your body,” he had a difficult time using the word “rape,” “you are no more responsible for the events that occurred than a passenger on a boat would be if it sank because of the actions of a captain. The person responsible for your being raped,” there, he said it, “was your attacker, not you. Do you understand?”