1901 CHAPTER THIRTEEN MOLLY AWOKE SLOWLYfrom her deep and dream-filled sleep. She realized that something had disturbed her. The night was warm and sticky, and the windows were open in a vain attempt to catch a night breeze. She lay still and listened. Very quickly she was rewarded with the sound of what might have been a whimper. She continued to listen and it was repeated. A cat? Some other kind of animal? Carefully, so as to not disturb Katrina, who slept in the other bed, she arose and walked to the window. When she heard the sound again, she realized that it came from within the small house she and Katrina shared. Padding softly on bare feet, she went to the bedroom door and opened it. There was a small squeak, but Katrina slept on, her breath coming in almost a soft snore. Molly smiled fondly. Damned Dutchies could sleep through an earthquake. She entered the hallway and looked about. The sound, now more like an animal in pain, was coming from the bedroom across the hall where Heinz was sleeping. Heinz had arrived at Katrina’s rented cottage late the evening before and had cheerfully informed them that both he and Patrick Mahan had survived the disaster unharmed, and the general had sent him ahead with that message. Patrick would come by as soon as he could. When it had come time for Heinz to leave, Katrina would not hear of him trying to find quarters elsewhere. Lieutenants were the lowest form of life in a village filled to overflowing with refugees, lost troops, and the walking wounded. Heinz had protested that it would not be appropriate for him to stay with the two women, and Katrina had nearly exploded. “Who gives a damn what people think? Propriety? The hell with propriety! There’s a war on, isn’t there?” Heinz had sheepishly given in and agreed to take the bedroom that had been Molly’s, which accounted for her bunking with Katrina. In retrospect, it seemed that Heinz hadn’t protested all that much. Molly closed the door behind her, walked over to Heinz’s room, and placed her ear to his door. While she did this, she hoped fervently that he would not suddenly open the door and confront her, barefoot as she was, clad only in a thin cotton nightgown, and with her ear pressed to his door. A person could get the wrong idea. She hesitated, then opened the door. Heinz was in his bed, his large body contorted and his face twisted as his closed eyes saw something she could not. His mouth opened and a small wail of pain emerged. Molly closed the door and walked across the room to stand by him. He had kicked off his covers and was clad only in his underwear. Molly was, quite frankly, astonished by the size and bulk of the young man. When he was clothed it was apparent that he was tall and powerfully built, but now she realized just how muscular he was. Heinz moaned again. Was this, she thought, so different from the dreams that poor dead Cormac sometimes had? She knelt beside Heinz and began to whisper his name, calling for him to awaken, to emerge from his nightmare, her voice a comforting purr. He awoke and looked about, trying to register where he was. When he saw Molly his eyes widened in astonishment, making her smile as she stood up. He grabbed the bedclothes and covered himself, the futile gesture amusing her even more. A boy, she thought, a lieutenant in the army but still a large boy. How could she have chided him as a potential enemy? “Molly,” he whispered. “What’re you doing here?” “You were having a bad dream. I heard you crying out.” “Oh, God,” he said and sagged farther back into the down pillow. “I keep seeing them. It’s so awful.” Molly was puzzled. “Seeing what?” “Them. The dead. The wounded. Oh, God, Molly, I never, ever thought it could be like that. I never saw a battle before, never saw what could happen to a man when a bullet hit or, worse, a cannon exploded. The word ‘horrible’ doesn’t even begin to cover the sights, the sounds, and the smells. I don’t think there are any words in any language that can.” He looked at her and she saw how drawn his face was. No, this was not her brother Cormac coming back from a night of fighting and carousing; this was a confused young man trying to comprehend what had happened to him. She felt deeply moved by his genuine distress. “I’d never seen battle. I missed that little ambush General Mahan and General Funston cooked up, so when this big one occurred, I was thrilled. I was all dressed up in a spiffy new uniform and had a sword and pistol and was going to be the brave hero, a twentieth-century knight-errant.” He laughed harshly. “Fat lot of good that did! I saw the men go forward and wanted to be with them, so brave they looked, but I had to stay with General Mahan, and generals don’t lead charges anymore. At the time I didn’t know how lucky I was.” He sighed and looked up at the cracked ceiling. “Then I saw the troops come back, all bloody and filthy and torn. And whipped. They were crying and hurt. When the fighting finally stopped and they sent people out to help the wounded, I volunteered. By that time many of the wounded had died from bleeding or shock. Some of them may have drowned in shell holes that were filled with rain from the storm. Anyway, we gathered up as many as we could and took them back to the field hospitals. Some died on the trip. I tried to keep one boy from bleeding to death from where his arm had been torn off. I squeezed his exposed and bleeding veins with my fingers, but they were too slippery and he died anyhow and I got his blood on my uniform. I’m not sure he would have survived under any circumstances. The crowds of wounded waiting for care at the hospitals were so large.” Molly sat on the edge of the bed and drew his uncomplaining head to her shoulder. How could she have ever thought of this young man as her enemy? “You did what you could,” she said soothingly, running her hand through his thick blond hair. “It wasn’t enough! You know, some of the worst wounded didn’t even make a sound? Maybe they couldn’t. When I was younger, I read of the Civil War where the operating tents were surrounded by piles of amputated limbs. I thought that was horrible and, stupid me, I thought those days were over. They’re not, Molly, they’re not. I saw mountains of arms and legs all covered with blood and flies and realized that they could have been mine.” Heinz was crying as he spoke, and Molly realized her own cheeks were wet with tears. “When the ambulances went out again, I did too. This time we picked up only the dead. In some ways they were worse than the wounded. Some of them just looked at you with open eyes on their blank dead faces, as if they were accusing you of causing them to die. When we couldn’t find any more bodies, we started picking up the bits and pieces. When the cart was full, we went back to the camp.” His voice broke and his chest heaved with racking sobs that nearly tore her apart. Molly held his head to her bosom and rocked him gently as the two of them cried together. After some time, Heinz disengaged himself. “You better get back to your room,” he said gently, trying not to look at her. Molly smiled and wiped both their tears with a corner of the covers. “When I’m ready.” She shifted so that this time her head was on his shoulder. Almost instinctively he put his arm around her. They sat silently for a few moments. “You shouldn’t be here,” he insisted. “Do you really want me to leave?” “No. I don’t ever want you to leave,” he said softly, his face now full of a youthful sincerity that charmed her. “Where will you go when this war is over?” She shrugged. “Boston perhaps. I seem to recall we have cousins there. Of course,” she giggled, “we Irish have cousins almost everywhere. Except Ireland, of course; everyone’s over here.” “Any kin in Ohio? Cincinnati?” “None I’m aware of. Why?” “I want to take you home with me and I wouldn’t want you to be lonely for your folk.” She sat up in the bed and turned so that she was kneeling, facing him. “Heinz, don’t joke with me.” “No,” he said with deep sincerity. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long time.” A long time? They had known each other only a few weeks, but war has a way of making otherwise short periods of time seem eternal. Go with him to Ohio? Be the Irish wife of a German husband? No, she reminded herself, he is not a German. Heinz is an American and, as she’d been reminded several times, so is she. “If you really want me to, I’ll go with you,” she said softly. They hugged and he kissed her. When was the last time a boy had kissed her? Billy McCaffrey, she recalled. It was about a year ago and the little pig was trying to run his hand up the inside of her thigh at the same time. She and Heinz kissed again and she felt her body meld into his as the kisses grew more eager, more intense, as they grew more familiar with each other. Heinz was acutely aware that she wore nothing under the thin gown and that it had ridden well up her legs. He could feel her young breasts against him, and he was aroused as he’d never been in his life. “Now I think,” he gasped, “you’d really better leave.” Molly sat up and smiled. “I think not,” she said as she slipped the gown over her shoulders. A few minutes later and a few feet away, a shocked and confused Katrina Schuyler lay in her bed and tried to sort out her feelings and thoughts. She had awakened and found Molly’s bed empty. Assuming only that the girl had to answer a call of nature, she’d thought nothing of it. When, after a decent interval, Molly hadn’t returned, a drowsy Katrina started to worry. She got up and peered into the hallway, where, to her surprise, she heard sounds coming from Heinz’s room. Unknowingly repeating Molly’s actions, she placed her ear to the door and listened. For a moment she was puzzled, then astonished. Although she had never before heard two people making love, she knew exactly what the excited and passionate moans and murmurs meant. Her face flushing, she dashed back to her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Oh, my lord, she thought. She had hoped they would become friends, but she had never anticipated or desired that they would become lovers. This was going to complicate things. Or would it? It likely meant that she and Molly would be seeing a lot more of both Heinz and his commanding officer, the strangely intellectual Patrick Mahan. Would that be so bad? That there was an element of jealousy she cheerfully acknowledged. Like many young and wealthy women of her era, she had had no sexual experiences. Oh, she knew where babies came from and how they were made, but she had never participated in the exercise. Still a virgin, she had to acknowledge the fact that she was considered an old maid. Many of her younger friends were already married and had become mothers several times. A few had taken lovers, discreetly and within the limits that society permitted. As to herself, she had been kissed a few times, always chastely, by a handful of would-be swains, most of whom were more likely after her family’s money than her own thin body. No one had ever suggested she go to bed with them, and no one had ever tried anything really sexual. Indeed, she realized ruefully, the only man who had ever intentionally touched her breast had been the thug who’d tried to kidnap her as they fled New York. She imagined Molly and Heinz naked and entwined only a few feet away. They were naked, weren’t they? People making love should be. Then her imagination replaced them with herself and Patrick Mahan. Again she flushed. Molly, so many years her junior, had a much fuller and more feminine figure. As to Patrick, she could only imagine. He was taller than she, well built and muscular looking. So what if his hair was receding a little. She found the thought of lying with him a pleasant one. But what if he didn’t find her attractive? Well, he keeps coming around; that must mean he thinks something of her. God, she thought, what if he thinks of me as a sister? That had happened before and was something she could not bear. Was it her fault she came on so strong about women being educated and able to vote? Was it also her fault she had such small breasts when men expected much more? She thought again of Patrick’s body against hers and his hands caressing her gently and intimately. Damnit, she thought. Damn, damn, damn. The handful of men in the president’s office constituted his brain trust. They were his secretary of state, John Hay, and the secretaries of war and navy, Elihu Root and John Long. Long had arrived late and had been enduring some reasonably good-natured ribbing from Hay, who, as usual, was taking it on himself to make the situation less tense. Hay was also puffing on a long and smelly cigar. He glanced at Roosevelt and saw that the ruddiness and color were back in his cheeks. The man was amazing, he thought. Just a day or two ago he had looked as if the weight of the world had fallen on him. Now he looked as if he could take on the world alone. Which, Hay thought, he might have to do. “Gentlemen,” Roosevelt said, smiling, “we are gathered here to embark on the journey we should have started back in June. It is, after all, never too late. Except, of course, for the poor dead who have already given their all for their country.” There were murmurs of polite assent and he continued. “Events tend to repeat themselves. Do any of you recall what happened to Winfield Scott at the beginning of the Civil War?” Since Roosevelt was looking directly at Hay, the latter removed his cigar and responded. “Of course. Scott was an ancient of seventy-five, a hero of the Mexican war and the War of 1812, and the commanding general of the Union army at the time of Fort Sumter. He came up with a complex military creation called the Anaconda Plan by the press. It would have involved a blockade of the South, and a long series of campaigns to cut up and isolate the Confederacy, to win a war that he estimated might last three years.” “Precisely. And what happened?” Hay took a long pull on his cigar. “The poor man was forcibly retired. No one wanted to even think of a war lasting any longer than a few weeks. Hell, ‘On to Richmond’ was the cry, and they meant right now and not next year. Of course we got our asses whipped at the first Bull Run and a few other spots until we settled on generals like Grant and Sherman to win the war.” Hay smiled. “And, yes, they basically did so by implementing the Anaconda Plan and taking four and a half years to complete the task instead of three.” “Precisely, again. If the country had as its goal winning a war and not just a battle, the war would have been over many months earlier, and so many more lives would not have been lost.” “Is that your point, Mr. President,” asked Root, “that we have been attempting to fight a battle and not a war?” “That, gentlemen, is exactly what I mean. The recent debacle at Danbury showed that we are not yet capable of winning a climactic battle against the Germans, and we may never be ready enough. Instead, we must prepare for a war.” He leaned forward. “A long war. And a war of attrition that may never be concluded by a decisive battle. The enemy is far too strong.” Hay nodded. “I think the major portion of the country realizes that now. The people who thought in terms of glorious victories have to confront reality. Now it is time for hard, hard work.” “Excellent,” said Roosevelt. “And in order to win that war we must greatly enlarge our military. I propose increasing naval production to double our existing fleet.” Long scribbled furiously on a pad, his face betraying nothing. “Further,” Roosevelt continued, “I wish to develop an army of a million men to combat the Germans.” To Root’s shocked expression, he asked, “Does that create problems, Elihu?” “More than I can enumerate here, sir. Not the least of them is the question of a command structure. Who shall lead?” Roosevelt’s face was expressionless. “Why, a new general, of course.” Root agreed. “And I must reiterate the need for a new structure for command. The concept of one general in charge is obsolete. We need something more like what the Germans do with their General Staff.” Roosevelt agreed. “Yes, but in time. First we have the immediate problem of winning the war, and, gentlemen, I believe the country needs a hero to lead it. Someone of stature and credibility to coordinate, if not lead in the traditional sense, our war efforts. Yes, a hero.” “Hero?” Hay snorted and almost dropped his cigar. “Theodore, who do you have in mind? Grant’s dead and so’s Sherman.” Long and Root glanced at each other. Hay was the only one who would presume to call the president by his first name in any but the most private of settings. “Why, John, what about Arthur MacArthur?” chided Roosevelt. “He’s old enough and certainly vigorous, and he’ll be here from the Philippines in a few weeks.” Root shook his head. “If we do that, who’ll command in the field? Baldy Smith is good enough for right now, but we will need better men up there. If Mac is in the field, who will coordinate? Besides, most of the country doesn’t even know who the hell he is, so he won’t qualify as your hero.” “Yet you agree we must do something?” There was no dissent. The newspapers and political opposition were adamant that Miles had to go and that other changes had to be made. Either the war had to be fought to its fullest or a negotiated peace had to be entered into. Since the latter would humiliate the United States and condemn her to second-class status in perpetuity, nobody in the current administration wanted any part of such a catastrophic settlement. Hay relit his cigar. “A hero? Where the hell you gonna find one of them? They’ve been in short supply lately.” Roosevelt smiled. “If people had listened to Winfield Scott, he’d be revered, wouldn’t he? An elder statesman whose wisdom led the country in its time of travail. I know we would prefer that our heroes be young, broad shouldered, and golden haired, but it does not always work out that way. Sometimes heroes are old and gray.” “Damnit, Theodore, what the hell have you got in mind?” Roosevelt smiled. “Gentlemen, I propose a man who has served his country long and well. He graduated from West Point, distinguished himself in the Mexican war as a young officer, and then achieved high rank in the War Between the States. When that tragedy was over he served his country as ambassador to Turkey—” “No!” said Hay, rising from his chair as realization dawned. “You must be joking.” “I assure you I am not joking.” Hay couldn’t stifle a grin. “Good lord, I didn’t even know the man was still alive.” While Long and Root exchanged puzzled glances, Roosevelt stood, recognizing that what he was doing was the equivalent of a political nominating speech. “Oh, he is alive. Alive and well, I assure you. Hale and hearty for a man of his years. A trifle hard of hearing, but no other problems.” “Ancient,” Hay chortled. “The man is ancient. And he’s not hard of hearing, he’s damn near deaf.” Roosevelt chided him fondly. “John, just because a man is old doesn’t mean he has to be one of the living dead.” “I assume you’ve spoken to him and he’ll accept?” “Certainly. It was a delightful conversation. And had you forgotten that he is currently serving as our commissioner of railroads?” Long looked blank. A well-educated lawyer, he thought he knew just about everyone and certainly everything he needed to know about his beloved navy, but he had no idea who the commissioner of railroads was. Few navies, he reminded himself, traveled much by rail. “All right,” he said, laughing, “I cannot stand the suspense. Who is this knight in shining armor?” Roosevelt stood, his arms behind his back, and his chest and jaw outthrust in the pose that was so frequently caricatured. “Gentlemen, tomorrow I will go before Congress and propose that the rank of full general, four stars, be given to James Longstreet, lieutenant general (retired) of the Confederate States of America.” There was a moment of silence until Root broke it with a simple, “Jesus.” As usual, Hay filled the void. “Well, Theodore, you are right, he is old.” “And vigorous, John. He did have ten children.” “Any recently?” Roosevelt chuckled. “None that I’m aware of, but I wouldn’t bet against it.” Root drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I will grant you he is a hero to many, but there are those, both North and South, who hate him rather than think of him as a hero. Remember, after the war he committed the twin sins of returning to federal service and, worse, criticizing the South’s patron saint, Robert E. Lee.” Roosevelt nodded. “As to the first part, I think that is behind us. A number of ex-Confederate officers served well in the Spanish war and others are serving now with our army in Connecticut. As to the second point, well, history has proven him right. Even Lee admitted that the defeat at Gettysburg was his own fault and not Longstreet’s. Although there may be a few diehards who feel he is not deserving, I think his name and his reputation will carry the day. Especially,” he said, smiling, “if his nomination is supported by a man of such stature as John Hay, who actually knew and worked with Abraham Lincoln.” “You bastard.” Hay laughed. “Of course I’ll do it. If nothing else, I want to see the look on certain people’s faces. Just a quick question, Theodore, how old is he?” Roosevelt smiled genially. “Eighty-two.” The kaiser laughed so hard his crippled hand came out of the pocket where it had been tucked, and dangled uselessly until he retrieved it. Chancellor Bulow tried not to notice. Once again the kaiser was alternating between high good humor and flaming rage in a display of inconsistency that had von Bulow concerned. “Longstreet? James Longstreet? How bankrupt are the Americans if they must trust their efforts to an octogenarian? Bulow, tell me, are they jesting?” “Apparently not, sire. They made the announcement officially, and Congress is very likely to accede to the wishes of Roosevelt. They don’t have much choice.” The kaiser cackled, causing Bulow to blink. It was so unseemly. “I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t we disinter Blücher and have the British dig up old, dead Wellington? Then we can have all three cadavers, one still breathing, in the field at the same time.” Bulow, who had been talking with others in the government, Holstein in particular, did not see the humor. “Sire, the appointment of Longstreet, coupled with their other announcements, seems to indicate a further unwillingness to negotiate a settlement.” The kaiser’s good humor disappeared immediately. “They’ll negotiate. They must. Their army is defeated and their navy is in hiding God knows where. They will talk because they have no other choice. As to this nonsense of an army of a million men, that is utter rot! Certainly they could put that many in the field, but they would be mowed down like wheat by a scythe. They would be a rabble in arms.” A rabble that could learn, thought Bulow, who remembered his history and knew how the Americans seemed to be able to create armies out of whole cloth when given enough time. He was about to mention that tactfully when the kaiser stood up and went to a large globe of the world. “I have studied, von Bulow, the history of the many empires the world has known. In the early days, there were the Assyrians, the Egyptians, and the Persians. Athens called herself an empire, but a city-state and a handful of islands do not qualify for the title. Rome was an empire. God in heaven, and what an empire! Did you know that the word ‘kaiser’ comes from the Latin Caesar? So does ‘tsar’ for my dear cousin Nicky, who seems to be so upset by my American adventure. So I am the inheritor of the Caesars of Rome.” He spun the globe gently. “Now look at today’s world, today’s empires. Russia calls herself an empire, yet most of her empire is Siberia, which is 90 percent frozen tundra, unfit for human life. Of course,” he said laughing, “the rest of Russia isn’t so wonderful either.” “It certainly isn’t, sire.” “Britain has a true empire. Just look at her possessions. Every continent, von Bulow, every continent! Magnificent. Spain once had an empire, and now it belongs to those fool Americans, who have no use for it and wish to give away many of their new lands to the little brown people who live in them. Idiots! That cannot be permitted to happen!” “Certainly not, sire.” The kaiser smacked the globe with his good hand. “Now look at Germany’s ‘empire.’ What do you see besides a slightly above average sized country virtually landlocked in the middle of Europe? Where are our colonies? A desert in southwest Africa? A handful of islands in the Pacific? Von Bulow, even the Dutch have a larger empire than we do. If the Americans do not wish to negotiate, then they will have to continue bleeding until they do!” “Yes, sire.”