The Titanic Plan (52 page)

“
That’s what they said. I was born evil. A bad seed.”

“
Who said that, Henry?”

“
The nuns at the orphanage.” Henry pushed away and pressed his back against the wall. “They said I was a bastard and a bad seed.”

“
No, you’re a fine boy,” Archie said, reaching out to console Henry.

“
The devil’s inside of me, Captain. And sometimes I can’t control him.”

“
I surprised you and you defended yourself. You didn’t realize it was me.”

“
I’m stained with sin in my soul,” Henry cried. “Get ridda me, Captain.”

“
Stop talking nonsense.”

“
No, this is the real Henry! I’m a devil. Don’t y’understand, Captain. I’m a criminal and a thief. You’re better off without me!”

“
Stop it, Henry. Stop it!!”

Henry had stopped crying but his expression turned strange. Hard and distant. He swallowed once, looked right at Archie and uttered in a frightening growl: “I’m… just…no…good.” Then he leapt from the bed and bolted.

“
Wait! Henry…” Archie shouted. But Henry was already through the door. Archie started after him, but the boy was jackrabbit quick. Archie barely caught a glimpse of him scampering down the Grand Stairway. Still, Archie gave chase until it became an impossible task. Henry had vanished. Archie stopped just outside the Turkish Baths to catch his breath. A deep sadness swept over him. He had seen how resilient Henry was, how the boy burst with enthusiasm for life. He never worried about Henry because, from all appearances, he didn’t have to worry about him; Henry was one of the strongest, most spirited people he had ever encountered. But Archie was now realizing that he hadn’t seen the wounds that cut deeply through the boy. He had been blind to what was obvious: that Henry had suffered far more in his short life than Archie could ever imagine. While Archie had witnessed the horrors of war and experienced death and loss and the cruelty of men, he had experienced them as an adult. Henry had suffered at the hands of the world from the moment he was born. His ebullient spirit, his uplifted soul, was just protection from the cruel reality that was always lurking in the shadows, ready to bring him the heartache and sorrow he had come to expect from life.

Archie walked the halls and decks of the
Titanic
for two more hours, searching everywhere, from the engine rooms deep in the ship’s interior to the top deck near the wheelhouse. There was no sign of Henry. Exhausted, Archie finally wandered to the ship’s bow and leaned over the railing. It was three in the morning. The
Titanic
was making its way up the Irish coast. The squall had long since died. Archie felt the chill air on his face. It refreshed him. He turned his gaze up into the ink black sky that glittered with a million stars. A sense of calm came over Archie that he couldn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was exhaustion; perhaps it was the tranquil blanket of the night. The moment was broken by a dog’s bark. Archie jumped and whirled to see John Astor, in his pajamas and robe, being pulled along the deck by a brown, shorthaired Airedale. “Quiet, Kitty,” Astor commanded. “Quiet! Sit!” But Kitty wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. Archie opened his palm – an invitation. Kitty wagged her tail and pushed forward to be scratched behind the ears. “She’s always agitated the first day at sea,” Astor said tightly, seeming far more distressed than his dog. Archie noticed Astor was dripping perspiration even in the cool air.

“
Colonel Astor, is there something wrong?”

“
Wrong?” Astor snapped. “Why would you say that?”

“
I don’t know, it’s just…”

“
Yes, there’s something wrong! As a matter of fact, everything is wrong.”

Archie was taken aback by Astor’s outburst. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Archie said.

“
Vanderbilt didn’t board. He’s not on the ship.”

“
Are you sure?”

Astor nodded. “His valet boarded. His luggage boarded. But George Vanderbilt?” Astor shook his head. “Not a trace.”

“
Do you know what happened?”

“
Morgan didn’t board either, neither did Henry Frick,” Astor said, ignoring Archie’s question. “What am I to do?”

“
Do as far as what?”

“
The meeting.”

“
What were you going to do in the first place?”

“
You know damn well what we were going to do,” Astor snarled, getting more hysterical by the moment.

“
I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it. In any case, why don’t you just go ahead and start the ball rolling. I’m sure the gentlemen at the meeting will understand,” Archie said, trying to calm Astor.

“
I’m not prepared to ‘start the ball rolling.’ That was George’s job,” Astor answered, having none of Archie’s consoling.

“
Maybe I can help…”

“
No, no one could help,” Astor moaned. “Vanderbilt reserved the reading room on A-Deck. 3 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Who knows, maybe George and Morgan will magically arrive by aeroplane. It could land on the deck right here,” Astor sighed, resigned. “Come on, Kitty,” he said, tugging at the leash. Dog and master turned and traipsed back along the deck, away from Archie and into the night.

The next morning the
Titanic
sailed past Cork, Ireland and put down anchor in the Queenstown harbor. Two tenders met the ship to load mail and 130 new passengers. Because it was cold and blustery, most of the passengers remained inside. Archie watched the boarding while sipping coffee with Millet in the protected deck of the Café Parisienne. He didn’t mention anything about the previous night to Millet – not Henry’s disappearance or Astor’s troubles. They planned a bridge game for late morning.

The
Titanic
left Queenstown in mid-afternoon, heading toward the open sea.

CHAPTER 56

T
here were eight men around the polished wood table in the private A-deck Lounge. Eight men, different in age, background, personality and demeanor. At 67, Isador Straus was the oldest – a gentle, prudent soul, who made his fortune growing Macy’s into the largest department store in the world. George Wiedner’s money came through owning streetcar companies. He was with his son, Harry, whose interest lay more in books than the streetcar empire his father was pushing him toward. Charles Hays ran the Wabash Railroad before being hired as President of Canada’s Grand Trunk Railroad. Beside him sat his good friend John Thayer, who was vice-president of Pennsylvania Railroad. Washington Roebling III represented the Roebling family, whose company designed and built America’s great bridges, including the Brooklyn Bridge. Benjamin Guggenheim had gotten the blessing of his brothers to represent the Guggenheim family on the project. With the exception of Archie, these men were all wealthy beyond comprehension. At 3:20 p.m. on April 11, 1912, they were in a very good mood, telling jokes, drinking coffee, smoking cigars and waiting for the richest of them all.

When John Astor finally floated in a half hour late, he took his place at the head of the table. He was followed by three waiters. One waiter went about setting champagne glasses before the men. The second waiter filled the glasses with 1907
Perrier-Jouet.
The third waiter was carrying two extra ice buckets stocked with several more champagne bottles.

“
Gentlemen,” Astor said right after gulping his entire glass of champagne and motioning for a refill. “I would like to thank you all for being here and joining a project that I believe will be the single greatest achievement of the 20th Century.” Archie noticed that Astor’s manner had changed. Gone was the hand-wringing fusspot of the previous evening, replaced by a man who seemed to be relaxed and confident before the group. Astor, who was always nervous and awkward, seemed as cool and calm as a backwoods pond. “Unfortunately, we’re missing several members of our group. Henry Clay Frick supposedly hurt his ankle and missed the boarding. I received a Marconigram this morning from George Vanderbilt who could not be here because his wife fell ill. And Pierpont Morgan, well, I don’t know what the hell happened to him, this is his ship after all.” Astor clapped his hands together, emptied his glass of champagne then poured himself another, his third in less than three minutes. It then struck Archie how Astor had miraculously transformed himself – he was flat-out drunk!

“
So, let me fill you all in,” Astor chirped, then wavered on his feet. His eyes rolled in his head and he tipped backwards like a leaning tower about to tumble. But then he righted himself, sniffed the air and carefully spread his feet under his body for balance. “Gentlemen,” Astor started again. “As we embark on this grand enterprise, it is my fervent wish that the success we will enjoy is equal to the good we will do for our country. Yes, this plan will make everyone around this table money. Lots of money. But, of course, it’s not just about money. We will make commerce more efficient and create a new business environment for growth and prosperity in America.”

Astor’s words were not the loose ramblings of a drunk, but rather, of a man who seemed not only coherent, but engaging. The alcohol had freed his tongue. And the more he spoke, the more riveting he became. Most of the men at the table had never seen this Astor – the awkward bumbler they knew had a comprehensive grasp of every fact and detail of The Plan. He went on to speak for 3 hours uninterrupted – except by champagne refreshers – going into specifics about construction and land purchases, costs and timetables. He explained about the flow of goods in America and exactly how the strategic centers would grow market share. He gave an exact accounting of the land that had been purchased and when construction would begin. As the men listened it became evident to all at the table that it was Astor who was the real architect and genius behind the project. Vanderbilt may have been the driving force to put the team of builders and businessmen together – the salesman – but it was obviously Astor, with all his quirks and dreadful social skills, who was the visionary. When he finally finished talking, everyone around the table stood up and broke into applause.

Archie sat stunned. For the first time he realized the full scope of what was taking shape. It was brilliant – and absolutely illegal – a monopoly that would have these businessmen regulate the ebb and flow of goods and capital. These men would have the capacity to determine which regions in America would prosper and which ones would struggle. By controlling commerce, they would have the power to decide which companies would succeed and which ones fail. Ultimately, this group could, if they desired, control the purse strings of America.

A loud
pop
shook Archie’s attention back to the meeting room. He looked up to see Astor uncorking another champagne bottle and walking around the table, filling each man’s glass himself. When he finished, all lifted their glasses for a toast. “To success,” Astor simply said. The businessmen at the table enthusiastically joined in: “To success!”

Archie walked back to his stateroom now understanding why the President sent him on this mission. He even began to reevaluate Finch and his motives. Perhaps the little man did have a genuine insight into illegal activities. And perhaps he was sincere about rooting out those who would assault the financial foundation of America. Whatever it was, Archie realized this mission was far more important than he imagined.

Reaching his stateroom, he unlocked the door and stepped in. It felt empty without Henry.
The boy’s on the ship, he’ll turn up.
Archie started toward the sink to wash when he noticed a small note on the floor. It was a card that was slipped under the door. Its letterhead read:
The Marconi International Marine Communication Company
.
A handwritten message said a Marconigram awaited Archie at the Inquiry Office on C-Deck.

* * *

Cargo Hold 3 was dark and icy, a perfect place to disappear. And that was Henry’s plan, to disappear. He was curled into a ball, burrowed under a mountain of wood crates, his coat bunched over his shoulders in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. He shared the room with a jumble of crates, packages and boxes, all of which were being shipped across the ocean. No one bothered Henry there; he was an island unto himself, self-sufficient as he had always been. The solitude, the isolation, even the cold, was comfortingly familiar. Who did he take himself to be, foolishly trying to play rich? That was not his world; it was as foreign to him as the moon. To kill the hours in the freezing cargo room, he imagined his homecoming. Spring was approaching. He’d return to his old, carefree life: swiping food when he was hungry, jumping in the Hudson River when he needed a wash, sleeping under the stars when he was tired. Henry needed nothing and no one. When he dropped into a chilled sleep, he dreamed of New York, of towering buildings and street corner frankfurters, clanking streetcars and honking automobiles. And he dreamed of New Yorkers – scurrying, pushing, cursing, laughing, and scraping to survive. In those cold, lonely hours in the
Titanic’s
chilly cargo hold, he dreamed of home.