“More than I can enumerate here, sir. Not the least of them is the question of a command structure. Who shall lead?”
Roosevelt ’s face was expressionless. “Why, a new general, of course.”
Root agreed. “And I must reiterate the need for a new structure for command. The concept of one general in charge is obsolete. We need something more like what the Germans do with their General Staff.”
Roosevelt agreed. “Yes, but in time. First we have the immediate problem of winning the war, and, gentlemen, I believe the country needs a hero to lead it. Someone of stature and credibility to coordinate, if not lead in the traditional sense, our war efforts. Yes, a hero.”
“Hero?” Hay snorted and almost dropped his cigar. “Theodore, who do you have in mind? Grant’s dead and so’s Sherman.” Long and Root glanced at each other. Hay was the only one who would presume to call the president by his first name in any but the most private of settings.
“Why, John, what about Arthur MacArthur?” chided Roosevelt. “He’s old enough and certainly vigorous, and he’ll be here from the Philippines in a few weeks.”
Root shook his head. “If we do that, who’ll command in the field? Baldy Smith is good enough for right now, but we will need better men up there. If Mac is in the field, who will coordinate? Besides, most of the country doesn’t even know who the hell he is, so he won’t qualify as your hero.”
“Yet you agree we must do something?”
There was no dissent. The newspapers and political opposition were adamant that Miles had to go and that other changes had to be made. Either the war had to be fought to its fullest or a negotiated peace had to be entered into. Since the latter would humiliate the United States and condemn her to second-class status in perpetuity, nobody in the current administration wanted any part of such a catastrophic settlement.
Hay relit his cigar. “A hero? Where the hell you gonna find one of them? They’ve been in short supply lately.”
Roosevelt smiled. “If people had listened to Winfield Scott, he’d be revered, wouldn’t he? An elder statesman whose wisdom led the country in its time of travail. I know we would prefer that our heroes be young, broad shouldered, and golden haired, but it does not always work out that way. Sometimes heroes are old and gray.”
“Damnit, Theodore, what the hell have you got in mind?”
Roosevelt smiled. “Gentlemen, I propose a man who has served his country long and well. He graduated from West Point, distinguished himself in the Mexican war as a young officer, and then achieved high rank in the War Between the States. When that tragedy was over he served his country as ambassador to Turkey -”
“No!” said Hay, rising from his chair as realization dawned. “You must be joking.”
“I assure you I am not joking.”
Hay couldn’t stifle a grin. “Good lord, I didn’t even know the man was still alive.”
While Long and Root exchanged puzzled glances, Roosevelt stood, recognizing that what he was doing was the equivalent of a political nominating speech. “Oh, he is alive. Alive and well, I assure you. Hale and hearty for a man of his years. A trifle hard of hearing, but no other problems.”
“Ancient,” Hay chortled. “The man is ancient. And he’s not hard of hearing, he’s damn near deaf.”
Roosevelt chided him fondly. “John, just because a man is old doesn’t mean he has to be one of the living dead.”
“I assume you’ve spoken to him and he’ll accept?”
“Certainly. It was a delightful conversation. And had you forgotten that he is currently serving as our commissioner of railroads?”
Long looked blank. A well-educated lawyer, he thought he knew just about everyone and certainly everything he needed to know about his beloved navy, but he had no idea who the commissioner of railroads was. Few navies, he reminded himself, traveled much by rail. “All right,” he said, laughing, “I cannot stand the suspense. Who is this knight in shining armor?”
Roosevelt stood, his arms behind his back, and his chest and jaw outthrust in the pose that was so frequently caricatured. “Gentlemen, tomorrow I will go before Congress and propose that the rank of full general, four stars, be given to James Longstreet, lieutenant general (retired) of the Confederate States of America.”
There was a moment of silence until Root broke it with a simple, “Jesus.” As usual, Hay filled the void. “Well, Theodore, you are right, he is old.”
“And vigorous, John. He did have ten children.”
“Any recently?”
Roosevelt chuckled. “None that I’m aware of, but I wouldn’t bet against it.”
Root drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I will grant you he is a hero to many, but there are those, both North and South, who hate him rather than think of him as a hero. Remember, after the war he committed the twin sins of returning to federal service and, worse, criticizing the South’s patron saint, Robert E. Lee.”
Roosevelt nodded. “As to the first part, I think that is behind us. A number of ex-Confederate officers served well in the Spanish war and others are serving now with our army in Connecticut. As to the second point, well, history has proven him right. Even Lee admitted that the defeat at Gettysburg was his own fault and not Longstreet’s. Although there may be a few diehards who feel he is not deserving, I think his name and his reputation will carry the day. Especially,” he said, smiling, “if his nomination is supported by a man of such stature as John Hay, who actually knew and worked with Abraham Lincoln.”
“You bastard.” Hay laughed. “Of course I’ll do it. If nothing else, I want to see the look on certain people’s faces. Just a quick question, Theodore, how old is he?”
Roosevelt smiled genially. “Eighty-two.”
The kaiser laughed so hard his crippled hand came out of the pocket where it had been tucked, and dangled uselessly until he retrieved it. Chancellor Bulow tried not to notice. Once again the kaiser was alternating between high good humor and flaming rage in a display of inconsistency that had von Bulow concerned.
“Longstreet? James Longstreet? How bankrupt are the Americans if they must trust their efforts to an octogenarian? Bulow, tell me, are they jesting?”
“Apparently not, sire. They made the announcement officially, and Congress is very likely to accede to the wishes of Roosevelt. They don’t have much choice.”
The kaiser cackled, causing Bulow to blink. It was so unseemly. “I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t we disinter Blücher and have the British dig up old, dead Wellington? Then we can have all three cadavers, one still breathing, in the field at the same time.”
Bulow, who had been talking with others in the government, Holstein in particular, did not see the humor. “Sire, the appointment of Longstreet, coupled with their other announcements, seems to indicate a further unwillingness to negotiate a settlement.”
The kaiser’s good humor disappeared immediately. “They’ll negotiate. They must. Their army is defeated and their navy is in hiding God knows where. They will talk because they have no other choice. As to this nonsense of an army of a million men, that is utter rot! Certainly they could put that many in the field, but they would be mowed down like wheat by a scythe. They would be a rabble in arms.”
A rabble that could learn, thought Bulow, who remembered his history and knew how the Americans seemed to be able to create armies out of whole cloth when given enough time. He was about to mention that tactfully when the kaiser stood up and went to a large globe of the world.
“I have studied, von Bulow, the history of the many empires the world has known. In the early days, there were the Assyrians, the Egyptians, and the Persians. Athens called herself an empire, but a city-state and a handful of islands do not qualify for the title. Rome was an empire. God in heaven, and what an empire! Did you know that the word ‘kaiser’ comes from the Latin Caesar? So does ‘tsar’ for my dear cousin Nicky, who seems to be so upset by my American adventure. So I am the inheritor of the Caesars of Rome.”