The Titanic Plan (27 page)

Archie looked back. He saw the man slap his open palm into his horse’s hindquarters. The horse let out an astonished cry – he had never felt such a sting before; no need, he was so much faster than other horses.

Despite his momentary triumph, Archie realized that his pursuer would be on him in a quick moment. He tugged the reins to the right. The General glanced at a hedge of sharp-thorn blackberry vines. No path there. Archie jerked the reins again. In full gallop the horse sized up the hedge and when he saw a small opening, veered hard right. Archie pressed his body low. The General bound into the air, clearing the hedge and racing into the woods.

There was no path. The General picked his way through the thick undergrowth of brambles until he ran into steep ravine. A dead end. Archie tugged the reins, trying to get his horse to climb a hill along the edge of the ravine. “Come on, General,” Archie urged and snapped the reins. The horse started the ascent, stepping carefully, his legs being scratched to the bone by sharp branches and thorny vines. Archie looked back for any sign of his pursuer. Nothing – no sight or sound of him.

The crest of the hill lay before Archie. He pushed his horse through a high hedge of bushes then into a clearing. What spread below startled him. It was a quiet and peaceful valley. Over the valley’s green, undulating hills were long rows of somber marble markers standing in perfect, eternal formation. Archie had stumbled onto Arlington Cemetery.

Thunder cracked. The storm was approaching. The brush rustled behind them.
The wind? A deer? Their pursuer?
Archie snapped the General’s reins and off they sped, down the hill and into the heart of the cemetery. It was a striking scene: a lone soldier astride a galloping steed, racing between the silent rows of dead soldiers and through the stands of oak and dogwood trees that dotted the cemetery.

Archie caught sight of a white marble mansion sitting like a genteel apparition in the middle of the cemetery. He knew what it was – the old Custis house, the original structure on the grounds, the home of Robert E. Lee. He guided the General up to it. An old Negro groundskeeper was planting a bed of flowers off to the side of the house. The groundskeeper had stopped his work to watch Archie gallop through the cemetery and was surprised when he rode up.

“
Hello,” Archie said.

“
You part of some funeral?” the groundskeeper responded, as that was the only time he saw horses and riders in the cemetery now.

“
No, ” Archie said while glancing back. There was no one following him, no other horseman in sight.

“
How can I help you then?” the man asked.

“
I don’t think you can,” Archie smiled. “But thank you.”

“
Are you lookin’ for someone?”

Archie shook his head. “No. I’m not looking for anyone.” Then Archie stopped. Perhaps he was looking for someone. Perhaps it was providence that drew him here. He began to wonder if he actually was being chased, if his pursuer wasn’t an odd figment of his imagination.

“
How can I locate a soldier’s grave?” Archie asked.

“
Then you
are
lookin’ for someone?” the groundskeeper replied, confused over Archie’s confusion.

“
I suppose maybe I am.”

“
Inside,” the groundskeeper said, pointing to the Custis house. “They have everybody’s name in there and where they be a-restin’.”

“
Thank you, sir,” Archie said and dismounted.

Inside the Custis House Archie got a map of the cemetery that marked his destination: Section 21, Site 357. Archie tied the General to a hitching post at the old mansion and started his journey. He strolled over a small hill and onto a flat plain that was dotted with white stone markers. The cemetery was less manicured on its outskirts. The graves were spread further apart. In the distance Archie saw a tall Corinthian column, the landmark he was looking for. The column reached some 50 feet into the now darkening sky. It was topped by a globe of granite on which was perched a bronze eagle, its wings spread as if it was about to take flight. Archie grew unexpectedly emotional as he approached, then read the inscription on the base of the pillar:

TO THE SOLDIERS AND SAILORS

OF THE UNITED STATES

WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR THEIR COUNTRY

IN THE WAR 1898-99 WITH SPAIN

THIS MONUMENT IS DEDICATED

IN SORROW GRATITUDE AND PRIDE

BY THE NATIONAL SOCIETY

OF THE COLONIAL DAMES

OF AMERICA

IN THE NAME OF ALL

THE WOMEN OF THE NATION

1902

Section 21, Site 357
. Archie paced through the rows, counting them off: one…two…three…four. It was like learning to march in Army training camp. One…two…three…four…
Who among these men lying here did I march with?
He was only certain about one. His legs grew heavy, his back stiffened as he walked to the grave at site 357. The simple marker read:

Michael Augustus Shaughnessy

Corporal

Spanish War

August 18, 1873

October 12, 1909

Archie toed Mick’s grave, making contact, but careful not to put his full boot on the plot, lest he somehow step on his friend. Archie bowed his head. “Mick,” he muttered quietly. “Mick…” But no words came after. Nor were there any solemn thoughts or profound revelations. He focused on the blades of new grass that were filling the yellow edges of the grave. He felt oddly empty. Archie had said his goodbye, held Mick’s dying body in his arms. He wanted to say out loud: “Who killed you?” “What secrets did you keep?” “What were you protecting?” “Who hated you so much?” He wanted to ask all those questions but didn’t, knowing no answer would come from the bones beneath the Arlington earth.

“
Why?” he finally said softly. “Why?”

“
Because he was a traitor,” came the answer, hard and direct. Archie froze. He was afraid to look up but knew he had to. When he lifted his eyes he saw the large, hulking man looming like a dark specter over Mick’s marble marker. A deep gash oozing blood, the wound caused by Archie’s riding whip, curved like a crescent moon from the man’s cheek bone to his chin, giving him an even more sinister appearance.

“
It’s what happens to double-crossers,” the man said matter-of-factly.

“
And just whom did he double-cross?”

“
Who didn’t he double-cross?” the man scoffed.

“
And that’s why you killed him?”

“
You got that wrong, Major, I didn’t kill anyone. That was never our intention.”

“
It sure seemed like that in the subway.”

“
He shot first. We were just protecting ourselves.”

“
You were pursuing him. For what reason?” Archie demanded.

“
I told you. He was a traitor. We had a warrant for him.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin black wallet then flipped it open. Inside was a badge that was all too familiar to Archie. “Federal Officer, Department of Justice,” the man said. Archie glimpsed the name below the badge:
Inspector Edwin Wheeler
. “Michael Shaughnessy was breaking the law. He was a traitor who was providing confidential information to enemies of the United States. We were to take him into custody, not to kill him.”

“
Then who did kill him?”

Wheeler shrugged. “My guess? The anarchists. They hate traitors and spies as much as we do. Once they got all their worth from him…” Wheeler drew his finger across his throat, screeching a guttural slash for added emphasis. “Emma Goldman, Bill Haywood and their lot are dangerous people. They present a good-hearted front, talking about the brotherhood of man and all. But don’t be fooled, they’ll stick a knife in your heart and tell you it’s for the good of the masses. Don’t be mucking with them, Major, it’s not worth it. If you do, you might find yourself right here,” Wheeler gestured to an empty space by the grave. “Right next to your good friend Mick.”

Archie shook with anger. “Why should I believe you? What proof do you have of all this?”

“
You should believe me because it would be in your interest to. As far as proof…” Wheeler pulled a thin envelope from his pocket. He held it over Mick’s grave then dropped it, letting it flutter toward the ground like an autumn leaf. Before the envelope landed on the grass, Wheeler sauntered away. Archie watched him disappear over a hill then bent and picked up the envelope. It was already slit opened. Archie shook out its contents. It was a photograph of Mick. He was dressed in worn dungarees and a sweater. His long hair flowed onto his shoulders and he wore an ear-to-ear grin. A woman was kissing his cheek. Archie recognized her immediately: Emma Goldman. Archie studied the picture for some evidence of the treachery Mick was accused of. There was none – just a kiss. Archie fiddled the picture through his fingers, then noticed an inscription on the back:
To MS -- Your service to the cause has been invaluable. Long live our revolution! Emma

Archie lowered the photographed and gazed at the gravestone. He squatted to touch the cool grass. “What were you, Mick? A patriot or a traitor?” He didn’t expect an answer and was startled when a lightning bolt flashed above him, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder, then raindrops.

CHAPTER 31

T
he journey from Manhattan to Ossining, New York is 30 miles. The train route winds north through the tangled streets of the Bronx and Yonkers then hugs the Hudson River, moving through Dobbs Ferry and Sleepy Hollow. In the late spring, the banks of the Hudson are lined with meadows of long grass mixed with purple loosestrife, pale jewelweed and evening primrose.

For young Henry Kosinski, the sights outside his railcar window were a revelation. Henry had never traveled beyond the borders of New York City. His entire world consisted of the squalid back streets of Bandit’s Roost near Five Points and the rough alleys of the Bend off Mulberry Street. Born in a foul back bedroom of a Brooklyn brothel, Henry was left on the front steps of the Sisters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul orphanage on the sixth day of his life. He suffered through nine miserable years at the Five Points House of Industry – small, scrawny, picked upon – until one week short of his tenth birthday he slipped through a third story window of the boys dormitory and shimmied down a makeshift rope he twined in an arts-and-crafts class. He found his freedom on the streets, stealing food to eat and spreading a nest of oily rags to sleep on. A major nature excursion for Henry was to the wilds of Central Park.

Seeing the vast expanse of the Hudson Valley and the lush river shore, Henry could barely contain his excitement. The sunlight was unimaginably bright; the panorama of vivid green reminded him of the resplendent field of emerald felt hats he would see marching down Broadway on St. Patrick’s Day.

When the day started he was in his dungeon cell in the 23rd Precinct jail. He had lost faith. He had not heard from another soul in months – not a lawyer, not a judge, not even his interrogator who had grilled him for days on end after he was taken into custody. The one person he put his faith in, Captain Butt, had never returned. Eating his morning mush, the last thing Henry could have imagined was being on an afternoon train headed north.

But there he was, in a railcar with his face glued to the window, watching the late afternoon sun send a curtain of light over the landscape. Everything was so new, so exotic, so outside his realm of experience. He was used to a world that was gray and harsh; the world he now viewed was radiant. As much as he heard people talk about beauty and hope and goodness, he could never really comprehend such things, not even when he was with Mick. Now, perhaps, there was hope. Perhaps he could emerge from the darkness where he had existed for so long.

The train turned from the shoreline into a tangled forest. The air, which was warm and fresh off the river, caught a chill. Henry snatched glimpses of the reddening sun through the foliage. Then the last beam of light disappeared, replaced by a frosty blue twilight. For the first time during the ride, Henry became aware of the shackles on his feet and the cold steel cuffs binding his hands.

The trees of the forest began to thin. In the murky dusk, Henry could only make out shapes – high walls and block fortress bunkers. It appeared the train was coming to some old, crumbling castle. The locomotive rumbled between two brick towers and slowed. There was a blinding light ahead. It lit up a weatherworn tin sign that announced the stop, Henry’s stop: “
Sing Sing.
”