“Patrick, lad, I hope you aren’t too fond of these troops, because your talents are required elsewhere. Washington, to be precise. Your president calls you for more help, anticipating what the nasty shithead Germans might do.”
“And what about my little army?” The whiskey was starting to warm him. With Wheeler here, he frankly felt better, further assured that people elsewhere were aware of what was going on.
“I’m going to take it from you and make it part of my division. I’ve got one division. Funston and Pershing have been promoted to major generals and will each get a division. Baldy Smith will command the entire corps.”
A good choice, thought Patrick. Major General William Smith, forever known as Baldy, had served under Grant in the Civil War and with Wheeler in Cuba. It was an interesting reunion of two old protagonists. But the appointment raised a question.
“Not Miles?” Patrick asked.
Wheeler poured each a generous refill, looked at the glasses, and added some more. “Nah. Our beloved commanding general will remain in Washington for the time being, overseeing the entire operation in his own unique and lovable manner.”
“How soon do they want me in Washington?”
“Leave in the morning. Show me around this evening and introduce me to your key people. Later we can have dinner and see if there’s any more of this liquor around. It ain’t bourbon, but it’ll do.” It was Scotch and quite expensive. “By the way, you got anyone on your staff who speaks German?”
Patrick grinned sheepishly and confessed he didn’t. It was an embarrassing oversight, but one that Patrick thought was immediately correctable. There was an Ohio regiment nearby with a number of German-speaking men in it. There had to be one who would qualify. Wheeler agreed. “And get yourself a German-speaking aide as well. Hell, you’re a general,” he laughed, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. “You might as well start acting like one.”
Later that night, Brig. Gen. Patrick Mahan looked up from where he was seated and stared at the hulking young man standing nervously at attention before him. The note handed him earlier had said the man’s name was Heinz Schmidt. He was from Ohio and had been recommended for duty as Patrick’s aide. With only a few hours before he left for Washington, there wasn’t much time to be choosy.
“You are literate in German?” The question seemed superfluous, given the man’s name and recommendation, but he asked it anyhow.
“Sir, it was my first language. My parents are both from Cologne, ‘Köln’ to them. I was born here but all I heard for my first six years was German. I didn’t learn English until I went to school. Then my parents insisted I keep my German skills as I grew up. It was a fortunate decision. I have found myself in the position of helping new immigrants get settled, and that is very satisfying.”
The general nodded. “And what were you doing before this war?”
“Going to college, sir, at the University of Cincinnati. I wish to be a lawyer.”
The general grinned. “I took you to be smarter than that.”
Heinz responded with a small smile of his own. The general was younger than he thought and seemed to be fairly well educated himself. Not a lard-ass like so many of the senior officers in the militia. “Sir, despite what Shakespeare said about killing all the lawyers, a quote that is usually taken entirely out of context, there may be room for a few. Frankly, sir, I’ve seen too many of my relatives bilked of their money and property because they didn’t understand American laws. I am confident I will be useful there.”
“After the war, that is.”
“Yes, sir, after the war. I am committed for the duration.”
The strapping youth did not look much like a lawyer. Or a clerk. With his brawn he could easily be mistaken for a laborer or a farmworker. Yet he seemed intelligent enough. “All right, you’re hired as my aide. I’m giving you an immediate rank of second lieutenant. I wasn’t going to do that, but my good friend General Wheeler reminded me that generals do not have privates as aides.”
Heinz was stunned and could only stammer his thanks. An officer? Perhaps this assignment wouldn’t be as bad as he had feared. Now he felt embarrassed that he had complained to the colonel, his uncle, about leaving a fighting unit to become a glorified clerk. A lieutenant, hot damn!
CHAPTER EIGHT
IAN GORDON LOOKED about the well-furnished room for the tenth time to make sure everything was in place and, once again, found it all satisfactory. The farm had been rented more than a year before by his predecessor through an American intermediary. It was used by the British embassy for meetings where discretion, if not outright secrecy, was essential. It was a small, non-working farm about five miles south of Washington, in Virginia, consisting of a good-sized and comfortable house, a barn, and a stable. There was also a driveway about a hundred yards long leading from the road to the house; thus the armed guards he’d posted would be easily able to see and identify anyone attempting to enter by that very obvious route. Other guards were stationed to prevent more clandestine intruders.
Gordon sat in an overstuffed chair and thought about the last time he had used this safe house. It had nothing to do with the needs of the empire, but with his own biological needs and those of the young wife of an older mining baron from Colorado. He could not help but smile as he recalled her naked body and the way the flames from the fireplace created erotic shadows across her abdomen. If only he could recall her name. Ah, well, he was certain she had one. It was the only time he’d used the farm for such a tryst, although it had hardly been the first for others, and he’d had to put a halt to it. Too much traffic would attract attention from the nosy locals.
Ian’s assistant, Charles Bollinger, a slight and bookish young man who looked like a law clerk, entered the room. “I believe our guests are arriving.”
Ian looked out the window. A small carriage carrying two men was stopped where the drive intersected the road. The men were in conversation with a field hand who was actually another of Ian’s men. There were two others, armed with rifles, in the barn. He presumed they were watching the byplay.
The field hand removed his hat, a signal that everything was all right, and waved the carriage on. “Charles, I think it’s just about time for you to disappear.”
“Of course, Ian.” Charles smiled and took himself upstairs, where he could listen with the aid of a stethoscope and take notes in shorthand. An earlier attempt to use a phonograph had been a dismal failure.
The carriage pulled up in front of the house and Ian opened the door, gracefully waving his guests in. When he saw their identity, it took a great deal of willpower to maintain his composure. He had asked for representatives from State and the army. He had not expected John Hay himself and Maj. Gen. Leonard Wood.
“Mr. Secretary, General, so good of you to come.”
Hay barked a laugh. “When His Majesty’s Imperial representatives say they have something important and confidential to discuss, I consider it well worth my time. Besides, Mr. Gordon, I am very curious.”
“As am I,” added General Wood. “Your reputation is that of spymaster extraordinaire for England, and we are both very intrigued.”
Gordon rubbed his hands together. “Sirs, I am but a humble functionary, a commercial attaché, within the embassy of Great Britain.”
“Balls,” said Wood, in good humor. “If you are a commercial attaché, then I am the grand vizier of Turkey.”
They entered the living room and took seats. Gordon offered brandy, which was cheerfully accepted despite the summer heat. As he poured, he thought about the two men. Hay he knew for a skilled and admired diplomat. Leonard Wood, on the other hand, was almost an enigma. A Yale graduate, he was both a competent surgeon and a general, having risen in rank as a result of military skills acquired on the frontier. More important, he was a close friend of Teddy Roosevelt’s, and it was Wood who had nominally commanded the Rough Riders in Cuba when formal command was denied Roosevelt. Like Roosevelt, Wood was in his early forties, and he was now considered an administrator rather than a field commander. His presence was almost as interesting as John Hay’s. Ian was not displeased.
As the senior American representative, Hay spoke first. “Your message stated that you had items of import and urgency to discuss with representatives of the United States government. Since the only event of note occurring at this moment is the unfortunate war, I will assume that is why we are here.”