1901 (7 page)

The first point of note was, of course, the Brooklyn Bridge, 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.

“Patrick, they don’t even care about us, do they?” The grinning Germans passed within fifty yards of them.

“No, we’re nothing to them. They’re just scouting the area.”

“Patrick, this nightmare isn’t going to end, is it?”

No, he thought, not for a very long time.

L
UDWIG
W
EBER, A
private in the kaiser’s Imperial 4th Rifles, gripped his usually clean and well-oiled Mauser with an unholy fervor and wished he were someplace else than this city of hell. Sweat dripped down his face for many reasons. First, it was hot, and his uniform wasn’t intended for the steamy weather. Second, he had just survived his first encounter with an armed enemy intent upon killing him, a fact that also accounted for the dirty and smudged condition of his rifle. Third, he was only a few hundred yards away from the sea of flame that seemed to be consuming the city of Brooklyn.

What a change, he thought. Was it only a year ago that he, a teacher of English in a private school just outside Munich, had been conscripted to serve the Prussians in the Imperial Army? God, what had happened to him? First they took away his dignity and made him a private soldier, an automaton, a nobody, and then they taught him how to march and kill for the glory of the emperor and the Reich.

Then they took him away from his home and placed him in a large, cramped, oceangoing vessel where he spent almost two weeks in unwashed and unwanted intimacy with thousands like him. The passage had been horrible, and he’d spent much of it covered with puke. The whole ship and its human cargo smelled of shit and piss. If he hadn’t vomited so much from seasickness, the unholy stench generated by his comrades would have made him ill. Was this why he had educated himself? He was twenty-two years old. Would his life end here?

To consummate his problems, a vengeful god had also given him to Corporal Kessel. Otto Kessel was an illiterate and hulking blond-haired brute who hated with a passion anything better than himself. He was a bully, a sadist, a murderer, and a rapist. Weber had heard with horror of Kessel’s so-called adventures in China where, apparently with the blessings of senior officers, he had behaved like a pig, rutting and killing. Weber found it difficult to believe that anything like Otto Kessel existed on an earth that God made.

Worse, Kessel hated Weber. Or did he love him? For the two months since Kessel’s assignment to the company, Weber was the primary focus of Kessel’s actions. He bullied him verbally, punched him and kicked him when he thought he could get away with it, and robbed him whenever any relative or friend sent Weber something of value. Whenever possible, of course, Weber would try to avoid Kessel, particularly when Kessel was drunk, which was a good deal of the time. Weber could see that the other officers in the company, especially Captain Walter, were puzzled by Kessel, but since they had no reason to do otherwise, they largely ignored him.

On board the ship, Kessel had tried to molest Weber, and the thought of it made him even more nauseous. Weber recalled a time during the voyage when, thinking himself safe and alone on a secluded part of the deck, he’d suddenly found himself imprisoned in the man’s immense arms while Kessel’s hands roamed and groped his body. The chance sound of approaching voices made Kessel release him and depart. Weber was fully warned now and even more careful. He tried to never be alone.

However, his and everyone else’s spirits lifted when they splashed ashore on the clean, sandy beaches of America. Their landing was unopposed, although rumors spoke of places where skirmishes had been quickly won.

Once ashore they’d quick-marched down country roads in what Weber realized was the direction of New York. The fact that they were tired and cramped from their time on the ship was of no concern. Their destination was an urgent one. They could all see from the lines of gray-clad soldiers that thousands of others were also involved. For the first time he realized this was an invasion and not a raid.