1901

11

C APTAIN ROBLEY EVANS, Fighting Bob to his peers and the press, paced the deck of the battleship Alabama and peered into the mist. He had a feeling of utter impotence. The Alabama was one of the finest and newest American warships afloat; yet with the distant sounds of ships’ guns echoing about, she was forced to crawl at less than one-third her rated speed of sixteen knots. He wondered if she was moving at all. It was maddening.

The powerful Alabama was designated BB-8, or the eighth modern battleship in an expanding American navy. It displaced more than twelve thousand tons, was more than 370 feet in length, and had a crew of just under seven hundred. The only newer American battleship was the Wisconsin, BB-9, currently cruising the West Coast.

“Anything, Mr. Lansing?”

“No, sir. The lookouts think they can see the sky, so the mist may be breaking up, but until then we are well and truly blind.”

Evans breathed deeply of the warm, moist air. What on earth had caused a mist at this time and place? It only showed how little control man has over the planet. According to the navigator’s best estimate, made less than an hour ago when they could see, the Alabama should have been about five miles off Saint Augustine, the ancient city on the east coast of Florida.

Evans dared not speed up lest they blunder into something that might prove fatal or run aground. Evans and the crew of the Alabama knew full well that the United States was at war with Germany. Less than two weeks ago, they had been in port in Rio de Janeiro when the word was cabled throughout the world. In immediate contact with the American embassy, they’d been told to wait in Brazilian waters until they were either asked to leave by the Brazilians or given further orders.

A few days later, orders had arrived directing the ship to depart Brazil and steam directly to the naval station at Guantanamo Bay on the eastern tip of Cuba. There they hoped they would be further enlightened. They had steamed carefully and prepared for war by painting the ship gray, discarding unneeded wooden furniture, and practicing their gunnery, which had proven to be a major problem for the navy.

With gun ranges and ship speeds increasing, it was damnably hard to hit anything at all. Worse, the Alabama ’s secondary batteries, set as they were in the hull of the ship, could easily be rendered useless in a heavy sea, as the waves would crash right over them. There had to be a better way, Evans had thought. That was why he had experimented with the new Royal Navy way of aiming and firing that was being developed by their brilliant young innovator Percy Scott. So far, Evans had been impressed with the results.

Scott’s technique was called “continuous aim” and required a telescopic sight for each gun, an elevating wheel to raise the gun so that the target did not become lost in the pitch and roll of the seas, and practice, practice, practice. The result was that a gunner did not have to find his target each time the guns fired; thus the rate of fire as well as the accuracy were increased. Evans had recalled the humiliating misses at Santiago where hundreds of shells splashed all over the ocean but rarely near the Spanish ships. The newspapers had crowed over the terrible shooting by the Spanish but had apparently not noted the almost equally bad American gunnery.

The Alabama had made Guantanamo without incident. What had been a bright and gleaming example of American naval pride in Rio had been transformed into a dark and lethal weapon, at least as lethal as Evans could possibly make it. He knew that only a handful of his crew had ever seen battle, and that had been in the one-sided victories against the totally overmatched Spaniards. How would they react? All the drilling and practice in the world could not compensate for the real thing. For all intents and purposes, his ship was a virgin.

There were other problems as well. The numbers of men in the navy’s officer corps had not kept pace with the ongoing expansion. The Alabama, like virtually every other ship, was short more than 20 percent of its allotted complement of officers. This resulted in junior officers having serious responsibilities. Evans did not relish the thought of going to war without a full complement of officers or enlisted men.

But Evans had the experience his ship did not. An 1863 graduate of Annapolis, he had been wounded late in the Civil War, at Fort Fisher. His previous commands included the armored cruiser New York and the battleships Indiana and Iowa. TheIowa was his during the battle of Santiago. Had the Spanish war lasted longer, there was talk of giving him a cruiser squadron to send against the mainland of Spain. The Alabama was not supposed to have been his, but the sudden illness of Captain Brownson had given him an unexpected opportunity for independent command, and he had relished it.

A powerfully built man, Evans was clean shaven in a time of beards and bushy mustaches, and he parted his thinning brown hair directly down the middle. With his strong demeanor and colorful vocabulary, he could intimidate as well as charm. He liked everything about his navy except his small marine contingent. He considered them useless mouths on his ship and quietly urged that the Marine Corps be abolished. In his midforties, he was considered a man with a future.

At Guantanamo they had received a coded message directing theAlabama to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. So totally unexpected was this order that Evans had it decoded several times before accepting it as true. Canadian waters? He had hoped someone knew just what the hell they were up to.

He hadn’t planned to be anywhere near Saint Augustine, but one of his crewmen had been badly hurt in a gun-loading accident and needed help that was well beyond the scope of his medical officers. Besides, Evans had rationalized, it would be a grand opportunity to pick up some additional supplies and the latest news of the war. Perhaps someone would cancel the puzzling orders to make for Canada.

And now they heard the sound of guns. His crew had been bending and peering over their weapons for what seemed an eternity while lookouts tried to make visual sense of what they were hearing.

“Mr. Lansing, anything?”

Heavy guns could only mean the presence of the Germans. Yet in what strength? Was the Alabama being led to a slaughter? Running away was anathema to Evans, but so was running aground. Thus they prudently kept their speed agonizingly slow.

“Captain, the lookouts say they can now see the horizon.”

Evans smiled thinly. “Well, that confirms we are still on this earth!”

There were a few forced chuckles. The captain had made a joke. When Capt. Robley Dunglison Evans made a joke, regardless of the circumstances, you laughed. The lookouts in their cramped platforms above had the best view. There was a school of thought that held that the captain belonged up there as well, but Evans disagreed. Although the view might be somewhat better, the command apparatus was here, on the navigating bridge, twenty feet below, where half a dozen officers and men were jammed into the little lookout post.

Ship-to-ship communication was either by semaphore or Morse flashes, or even the new wireless, but messages were sent throughout the ship by different means. First, there were speaking tubes, which became useless when several people tried to speak at the same time, or when it was windy and the air distorted the sound. Second, there were the recently installed electric telephones, but their signals were weak, scratchy, and often overwhelmed by the sound of the guns. That is, when they worked at all. That left the tried and true means of sending messengers or shouting out commands and hoping they were heard. A wise captain used all means and hoped the men understood exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

“Sir, the lookouts can make out two, no, make that three ships off our starboard side. They, damnit, they are firing into the town!”

Evans pondered. “Are we making much smoke?” Like all major warships, theAlabama burned coal, and the finger of black smoke usually pointed skyward, giving away her presence long before she could actually be seen.

“No, sir. Very little.” The mist was also doing them a favor by keeping the smoke down on the ship and not letting it rise to the sky.

“And what do the lookouts make them out to be?”

“They say cruisers. One heavy and two smaller and all in line, Captain.”

“Very well. Maintain speed and steer in the direction of the enemy ships. Let the lookouts guide us. I mean to run down that line.”

Evans stood tensely by his chair and drummed his hand on the armrest. Three cruisers. The Alabama had a primary battery of four 13-inch guns in two turrets of two guns each, one forward and one aft. There was a secondary battery of fourteen 6-inch guns in single mounts, with seven on each side of the ship. From what he recalled reading of German cruisers, no one of them could be a match for the Alabama. But three of them? The challenge was exciting. If fate smiled, he could wipe out an entire German squadron.

He straightened up. By God, the mist was clearing! He could see the dim shapes of the enemy. “What range?”

“Four thousand yards and closing. Sir, they are coming toward us at very slow speed. They may even have stopped. The heavy cruiser is closest.”

Stopped? Not damn likely, thought Evans, but without anyone to prevent them from shelling the town, they were likely moving as slowly as he and enjoying their day’s work. “Fire when ready, Gridley. I want the big guns on the heavy. Divide the secondary on the other two.”

Lansing smiled. The Gridley comment was an old joke. Within seconds, the ship shook as the forward twin thirteens belched fire at the lead German cruiser, with the smaller 6-inch guns quickly joining in the chorus, blinding them all with the lingering smoke.

The smoke cleared quickly and Evans could see that the lead cruiser was obscured by splashes. Misses, he cursed. “Goddamnit! What the hell’s wrong with our gunners?”

Lansing looked up from his speaking tube. “Lookouts report no hits, sir.”

Evans cursed again in frustration. Surely all the practice had not been wasted. Or were they firing short in fear of hitting the town behind? He pounded his chair with his fist. Probably the gunners were just nervous. Let them work it out. The big guns fired again, silencing him, and the bridge was again blanketed by the stinking smoke cloud. He gave orders to turn the ship so that the rear turret could also be brought to bear, even though that meant widening the distance slightly. It made no sense to have half of his biggest guns unavailable.

“Hit!”

Evans strained to see. Yes, smoke was pouring from the front superstructure that housed the lead enemy cruiser’s bridge. He chilled, thinking of the bloody carnage that smoke hid. The bridge was where his German counterpart held sway. Only now there was a good chance the German had been blown to bits. Evans didn’t even hear the rear turret fire.

“Hit!”

Again Evans pounded the chair with his fist, this time with relief and satisfaction. One of the lead German’s two funnels had collapsed, and smoke was pouring from her innards, including clouds of white that indicated her boilers had been penetrated. She was now immobile. A cruiser’s armor could not stop a 13-inch shell weighing eleven hundred pounds and traveling at more than two thousand feet per second. Cruisers were meant to fight other cruisers, not battleships.

“Sir, lookouts identify her as the German cruiser Freya. She has two 8.2-inch guns and a half dozen 6-inchers. Sir, she also has torpedoes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lansing. Let the lookouts watch for torpedo wakes.” Evans watched spellbound as his ship passed down the line of three Germans. Their return fire had been slow, very slow indeed. He suspected that virtually all the lookouts had been watching the shore bombardment and not looking to their rear. The smaller German guns were, so far, firing wildly. He tried, but failed, to feel some sympathy for them, tried to visualize their reactions as they saw theAlabama emerging from the mist at such close range and with so little time to react.

The Alabama ’s guns hammered away with a life of their own. He could not help an involuntary cry as the forward single-gun turret of theFreya lifted into the air and fell into the ocean with a mighty splash. The sound and feel of the explosion washed over them seconds later. TheFreya was doomed, seeming to shudder as the life was pounded out of her. Fires raged everywhere. She was no longer returning fire. “Secondary batteries on the heavy. Shift the big guns to the little ships.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Who are they, Mr. Lansing? We should know their names before we sink them.”

Lansing smiled. “They appear to be the Gefion and another like her. I don’t know how many in that particular class. The Gefion has ten 4.1-inchers and torpedoes.”

Evans nodded. The lookouts were again instructed to let him know if one of the infernal torpedoes was launched at his ship. The Gefion and her companion each had triple stacks and each was flying apart under the bombardment. Pieces of metal flew skyward along with what were, sometimes very obviously, bodies. The last ship, still unnamed, suddenly lifted out of the water and disintegrated as her magazine exploded. Two down.

“Torpedo in the water!”

Evans rushed to the port side of the circular bridge and stared at the blue-green water, straining to see the lethal tracks.

“Captain,” yelled Lansing, “lookouts say the torpedo will miss. It may have been thrown off the German ship by an internal explosion and not actually launched.” Evans nodded to mask his relief and turned back to the one-sided battle.

The second ship, theGefion, seemed to disappear in a cloud of water and spray as the guns of the Alabama bracketed her. She was given a momentary respite as the Alabama, having run the Germans’ futile gauntlet, turned about. This simply gave the fresh and frustrated gunners on the starboard batteries an opportunity to practice their hard-earned skills in what was now a slaughter, not a battle. In moments, this phase too was over as the last German ship began to settle in the water, blazing from stem to stern. Evans called a cease-fire as he saw lifeboats being lowered and frantic German sailors jumping into the sea. He gave orders for their own boats to be lowered and the survivors rounded up.

“I do not,” he added sternly, “want hundreds of goddamn Germans on my ship. Bring only the swimmers and the seriously injured aboard. Gather the lifeboats and direct them to the shore.” When an officer started to say something, he waved down the protest. “We will send our own marines ashore to see that the fools aren’t lynched, although,” he grumbled, “that might not be a bad idea for some of their senior officers. At least it will give the marines something to do for their pay. Now, what about our own damage? Any?”

“Captain, we were hit at least three times, no major damage. However, we do have at least four dead and seven wounded.”

Evans nodded and tried to keep the astonishment from showing. In the intensity of the battle, he hadn’t been aware they’d been touched.

In the lookout’s position high above the Alabama, Ens. Terry Schuyler searched his memories. Nothing in his twenty-three years of life had prepared him for the shattering, thundering drama and violence he’d just witnessed from the best seat on the ship. His lookout position was even with the tops of the twin funnels, and, unlike other days when the smoke had blown on him and obscured his view, his vision had been marvelously clear. He’d seen the guns fire and watched the shells hit. How many had died? How many were wounded? His own ship had been relatively unscathed, but what about the Germans? His books told him the Freya had a complement of more than 450, and the Gefion, if that’s what she was, and her twin had crews of more than 300. That totaled about 1,100 men! The presence of the lifeboats meant there were survivors, perhaps many, but he knew there were equally as many dead. The Alabama ’s own lifeboats had been lowered and were approaching as close as possible to the stricken cruisers without endangering themselves from the fires and the still-exploding ammunition.

There was a shuddering, crying sound as the Gefion capsized, her broad hull grotesquely in view, and then began to slip beneath the surface.

“Kinda looks like a fat-ass whore I usta fuck in Hong Kong, if you ask me, sir.”

Ensign Schuyler thought about chastising Seaman First Class Winslow but decided against it. Winslow, toothless and wiry, was one of his companions in what would have been called the crow’s nest in sailing ships, and he had been in the navy for the greater portion of his fifty-odd years. Schuyler did not think Winslow was chastiseable. Winslow had been up for discipline before the captain’s mast, or stick, as it was known in the ranks. Sailor’s slang amused him; during idle times, he had been trying to develop a glossary of terms.

Schuyler’s hands started to shake in delayed reaction, and he wondered if he would be able to speak coherently. The silence of this moment was as deafening as the roar of battle when the 13-inchers went off below him. He knew he didn’t belong in command of this post, at least not yet, and the unexpected responsibility had been awesome. He prayed he had made no mistakes. At least not serious ones.

Winslow grinned toothlessly. “Goddamn, sir, weren’t that a helluva show? Quite a way to earn me twenty-four dollars a month, now ain’t it?”

Terry sagged to a sitting position. No one was interested anymore in ship identities or speed or torpedoes. He was dirty and exhausted and there were a lot of other places he’d rather be now, like home. “Yeah, Seaman Winslow, one helluva show. One helluva show.”

“Tell me, General Mahan, how does one make hamburger?”

Patrick considered both the question and the source. “Well, General Funston, I suppose one would need meat.”

Funston chuckled, rolled over onto his side, and laid his field glasses on the ground. The men were well hidden from prying eyes by fresh-cut shrubs. Major General Frederick Funston was a self-made soldier in an American military where you were usually doomed if you were not a West Pointer. He had earlier risen to the rank of brigadier general through skill, tenacity, and a great deal of merit. He had been promoted to his new rank of major general at the same time Patrick had become a brigadier general. A short man, Funston was less than five and a half feet tall. He was in his midforties and had red hair that was starting to gray at the edges. He was bowlegged and pugnacious. As a youthful dropout from the University of Kansas, he’d decided to fight with the Cubans for their independence and joined the American army when war finally came. His abilities brought him notice and rank, and finally he became colonel under Arthur MacArthur in the Philippines.

Frederick Funston, with his slightly silly-sounding name, had the reputation of a street fighter, and now he was in command of a newly formed division.

“Meat?” he snickered. “What kind of meat, Patrick?”

Shit, thought Patrick, why are we playing word games with Germans coming down the pike? “Raw meat, Fred. Dead, raw meat. And don’t you need a meat grinder?” The two men had met a couple of days before, renewed an earlier brief acquaintence, and taken a quick liking to each other. As Roosevelt ’s observer, Patrick had been invited by Funston to watch the ambush of a German column. As Funston had explained, it was time to strike back.

Funston slapped him on the shoulder. “And how do you feed that raw meat into a meat grinder, smart-ass?”

Despite his tenseness, Patrick had to laugh. “With your hands?” He began to think he’d rather face the Germans than Frederick Funston’s foolish questions.

“You’re hopeless, Patrick. No, you feed it in one piece at a time.” He picked up his binoculars and held them to his eyes. “Now watch,” he said, all jocularity suddenly gone.

Funston and Patrick were in a woodland that covered several dozen acres. It fronted on an open meadow that ended in another wooded area. A wagon road ran down the center and straight toward them.

About in the middle, a small group of armed men, soldiers in civilian clothes, sat huddled about a fire, cooking a meal. They were the bait for the trap Funston was about to spring.

Patrick and Funston, along with Funston’s soldiers, were west of the Housatonic River near the small village of New Canaan. They were about twenty miles east of the site of the unlamented Blaney’s defeat. Prudently, the Americans had earlier withdrawn their forces farther east, almost to the Housatonic, which formed a natural north-south boundary running from Long Island Sound toward Massachusetts.

Funston dropped his voice to a whisper. “What a wonderful place for a picnic. You like picnics, Patrick?”

Patrick’s mind went quickly to the afternoon with Trina, and how surprised he was that he missed her. “Yes,” he said and tried not to think of her kiss and the brief but shockingly erotic feel of her body against his. “But aren’t they being foolish out there?”

“Maybe. Look!” There was motion in the trees, a sparkle of sunlight off something shiny. Funston snickered. “Like clockwork. Every three days, rain or shine, they march down this road and then march back again, a show of force trying to scare us. Goddamn, are they punctual. Germans probably screw their women to a metronome!”

Patrick thought it very likely and said so, even though he was more fascinated by the approach of the German column as it moved toward him from the enemy’s lines in the west. It was like watching a snake slither toward you, evil and ominous yet utterly fascinating. He felt like shouting a warning to the men now casually eating but held it back.

A small group of horsemen emerged from the trees and Patrick gasped. Uhlans! To the casual eye they looked ridiculous with their nine-foot lances and square-blocked helmets, but they were the elite of the German cavalry. And now a troop of them was moving slowly into view.

There was a shout from the campfire as the horsemen were spotted. Men started to run the other way, toward Patrick. A couple of them leveled their rifles and fired. A horse shrieked in sudden pain, which seemed to galvanize the Uhlans. More German horsemen appeared, Patrick guessed fifty altogether, and fanned out on either side of the road. They started forward at a brisk trot and quickly increased the pace to a pounding gallop that ate the ground and closed the distance.

The men on foot, the bait the Germans were swallowing, ran in apparent panic, any thoughts of cohesiveness seemingly replaced by the primal fear of being impaled on one of those fearful lances being lowered in their direction.

Patrick watched in fascination as they ran toward him and his sheltering shrubs. Would they make it to safety, or had they cut it too close? Then, to Patrick’s horror, one man fell and couldn’t get up right away. Perhaps he’d had the wind knocked out of him. As the others made the safety of the trees and the rest of the trapping force by about fifty yards, a Uhlan caught the straggler and ran his lance into the man’s back with the bloody point sticking out of his chest. The man shrieked as, for a moment, he was propelled along the ground by the horse and spear, his arms and legs whirling like the limbs of a deranged marionette. Then he was lifted off the ground and shaken loose from the lance like a leaf by the grim-faced German rider.

From alongside Funston and Patrick, more than a hundred hidden rifles opened fire at once from close range, sending horses and men into jumbled piles. Funston surged to his feet. “Hit the horses! Hit the horses. They can’t ride without the goddamn horses!”

The firing continued, men working the bolts of their rifles as quickly as possible. Dozens of horses and men lay on the ground. Some tried to rise but were quickly dropped by the withering fire. The remaining Uhlans scampered for the other side of the meadow and the protection of the infantry that was coming into view.

Funston was exultant. “I said one piece of meat gets fed into the grinder at a time, didn’t I?” Patrick nodded, his eyes glued to the field. “Well, that was the first piece. Now watch.”

German infantry emerged from the other side of the field in open skirmish formation. They were followed by several more companies in assault formations that were more dense. They moved with a precision that showed discipline and confidence. Their bayoneted rifles were at the ready, and their helmet points bobbed almost in cadence as they walked. Patrick quickly estimated their numbers at a nearly full battalion.

Funston snickered. “Good. Now they’ve stuck their heads in it.”

At six hundred yards, the Americans opened fire and started dropping Germans. Those who were not hit simply continued on. They must have felt they could overwhelm the hundred or so men shooting at them.

At four hundred yards, the American machine gunners opened up from their hiding places, along with two more companies of infantry. Now the American front was a U, with the open end covering the head of the German column. The volume of fire was deadly and the Germans paused, dropping to their knees to fire back at their dug-in and largely hidden tormentors. The Americans could see the Germans starting to bring up their own machine guns.

“Enough,” Funston snapped to Patrick and crawled away from the front line. Patrick followed in undignified haste behind him while bullets whipped and whistled through the branches and whacked off the trees. “Let’s get back to the horses,” said Funston. “I’ve got the rest of this fight to direct.”

The horses were in a clearing only a few hundred yards away. The two men covered the distance quickly, all the while being passed by hundreds of well-armed Americans heading for the battle. Funston’s plan, as outlined earlier in the day to Patrick, was simple. The German force numbered about two thousand men. To combat it, Funston had gathered half his entire division, almost eight thousand. These were now enveloping the head of the column and concentrating fire on the left flank. Recently purchased pom-poms and French 75mm cannon added to the din as they fired from positions where targets had already been registered.

“Like I said, Patrick, the Krauts are so totally and marvelously predictable. Same number of men, same route, but today, a different result.”

A messenger ran up to them, breathless and flushed. “Sir, Colonel Martin requests permission to take the road behind them and cut off their retreat.”

Funston threw his hat on the ground. “No, goddamnit! Tell Colonel Martin to keep his troops off that road and pay attention to the plan.”

He picked up his hat and dusted it off. “Goddamn Martin’s too reckless. I don’t want them cut off. If that happens they’ll dig in and send out for reinforcements, which will come long before we can root them out. If we leave an escape route open, they’ll take it and we can maul them all the way back, or at least as far as we want. Jesus, we don’t want them to brag about a ‘heroic rescue.’ I want them to retreat with their tails between their legs and have to tell the All-goddamn-Highest kaiser how they got their asses whipped.” He paused and grinned. “You think that’s plain enough, Patrick?”

“Wonderfully eloquent, Fred.”

They waited out the remainder of the afternoon while the outnumbered and outgunned Germans fought on tenaciously and with iron discipline, inflicting surprisingly severe casualties on the advancing Americans until they finally decided to fall back. Subject to continuous harassment and driven by the nightmare fear of being surrounded, the Germans soon quickened the pace of their retreat. Very soon, units lost their cohesion and thus their strength. Individual soldiers lost their nerve and started to run. This was infectious. Despite protestations from mounted officers, who made wonderfully easy targets for riflemen, the retreat quickly became a rout, with men flowing down the road to the safety of the German lines. First, equipment was abandoned, then the wounded; then the German soldiers started looking for a way of surrendering to end the torment.

Funston called off the chase in the late afternoon. A German relief force had been sighted and was finally coming. It would soon meet the remnants of the retreating column head-on in what Funston hoped would be demoralizing confusion.

As a degree of quiet and normality returned, Funston and Patrick walked their horses down the road, which was littered with packs, rifles, canteens, helmets, and other items. The farther from the field of initial contact, the fewer were the dead. By this time, the wounded prisoners had been gathered and were being taken to field hospitals to be treated. Other prisoners had been marched away.

Patrick and Funston halted their horses. “Well, General Funston, are you satisfied?” Patrick asked.

Funston removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. “By and large, yes,” he said softly. The sight of the battlefield had a sobering effect. “I wanted to bloody their nose, and I did. I also wanted my men to get a cheap victory to show that the Germans aren’t gods, and I did that too. But,” he said, pausing thoughtfully, “you saw how well the Germans fought and how disciplined they were, and look at how many casualties they caused us, even though they were outnumbered and outgunned. We had four times as many men and even greater advantages in artillery and machine guns, and they still hurt us. Had we outnumbered them by only two to one, the results might have been different. If the numbers were even and their commander was not so blazingly stupid, they would have beaten us. No, Patrick, victory or not, what this also proves is how much more we have to learn.”

Funston turned his horse back to the American lines. “I just hope we get the opportunity to do that learning.”

Holstein entered Bulow’s office unannounced and sat down before the astonished man could react. “The kaiser did not wish me at his most recent conference?”

Bulow gulped. What was it about the man that was so damned intimidating? “I did not know you were not invited.” The evasion came easily. “I thought your absence was for other reasons. You have not always graced us with your presence in the past, you know.”

Holstein accepted the mild rebuke. “The kaiser cannot be happy. The foreign press is making a huge fuss over two defeats on the same day. I notice our tame newspapers are referring to the incidents as only skirmishes and the type of thing that is bound to happen. Is that what the kaiser also feels?”

Bulow leaned back in his leather chair. “Had either commanding officer-Captain Westfall of the second cruiser squadron or Major General Kirstein of the army-survived their unpleasant days, they would have been court-martialed and shot. The kaiser, to put it mildly, was outraged. The two gentlemen are more than fortunate that they had the good luck to be killed. Other senior officers involved in the debacles are, of course, disgraced.”

Holstein grunted and shifted his weight to ease the pressure on his girth. “And I understand these catastrophes have caused changes in our strategies.”

“Yes. Even though you were not there, I see no reason you should not know.” Holstein would find out anyway, Bulow thought. “We will be sending a third corps of regulars to the United States along with a fourth corps of activated reserves. A fifth and six corps of reserves will be activated and prepared for shipment to America if the circumstances warrant. The kaiser feels, and I agree, that the Americans’ little victory in Connecticut will embolden them to take further aggressive actions. We must be prepared for whatever they try to do to expel us. When they fail, as they must, then the kaiser is confident they will be willing to negotiate terms. He feels it is possible that the little defeat will ultimately work to our advantage.”

“And the navy?”

Bulow could not stifle a smile. It wasn’t often that the overbearing Tirpitz was knocked down a peg. “Our North Atlantic Fleet has been ordered to effect a concentration in force and cease sending squadrons out to bombard and aggravate the Americans.”

“Ah.”

“Further, the Asiatic squadron at Tsingtao will be directed to leave China and join the North Atlantic Fleet in order to make good the loss of the three cruisers. This is to be a highly guarded secret.”

For once Holstein was surprised. “But that abandons the Pacific to the Americans.”

“Von Holstein, the kaiser was shocked beyond words by the loss of those cruisers, and von Schlieffen is absolutely beside himself at the possibility of our army being cut off by the Americans. He is confident that our army can overwhelm the Americans, but first it has to get over there to America, and then it has to be supplied. Our navy is larger than the Americans’, but not as overwhelmingly so as our army. The American navy is not to be taken lightly, and I’m afraid that is what we did. We may have to face the unpleasant fact that the American navy is, ship for ship, at least our equal, perhaps our superior. The kaiser feels, and I concur, that we cannot afford to have isolated portions of the fleet overwhelmed and defeated. The kaiser is also personally embarrassed by the fact that the first shots ever fired by any German warship against a modern power resulted in such a crushing defeat. It is hardly the stuff of Nelsonian legends! He thinks his Uncle Edward is laughing at him, and he may well be.

“As to the Pacific, the kaiser feels there is nothing there that we couldn’t take back later after the war, should we have to. What else is there in the Pacific but the squalid mainland port of Tsingtao and part of the Samoan Islands? Von Tirpitz begged for a couple of old gunboats to be retained at Tsingtao to protect our interests and our tiny garrison from a hundred million or so Chinese who have no reason to love us, and that boon was granted. For the sake of our garrison, I hope the Chinamen never figure out how weak we are. At best we could only hope for a hasty evacuation. At worst, a massacre.”

Holstein thanked Bulow for his assistance and departed deep in thought. No German warships in the Pacific? He knew that the Americans had long since left to concentrate in the Atlantic, but now the Pacific was totally deserted by the navies of both combatants, and it was truly pacific. How interesting. How very, very interesting.

Theodore Roosevelt greeted the press in the bright sun on the lawn of the White House. There were about fifty reporters, pencils and notepads in hand, accompanied by a number of photographers. There was a movie camera as well, grinding away while Roosevelt shamelessly beamed into it. He was bubbling and ebullient. Beyond him were Secretary of State Hay, Secretary of the Navy Long, and War Secretary Root.

“Gentlemen, I am delighted to be here and to be able to answer your questions. But first, some news. I have promoted Captain Evans to the rank of rear admiral. Major General Funston, having recently been given his new rank, will have to wait a little while for further advancement. In the meantime, he has my undying gratitude.” This brought a few chuckles from the assembled reporters.

Roosevelt continued. “We have waited a long time, more than a month, for even the barest inkling of good news. Now, like the day that our country won twin victories at Vicksburg and Gettysburg, we have two bright and shining accomplishments to set against a long period of failure.”

Hay winced inwardly. It was absurd to compare these little incidents with the end of the epic siege of Vicksburg and the culmination of the titanic battle at Gettysburg, both on July 3, 1863. These most recent battles were piddling in comparison. Hay had been with Lincoln when he received the news of those victories, and Vicksburg and Gettysburg meant the end of the war, rather than a new beginning.

Roosevelt put his hands behind his back and thrust out his chest. “Gentlemen, any questions?”

“Sir, can you give us any information regarding the numbers involved?”

“Approximately eleven hundred German seamen were either killed or captured. Many of the captured were also wounded. Our casualties were only a couple of handfuls. Two or three dead-I’m frankly not certain-and a half dozen wounded. There was no significant damage to the ship herself. The casualties appeared to have been struck down by flying objects while they were out on the deck performing their duties.”

Roosevelt knew it would do no good to lie to the press about the naval fight. It had taken place in plain view of people on the shore, and the ships’ size, speed, armor, armament, and complement were all published information. But the land battle had taken place well away from curious and prying eyes, and he was under no such restraints.

“Regarding General Funston’s fine effort, I can only say that the numbers of fighting men on each side were quite substantial, although they did not involve the bulk of either army. The Germans’ efforts to trivialize the incident simply will not work. As to their casualties and ours, I will only say that they lost up to a third of their force, whereas our losses were substantially less.”

But not that much less. The body counters tallied 117 dead Germans and 209 taken prisoner, about half of whom were also wounded and were unable to flee. Funston estimated that the Germans suffered another 200 wounded based on traditional proportions. Thus the Germans had sustained just over 500 casualties out of a force of approximately 2,000. Not one-third, but high enough. The American casualties had been 88 dead, 264 wounded, and 2 missing. Although low as a percent of Funston’s force, the numbers were disturbingly high when his overwhelming numerical superiority was added to the equation.

A hand was raised. “Sir, just to give a sense of proportion to the battle, would you say that more or less than ten thousand were involved?”

“More.” That drew whistles, and the scratching of pencils picked up its pace.

“Sir, what will be the impact on naval operations of the victory off Florida? Has this tilted the balance of power to us?”

“The answer to the second half of your question leads to the first. No, it has not tilted the numbers to us. They still have a larger fleet on which to draw. I expect they will replace those ships from their own coastal defense forces if they deem it necessary. Further, no capital ships of theirs were involved. Therefore, their main battle fleet is untouched, as, of course, is ours. That basic fact will influence our future actions much more than the sinking of their three cruisers.”

“Sir, I’m confused. Just what was theAlabama doing there anyhow?”

“I understand she was on an errand of mercy. It was just plain luck-good for us and bad for the Germans-that she arrived at that particular spot at that time. It was more than luck that she was commanded by Admiral Evans, who knew exactly what to do with the cards he’d been dealt.”

The reporter was insistent. “And what about on land? I hear rumors that General Funston was called on the carpet for his independent actions. His superiors said they were irresponsible and might have jeopardized the entire army.”

Roosevelt scowled at the reporter, a young man he didn’t know. Must be one of Hearst’s more vicious puppies. “Major General Funston showed a high degree of initiative and creativity in his operations. If he did not notify everyone in the government of his intentions, it was probably to keep people from blabbing.” He treated the young man to a wicked gleam. “He certainly wouldn’t want to read about them in your paper before he put them into effect, now would he?”

Another reporter rescued the young man. “Can you estimate or forecast how this will affect future operations?”

“Ah, I might speculate.” Roosevelt turned to the movie camera and gave it his best presidential smile with all teeth gleaming. God, these things fascinate me, he thought. “First, we beat the hitherto invincible German at his own game. He thought himself the master of land warfare and now he has to rethink that opinion. The German army is considered the best in the world. To see it, or even only a portion of it, sent running by a bunch of freedom-loving farmers and mechanics who vote for their leaders rather than submitting to inherited tyrants must have distressed them greatly.”

“Sir, did you say the Germans ran?”

Roosevelt paused for effect. Let the question sink in. “They ran.”

Pencils worked furiously and he continued. “And a number of them surrendered; they were not captured. It would appear that the rank and file’s enthusiasm for the American campaign might not be as great as the All Highest kaiser imagines.” He laughed and raised a hand to the sky. “I’ve also been informed that some of our German prisoners have requested to stay in the United States. They have no wish to be exchanged and returned to the kaiser’s tender care. We will honor all genuine requests for asylum.”

“And what about the future, sir? When will our main army move against theirs?”

Roosevelt mused. This was difficult. Congress had been pestering him for the same information. Yes, we could beat the Germans under the right circumstances, and, yes, the rearming of the military was proceeding even faster than he could have imagined. But was the army ready to expel the Germans through force of arms? Miles said yes. Congress and business leaders said it must be done and soon, before the economy suffered even further and perhaps collapsed. Thus, with extreme reluctance and misgivings, Roosevelt had given in and, even as he spoke to the press in the July sunshine, Gen. Nelson Miles was speeding north to take direct command. His orders were to initiate battle as soon as possible and drive the Germans away.

But that could not be his answer. He had to dissemble. “All in good time, all in good time. We are continuing to build our strength while we are whittling at the Germans’. I know some of you are afraid we might be afflicted with what President Lincoln referred to as the ‘slows’ in describing General McClellan, but do not worry. We will strike. Our commanding general is no McClellan and is not possessed by the slows.”

But will the attack succeed? He was worried as he waved an end to the meeting with the press. These gentlemen stood and applauded and he and his cabinet ministers walked among them and shook hands, giving away nothing of what they knew. Oh, God, he thought, let them not fail. I cannot bear the thought of defeat. Miles must win.