“Humph,” sniffed the president. “Well, then, what’s the good news from the navy, Captain Mahan?”
Alfred Thayer Mahan was a small man with a trim white beard. Basically an academic with little command experience, he seemed uncomfortable in this setting. “I can only say, sir, that events are progressing largely as we expected. Admiral Dewey continues to train the main battle fleet while Admiral Evans is working his cruisers off England and Spain. You know we have received initial reports of successes, but the impact is not yet what we wish. Admiral Remey has his smaller ships operating off our East Coast, and he has sunk some transports and taken some prizes.”
“Excellent. Anything we can use?”
Mahan demurred. “Nothing significant, I’m afraid. The really important cargoes are sent by armed convoy. The prizes we’ve taken consist mainly of foodstuffs and other basic supplies. Sometimes the ships are taken because they, not the cargoes, can be useful. To add to what General Wood has said about wireless, I should inform you that we have sets installed on many of our more important ships and are using them for ship-to-ship communications. How it will work in battle remains to be seen, but it does appear to be effective. We are also communicating with our ships from Canada by wireless.” He looked at Roosevelt. Once again the man appeared to be entranced by the development of technology. “The British have built huge antennae in both England and Canada that we are using to broadcast information to our ships. Although the ships cannot send messages to us, they can receive using their masts as antennae. In order to make certain a message is not missed, the ships have at least two sets, and they must be manned around the clock. Regarding the limitations of antennae, someone had the brilliant idea of using the balloons and airships as antennae to broadcast signals, and it appears to work.”
Roosevelt grinned, pleased. “Amazing! I had no idea anything like that was afoot.”
“Sir, the British have been trying to develop such capabilities for some time. A test was scheduled for later this year. We simply urged them to accelerate the process, and it has succeeded.”
“Excellent.”
“I should also add on behalf of Admiral Dewey that we have been sending the big guns that General Longstreet requested.”
Roosevelt turned to Longstreet. “What are you doing with them, General?”
Schofield responded for Longstreet. “Sir, a number of them have been sent to reinforce coastal defenses at key points such as Boston, Norfolk, and Charleston. No German naval attacks are anticipated, but it is certainly good for civilian morale. Others are dug in along the Housatonic defense line as an unpleasant surprise for the Germans should they come by. We solved the problem of carriages, temporarily at least, through the use of heavy wooden sledges that look like they were last considered modern during the Middle Ages and are about as mobile as a dead elephant.” A grin split Schofield’s round face. “Like my good friend General Longstreet, they are old and ugly but they work.”
Longstreet laughed at the jibe and Roosevelt watched in delight. How wonderful, he thought. Two of the keenest surviving minds from a war in which they fought against each other were now harnessed in tandem against a common enemy. Better, cooperation between the army and the navy was a reality.
As the meeting broke up, Longstreet glanced quickly at Admiral Mahan, who nodded briefly. It was enough. They both understood the necessity of not telling the president everything. His outgoing and ebullient personality sometimes led him to blurt out things that were better kept secret. That would not do, thought Longstreet; the war was difficult enough without telling everything to the president and seeing it printed the next day in the papers.
Ahead of him Longstreet saw the short, round form of General Schofield, another old warhorse recalled from retirement. After the Civil War, Schofield had served as secretary of war and then until 1895 as the army’s commanding general. He was considered to be an outstanding administrator, and Longstreet was pleased to have his support. Longstreet was also aware that, immediately after the Civil War, Schofield had been sent on a secret mission to France and the court of Napoleon III. There, he had informed the emperor in no uncertain terms that the French army in Mexico would have to leave or it would be kicked out by the Union army. Napoleon had backed down and abandoned his Mexican venture, not wanting to face Phil Sheridan and the force arrayed on the Rio Grande. Yes, Schofield’s pudgy, soft-looking facade hid a measure of steel. Longstreet decided he would be forgiving about the reference to his being ugly. Schofield would pay, of course, and a dinner at the Willard seemed an appropriate price. Who the hell said the Civil War was over? Longstreet hurried his pace to gain on Schofield.
“Count von Holstein, I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
Holstein nodded and tried to measure the man before him. Middle-aged, stocky, with dark, thinning hair, he gave off an aura of confidence and middle-class wealth.
“Herr Becker, how kind of you to come.” He gestured Becker to a chair and watched the man place himself with surprising confidence and calmness. Becker was a merchant, the type of man who would not normally meet with the aristocratic Holstein, especially not in the latter’s private office. But times were not normal, and Becker was a member of the Reichstag, an elected delegate in what was Imperial Germany’s highly tentative step toward democracy. Becker had always been a supporter of the kaiser’s policies, but he had begun to speak out against the war. More to the point, Becker was a leader who was listened to by many other moderates. It was important to Holstein that he find out more about both the man and his motives.
“May I get you anything? Tea?” asked Holstein. Becker declined and Holstein saw a line of sweat on the man’s forehead. Perhaps he was a little nervous after all.
“I’m afraid I must begin with a tired old phrase and ask if you are wondering why I invited you here today.”
Becker managed to summon a small, tight smile. “It had crossed my mind, Count.”
“You are a merchant, are you not?” It was almost a rhetorical question. Holstein was well aware that Becker was a merchant, a sausage manufacturer from a small town north of Munich, in Bavaria. “And most important, you represent your lovely home area in the Reichstag.”
“Correct, sir.”
“And as a member of the Reichstag, you have recently made comments and speeches that appeared to be critical of our kaiser and the war effort in America.”
Becker stiffened. “Critical would be far too strong a word. I have questions and, frankly, some doubts. I revere our beloved kaiser and wish only to have my doubts resolved.” He lowered his voice, as if someone else were in the room and he didn’t want them to hear the comment. “I, and members like me, am beginning to wonder if the All Highest is getting the advice and good counsel he deserves. From others besides yourself,” he hastened to add.
Holstein smiled and changed the subject. “Do you not export your sausages?”
“Some.”
“To America?”
Becker blinked and his eyes flashed anger. “If you are insinuating that I wish this war to end so I may make a greater profit, sir, you are sadly mistaken. I am a loyal and proud German. In the early days of my youth, this country of mine, of ours, did not even exist. I would die to defend Germany.” He took a deep breath, calmed. “Let me clarify something about my business, just to make certain you understand me, sir. Before the war, less than 2 percent of my income was represented by exports to America. That 2 percent has been more than made up by sales to the army. No, sir, if I wished to get greater profits and be even wealthier than I am, I would pray each night that the war might continue for a great long time!”
Holstein took the rebuke in silence. He was not used to speaking to people who were cruelly termed “commoners,” regardless of their wealth. It was also apparent that the outburst had purged Becker of any remaining traces of discomfort or apprehension. A usually predatory Holstein now saw a strong and intelligent man who could be a serious adversary. Of course, Holstein would not let him become one.
“I am glad you clarified the point, Herr Becker,” he said smoothly. “Yet it had to be mentioned. There are others, and I am not one of them, who might impute your motives to something base, like money. We—I should say those of the kaiser’s closest circle—are used to being criticized by the anarchists and Socialists or the followers of that fool Marx, but not by someone with credentials like yours. You, and those like you, are considered the bedrock of the German nation.” He forced himself to smile warmly. “Yet you speak of doubts and questions, all the while saying you would defend Germany. Is there a paradox?”