First was the unexpected presence of Doctor Palmer, the aging alcoholic who ministered to the malaria patients. He was actually present in the hospital on a Sunday morning. The good but very shaky doctor looked puzzled and disconcerted, and seemed to be worried about something behind him.
“We’re releasing you today,” he told Patrick. “You are to get packed immediately.”
Patrick was confused. Even though the doctor was nominally a colonel and he was two ranks lower at major, the directions were unusually peremptory.
Already dressed and ready for a morning walk, Patrick looked down at the smaller man. “Why the change? Don’t get me wrong; I’m more than ready to leave this charming place, but wasn’t this supposed to happen on Monday?”
Now the poor doctor looked really concerned. When he hesitated to answer, another man, this one much younger and very fit looking, entered Patrick’s room and motioned Palmer to leave. The doctor scuttled out as if relieved to be going.
“Now, just who might you be?” Mahan asked, trying to take the measure of his visitor. The man appeared to be in his late twenties and was well dressed in a conservative business suit.
“Sorry, Major. My name is Welles, and I’m with the Secret Service.” With that, he displayed his credentials. Impressed, Patrick examined them. The Secret Service was the security arm of the U.S. Treasury and was getting more and more involved in the personal safety of the president.
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.