1901 Read online

Patrick forced a smile and beckoned Welles to be seated. Welles declined. “I’ve been directed to inform you that President McKinley would like to see you at two in the afternoon in his office at the White House.”

  “And for what reason would that be?” asked Patrick.

  “Sorry, sir. I don’t know, and even if I did, I don’t think I’d be allowed to tell you.”

  Well, Patrick thought, it didn’t sound as though he was going to be arrested or anything. He’d never met McKinley, although he had more than a passing acquaintance with the vice president, Teddy Roosevelt, from their days in Cuba. That relationship was enhanced by the fact that he, Patrick Mahan, was distantly related to the noted naval theorist Alfred Thayer Mahan, and Roosevelt, as ex-assistant secretary of the navy, had been fascinated by war at sea. Patrick recalled Roosevelt’s initial disappointment that he knew little about naval theories, rarely spoke to his distinguished cousin, and even pronounced his last name differently. Patrick pronounced it “Mann,” whereas his famous relative pronounced it “ma-HANN.” Even so, Patrick and Roosevelt became friendly, although they were not actually close friends.

  Welles, it seemed, was not quite through. “Major, it would also be appreciated if you wore civilian clothes.”

  Patrick nodded. Fortunately, he had one suit, although it was in rather bad shape. Since he hadn’t planned on getting malaria again, he hadn’t brought that much clothing with him. When Patrick mentioned this to Welles, the man’s stern face softened considerably. “Major, from what I understand, no one is going to be concerned that you aren’t dressed like some ambassador or potentate.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out an envelope. “This contains your pass into the White House. You are to present it a few minutes before two at the side entrance indicated. It’s probably just as well you aren’t going to be all that gussied up. I think they would like you to look as inconspicuous as possible.”

  “I may look like the White House gardener.”

  With that, Welles actually laughed. “I’m certain, very certain, that both the president and vice president are well aware of your predicament. Major, if you’d like, I’ll take your bag with me and you can pick it up when you leave the president.”

  “That way I won’t look like some uninvited weekend guest, will I?”

  Welles again smiled. Taking Patrick’s bag further assured that he would show up, as if there were a doubt. Patrick finished packing and let Welles take the grip. The cloth bag wasn’t very heavy, but, even so, Welles flipped it as if it were no heavier than a feather.

  When the agent departed, Patrick sat on his cot and tried to sort out his thoughts. Who was he that McKinley would want to see him. Even in the small American army there were several thousand officers, so why him? He cast through his largely undistinguished military career for a clue. He had graduated from West Point in 1885 with a solid class ranking of fifteen. This was followed by a series of short assignments out west where he was primarily involved in helping track down groups of Apaches who, with great justification, resisted being returned to reservation life and the degradation and starvation that would inevitably follow. Patrick did not remember these years as pleasant.

  In order to pass the time-most days were a study in monotony-and to help further his chances for promotion, he read voraciously about military history and the development of the modern army. This led him to an interest in the German military machine that had scourged several of the nations of Europe and now dominated the Continent. He found that the German army both fascinated and repelled him.

  A senior officer noticed his interest in the German army and mentioned it to Gen. Arthur MacArthur. By coincidence, MacArthur had just been asked by the War Department if there was anyone who could be spared for an assignment to Germany as an observer of their army. Since Patrick was both interested and without a proper billet on the frontier, he was promoted to captain and instructed to spend the year of 1895 in Europe at the government’s expense.

  After a stop in England, he devoted a number of months to observing the German army. He was stunned at first by the size of it-casual maneuvers involved more soldiers than existed in the entire U.S. Army-and by the precise way it was organized. This led to virtually flawless maneuvers by incredibly well-armed and -drilled units. In a way, it made him ashamed of his own army. He knew that the Germans he associated with looked down upon him and other Americans as military bumpkins.

  Upon his return to the United States, Patrick was assigned to West Point in order to write about his experiences in Germany and to teach classes on the German army. With his report completed, and doubtless filed in some government archive, he settled down to continue as an instructor for as long as he could. After being shot at by Apaches and awed by the Germans, he enjoyed teaching future officers. He prided himself that his lectures were extremely well received. They were popular because, after the overwhelming German victory over France, the military world was mesmerized by the success and apparent invincibility of the German war machine.

  The war with Spain intervened, and Patrick was assigned to General Shafter, directing an administrative support staff. When the battle of Santiago began, Patrick slipped out and attached himself to Roosevelt’s Rough Riders-with Roosevelt’s permission, of course-and joined in the charge up San Juan Hill, which those who participated in knew actually took place on nearby Kettle Hill. During that bitter fight, Patrick had been greatly impressed by the personal courage and leadership of Teddy Roosevelt. The man was among the first up the hill, and he gunned down at least two Spanish soldiers with his service revolver. That heroism had helped endear him to the American public.

  In 1900, Patrick was sent to Hong Kong to observe a German expeditionary force that had been sent to China to assist in putting down the Boxer Rebellion and lifting the siege of the European legations in Peking.

  In order to give Patrick status with the rank-obsessed Germans, he was promoted to major. Since the promotion was premature, some professional jealousy had manifested itself, and he was confident that his next promotion would not be for a very, very long time, if ever.

  Both he and the Germans arrived in Hong Kong after the siege had been lifted, but he spent the next couple of months watching the Imperial German Army function in a “real” environment. On his way home from that task, he stopped in the Philippines. His malaria, previously caught in Cuba, flared up again and he was sent to Washington to convalesce.

  Patrick stood and stretched, deciding he had time for breakfast. Had anything else occurred that would justify his summons? Teddy Roosevelt had visited him a couple of weeks ago, but that meeting was purely social. In fact, Patrick was certain that the vice president had been in the hospital to visit someone else and had simply noticed his name on a list upon arrival and decided to be polite.

  Several hours later, a crumpled and sweaty Patrick Mahan found himself on a bench across the street from the White House quietly cursing the summer heat and stifling humidity that made Washington in the summer more like a Cuban swamp than a nation’s capital. Whatever creases and folds his clothes had once possessed had disappeared, and he felt himself to be little more than a soggy, sweaty lump. His tie hung limp and his starched collar, except where it chafed his neck, had collapsed. As always, there were scores of tourists staring at the famous building, and he wondered just how so many of them managed to look even slightly comfortable. Several adults were taking photographs using Mr. Eastman’s new box camera, and a number of children were crying to either go home, go to the bathroom, or eat. Maybe the tourists weren’t that comfortable after all, he decided.

  He pulled his watch from its pocket and again checked the time. Almost 1:30. In about twenty minutes he would walk leisurely across the street and present himself. Then, for the first time in his life, he would meet a president of the United States.

  For about the hundredth time, he questioned himself as to why he had been summoned. No use speculating, he finally decided; he would find out soon enough.


  “Patrick Mahan.”

  He turned quickly and looked up, blinking in the sunlight that caused the man standing to his left to be a silhouette. “Excuse me?” he responded confusedly.

  “Patrick, don’t you recall me?”

  The voice was British, educated, and very familiar. Recognition finally came. Patrick jumped to his feet and grabbed the other man’s hand and pumped vigorously.

  “Ian! Ian Gordon! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Ian Gordon, a smallish, wiry Scot with thick black hair and a neatly cropped and equally black beard, grinned. “Goodness, Patrick, is there a law against my being here?”

  “Of course not, but you have to admit it is quite a coincidence.” Then another memory intruded. “Ian, it is a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  Gordon smiled gently. “Good, so you do remember. Why don’t we both be seated and chat.”

  Patrick quickly tried to recall as much as he could about Gordon, whom he had met in Europe the year he was to observe the Germans. Prior to reaching Germany, however, Patrick was directed by the War Department to meet with certain people in the British army, and Ian Gordon, then a major himself, was high on the list.

  It didn’t take long for Patrick to find that Major Gordon, for all his affability and good humor, was not an ordinary military officer. Gordon’s admitted specialty was military intelligence, and his particular focus was the military might of Germany. Although not a spy himself, Patrick was certain that the pleasant Scot controlled a number of spies and received much information from them.

  Their assignment had not been all work; their mutuality of interests resulted in a number of social nights at plays, pubs, and private gambling clubs. As a minor member of the aristocracy, Gordon was welcomed virtually everywhere, and Patrick tagged along for the very pleasant ride. There had also been a standing invitation to visit the Gordon castle, which Ian assured a disbelieving Patrick stood atop a bleak, rocky crag that jutted into the North Sea.

  Patrick again pulled out his watch as a means of both gathering his thoughts and actually checking the time.

  “Don’t worry,” Gordon said. “Your secret meeting isn’t for another half an hour.”

  Bastard, Patrick thought. “Actually I make it twenty-five minutes. That assumes there actually is a secret meeting, which, if there were, I wouldn’t admit to anyhow.”

  Gordon chuckled. “Wonderful. Nothing’s changed you. How’s your malaria?”

  “Fine, thanks. I think I am now completely cured, although I am going to do my damnedest to avoid the Tropics from here on in.” Good lord, he thought again, he knows about my malaria. Does he know whether my bowels move regularly?

  “Ian, can I assume your being here with me this lovely summer day is no coincidence at all?”

  “Of course, although the fact that I am assigned to the embassy here is a coincidence. When it was decided to arrange a meeting with you prior to your meeting with McKinley, I thought it logical that I be the one to talk with you.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you know the purpose of the meeting with the president?” When Patrick shook his head, Ian continued. “Then I will also presume you know nothing about the problems with Kaiser Wilhelm. Don’t feel left out, very few people have any inkling that the situation between the United States and Germany is so very critical-perhaps even more critical than your government realizes.” He took out a thin, dark cigar and lit it, oblivious to the angry stares of a mother who promptly yanked her young son away from the offending object.

  Well, Patrick thought, that means the subject of the president’s meeting is doubtless going to be Germany. “Good lord, I am hardly the ranking expert on Imperial Germany. I admit I know a good deal, but there have to be others who know more.”

  “Don’t belittle yourself. You probably know as much about the kaiser and his incredible army as anyone in Washington at this time. And timing is most critical.

  “Let me clarify the crises for you. Germany is outraged that the United States has an overseas empire, whereas she has none. In short, Germany wants your newly acquired overseas possessions.”

  Patrick was angry. “The hell you say! We paid for them in blood. She cannot have them.”

  “That is precisely, but more politely, what the Germans were told. They then responded, all through unofficial channels, that they were willing to purchase them. When that offer was also rejected, they informed your president, just a few days ago, that failure to turn over those lands was a grievous insult and Germany would consider taking those lands by force.”

  Gordon expertly blew a smoke ring and watched it drift slowly skyward. “Over the past few months, the Germans have managed to gather both a sizable fleet and a portion of their immense army without anyone knowing that it was for anything other than routine maneuvers or internal purposes. Patrick, that force numbers perhaps thirty thousand soldiers and it sailed in our direction almost two weeks ago. We believe it will land tonight.”

  Patrick was stunned. “Thirty thousand! How astonishing, and how like them. My God, Ian, our garrison on Cuba is so small. It’ll be slaughtered. And the one on Puerto Rico is smaller yet. What a disaster!”

  “Why do you think they would land on Cuba or Puerto Rico?” Ian asked softly.

  The question puzzled him. “Why, because those are the places Germany wants. Why on earth would they go elsewhere?” As Patrick said this he saw the expression on Ian’s face and knew there was something even more dreadfully wrong than he had first surmised.

  “Patrick,” Ian continued in that same soft, whispering voice. “My government wants you to know about this, and we would like to keep you supplied with additional information as we receive it. All of this has to be unofficial and deniable, of course, which is why I am sitting here with you like this. By the way, don’t worry too much about your comrades in Cuba, or anywhere else, for that matter. They’re safe. Cuba isn’t the target. Germany will attack where you have virtually no effective defenses to hinder them.”

  In shock, Patrick could only whisper as well. “Where?”

  “New York City, Patrick. New York City.” Ian put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Now go and meet your president.”

  Ian Gordon rose and quickly strode away, almost immediately losing himself in the crowd. Patrick also stood and wondered if the startling information he’d just been given was written on his face and readable to all around him. As he walked across the street toward the side entrance of the White House, his shock waned. Was Gordon telling the truth? If not, why on earth would he lie? What should he do with the information? Obviously, he was supposed to tell McKinley, but would he be believed? He couldn’t just walk up to McKinley and say that a man he hadn’t seen for some years just met him on a bench in front of the White House and informed him that the city of New York was going to be attacked tonight by Germany.

  And again, why him? Was this whole thing a dream? If so, he thought wryly, he would like to wake up as soon as possible.

  Inside the slightly cooler White House, Patrick handed his pass to a black porter who directed another black servant to take him to the cabinet room on the second level. All of this took place under the watchful eyes of the Secret Service detachment that protected the president during the day. Uniformed city police watched him at night.

  When they reached the second-floor cabinet room, the servant knocked, announced Patrick, and gestured for him to enter. Inside, President McKinley sat behind a large dark wooden desk; Theodore Roosevelt stood beside him. McKinley rose and extended a hand.

  “Ah, Major Mahan, thank you for coming.”

  The grip was firm. Although he appeared tired and strained, the clean-shaven president looked very much like his pictures and radiated warmth. McKinley, reelected only the fall before, was extremely popular and obviously easy to like. It did not strike Patrick as odd that while the profile was the same as the campaign art, the body was somewhat different, softer, even overweight. In addition, McKinley di
d not dress with an eye to fashion. His suit was old and there were fray marks on the cuff.

  “I’m honored by your invitation, sir.”

  Roosevelt laughed. “Invitation? Patrick, the malaria’s affected your mind and you’re deluding yourself. It was an order and you damn well know it.”

  Patrick chuckled and took the vice president’s hand as well. Roosevelt seemed not to have changed from Cuba and now resembled nothing so much as a middle-aged little boy who was having a wonderful time. Unlike the president’s garb, Roosevelt’s was crisp and dapper.

  McKinley smiled tolerantly at his vice president. Patrick wondered if a degree of friendship had developed between the two men who were so unalike. Political rumors had them intensely disliking each other before the Spanish war, which Roosevelt had wanted and McKinley had adamantly opposed. Now, of course, that war was won and so was the reelection, and Roosevelt was McKinley’s vice president. Winning does take the edge off of past differences.

  Patrick was gestured to a chair and the three sat. After refusing offers of refreshment, Patrick waited for the president to get to the reason for this gathering.

  Roosevelt spoke instead. “Patrick, I daresay you are curious about this summons, or invitation if you’d prefer.”

  “I am.”

  McKinley spoke. “It concerns your experiences in Germany, Major.”

  “Sir, I am hardly the most qualified person in the army to discuss Germany.”

  Roosevelt laughed loudly. “You certainly are not, Patrick. But what you are is here, right now and today. Not only are most of our senior officers in the Philippines or serving in some fort in Arizona, but virtually everyone else with your knowledge who resides within a hundred miles of here is away for a nice summer weekend. No, my friend, you were selected not only for your expertise but because you were the only one around.”

  McKinley softened the comment. “Theodore assures me that you are intelligent and discreet as well as in possession of at least much of the information we now need.”