1901 (22 page)

“I think so.” Her voice was definitely more cheerful, and McCluskey felt relieved. This was going to be a good day after all.

“Now, let us talk about your hatred of all Germans. May I assume you have met a German you do not particularly wish to hate?”

Molly giggled. “That could be.”

“Now child, let us be serious. Did the Germans invent the heinous crime of rape? Are there no Irish rapists about? Could you not be assaulted someday by an Irishman? Has it not happened to others of our faith and our race?”

He saw her head bob up and down. “Yes.”

“And if your assailant had been Irish, would you hate all men of Irish descent?”

“Of course not.”

“Then have you not answered your own question?”

There was silence while Molly digested this bit of logic. “Thank you, Father. I know now that I have not sinned and I know also that I will succeed in not hating.” She asked for absolution and he gave it gladly, along with a personal blessing and a promise to pray for her.

“But only if you will pray for me as well,” he said, and she agreed warmly.

As she started to rise, she added, “You’ve answered one other question as well, you know.”

He caught the humor in her voice. “Oh?”

“Yes, now I know why that other priest never has anyone in line at his confessional.”

If the kaiser had still been a child, he likely would have been skipping. As it was, he waved his good hand in a display of exuberance that annoyed Holstein, especially since it was largely directed at him.

“See, von Holstein, did I not tell you we would be victorious?”

Holstein bowed. “That you did, All Highest, that you certainly did.”

“And now the Americans will surely come to the negotiating table and we will have our empire. I told you it would be a short war.”

“Sire, my people have heard nothing to the effect that the Americans are ready to negotiate. Even the neutral countries are silent on that topic.” But not on others, he mused.

“No matter. If not today, then tomorrow. They’re whipped, beaten. I have the finest army in the history of man, and they have utterly routed the American farmers. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Holstein’s informants told him that the battle, although it had certainly gone Germany’s way, might not have been quite as one-sided as the kaiser believed.

“Sire,” said Holstein, “have you given any thought to canceling or delaying the troop shipments?”

The kaiser paused and turned to Schlieffen, who shook his head. “No. We have two corps there and two on the way. There is no reason to stop.”

“And von Tirpitz will be able to supply them?” Holstein asked.

Tirpitz was not present and the kaiser was irritated. “Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”

Holstein continued. “Well, for one thing, the American navy has not been brought to battle. Although we certainly defeated their army, we have not touched their navy.”

“It’s just as well,” the kaiser said laughing. “When they come to the table, we will have their fleet undamaged for our very own. Won’t the British love that!”

Holstein was persistent. “Sire, I hear unsettling rumors that the execution of prisoners—”

“Traitors!”

He bowed. “As you wish, sire. But the international community is upset by those actions, and the Americans seem to be outraged. It may just delay their willingness to bargain.”

The kaiser was surprised, indignant. “But what I did is within the law. Even the British do it.”

Holstein winced. What the British had done, nearly a century earlier, was, under duress of war, to refuse to acknowledge that a British citizen could ever become an American citizen. Thus they impressed seamen off American vessels and thereby precipitated the War of 1812. The British no longer impressed seamen.

“Yes, sire, they certainly did. I must point out, however, that they merely conscripted them. They did not execute anyone unless they could prove with an absolute degree of certainty that the person had actually deserted a Royal Navy ship.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sire.”

The kaiser paced the room. “Well, then, we will show mercy. Change the directive from execution to transportation to Germany and conscription, unless, as you say, we can prove they actually deserted.” His brows knit in thought. “Of course, if they refuse to serve, we will have to shoot them.”

“Certainly, sire.”

The meeting ended and Holstein, by design, found himself with Schlieffen. “General, I understand your army in America is in no shape to fight.”

Schlieffen started to bristle, then thought better. “Almost true. They can certainly fight. What they cannot do until we reinforce and reorganize is move out of our perimeter. You are correct that the actual fighting force, not the occupation and administrative types, did suffer heavy casualties while winning their battle.”

“Ah. And in that perimeter you plan to have two hundred thousand men, if I understand your plans correctly?”

“Just a little under that number, yes.”

“Astonishing. And von Tirpitz promises that his ships will be able to protect the transport ships that will feed and supply them?”

Schlieffen’s eyes flickered and Holstein saw an instant’s doubt. “It will be a mighty endeavor, but he assures me his ships are up to the task. When the Americans negotiate shortly, as the kaiser assures, the point will be moot anyhow.”

“Ah, yes,” Holstein said softly. “The negotiations will solve everything.”

“Moving pictures?” asked Roosevelt. “Secretary Hay, with all that is occurring, do we have time for this?” Roosevelt waved in the general direction of the projector. A screen was set against a wall of the East Room. “I thought you had meaningful plans to discuss.”

Hay did not take his president’s objections seriously. He knew the president loved moving pictures. “I certainly do. However, these gentlemen just arrived from Mr. Edison’s laboratory in New Jersey, and Mr. Root has been delayed. I thought we’d take this opportunity to show you what we have.”

Roosevelt was intrigued and took a seat. Moving pictures were such a marvelous invention and so full of potential. Cleveland had been the first president filmed; now Roosevelt was the third.

The Edison man explained that Mr. Edison would have liked to be there himself, but he was busy with important projects. Roosevelt tried not to smile. It was more likely that the deaf Thomas Edison didn’t want to be embarrassed by having to answer questions he couldn’t hear regarding whatever it was they were going to see.

The lights were turned off and the screening began. At first there was a title that screamed “Invasion,” in large, bold letters. Roosevelt tensed and leaned forward. A second title read “Long Island,” and the picture showed people lying on the ground. No. They were dead. The camera mercilessly showed bloodied corpses of men, women, and children while workers wearing masks prepared them for burial.

“Dear God,” said Roosevelt.

The next scene was of New York harbor. It showed German warships moving about with the city in the background. The view of German ships around the Statue of Liberty almost moved him to tears.

Abruptly, the scene changed and he could see puffs of smoke coming from the ships’ guns as they bombarded Brooklyn. This was followed by scenes of the fire and its aftermath—blocks and blocks of charred and smoking buildings. Even there, the cameramen found bodies to film.

Another scene showed German infantry marching down the blackened streets from the waterfront. They marched in precise steps, as if on parade and without a care in the world. It was chilling.

This was followed by scenes of refugees, thousands of them, moving about and living in wretched conditions, their faces gaunt, eyes dimmed by fear and exhaustion. The worst part was the crying children. If only there were sound, Roosevelt thought, it would bring tears to the hardest of hearts.

The last scene also showed bodies. These were dead American soldiers lying facedown in a field. The caption was simply, “Murdered.”

The lights went on. The entire viewing had taken less than ten minutes. Roosevelt’s cheeks were wet. “Your camera operators are very brave.”

The man grinned cheekily. “And very sneaky. At one point I hid in the second floor of a collapsing warehouse to get the shots of those soldiers marching by.”

“Good for you! John Hay, thank you for showing me this. Now, how can we use it best?”

Hay was pleased. “Sir, Mr. Edison has agreed to make more than a hundred copies at his expense and distribute them throughout the United States. They will be shown in vaudeville houses and other theaters as motion pictures are shown now. We can anticipate a very emotional response from the American public. Even better than when Mr. Edison showed films of the Spanish war. We may also send copies to other sympathetic countries. But I am most anxious that all Americans see what has happened and just what we are fighting against and fighting for.”

Roosevelt smiled thinly. “Bully!”

M
OLLY AWOKE SLOWLY
from 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.”