Hope Takes Flight Page 6

As Amos went in, he heard the secretary announcing him on the intercom: “Mr. Stuart is here, Mr. Hearst.”

  Amos entered the office of William Randolph Hearst and found the editor crouched over a large table littered with maps. Hearst, who had made journalism in America more like a bullfighting sport than anything else—shedding literary blood right and left, espousing every cause that caught his fancy, and developing yellow journalism to almost a fine art—looked up and frowned. “Come in, Amos. Look at this map.”

  Amos walked over to examine the map as Hearst began pointing out the positions of the European countries and informing Amos didactically where the battles would be fought. He had this quality, almost clairvoyant, of being able to predict when news would come, where it would come from, and who would be involved. Because of this, Hearst was always first on the scene. He and the Journal had the jump on every other paper in the country as a rule.

  “Sit down, Amos,” he said gruffly. “On second thought—” he changed his mind—“don’t sit down. You’ve got a job.”

  “Yes, sir?” Amos asked curiously.

  “Go find Teddy Roosevelt and find out what he’s got to say, although we already know.” Hearst grinned sharkishly. “He’d like to raise a new corps of Rough Riders like he did in the Spanish-American war. Remember that?”

  “Yes, I remember it very well.” Vivid images of the charge behind Teddy at San Juan Hill flashed through Amos’s mind. He’d been there that day, and the fact was a matter of pride to him.

  “Then go talk to the president,” Hearst broke into his thoughts.

  Amos blinked in surprise. “Well, sir, I think I can see Teddy without any problem. We’ve been pretty close for years, but I don’t know about the president. They say since the Lusitania was torpedoed, he’s not seeing anyone.”

  “That’s your problem!” Hearst snapped. “That, and hanging onto your job. So, get out there, get those interviews, and get back as quickly as you can.” He dismissed Amos with a wave of his hand and went back to studying his maps.

  Amos left the office, so engrossed with the problem Hearst had tossed out to him that he didn’t even hear the greetings his fellow workers called out to him as he left.

  At least, he said to himself as he got into his car, I can see Teddy. That won’t be any problem. He left the inner city, headed for the home of Teddy Roosevelt.

  “You may wait in here, sir. Mr. Roosevelt will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you very much.” Amos nodded at the tall servant who had ushered him into the fabulous North Room at Sagamore Hill, the home of Theodore Roosevelt, located at Oyster Bay on Long Island.

  He walked around the North Room and thought how much a room could reflect the life of a man. There were elephant tusks, a gift, he knew, from the Emperor of Abyssinia. The carpet, thick and lush, had come from the Shah of Persia. Over to one side was a glass case containing a suit of Japanese armor presented by Admiral Togo. One wall was decorated with the head of a magnificent elk staring down at him. On another was a St. Goudens bronze, “The Puritan.” Somehow it contrasted with the hunting trophies. The presidential flag hung high on the wall over a blue couch.

  “Well, well…here you are! Good to see you again, my boy.”

  Amos turned as Teddy Roosevelt entered the room, striding purposefully toward him, and put out his hand. “Good to see you, sir. You’re looking well.”

  “Oh, not bad for an old man.” Roosevelt grinned, exposing huge teeth, easy to caricature by his political enemies.

  He did look fit. Although blind in one eye from a boxing accident, he still had the glow of good health that had taken him all over the world—from the jungles of Africa hunting big game, across the American prairie, to the Panama Canal, where he had operated one of the huge earth-moving machines. He was—and had been for a long time—the symbol of American energy and dynamic willingness to dare all things. He had even taken on the crooked and corrupt monopolies and smashed them to bits, gaining the title of “The Trust-Buster.”

  “Sit down! Sit down! Tell me what you’ve been doing,” Roosevelt boomed. His voice seemed to echo, filling the room, as if he were speaking in a large arena.

  Amos sat down and said at once, “Well, sir, if you’ll let me off, I’d much rather hear what you’ve been doing.”

  Roosevelt stared at him, a sharp light in his eyes. “You’re here to find out what I think about this European war. Isn’t that so, Stuart?”

  Amos shrugged and smiled slightly. “Sir, I think I know how you feel. I’ve been listening to you for a long time. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it directly.”

  “Mind? Of course I don’t mind,” Roosevelt said, shaking his head. He looked around the room at the many trophies; at the trophies of a lifetime, really, spent fighting for this country he loved so dearly. “We’ll have to fight, Stuart,” he said without hesitation. “No way out now. It’s got to be. Everyone seems to know that, pretty much…” he paused, then shrugged his husky shoulders. “That is, everyone except President Wilson and Secretary of State Bryan.”

  Amos took out his pencil and made notes rapidly as Roosevelt restated all that had gone on in the past few months. He pointed out that the German decision to sink without warning any Allied ships found in waters around the British Isles was in itself an act of war. “How,” he said, “are those U-boat commanders going to be able to tell the difference between a ship full of munitions and a ship full of passengers?” He got up and began to pace the floor, voicing his opinions loudly and defiantly as he always did.

  “Wilson is a good man,” he said finally, “and Bryan’s a good man.” He turned to Amos and smiled suddenly, baring his huge teeth again. “Both of them elders in the Presbyterian Church. They have a lot in common. But this is war,” he said vehemently. “The longer we stay out of it, the longer it will last. The French and the English will fight with all they’ve got, but Germany has built up a magnificent war machine, and it’s time to smash it!” He pounded his fist into his palm. “Smash them once and for all! And make this world a fit place to live again!”

  He continued for nearly an hour, Amos taking notes now and then, not really needing to, for he had heard it all before from Teddy Roosevelt. He knew that if Roosevelt, who had lost narrowly to Woodrow Wilson in the last election, were President of the United States, there would be men on the way to France and elsewhere in Europe right now. Probably, he thought with a grim smile, with Teddy leading the way, waving his sword and his pistol as he did when he charged up San Juan Hill.

  When Mr. Roosevelt wound down, he took on an apologetic tone. “I’m sorry to have dumped all this on you, Stuart. But you’ve always been wise in the ways of politics, and you’ve always had a good feel for what’s going on in America.” He took off his pince-nez and asked in a low voice, “What do you think the president will do?”

  Amos sighed. “He won’t declare war until he’s tried every other way out. That’s what I think, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  Roosevelt grunted and got to his feet. “You’re probably right, my boy. Probably right.”

  Later, as Amos left the grounds, he looked back and spotted Teddy Roosevelt playing in the yard with his granddaughter and wondered if anyone would listen to the old lion.

  The country watched Woodrow Wilson closely. What would he do about the Germans? Would he go to war with them? Or would he build a moat around this country and declare, “It’s America for Americans”?

  Along with everyone else, Amos had read the harsh letter the president had sent to Germany. And, like most others, he was not surprised when Germany paid almost no attention to it.

  But he could not think of a way to get in to see Woodrow Wilson. Every reporter and every writer in town—in the country, for that matter—would have given their right arm to speak to the president. But Wilson had disappeared…at least, he had refused to see any reporters, and rumor had it, he was not even talking to his fellow politicians.

  “He’s gone into hiding,” Amo
s said to Rose one morning as they ate breakfast. Then, seeing the kids outside, their voices resounding on the May air, his tone grew wistful. “I wish I didn’t have any more problems than those two.”

  Rose came around the table and put her hands on his shoulders. She ran her hand across his hair, then said, “Isn’t there any way you can get in to see the president?”

  “Can’t think of one.”

  Rose hesitated, then said, “Well, I thought of something while you were gone yesterday. But it may be just a foolish idea.”

  He reached up, took her hands and kissed one soft palm, then turned around to gaze up at her fondly. “I like your ideas, even when they’re foolish. What is it?”

  “Well, you were always close to Mr. Bryan, the secretary of state,” she began. “Why don’t you go see him? He might be able to get you an appointment with the president.”

  Amos blinked in surprise. Then he jumped to his feet, threw his arms around Rose and swung her in a wide circle.

  “Put me down!” she gasped.

  Amos obliged, but not before kissing her soundly on the lips. “I’m going to raise your salary!” Giving her an appreciative look, he added, “Why didn’t I think of that?” He stopped and took her in his arms again and looked into her eyes. “You’re definitely the smart one in this family.” With one last kiss, he was gone.

  She went to the window and watched him jump into the car and roar off. I married the right man all right. Marriage with anybody else would be so dull.

  Amos had no trouble at all seeing the secretary of state. He had always been good friends with William Jennings Bryan, had supported him on all of his futile tries for the presidency. Besides, Bryan had an open door policy. Almost anyone could simply walk in and often did.

  However, when he did get in to see Secretary Bryan, he saw at once that the man had aged visibly. His face was lined, and his hands had a slight tremble that had not been there before.

  “Come in, come in, Amos,” the secretary said in a friendly way. “Sit down, and let’s hear what’s on your mind.”

  Amos shook Bryan’s hand, took a chair, and the two of them began to talk. “I’d like to see the president,” Amos said, “but I don’t suppose that’s possible. I know he’s not talking to anybody.”

  Bryan shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’d see you, my boy. He’s not even seeing me very often these days.”

  “Well, he’s got a hard decision to make. What do you think he’ll do about the German submarine problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Bryan answered, heaving a sigh, “but I’m afraid of what he might decide. He’s against war, but he’s got lots of warhawks in this country yelling for it…screaming, as a matter of fact.”

  Bryan talked on about the situation. After a while he said, “I can’t get you in to see the president, but I may be seeing him myself fairly soon.” He hesitated, then confided, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to resign as secretary of state.”

  Shock ran along Amos Stuart’s spine, and he knew he was on top of a big story. “Resign? You can’t do that, Mr. Secretary. Mr. Wilson needs you.”

  “I had hoped so, but we seem to be going in different directions. I’ve urged him to take some firm measures without declaring war. For example, I asked him to encourage, even command Americans to stop traveling on ships belligerent to the Germans. But he said, ‘That’s impossible in a democracy.’ I tried to get him to issue a warning to the British to observe the neutral zones, but he has even refused to do that.” Bryan regarded Amos sadly. “Now I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me go with you to talk to the president…if you have to, that is,” Amos said. He knew that by being with Bryan, he would absorb some of the things that were coming out of the White House.

  Bryan smiled genially, if a little sadly. “Of course, of course, my boy. Be glad to have you.”

  For the next three days, Amos stayed very close to William Jennings Bryan. And each day, it became more evident that things were not going well. Finally on Wednesday, Bryan spoke to him just before the office closed, and said in an unsteady voice, “I’ve decided to see the president. If you’d care to go along, I’d be glad to have you, Amos.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Secretary,” Amos said quickly.

  He did not question Bryan, but got into the automobile with him, and the two of them went to the White House. On Pennsylvania Avenue, they got out of the car and went inside.

  When they handed their hats to the servant, Bryan turned to Amos. “You’ll have to wait in the sitting room. I’ll see you after I’ve talked with the president.”

  “I’ll be waiting. And I’ll be praying for you, Mr. Bryan.”

  Bryan looked at Amos gratefully, a warm light in his eyes. “I appreciate that, more than you know. And I know you mean it, Amos.”

  He turned and left. The servant showed Amos into a large sitting room filled with uncomfortable chairs. He sat there for nearly an hour, wondering about the meeting between these two stalwart Presbyterian elders. Finally, when Bryan came back, one look gave him the answer.

  “He would not see it my way,” Bryan said brokenly. There were tears in his eyes. He stared at Amos and said, “We will have war…although you mustn’t print that. That’s not my announcement to make. But I wanted you to know. Maybe you can say some things in your paper that will prepare the country for it.”

  “I’ll do the best I can, and of course I wouldn’t print anything without your permission.”

  William Jennings Bryan dropped his head. He seemed almost to be praying. Then he looked up at Amos. “A British duke—Lord Gray, I think it was—said something the other day.…” He hesitated, then dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Gray said, ‘The lights are going out all over the world.…We won’t see a light again in our lifetime!’”

  5

  A VISITOR FOR LYLAH

  The audience at the Palace Theatre came to their feet as the curtain fell, the fine old building reverberating with their applause. Lylah, her eyes gleaming with excitement, grasped her friend, Helen Ulric, by the arm and whispered, “Listen to that! Isn’t it wonderful!”

  Helen, after three months, was still surprised at the effect an audience had on Lylah Stuart. She smiled and shook her head. “Go on and take your bow. It’s you they want…not me.”

  Helen watched as Lylah moved to the front of the stage, smiled, and waved gracefully at the audience. As Helen looked on, the thought came to her: I’ll never feel as strongly about the theater as she does. She loves it better than she loves air!

  Helen thought back over the run of the play which had been a hit beyond the expectations of the backers. She remembered the first time she had met Lylah Stuart, how a hot streak of jealousy had run through her over Lylah’s fresh beauty. She had quickly learned, however, that, unlike most actresses, Lylah had a gentle, sweet side to her nature. The two of them had agreed to take an apartment together in London, close to the theater, and it had worked out very well indeed.

  Helen waited until Lylah took her bows, and then blew a kiss at the audience. They’d laugh me off the stage if I tried a thing like that, she thought.

  When Lylah came back to the wings, she tossed Helen a bright smile. “C’mon. I’m starved to death. Let’s get changed.”

  They made their way to the small dressing room they shared, and they met up with a stage hand who was frankly admiring. “Good performance, Lylah.”

  “Thanks, Harry,” Lylah replied, and Helen could not help thinking that the American actress really was a democrat, that her familiarity with those men was no act.

  Inside, Helen began undressing. “Good job tonight, Lylah, as always.” She slipped out of her dress and reached for a robe. “But tonight was something extra.”

  Lylah’s eyes were still bright with excitement from the applause of the audience. As she changed, she talked about the play—reliving it, regretting her single miscue, laughing when she remembered th
e leading man tripping and falling over a chair. She came alive any time she was onstage…or even now, just talking about it.

  As they removed their stage makeup, Helen brought up the war. Wiping the cold cream from her face, she turned a troubled gaze on Lylah. “This war is bad. I plan to leave for Germany soon.”

  Helen was an attractive woman with blond hair and blue eyes—a true Nordic specimen. She came, Lylah knew, from an aristocratic family, although she had said very little about them. Now Lylah glanced at her with a puzzled expression. “Why would you have to do that, Helen?”

  “Too much anti-German feeling.” Wiping her face with a clean cloth, she began carefully applying her regular makeup. “It won’t be safe for any German here soon.”

  Lylah fell silent and, caught up in their own reflections, the two women said no more. Lylah was aware of the truth of Helen’s statement, but had hoped that the escalating war in Europe would not mean she would lose her friend.

  When they were nearly dressed, someone knocked at the door, and one of the managers stuck his head inside and asked, “Will you see some of your admirers?”

  “Send them in,” Helen said. “I could use a little admiration.”

  The two women received the guests—two gentlemen and a lady. Both saw it as part of their profession. These were important visitors, they knew, wealthy people from Bristol who were prospective backers for their next play. They smiled and chatted, making themselves agreeable, and finally when the visitors left, Helen said with satisfaction, “I think they’re hooked, Lylah. They’ve got more money than they know what to do with anyway. So they can pay us for the next play.”

  “Oh, I hope this one runs a long time,” Lylah said quickly. “I love it!”

  The two women were putting away their cosmetics when there was another knock at the door. A look of irritation swept across Helen’s even features. “Another stage door Johnny,” she fumed. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  She went to the door and opened it barely enough to look outside. “Sorry. No more visitors tonight,” she said brusquely. “Come back tomorrow night.” She closed the door firmly, but she had no sooner settled again in her chair in front of the mirror than the knock came again.