The Conquest of America by Cleveland MoffettA romance of disaster and recovery (page 3)

In the very first session the peace commissioners came straight to the main question.

“I am instructed by the President of the United States,” began General Wood, “to ask your Excellency if the German Imperial Government will agree to withdraw their armies from America in consideration of receiving a money indemnity?”

“No, sir,” replied General von Hindenburg. “That is quite out of the question.”

[Illustration: GERMAN GUNS DESTROY THE HOTEL TAFT.]

“A large indemnity? I am empowered to offer three thousand million dollars, which is three times as much, your Excellency will remember, as the Imperial German Government accepted for withdrawing from France in 1870.”

“Yes, and we always regretted it,” snapped von Hindenburg. “We should have kept that territory, or part of it. We are going to keep this territory. That was our original intention in coming here. We need this Atlantic seaboard for the extension of the German idea, for the spread of German civilisation, for our inevitable expansion as the great world power.”

“Suppose we agreed to pay four billion dollars?” suggested the American commander.

Von Hindenburg shook his head and then in his rough, positive way: “No, General. What we have taken by our victorious arms we shall hold for our children and our grandchildren. I am instructed to say, however, that the Imperial German Government will make one important concession to the United States. We will withdraw our troops from the mouths of the Mississippi which we now hold, as you know; we will withdraw from Galveston, New Orleans, Pensacola, Tampa, Key West; in short, from all ports in the Gulf of Mexico and in Florida. If you will allow me, gentlemen, I will show you on this map what we propose to surrender to you and what we propose to keep.”

The venerable Field Marshal unrolled upon the broad surface of George Washington’s desk a beautifully shaded relief map of the United States, and General Wood, ex-President Taft and Elihu Root bent over it with tense faces and studied a heavy black line that indicated the proposed boundary between the United States and the territory claimed by the invaders. This latter included all of New England, about one-third of New York and Pennsylvania (the southeastern portions), all of New Jersey and Delaware, nearly all of Virginia and North Carolina and all of South Carolina and Georgia.

“You observe, gentlemen,” said von Hindenburg, “that our American province is to bear the name New Germany. It is bounded on the north by Canada, on the east by the Atlantic Ocean, on the south by Florida, and on the west by Alabama and the Allegheny Mountains. It is a strip of land; roughly speaking, a thousand miles long and two hundred miles wide.”

“About the area of the German Empire,” said ex-President Taft.

“Possibly, but not one-tenth of the entire territory of the United States, leaving out Alaska. We feel that as conquerors we are asking little enough.” He eyed the Americans keenly.

“You are asking us to give up New York, Philadelphia and Washington and all of New England,” said Elihu Root very quietly. “Does your Excellency realise what that means to us? New England is the cradle of our liberties. New York is the heart of the nation. Washington is our capital.”

“Washington _was_ your capital,” broke in General von Kluck, with a laugh.

“I can assure your Excellency,” said General Wood, keeping his composure with an effort, “that the American people will never consent to such a sacrifice of territory. You may drive us back to the deserts of Arizona, you may drive us back to the Rocky Mountains, but we will fight on.”

Von Hindenburg’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Ah, so!” he smiled grimly. “Do you know what will happen if you refuse our terms? In the next few months we shall land expeditions from Germany with a million more soldiers. That will give us a million and a half men on American soil. We shall then invade the Mississippi Valley from New Orleans, and our next offer of terms will be made to you from St. Louis or Chicago, _and it will be a very different offer_.”

“If your Excellency will allow me,” said Elihu Root in a conciliatory tone, “may I ask if the Imperial German Government does not recognise that there will be great difficulties in the way of permanently holding a strip of land along our Atlantic seaboard?”

“What difficulties? England holds Canada, doesn’t she? Spain held Mexico, did she not?”

“But the Mexicans were willing to be held. Your Excellency must realise that in New England, in New York, in New Jersey, you would be dealing with irreconcilable hatred.”

“Nothing is irreconcilable. Look at Belgium. They hated us in 1915, did they not? But sixty-five percent of them accepted German citizenship when we offered it to them after the peace in 1919, and they have been a well-behaved German province ever since.”

“You mean to say that New England would ever become a German province?” protested William H. Taft. “Do you think that New York and Virginia will ever take the oath of allegiance to the German Emperor?”

“Of course they will, just as most of the Spaniards you conquered in the Philippine Islands took the oath of allegiance to America. They swore they would not but they did. Men follow the laws of necessity. Half of your population are of foreign descent. Millions of them are of German descent. These people crowded over here from Europe because they were starving and you have kept them starving. They will come to us because we treat them better; we give them higher wages, cleaner homes, more happiness. They _have_ come to us already; the figures prove it. Not ten percent of the people of New York and New England have moved away since the German occupation, although they were free to go. Why is that? Because they like our form of government, they see that it insures to them and their children the benefits of a higher civilisation.”

My informant assured me that at this point ex-President Taft, in spite of his even temper, almost exploded with indignation, while General Wood rose abruptly from his seat.

For a time it looked as if this first Peace Conference session would break up in a storm of angry recrimination; but Elihu Root, by tactful appeals, finally smoothed things over and an adjournment was taken for forty-eight hours, during which it was agreed that both sides, by telegraph and cable, should lay the situation before their respective governments in Chicago and Berlin.

I remained at Mount Vernon for two weeks while the truce lasted. Every day the peace commissioners met for hours of argument and pleading, but the deadlock of conflicting purposes was not broken. Both sides kept in touch with their governments and both made concessions. America raised her indemnity offer to five billion dollars, to six billion dollars, to seven billion dollars, but declared she would never surrender one foot of the Atlantic seaboard. Germany lessened her demands for territory, but refused to withdraw from New York, New England and Philadelphia.

For some days this deadlock continued, then America began to weaken. She felt herself overpowered. The consequences of continuing the war were too frightful to contemplate and, on September 8, I cabled my paper that the United States would probably cede to Germany within twenty-four hours the whole of New England and a part of New York State, including New York City and Long Island. This was the general opinion when, suddenly, out of a clear sky came a dramatic happening destined to change the course of events and draw me personally into a whirlpool of exciting adventures.

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon of September 9, a blazing hot day, and I was seated on the lawn under one of the fine magnolia-trees presented years before by Prince Henry of Prussia, wondering how much longer I must swelter here before getting off my despatch to the _Times_, when I heard the panting of a swiftly approaching automobile which presently drew up outside the grounds. A moment later a coloured chauffeur approached and asked if I was Mr. James Langston. I told him I was, and he said a lady in the car wanted to speak to me.

“A lady?” I asked in surprise. “Did she give her name?”

The chauffeur broke into a beaming smile. “She didn’t give no name, boss, but she sure is a ve’hy handsome lady, an’ she’s powh’ful anxious to see you.”

I lost no time in answering this mysterious summons, and a little later found myself in the presence of a young woman whom I recognised, when she drew aside her veil, as Miss Mary Ryerson, sister of Lieutenant Randolph Ryerson. With her in the car were her brother and a tall, gaunt man with deep-set eyes. They were all travel-stained, and the car showed the battering of Virginia mountain roads.

“Oh, Mr. Langston,” cried the girl eagerly, “we have such wonderful news! The conference isn’t over? They haven’t yielded to Germany?”

“No,” said I. “Not yet.”

“They mustn’t yield. We have news that changes everything. Oh, it’s so splendid! America is going to win.”

Her lovely face was glowing with enthusiasm, but I shook my head.

“America’s fleet is destroyed. Her army is beaten. How can she win?”

Miss Ryerson turned to her brother and to the other man. “Go with Mr. Langston. Tell him everything. Explain everything. He will take you to General Wood.” She fixed her radiant eyes on me. “You will help us? I can count on you? Remember, it’s for America!”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised, yielding to the spell of her charm and spirit. “May I ask–” I glanced at the tall man who was getting out of the car.

“Ah! Now you will believe. You will see how God is guiding us. This is the father of the brave little boy in Wanamaker’s store. He has seen Thomas A. Edison, and Mr. Edison says his plan to destroy the German fleet is absolutely sound. Mr. Langston, Mr. Lemuel A. Widding. Now hurry!”

CHAPTER XVII

THOMAS A. EDISON MAKES A SERIOUS MISTAKE IN ACCEPTING A DINNER INVITATION

As General Wood left the peace conference (in reply to our urgent summons) and walked slowly across the Mount Vernon lawn to join us in the summer house, he looked haggard and dejected.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Good news, General,” I whispered, but he shook his head wearily.

“No, it’s all over. They have worn us down. Our fleet is destroyed, our army is beaten. We are on the point of ceding New England and New York to Germany. There is nothing else to do.”

“Wait! We have information that may change everything. Let me introduce Lieutenant Ryerson and Mr. Widding–General Wood.” They bowed politely. “Mr. Widding has just seen Thomas A. Edison.”

That was a name to conjure with, and the General’s face brightened.

“I’m listening,” he said.

We settled back in our chairs and Lemuel A. Widding, with awkward movements, drew from his pockets some papers which he offered to the American commander.

“These speak for themselves, General,” he began. “Here is a brief description of my invention for destroying the German fleet. Here are blueprints that make it clearer. Here is the written endorsement of Thomas A. Edison.”

For a long time General Wood studied these papers with close attention, then he sat silent, looking out over the broad Potomac, his noble face stern with care. I saw that his hair had whitened noticeably in the last two months.

“If this is true, it’s more important than you realise. It’s so important that–” He searched us with his kind but keen grey eyes.

“Thomas A. Edison says it’s true,” put in Widding. “That ought to be good enough evidence.”

“And Lieutenant Ryerson tells me that Admiral Fletcher spoke favourably of the matter,” I added.

“He did, General,” declared the lieutenant. “It was on the _Pennsylvania_ a few hours before we went into battle. The admiral had been looking over Mr. Widding’s specifications the night before and he said–I remember his words: ‘This is a great idea. If we had it in operation now we could destroy the German fleet.'”

At this moment there came a fateful interruption in the form of an urgent call for General Wood from the conference hall and he asked us to excuse him until the next day when he would take the matter up seriously.

We returned at once to Washington and I spent that evening at the Cosmos Club listening to a lecture by my oceanographical friend, Dr. Austin H. Clark, on deep-sea lilies that eat meat. At about nine o’clock I was called to the telephone, and presently recognised the agitated voice of Miss Ryerson, who said that an extraordinary thing had happened and begged me to come to her at once. She was stopping at the Shoreham, just across the street, and five minutes later we were talking earnestly in the spacious blue-and-white salon with its flowers and restful lights. Needless to say, I preferred a talk with this beautiful girl to the most learned discussion of deep-sea lilies.

Her message was brief but important. She had just been telephoning in a drug-store on Pennsylvania Avenue when she was surprised to hear the name of Thomas A. Edison mentioned several times by a man in the next booth who was speaking in German. Miss Ryerson understood German and, listening attentively, she made out enough to be sure that an enemy’s plot was on foot to lay hold of the great inventor, to abduct him forcibly, so that he could no longer help the work of American defence.

Greatly alarmed she had called me up and now urged me to warn the military authorities, without wasting a moment, so that they would take steps to protect Mr. Edison.

In this emergency I decided to appeal to General E.M. Weaver, Chief of Coast Artillery, whom I knew from having played golf with him at Chevy Chase, and, after telephoning, I hurried to his house in a taxicab. The general looked grave when I repeated Miss Ryerson’s story, and said that this accorded with other reports of German underground activities that had come to his knowledge. Of course, a guard must be furnished for Mr. Edison, who was in Baltimore at the time, working out plans for the scientific defences of Washington in the physical laboratories of the Johns Hopkins University.

“I must talk with Edison,” said the General. “Suppose you go to Baltimore in the morning, Mr. Langston, with a note from me. It’s only forty-five minutes and–tell Mr. Edison that I will be greatly relieved if he will return to Washington with you.”

I had interviewed Thomas A. Edison on several occasions and gained his confidence, so that he received me cordially the next morning in Baltimore and, in deference to General Weaver’s desire, agreed to run down to Washington that afternoon, although he laughed at the idea of any danger.

As we rode on the train the inventor talked freely of plans for defending the national capital against General von Mackensen’s army which, having occupied Richmond, was moving up slowly through Virginia. It is a matter of familiar history now that these plans provided for the use of liquid chlorine against the invaders, this dangerous substance to be dropped upon the advancing army from a fleet of powerful aeroplanes. Mr. Edison seemed hopeful of the outcome.

He questioned me about Lemuel A. Widding and was interested to learn that Widding was employed at the works of the Victor Talking Machine (Edison’s own invention) in Camden, N. J. His eyes brightened when I told him of young Lemuel’s thrilling act at Wanamaker’s Philadelphia store which, as I now explained, led to the meeting of the two inventors through the efforts of Miss Ryerson.

“There’s something queer about this,” mused the famous electrician. “Widding tells me he submitted his idea to the Navy Department over a year ago. Think of that! An idea bigger than the submarine!”

“Is it possible?”

“No doubt of it. Widding’s invention will change the condition of naval warfare–it’s bound to. I wouldn’t give five cents for the German fleet when we get this thing working. All we need is time.

“Mr. Langston, there are some big surprises ahead for the American people and for the Germans,” continued the inventor. “They say America is as helpless as Belgium or China. I say nonsense. It’s true that we have lost our fleet and some of our big cities and that the Germans have three armies on our soil, but the fine old qualities of American grit and American resourcefulness are still here and we’ll use ’em. If we can’t win battles in the old way, we’ll find new ways.

“Listen to this, my friend. Have you heard of the Committee of Twenty-one? No? Very few have. It’s a body of rich and patriotic Americans, big business men, who made up their minds, back in July, that the government wasn’t up to the job of saving this nation. So they decided to save it themselves by business methods, efficiency methods. There’s a lot of nonsense talked about German efficiency. We’ll show them a few things about American efficiency. What made the United States the greatest and richest country in the world? Was it German efficiency? What gave the Standard Oil Company its world supremacy? Was it German efficiency? It was the American brains of John D. Rockefeller, wasn’t it?”

“Is Mr. Rockefeller one of the Committee of Twenty-one?”

“Of course, he is, and so are Andrew Carnegie, James J. Hill, J. P. Morgan, John Wanamaker, John H. Fahey, James B. Duke, Henry B. Joy, Daniel B. Guggenheim, John D. Ryan, J. B. Widener, Emerson McMillin, Philip D. Armour, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Elihu Root, George W. Perkins, Asa G. Candler and two or three others, including myself.

“The Germans are getting over the idea that America is as helpless as Belgium or China. Von Mackensen is going slow, holding back his army because he doesn’t know what we have up our sleeve at the Potomac. As a matter of fact, we have mighty little except this liquid chlorine and–well, we’re having trouble with the steel containers and with the releasing device.”

“You mean the device that drops the containers from the aeroplanes?”

“That’s it. We need time to perfect the thing. We’ve spread fake reports about wonderful electric mines that will blow up a brigade, and that helped some, and we delayed von Mackensen for two weeks south of Fredericksburg by spreading lines of striped cheese-cloth, miles of it, along a rugged valley. His aeroplane scouts couldn’t make out what that cheese-cloth was for; they thought it might be some new kind of electrocution storage battery, so the whole army waited.”

As we talked, the train stopped at Hyattsville, a few miles out of Washington, and a well-set-up officer in uniform came aboard and approached us with a pleasant smile.

“Mr. Edison? I am Captain Campbell of General Wood’s staff,” he said. “General Wood is outside in his automobile and asks you to join him. The General thought it would be pleasanter to motor down to Mount Vernon.”

“That’s very kind,” said Edison, rising.

“And, Mr. Langston,” continued Captain Campbell, addressing me, “General Wood presents his compliments and hopes you will dine with Mr. Edison and himself at seven this evening.”

“With pleasure.” I bowed and watched them as, they left the train and entered a military-looking automobile that stood near the track with curtains drawn. A moment later they rolled away and I settled back in my seat, reflecting complacently on the high confidence that had been shown in my discretion.

Two hours later I reached Mount Vernon and was surprised, as I left the train, to find General Wood himself waiting on the platform.

“You got back quickly, General,” I said.

He gave me a sharp glance. “Back from where?”

“Why, from where you met our train.”

“Your train? What train? I came here to meet Mr. Edison.”

“But you did meet him–two hours ago–in your automobile–at Hyattsville.”

The general stared in amazement. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I haven’t left Mount Vernon. I haven’t seen Mr. Edison. What has happened? Tell me!”

“Wait!” I said, as the truth began to break on me. “Is there a Captain Campbell on your staff?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then–then–” I was trying to piece together the evidence.

“Well? Go on!” he urged impatiently, whereupon I related the events of the morning.

“Good Lord!” he cried. “It’s an abduction–unquestionably. This Captain Campbell was a German spy. You say the automobile curtains were drawn? That made it dark inside, and no doubt the pretended General Wood wore motor goggles. Before Edison discovered the trick they were off at full speed and he was overpowered on the back seat. Think of that! Thomas A. Edison abducted by the Germans!”

“Why would they do such a thing?”

“Why? Don’t you see? That invention of Widding’s will destroy the German fleet. It’s a matter of life and death to them and Edison knows all about it–all the details–Widding told him.”

“Yes,” said I. “My friend Miss Ryerson brought Widding to Mr. Edison a few days ago, but–how could the Germans have known that?”

The general’s face darkened. “How do they know all sorts of things? Somebody tells them. Somebody told them this.”

“But Widding himself knows all about his own invention. It won’t do the Germans any good to abduct Edison unless–“

Our eyes met in sudden alarm.

“By George, you’re right!” exclaimed Wood.

“Where is Widding? Is he stopping at your hotel?”

“Yes. We’re all there, Miss Ryerson and her brother and Widding and I.”

“Call up the hotel–quick. We must know about this.”

A minute later I had Miss Ryerson on the ‘phone and as soon as I heard her voice I knew that something was wrong.

“What does she say?” asked the general anxiously, as I hung up the receiver.

“She is very much distressed. She says Widding and her brother disappeared from the hotel last night and no one has any idea where they are.”

Here were startling happenings and the developments were even more startling, but, before following these threads of mystery (days passed and they were still unravelled) I must set forth events that immediately succeeded the rupture of peace negotiations. I have reason to know that the Committee of Twenty-one brought pressure upon our peace commissioners, through Washington and the public press, with the result that their attitude stiffened towards the enemy and presently became almost defiant, so that on October 2, 1921, all efforts towards peace were abandoned. And on October 3 it was officially announced that the United States and Germany were again at war.

CHAPTER XVIII

I WITNESS THE BATTLE OF THE SUSQUEHANNA FROM VINCENT ASTOR’S AEROPLANE

During the next week, in the performance of my newspaper duties, I visited Washington and Baltimore, both of these cities being now in imminent danger of attack, the latter from von Hindenburg’s army south of Philadelphia, the former from the newly landed German expedition that was encamped on the shores of Chesapeake Bay near Norfolk, Virginia, which was already occupied by the enemy.

I found a striking contrast between the psychology of Washington and that of Baltimore. The national capital, abandoned by its government, awaited in dull despair the arrival of the conquerors with no thought of resistance, but Baltimore was girding up her loins to fight. Washington, burned by the British in 1812, had learned her lesson, but Baltimore had never known the ravages of an invader. Proudest of southern cities, she now made ready to stand against the Germans. Let New York and Boston and Philadelphia surrender, if they pleased, Baltimore would not surrender.

On the night of my arrival in the Monumental City, September 15, I found bonfires blazing and crowds thronging the streets. There was to be a great mass meeting at the Fifth Regiment Armoury, and I shall never forget the scene as I stood on Hoffman Street with my friend F. R. Kent, Editor of the Baltimore _Sun_, and watched the multitude press within the fortress-like walls. This huge grey building had seen excitement before, as when Wilson and Bryan triumphed here at the Democratic convention of 1912, but nothing like this.

As far as I could see down Bolton Street and Hoffman Street were dense crowds cheering frantically as troops of the Maryland National Guard marched past with crashing bands, the famous “Fighting Fourth” (how the crowd cheered them!), the “Dandy Fifth,” Baltimore’s particular pride, then the First Regiment, then the First Separate Company, coloured infantry and finally the crack cavalry “Troop A” on their black horses, led by Captain John C. Cockey, of whom it was said that he could make his big hunter, Belvedere, climb the side of a house.

The immense auditorium, gay with flags and national emblems, was packed to its capacity of 20,000, and I felt a real thrill when, after a prayer by Cardinal Gibbons, a thousand school girls, four abreast and all in white, the little ones first, moved slowly up the three aisles to seats in front, singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” with the Fifth Regiment band leading them.

Gathered on the platform were the foremost citizens of Baltimore, the ablest men in Maryland, including Mayor J. H. Preston, Douglas Thomas, Frank A. Furst, U. S. Senator John Walter Smith, Hon. J. Charles Linthicum, ex-Gov. Edwin Warfield, Col. Ral Parr, John W. Frick, John M. Dennis, Douglas H. Gordon, John E. Hurst, Franklin P. Cator, Capt. I. E. Emerson, Hon. Wm. Carter Page, Hon. Charles T. Crane, George C. Jenkins, C. Wilbur Miller, Howell B. Griswold, Jr., George May, Edwin J. Farber, Maurice H. Grape, Col. Washington Bowie, Jr., and Robert Garrett.

Announcement was made by General Alexander Brown that fifty thousand volunteers from Baltimore and the vicinity had already joined the colours and were in mobilisation camps at Halethrope and Pimlico and at the Glen Burnie rifle range. Also that the Bessemer Steel Company of Baltimore, the Maryland Steel Company, the great cotton mills and canneries, were working night and day, turning out shrapnel, shell casings, uniforms, belts, bandages and other munitions of war, all to be furnished without a cent of profit. Furthermore, the banks and trust companies of Baltimore had raised fifty million dollars for immediate needs of the defence with more to come.

“That’s the kind of indemnity Baltimore offers to the Germans,” cried General Brown.

Speeches attacking the plan of campaign and the competency of military leaders were made by Charles J. Bonaparte, Leigh Bonsal and Henry W. Williams, but their words availed nothing against the prevailing wild enthusiasm.

“Baltimore has never been taken by an enemy,” shouted ex-Governor Goldsborough, “and she will not be taken now. Our army is massed and entrenched along the south bank of the Susquehanna and, mark my words, the Germans will never pass that line.”

As these patriotic words rang out the thousand white-clad singers rose and lifted their voices in “The Star Spangled Banner,” dearest of patriotic hymns in Baltimore because it was a Baltimore man, Francis Scott Key, who wrote it.

While the great meeting was still in session, a large German airship appeared over Baltimore’s lower basin and, circling slowly at the height of half a mile, proceeded to carry out its mission of frightfulness against the helpless city. More than fifty bombs were dropped that night with terrific explosions. The noble shaft of the Washington Monument was shattered. The City Hall was destroyed, also the Custom House, the Richmond Market, the Walters Art Gallery, one of the buildings of the Johns Hopkins Hospital, with a score of killed and wounded, and the cathedral with fifty killed and wounded.

The whole country was stirred to its depths by this outrage. Angry orators appeared at every street corner, and volunteers stormed the enlisting offices. Within twenty-four hours the business men of Baltimore raised another hundred millions for the city’s defence. Baltimore, never conquered yet, was going to fight harder than ever.

The great question now was how soon the Germans would begin their drive. We knew that the Virginia expedition under General von Mackensen had advanced up the peninsula and had taken Richmond, but every day our aeroplane scouts reported General von Hindenburg’s forces as still stationary south of Philadelphia. Their strategy seemed to be one of waiting until the two armies could strike simultaneously against Washington from the southeast and against Baltimore from the northeast. On the ninth of October this moment seemed to have arrived, and we learned that von Hindenburg, with a hundred thousand men, was advancing towards the Susquehanna in a line that would take him straight to the Maryland metropolis. A two days’ march beyond the river would give the enemy sight of the towers of Baltimore, and how the city had the slightest chance of successful resistance was more than I could understand.

I come now to the battle of the Susquehanna, which my lucky star allowed me to witness in spite of positive orders that war correspondents should not approach the American lines. This happened through the friendship of Vincent Astor, who once more volunteered his machine and his own services in the scouting aeroplane corps. I may add that Mr. Astor had offered his entire fortune, if needed, to equip the nation with the mightiest air force in the world; and that already four thousand craft of various types were in process of construction. With some difficulty, Mr. Astor obtained permission that I accompany him on the express condition that I publish no word touching military operations until after the battle.

On the morning of October 10th we made our first flight, rising from the aerodrome in Druid Hill Park and speeding to the northeast, skirting the shores of Chesapeake Bay. Within half an hour the broad Susquehanna, with its wrecked bridges, lay before us and to the left, on the heights of Port Deposit, we made out the American artillery positions with the main army encamped below. Along the southern bank of the river we saw thousands of American soldiers deepening and widening trenches that had been shallowed out by a score of trench digging machines, huge locomotive ploughs that lumbered along, leaving yellow ditches behind them. There were miles of these ditches cutting through farms and woods, past windmills and red barns and rolling wheat fields, stretching away to the northwest, parallel to the river.

“They’ve done a lot of work here,” said I, impressed by the extent of these operations.

Astor answered with a smile that puzzled me. “They have done more than you dream of, more than any one dreams of,” he said.

“You don’t imagine these trenches are going to stop the Germans, do you?”

He nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”

“But we had trenches like these at Trenton and you know what happened,” I objected.

“I know, but–” again that mysterious smile, “those Trenton trenches were not exactly like these trenches. Hello! They’re signalling to us. They want to know who we are.”

In reply to orders wig-wagged up to us from headquarters in a white farmhouse, we flung forth our identification streamers, blue, white and red arranged in code to form an aerial passport, and received a wave of approval in reply.

As we swung to the northwest, moving parallel to the river and about four miles back of it, I studied with my binoculars the trenches that stretched along beneath us in straight lines and zigzags as far as the eye could see. I was familiar with such constructions, having studied them on various fields; here was the firing trench, here the shelter trench and there the communicating galleries that joined them, but what were those groups of men working so busily farther down the line? And those other groups swarming at many points in the wide area? They were not digging or bracing side-wall timbers. What were they doing?

I had the wheel at this moment and, in my curiosity, I turned the machine to the east, forgetting Mr. Astor’s admonition that we were not allowed to pass the rear line of trenches.

“Hold on! This is forbidden!” he cried. “We’ll get in trouble.”

Before I could act upon his warning, there came a puff of white smoke from one of the batteries and a moment later a shell, bursting about two hundred yards in front of us, made its message clear.

We turned at once and, after some further manoeuvring, sailed back to Baltimore.

We dined together that night and I tried to get from Mr. Astor a key to the mystery that evidently lay behind this situation at the Susquehanna. At first he was unwilling to speak, but, finally, in view of our friendship and his confidence in my discretion, he gave me a forecast of events to come.

“You mustn’t breathe this to a soul,” he said, “and, of course, you mustn’t write a word of it, but the fact is, dear boy, the wonderful fact is we’re going to win the battle of the Susquehanna.”

I shook my head. “I’d give all I’ve got in the world to have that true, Mr. Astor, but von Hindenburg is marching against us with 150,000 men, first-class fighting men.”

“I know, and we have only 60,000 men, most of them raw recruits. Just the same, von Hindenburg hasn’t a chance on earth.” He paused and added quickly: “Except one.”

“One?”

“If the enemy suspected the trap we have set for them, they could avoid it, but they won’t suspect it. It’s absolutely new.”

“How about their aeroplane scouts? Won’t they see the trap?”

“They can’t see it, at least not enough to understand it. General Wood turned us back this afternoon as a precaution, but it wasn’t necessary. You might have circled over those trenches for hours and I don’t believe you would have known what’s going on there. Besides, the work will be finished and everything hidden in a couple of days.”

I spurred my imagination, searching for agencies of destruction, and mentioned hidden mines, powerful electric currents, deadly gases, but Astor shook his head.

“It’s worse than that, much worse. And it isn’t one of those fantastic things from Mars that H. G. Wells would put in a novel. This will work. It’s a practical, businesslike way of destroying an army.”

“What? An entire army?”

“Yes. There’s an area on this side of the Susquehanna about five miles square that is ready for the Germans–plenty of room for a hundred thousand of them–and, believe me, not one man in ten will get out of that area alive.”

I stared incredulously as my friend went on with increasing positiveness: “I know what I’m saying. I’ll tell you how I know it in a minute. This thing has never been done before in the whole history of war and it will never be done again, but it’s going to be done now.”

“Why will it never be done again?”

“Because the conditions will never be right again. Armies will be suspicious after one has been wiped out, but the first time it’s possible.”

“How can you be sure von Hindenburg’s army will cross the Susquehanna at the exact place where you want it to cross?”

“They will cross at the clearly indicated place for crossing, won’t they? That’s where we have set our trap, five miles wide, on the direct line between Philadelphia and Baltimore. They can’t cross lower down because the river swells into Chesapeake Bay, and if they cross higher up they simply go out of their way. Why should they? They’re not afraid to meet Leonard Wood’s little army, are they? They’ll come straight across the river and then–good-night.”

This was as near as I could get to an understanding of the mystery. Astor would tell me no more, although he knew I would die rather than betray the secret.

“You might talk in your sleep,” he laughed. “I wish I didn’t know the thing myself. It’s like going around with a million dollars in your pocket.” Then he added earnestly: “There are a lot of American cranks and members of Bryan’s peace party who wouldn’t stand for this if they knew it.”

“You mean they would tell the Germans?”

“They would tell everybody. They’d call it barbarous, wicked. Perhaps it is, but–we’re fighting for our lives, aren’t we? For our country?”

“Sure we are,” I agreed.

Later on Mr. Astor told me how he had come into possession of this extraordinary military knowledge. He was one of the Committee of Twenty-one.

The next day we flew out again to the battle front, taking care not to advance over the proscribed area, and we scanned the northern banks of the Susquehanna for signs of the enemy, but saw none. On the second day we had the same experience, but on the third day, towards evening, three Taubes approached swiftly at a great height and hovered over our lines, taking observations, and an hour later we made out a body of German cavalry on the distant hills.

“An advance guard of Saxons and Westphalians,” said I, studying their flashing helmets. “There will be something doing to-morrow.”

There was. The battle of the Susquehanna began at daybreak, October 14th, 1921, with an artillery duel which grew in violence as the batteries on either side of the river found the ranges. Aeroplanes skirmished for positions over the opposing armies and dropped revealing smoke columns as guides to the gunners. Hour after hour the Germans poured a terrific fire of shells and shrapnel upon the American trenches and I wondered if they would not destroy or disarrange our trap, but Astor said they would not.

Our inadequate artillery replied as vigorously as possible and was supported by the old U. S. battleship _Montgomery_, manned by the Baltimore naval brigade under Commander Ralph Robinson, which lay two miles down the river and dropped twelve-inch shells within the enemy’s lines. Valuable service was also rendered by heavy mobile field artillery improvised by placing heavy coast defence mortars on strongly reinforced railroad trucks. None of this, however, prevented the Germans from forcing through their work of pontoon building, which had been started in the night. Five lines of pontoons were thrown across the Susquehanna in two days, and very early on the morning of October 14th, the crossing of troops began.

All day from our aeroplane, circling at a height of a mile or rising to two miles in case of danger, we looked down on fierce fighting in the trenches and saw the Germans drive steadily forward, sweeping ahead in close formation, mindless of heavy losses and victorious by reason of overwhelming numbers.

By four o’clock in the afternoon they had dislodged the Americans from their first lines of entrenchment and forced them to retreat in good order to reserve lines five miles back of the river. Between these front lines and the reserve lines there was a stretch of rolling farm land lined and zigzagged with three-foot ditches used for shelter by our troops as they fell back.

By six o’clock that evening the German army had occupied this entire area and by half-past seven, in the glory of a gorgeous crimson sunset, we saw the invaders capture our last lines of trenches and drive back the Americans in full retreat, leaving the ground strewn with their own dead and wounded.

“Now you’ll see something,” cried Astor with tightening lips as he scanned the battlefield. “It may come at any moment. We’ve got them where we want them. Thousands and thousands of them! Their whole army!”

He pointed to the pontoon bridges where the last companies of the German host were crossing. On the heights beyond, their artillery fire was slackening; and on our side the American fire had ceased. Night was falling and the Germans were evidently planning to encamp where they were.

“There are a few thousand over there with the artillery who haven’t crossed yet,” said I. “The Crown Prince must be there with his generals.”

My friend nodded grimly. “We’ll attend to them later. Ah! Now look! It’s coming!”

I turned and saw a thick wall of grey and black smoke rolling in dense billows over a section of the rear trenches, and out of this leaped tongues of blue fire and red fire. And farther down the lines I saw similar sections of smoke and flame with open spaces between, but these spaces closed up swiftly until presently the fire wall was continuous over the whole extent of the rear trenches.

We could see German soldiers by hundreds rushing back from this peril; but, as they ran, fires started at dozens of points before them in the network of ditches and, spreading with incredible rapidity, formed flaming barriers that shut off the ways of escape. Within a few minutes the whole area beneath us, miles in length and width, that had been occupied by the victorious German army, was like a great gridiron of fire or like a city with streets and avenues and broad diagonals of fire. All the trenches and ditches suddenly belched forth waves of black smoke with blue and red flames darting through them, and fiercest of all burned the fire walls close to the river bank.

“Good God!” I cried, astounded at this vast conflagration. “What is it that’s burning?”

“Oil,” said Astor. “The whole supply from the Standard Oil pipe lines diverted here, millions and millions of gallons. It’s driven by big pumps through mains and pipes and reservoirs, buried deep. It’s spurting from a hundred outlets. Nothing can put it out. Look! The river is on fire!”

I did look, but I will not tell what I saw nor describe the horrors of the ensuing hour. By nine o’clock it was all over. The last word in frightfulness had been spoken and the despoilers of Belgium were the victims.

I learned later that the pipes which carried these floods of oil carried also considerable quantities of arseniuretted hydrogen. The blue flames that Mr. Astor and I noticed came from the fierce burning of this arseniuretted hydrogen as it hissed from oil vents in the trenches under the drive of powerful pumps.

Thousands of those that escaped from the fire area and tried to cross back on the pontoons were caught and destroyed, a-midstream, by fire floods that roared down the oil-spread Susquehanna. And about 7,000 that escaped at the sides were made prisoners.

It was announced in subsequent estimates and not denied by the Germans that 113,000 of the invaders lost their lives here. To all intents and purposes von Hindenburg’s army had ceased to exist.

CHAPTER XIX

GENERAL WOOD SCORES ANOTHER BRILLIANT SUCCESS AGAINST THE CROWN PRINCE

On the evening of October 14, 1921, Field Marshal von Kluck awaited final news of the battle of the Susquehanna while enjoying an excellent meal with his staff in the carved and gilded dining-room of the old S. B. Chittenden mansion on Brooklyn Heights, headquarters of the army of occupation. All the earlier despatches through the afternoon had been favourable and, as the company finished their _Kartoffelsuppe_, von Kluck had risen, amidst _hochs_ of applause, and read a telegram from his Imperial master, the Crown Prince, who, with Field Marshal von Hindenburg, was directing the battle from Perryville on the Northern bank, announcing that the German army had crossed the river and driven back Leonard Wood’s forces for five miles and occupied a vast network of American trenches.

The officers lingered over their _preisselbeeren compote_ and _kaffeekuchen_ and, presently, the commander rose again, holding a telegram just delivered by a red-faced lieutenant whose cheek was slashed with scars.

“Comrades, the great moment has come–I feel it. Our victory at the Susquehanna means the end of American resistance, the capture of Baltimore, Washington and the whole Atlantic seaboard. Let us drink to the Fatherland and our place in the sun.”

Up on their feet came the fire-eating company, with lifted glasses and the gleam of conquerors in their eyes.

“_Hoch! Hoch!_” they cried and waited, fiercely joyful, while von Kluck opened the despatch. His shaggy brows contracted ominously as he scanned two yellow sheets crowded with closely written German script.

“_Gott in Himmel!_” he shouted, and threw the telegram on the table.

The blow had fallen, the incredible truth was there before them. Not only had the redoubtable von Hindenburg, idol of a nation, hero of countless Russian victories, suffered crushing defeat, but his proud battalions had been almost annihilated. In the whole history of warfare there had never been so complete a disaster to so powerful an army.

“Burned to death! Our brave soldiers! Was there ever so barbarous a crime?” raved the Field Marshal. “But the American people will pay for this, yes, ten times over. We still have two armies on their soil and a fleet ready to transport from Germany another army of half a million. We hold their greatest cities, their leading citizens at our mercy, and they shall have none. Burned in oil! _Mein Gott!_ We will show them.”

“Excellency,” questioned the others anxiously, “what of his Imperial Highness the Crown Prince?”

“Safe, thank God, and von Hindenburg is safe. They did not cross the cursed river. They stayed on the Northern bank with the artillery and three thousand men.”

I learned later that these three thousand of the German rear guard, together with seven thousand that escaped from the fire zone and were made prisoners, were all that remained alive of the 120,000 Germans that had crossed the Susquehanna that fatal morning with flying eagles.

Orders were immediately given by von Kluck that retaliatory steps be taken to strike terror into the hearts of the American people, and the wires throughout New England were kept humming that night with instructions to the commanding officers of German forces of occupation in Boston, Hartford, New Haven, Portland, Springfield, Worcester, Newport, Fall River, Stamford; also in Newark, Jersey City, Trenton and Philadelphia, calling upon them to issue proclamations that, in punishment of an act of barbarous massacre committed by General Wood and the American army, it was hereby ordered that one-half of the hostages previously taken by the Germans in each of these cities (the same to be chosen by lot) should be led forth at noon on October 15th and publicly executed.

At half-past eleven, October 15th, on the Yale University campus, there was a scene of excitement beyond words, although dumb in its tragic expression, when William Howard Taft, who was one of the hostages drawn for execution, finished his farewell address to the students.

“I call on you, my dear friends,” he cried with an inspired light in his eyes, “to follow the example of our glorious ancestors, to put aside selfishness and all base motives and rise to your supreme duty as American citizens. Defend this dear land! Save this nation! And, if it be necessary to die, let us die gladly for our country and our children, as those great patriots who fought under Washington and Lincoln were glad to die for us.”

With a noble gesture he turned to the guard of waiting German soldiers. He was ready.

Deeply moved, but helpless, the great audience of students and professors waited in a silence of rage and shame. They would fain have hurled themselves, unarmed, upon the gleaming line of soldiers that walled the quadrangle, but what would that have availed?

A Prussian colonel of infantry, with many decorations on his breast, stepped to the edge of the platform, glanced at his wrist-watch and said in a high-pitched voice: “Gentlemen of the University, I trust you have carefully read the proclamation of Field Marshal von Kluck. Be sure that any disorder during the execution of hostages that is now to take place will bring swift and terrible punishment upon the city and citizens of New Haven. Gentlemen, I salute you.”

He turned to the guard of soldiers. “_Gehen!_”

“_Fertig! Hup!_” cried a stocky little Bavarian sergeant, and the grim procession started.

At the four corners of the public green were companies of German soldiers with machine-guns trained upon dense crowds of citizens who had gathered for this gruesome ceremony, high-spirited New Englanders whose faith and courage were now to be crushed out of them, according to von Kluck, by this stern example.

Down Chapel Street with muffled drums came the unflinching group of American patriots, marching between double lines of cavalry and led by a military band. At Osborn Hall they turned to the right and moved slowly along College Street to the Battell Chapel, where they turned again and advanced diagonally across the green, the band playing Beethoven’s funeral march.

In the centre of the dense throng, at a point between Trinity Church and the old Centre Church, a firing squad of bearded Westphalians was making ready for the last swift act of vengeance, when, suddenly, in the direction of Elm Street near the Graduates’ Club, there came a tumult of shouts and voices with a violent pushing and struggling in the crowd. A messenger on a motorcycle was trying to force his way to the commanding officer.

“Stop! Stop!” he shouted. “I’ve got a telegram for the general. Let me through! I _will_ get through!”

And at last, torn and breathless, the lad did get through and delivered his message. It was a telegram from Field Marshal von Kluck, which read:

“Have just received a despatch from General Leonard Wood, stating that his Imperial Highness the Crown Prince and Field Marshal von Hindenburg, with their military staffs, have been made prisoners by an American army north of the Susquehanna, and giving warning that if retaliatory measures are taken against American citizens, his Imperial Highness will, within twenty-four hours, be stood up before the statue of his Imperial ancestor Frederick the Great, in the War College at Washington, and shot to death by a firing squad from the Pennsylvania National Guard. In consequence of this I hereby countermand all previous orders for the execution of American hostages. (Signed) VON KLUCK.”

Like lightning this wonderful news spread through the crowd, and in the delirious joy that followed there was much disorder which the Germans scarcely tried to suppress. They were stunned by the catastrophe. The Crown Prince a prisoner! Von Hindenburg a prisoner! By what miracle of strategy had General Wood achieved this brilliant coup?

Here were the facts, as I subsequently learned. So confident of complete success was the American commander, that by twelve o’clock on the day of battle he had diverted half of his forces, about 30,000 men, in a rapid movement to the north, his purpose being to cross the Susquehanna higher up and envelop the rear guard of the enemy, with their artillery and commanding generals, in an overwhelming night attack. Hour after hour through the night of October 14th a flotilla of ferry-boats, cargo-boats, tugs, lighters, river craft of all sorts, assembled days before, had ferried the American army across the Susquehanna as George Washington ferried his army across the Delaware a hundred and fifty years before.

All night the Americans pressed forward in a forced march, and by daybreak the Crown Prince and his 3,000 men were caught beyond hope of rescue, hemmed in between the Susquehanna River and the projecting arms of Chesapeake Bay. The surprise was complete, the disaster irretrievable, and at seven o’clock on the morning of October 15th the heir to the German throne and six of his generals, including Field Marshal von Hindenburg, surrendered to the Americans the last of their forces with all their flags and artillery and an immense quantity of supplies and ammunition.

By General Wood’s orders the mass of German prisoners were moved to concentration camps at Gettysburg, but the Crown Prince was taken to Washington, where he and his staff were confined with suitable honours in the Hotel Bellevue, taken over by the government for this purpose. Here, during the subsequent fortnight, I had the honour of seeing the illustrious prisoner on several occasions. It seems that he remembered me pleasantly from the New England campaign and was glad to call upon my knowledge of American men and affairs for his own information.

[Illustration: “YOU KNOW, MARK TWAIN WAS A GREAT FRIEND OF MY FATHER’S,” SAID THE CROWN PRINCE, “I REMEMBER HOW MY FATHER LAUGHED, ONE EVENING AT THE PALACE IN BERLIN, WHEN MARK TWAIN TOLD US THE STORY OF ‘THE JUMPING FROG.'”]

As to von Hindenburg’s defeat (leaving aside the question of military ethics which he denounced scathingly) the Crown Prince said this had been accomplished by a mere accident that could never occur again and that could not interfere with Germany’s ultimate conquest of America.

“This will be a short-lived triumph,” declared His Imperial Highness, when he received me in his quarters at the Bellevue, “and the American people will pay dearly for it. The world stands aghast at the horror of this barbarous act.”

“America is fighting for her existence,” said I.

“Let her fight with the methods of civilised warfare. Germany would scorn to gain an advantage at the expense of her national honour.”

“If Your Imperial Highness will allow me to speak of Belgium in 1914–” I began, but he cut me short with an impatient gesture.

“Our course in Belgium was justified by special reasons–that is the calm verdict of history.”

I refrained from arguing this point and was patient while the prince turned the conversation on his favourite theme, the inferiority of a democratic to an autocratic form of government.

“I have been studying the lives of your presidents,” he said, “and–really, how can one expect them to get good results with no training for their work and only a few years in office? Take men like Johnson, Tyler, Polk, Hayes, Buchanan, Pierce, Filmore, Harrison, McKinley. Mediocre figures, are they not? What do they stand for?”

“What does the average king or emperor stand for?” I ventured, whereupon His Imperial Highness pointed proudly to the line of Hohenzollern rulers, and I had to admit that these were exceptional men.

“The big men of America go into commercial and industrial pursuits rather than into politics,” I explained.

“Exactly,” agreed the prince, “and the republic loses their services.”

“No, the republic benefits by the general prosperity which they build up,” I insisted.

With this the Imperial prisoner discussed the American Committee of Twenty-one and I was astonished to find what full knowledge he had touching their individual lives and achievements. He even knew the details of Asa G. Candler’s soda water activities. And he told me several amusing stories of Edison’s boyhood.

“By the way,” he said abruptly, “I suppose you know that Thomas A. Edison is a prisoner in our hands?”

“So we concluded,” said I. “Also Lemuel A. Widding.”

“Also Lemuel A. Widding,” the prince admitted. “You know why we took them prisoners? It was on account of Widding’s invention. He thinks he has found a way to destroy our fleet and we do not want our fleet destroyed.”

“Naturally not.”

“You had a talk with Edison on the train last week. He knows all the details of Widding’s invention?”

“Yes.”

“And he believes it will do what the inventor claims? He believes it will destroy our fleet? Did he tell you that?”

“He certainly did. He said he wouldn’t give five cents for the German fleet after Widding’s plan is put into operation.”

“Ah!” reflected the Crown Prince.

“Would Your Imperial Highness allow me to ask a question?” I ventured.

His eyes met mine frankly. “Why, yes–certainly.”

“I have no authority to ask this, but I suppose there might be an exchange of prisoners. Edison and Widding are important to America and–“.

“You mean they might be exchanged for me?” his face grew stern. “I would not hear of it. Those two Americans alone have the secret of this Widding invention, I am sure of that, and it is better for the Fatherland to get along without a Crown Prince than without a fleet. No. We shall keep Mr. Edison and Mr. Widding prisoners.”

He said this with all the dignity of his Hohenzollern ancestry; then he rose to end the interview.

CHAPTER XX

THIRD BATTLE OF BULL RUN WITH AEROPLANES CARRYING LIQUID CHLORINE

I now come to those memorable weeks of November, 1921, which rank among the most important in American history. There was first the battle that had been preparing south of the Potomac between von Mackensen’s advancing battalions and General Wood’s valiant little army. This might be called the third battle of Bull Run, since it was fought near Manassas where Beauregard and Lee won their famous victories.

Although General Wood’s forces numbered only 60,000 men, more than half of them militia, and although they were matched against an army of 150,000 Germans, the American commander had two points of advantage, his ten miles of entrenchments stretching from Remington to Warrenton along the steep slopes of the Blue Ridge mountains, and his untried but formidable preparations for dropping liquid chlorine from a fleet of aeroplanes upon an attacking army.

In order to reach Washington the Germans must traverse the neck of land that lies between the mountains and the Potomac’s broad arms. Here clouds of greenish death from heaven might or might not overwhelm them. That was the question to be settled. It was a new experiment in warfare.

I should explain that during previous months, thanks to the efficiency of the Committee of Twenty-one, great quantities of liquid chlorine had been manufactured at Niagara Falls, where the Niagara Alkali Company, the National Electrolytic Company, the Oldburg Electro-Chemical Company, the Castner Electrolytic Alkali Company, the Hooker Electro-Chemical Company and several others, working night and day and using 60,000 horsepower from the Niagara power plants and immense quantities of salt from the salt-beds in Western New York, had been able to produce 30,000 tons of liquid chlorine. And the Lackawanna Steel Company at Buffalo, in its immense tube plant, finished in 1920, had turned out half a million thin steel containers, torpedo-shaped, each holding 150 pounds of the deadly liquid. This was done under the supervision of a committee of leading chemists, including: Milton C. Whitaker, Arthur D. Little, Dr. L. H. Baekeland, Charles F. McKenna, John E. Temple and Dr. Henry Washington.

And a fleet of military aeroplanes had been made ready at the immense Wright and Curtiss factories on Grand Island in the Niagara River and at the Packard, Sturtevant, Thomas and Gallaudet factories, where a force of 20,000 men had been working night and day for weeks under government supervision. There were a hundred huge tractors with double fuselage and a wing spread of 200 feet, driven by four 500 horse-power motors. Each one of these, besides its crew, could carry three tons of chlorine from Grand Island to Washington (their normal rate of flying was 120 miles an hour) in three hours against a moderate wind.

I visited aviation centers where these machines were delivered for tests, and found the places swarming with armies of men training and inspecting and testing the aeroplanes.

Among aviators busy at this work were: Charles F. Willard, J. A. D. McCurdy, Walter R. Brookins, Frank T. Coffyn, Harry N. Atwood, Oscar Allen Brindley, Leonard Warren Bonney, Charles C. Witmer, Harold H. Brown, John D. Cooper, Harold Kantner, Clifford L. Webster, John H. Worden, Anthony Jannus, Roy Knabenshue, Earl S. Dougherty, J. L. Callan, T. T. Maroney, R. E. McMillen, Beckwith Havens, DeLloyd Thompson, Sidney F. Beckwith, George A. Gray, Victor Carlstrom, Chauncey M. Vought, W. C. Robinson, Charles F. Niles, Frank H. Burnside, Theodore C. Macaulay, Art Smith, Howard M. Rinehart, Albert Sigmund Heinrich, P. C. Millman, Robert Fowler.

In the balloon training camps, I noticed some old-time balloonists, including: J. C. McCoy, A. Leo Stevens, Frank P. Lahm, Thomas S. Baldwin, A. Holland Forbes, Charles J. Glidden, Charles Walsh, Carl G. Fisher, Wm. F. Whitehouse, George B. Harrison, Jay B. Benton, J. Walter Flagg, John Watts, Roy F. Donaldson, Ralph H. Upson, R. A. D. Preston and Warren Rasor.

Five days before the battle the hundred great carriers began delivering their deadly loads on the heights of Arlington, south of the Potomac, each aeroplane making three trips from Niagara Falls every twenty-four hours, which meant that on the morning of November 5, 1921, when the German legions came within range of Leonard Wood’s field artillery, there were 5,000 tons of liquid chlorine ready to be hurled down from the aerial fleet. And it was estimated that the carriers would continue to deliver a thousand tons a day from Grand Island as long as the deadly stuff was needed.

The actual work of dropping these chlorine bombs upon the enemy was entrusted to another fleet of smaller aeroplanes gathered from all parts of the country, most of them belonging to members of the Aero Club of America who not only gave their machines but, in many cases, offered their services as pilots or gunners for the impending air battle.

“What is the prospect?” I asked Henry Woodhouse, chief organiser of these aeroplane forces, on the day before the fight.

He was white and worn after days of overwork, but he spoke hopefully.

“We have chlorine enough,” he said, “but we need more attacking aeroplanes. We’ve only about forty squadrons with twelve aeroplanes to a squadron and most of our pilots have never worked in big air manoeuvres. It’s a great pity. Ah, look there! If they were all like Bolling’s squadron!”

He pointed toward the heights back of Remington where a dozen bird machines were sweeping through the sky in graceful evolutions.

“What Bolling is that?”

“Raynal C.–the chap that organised the first aviation section of the New York National Guard. Ah! See those boys turn! That’s Boiling at the head of the ‘V,’ with James E. Miller, George von Utassy, Fairman Dick, Jerome Kingsbury, William Boulding, 3rd, and Lorbert Carolin. They’ve got Sturtevant steel battle planes–given by Mrs. Bliss–yes, Mrs. William H. Bliss. She’s one of the patron saints of the Aero Club.”

We strolled among the hangars and Mr. Woodhouse presented me to several aeroplane squadron commanders, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Robert Bacon, Godfrey Lowell Cabot, Russell A. Alger, Robert Glendinning, George Brokaw, Clarke Thomson, Cortlandt F. Bishop; also to Rear Admiral Robert E. Peary, Archer M. Huntington, J. Stuart Blackton, and Albert B. Lambert, who had just come in from a scouting and map-making flight over the German lines. These gentlemen agreed that America’s chances the next day would be excellent if we only had more attacking aeroplanes, about twice as many, so that we could overwhelm the enemy with a rain of chlorine shells.

“I believe three hundred more aeroplanes would give us the victory,” declared Alan R. Hawley, ex-president of the Aero Club.

“Think of it,” mourned August Belmont. “We could have had a thousand aeroplanes so easily–two thousand for the price of one battleship. And now–to-morrow–three hundred aeroplanes might save this nation.”

Cornelius Vanderbilt nodded gloomily. “The lack of three hundred aeroplanes may cost us the Atlantic seaboard. These aeroplanes would be worth a million dollars apiece to us and we can’t get ’em.”

“The fifty aeroplanes of the Post Office are mighty useful,” observed Ex-Postmaster-General Frank H. Hitchcock to Postmaster-General Burleson.

“It isn’t the fault of you gentlemen,” said Emerson McMillin, “if we did not have five thousand aeroplanes in use for mail carrying, and coast guard and life-saving services.”

This remark was appreciated by some of the men in the group, including Alexander Graham Bell, Admiral Peary, Henry A. Wise Wood, Henry Woodhouse, Albert B. Lambert, and Byron R. Newton, head of the Coast Guard and Life Saving Service. For years they had all made supreme but unavailing efforts to make Congress realize the value of an aeroplane reserve which could be employed every day for peaceful purposes and would be available in case of need.

“Five thousand aeroplanes could have been put in use for carrying mail and express matter and in the Coast Guard,” said Mr. McMillin, “and with them we could have been in the position of the porcupine, which goes about its peaceful pursuits, harms no one, but is ever ready to defend itself. Had we had them in use, this war would probably never have taken place.”

A little later, as we were supping in a farmhouse, there came a great shouting outside and, rushing to doors and windows, we witnessed a miracle, if ever there was one. There, spread across the heavens from west and south, sweeping toward us, in proud alignment, squadron by squadron–there was the answer to our prayers, a great body of aeroplanes waving the stars and stripes in the glory of the setting sun.

“Who are they? Where do they come from?” we marvelled, and, presently, as the sky strangers came to earth like weary birds, a great cry arose: “Santos Dumont! Santos Dumont!”

It was indeed the great Santos, the famous Brazilian sportsman, and president of the Aeronautical Federation of the Western Hemisphere, who had come thus opportunely to cast his fortunes with tortured America and fight for the maintenance of the Monroe Doctrine. With him came the Peruvian aviator, Bielovucci, first to fly across the Alps (1914), and Senor Anassagasti, president of the Aero Club Argentino, and also four hundred aeroplanes with picked crews from all parts of South America.

There was great rejoicing that evening at General Wood’s headquarters over this splendid support given to America by her sister republics.

“It looks now as if we have a chance,” said Brigadier General Robert K. Evans. “The Germans will attack at daybreak and–by the way, what’s the matter with our wireless reports?” He peered out into the night which was heavily overcast–not a star in sight. He was looking toward the radio station a mile back on the crest of a hill where the lone pine tree stood that supported the transmission wires.

“Looks like rain,” decided the general. “Hello! What’s that?”

Plainly through purplish black clouds we caught the shrill buzz of swift-moving aeroplanes.

“Good lord!” cried Roy D. Chapin, chief inspector of aircraft. “The Germans! I know their engine sounds. Searchlights! Quick!”

Alas! Our searchlights proved useless against the thick haze that had now spread about us; they only revealed distant dim shapes that shot through the darkness and were gone.

“We must go after those fellows,” muttered General Evans, and he detailed William Thaw, Norman Prince and Elliot Cowdin, veterans of many sky battles in France and Belgium, to go aloft and challenge the intruders.

This incident kept the camp in an uproar half the night. It turned out that the strange aeroplanes had indeed been sent out by the Germans, but for hours we did not discover what their mission was. They dropped no bombs, they made no effort to attack us, but simply circled around and around through the impenetrable night, accomplishing nothing, so far as we could see, except that they were incredibly clever in avoiding the pursuit of our airmen.

“They are flying at great speed,” calculated A. F. Zahm, the aerodynamic expert of the Smithsonian Institution, “but I don’t see what their purpose is.”

“I’ve got it,” suddenly exclaimed John Hays Hammond, Jr. “They’ve sprung a new trick. Their machines carry powerful radio apparatus and they’re cutting off our wireless.”

“By wave interference?” asked Dr. Zahm.

“Of course. It’s perfectly simple. I’ve done it at Gloucester.” He turned to General Evans. “Now, sir, you see why we’ve had no wireless reports from our captive balloon.”

This mention of the captive balloon brought to mind the peril of Payne Whitney, who was on lookout duty in the balloon near the German lines, and who might now be cut off by enemy aircraft, since he could not use his wireless to call for help. I can only state briefly that this danger was averted and Whitney’s life saved by the courage and prompt action of Robert J. Collier and Larry Waterbury, who flew through the night to the rescue of their friend with a supporting air squadron and arrived just in time to fight off a band of German raiders.

I deeply regret that I must record these thrilling happenings in such bald and inadequate words and especially that my pen is quite unequal to describing that strangest of battles which I witnessed the next day from the heights back of Remington. Never was there a more thrilling sight than the advance of this splendid body of American and South American aeroplanes, flying by squadrons in long V’s like flocks of huge birds, with a terrifying snarling of propellers. To right and left they manoeuvred, following wireless orders from headquarters that were executed by the various squadron commanders whose aeroplanes would break out bunting from time to time for particular signals.

So overwhelming was the force of American flyers, all armed with machine guns, that the Germans scarcely disputed the mastery of the air, and about seventy of their old-fashioned eagle type biplanes were soon destroyed. Our total losses here were only eleven machines, but these carried precious lives, some of our bravest and most skilful amateur airmen, Norman Cabot, Charles Jerome Edwards, Harold F. McCormick, James A. Blair, Jr., B. B. Lewis, Percy Pyne, 2nd, Eliot Cross, Roy D. Chapin, Logan A. Vilas and Bartlett Arkell.

I turned to my friend Hart O. Berg, the European aeroplane expert, and remarked that we seemed to be winning, but he said little, simply frowned through his binoculars.

“Don’t you think so?” I persisted.

“Wait!” he answered. “There’s something queer about this. Why should the Germans have such an inferior aircraft force? Where are all their wonderful Fokker machines?”

“You mean–“

“I mean that this battle isn’t over yet. Ah! Look! We’re getting our work in with that chlorine.”

It was indeed true. With the control of the skies assured us, our fleet of liquid gas carriers had now gone into action and at many points we saw the heavy poison clouds spreading over the enemy hosts like a yellow green sea. The battle of chlorine had begun. The war of chemistry was raining down out of the skies. It is certain that nothing like this had ever been seen before. There had been chlorine fighting in the trenches out of squirt gun apparatus–plenty of that in 1915, with a few score killed or injured, but here it came down by tons over a whole army, this devilish stuff one breath of which deep into the lungs smote a man down as if dead.

The havoc thus wrought in the German ranks was terrific; especially as General Wood took advantage of the enemy’s distress to sweep their lines with fierce artillery fire from his batteries on the heights.

“We’ve got them going,” said I.

Berg shook his head.

“Not yet.”

If General Wood had been able to hurl his army forward in a desperate charge at this moment of German demoralisation it is possible we might have gained a victory, but the risks were too heavy. The American forces were greatly outnumbered and to send them into those chlorine-swept areas was to bring the enemy’s fate upon them. Wood must hold his men upon the heights until our artillery and poison gas attack had practically won the day. Then a final charge might clinch matters–that was the plan, but it worked out differently, for, after their first demoralisation, the enemy learned to avoid the descending danger by running from it. They could avoid the slowly spreading chlorine clouds by seeking higher ground and, presently, they regained a great measure of their confidence and courage and swept forward in furious fresh attacks.

Even so the Americans fought for hours with every advantage and our artillery did frightful execution. At three o’clock I sent off a cable to the _Times_ that General Wood’s prospects were excellent, but at half-past four our supply of liquid chlorine was exhausted and news came from Niagara Falls that a German spy on Grand Island had blown up the great chlorine supply tank containing 20,000 tons. And the Niagara power-plants had been wrecked by dynamite.

Still the Americans fought on gallantly, desperately, knowing that everything was at stake, and our aeroplanes, with their batteries of machine guns, gave effective assistance. Superiority in numbers, however, soon made itself felt and at five o’clock the Germans, relieved from the chlorine menace, advanced their heavy artillery and began a terrific bombardment of our trenches.

“Hello!” exclaimed Berg suddenly. “What’s that coming?”

He pointed to the northeast, where we made out a group of swiftly approaching aeroplanes, flying in irregular order. We watched them alight safely near General Wood’s headquarters, all but one marked “Women of 1915,” which was hit by an anti-aircraft gun, as it came to earth, and settled down with a broken wing and some injuries to the pilot, Miss Ethel Barrymore, and the observer, Mrs. Charles S. Whitman, wife of Senator Whitman.

This was but one demonstration of the heroism of our women. Thousands had volunteered their services as soon as the war broke out and many, finding that public sentiment was against having women in the ranks, learned to fly and to operate radio apparatus and were admitted in these branches of the service. Among the women who volunteered were hundreds of members of the Women’s Section of the Movement for National Preparedness, including members of the Council of Women, Daughters of American Revolution, Ladies of the G. A. R. (National and Empire State), United Daughters of the Confederacy, Association Opposed to Woman’s Suffrage, Civic Federation Woman’s Department, Society United States Daughters of 1812, Woman’s Rivers and Harbors Congress, Congress of Mothers, Daughters of Cincinnati, Daughters of the Union, Daughters of the Revolution, and National Special Aid Society.

These organisations of American women not only supplied a number of skilled aeroplane pilots, but they were of material help in strengthening the fighting forces, as well as in general relief work.

As the shadows of night approached we were startled by the sudden sweep across the sky of a broad yellow searchlight beam, lifted and lowered repeatedly, while a shower of Roman candles added vehemence to the signal.

“Something has happened. They’ve brought important news,” cried my friend, whereupon we hurried to headquarters and identified most of the machines as separate units in Rear Admiral Peary’s aero-radio system of coast defence, while two of them, piloted by Ralph Pulitzer (wounded) and W. K. Vanderbilt, belonged to Emerson McMillin’s reefing-wings scouting squadron.

We listened eagerly to the reports of pilots and gunners from these machines, Marion McMillin, W. Redmond Cross, Harry Payne Whitney (wounded), William Ziegler, Jr., Alexander Blair Thaw, W. Averill Harriman, Edwin Gould, Jr. (wounded), and learned that a powerful fleet of enemy aircraft, at least 500, had been sighted over Chesapeake Bay and were flying swiftly to the support of the Germans. These aeroplanes had started from a base near Atlantic City and would arrive within half an hour.

A council of war was held immediately and, acting on the advice of aeroplane experts, General Wood ordered the withdrawal of our land and air forces. It would be madness to attempt further resistance. Our army was hopelessly outnumbered, our chlorine supply was gone, our air fleet, after flying all day, was running short of gasoline and its weary pilots were in no condition to withstand the attack of a fresh German fleet. At all costs we must save our aeroplanes, for without them the little remnant of our army would be blind.

This was the beginning of the end. We had done our best and failed. At six o’clock orders were given that the whole American army prepare for a night retreat into the remote fastnesses of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We had made our last stand east of the Alleghenies and fell back heavy-hearted, leaving the invaders in full possession of our Atlantic seaboard.

CHAPTER XXI

THE AWAKENING OF AMERICA

There followed dark days for America. Washington was taken by the enemy, but not until our important prisoners, the Crown Prince and von Hindenburg, had been hurried to Chicago. Baltimore was taken. Everything from Maine to Florida and all the Gulf ports were taken.

Add to this a widespread spirit of disorder and disunion, strikes and rioting in many cities, dynamite outrages, violent addresses of demagogues and labour leaders, pleas for peace at any price by misguided fanatics who were ready to reap the whirlwind they had sown. These were days when men of brain and courage, patriots of the nation with the spirit of ’76 in them, almost despaired of the future.

Through all this storm and darkness, amid dissension and violence, one man stood firm for the right, one wise big-souled man, the President of the United States. In a clamour of tongues he heard the still small voice within and laboured prodigiously to build up unity and save the nation. Like Lincoln, he was loved and honoured even by his enemies.

It was my privilege to hear the great speech which the President of the United States delivered in Chicago, November 29, 1921, a date which Theodore Roosevelt has called the most memorable in American history. The immense auditorium on the lake front, where once were the Michigan Central tracks, was packed to suffocation. It is estimated that 40,000 men and women, representing every state and organisation in the Union, heard this impassioned appeal for the nation, that will live in American history along with Lincoln’s Gettysburg address.

The President spoke first and did not remain to hear the other orators, as he was leaving for Milwaukee, where he hoped to relieve a dangerous, almost a revolutionary situation. He had been urged not to set foot in this breeding place of sedition, but he replied that the citizens of Milwaukee were his fellow countrymen, his brothers. They were dear to him. They needed him. And he would not fail them.

In spite of this stirring cry from the heart, the audience seemed but mildly affected and allowed the President to depart with only perfunctory applause. There was no sign of success for his plea that the nation rouse itself from its lethargy and send its sons unselfishly in voluntary enlistment to drive the enemy from our shores. And there were resentful murmurs when the President warned his hearers that compulsory military service might be inevitable.

“Why shall the poor give their lives to save the rich?” answered Charles Edward Russell, speaking for the socialists. “What have the rich ever done for the poor except to exploit them and oppress them? Why should the proletariat worry about the frontiers between nations? It’s only a question which tyrant has his heel on our necks. No! The labouring men of America ask you to settle for them and for their children the frontiers between poverty and riches. That’s what they’re ready to fight for, a fair division of the products of toil, and, by God, they’re going to have it!”

One feature of the evening was a stirring address by the beautiful Countess of Warwick, prominent in the feminist movement, who had come over from England to speak for the Women’s World Peace Federation.

“Women of America,” said the Countess, “I appeal to you to save this nation from further horrors of bloodshed. Rise up in the might of your love and your womanhood and end this wholesale murder. Remember the great war in Europe! What did it accomplish? Nothing except to fill millions of graves with brave sons and beloved husbands. Nothing except to darken millions of homes with sorrow. Nothing except to spread ruin and desolation everywhere. Are you going to allow this ghastly business to be repeated here?

“Women of America, I bring you greetings from the women of England, the women of France, the women of Germany, who have joined this great pacifist movement and whose voices sounding by millions can no longer be stifled. Let the men hear and heed our cry. We say to them: ‘Stop! Our rights on this earth equal yours. We gave you birth, we fed you at the breast, we guarded your tender years, and we notify you now that you shall no longer kill and maim our husbands, our sons, our fathers, our brothers, our lovers. It is in the power of women to drive war’s hell from the earth and, whatever the cost, we are going to do it.'”

“No! No!” came a tumult of cries from all parts of the hall.

“We believe in fighting to the last for our national existence,” cried Mrs. John A. Logan, waving her hand, whereupon hundreds of women patriots, Daughters of the American Revolution, suffrage and anti-suffrage leaders, members of the Navy League, Red Cross workers, sprang to their feet and screamed their enthusiasm for righteous war.

Among these I recognised Mrs. John A. Logan, Miss Mabel Boardman, Mrs. Lindon Bates, Mrs. Mary S. Lockwood, Mrs. Seymour L. Cromwell, Miss Alice Hill Chittenden, Mrs. Oliver Herford, Mrs. Hobart Chatfield-Taylor, Mrs. John Temple Graves, Mrs. Edwin Gould, Mrs. George Dewey, Mrs. William Cumming Story, Mrs. George Harvey, Mrs. Thomas A. Edison, Mrs. William C. Potter, Miss Marie Van Vorst, Mrs. Arthur M. Dodge, Mrs. George J. Gould, Mrs. T. J. Oakley Rhinelander, Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt, Mrs. John Jacob Astor, Mrs. Peter Cooper Hewitt, Mrs. M. Orme Wilson, Mrs. Simon Baruch, Mrs. Oliver Herford, Mrs. Wm. Reynolds Brown, and Mrs. Douglas Robinson.

When this storm had subsided, Henry Ford rose to renew the pacifist attack.

“It shocks and grieves me,” he began, “to find American women openly advocating the killing of human beings.”

“Where would your business be,” yelled a voice in the gallery, “if George Washington hadn’t fought the War of the Revolution?”

This sally called forth such frantic cheers that Mr. Ford was unable to make himself heard and sat down in confusion.

Other speakers were Jane Addams, Hudson Maxim, Bernard Ridder and William Jennings Bryan. The audience sat listless as the old arguments and recriminations, the old facts and fallacies, were laid before them. Like the nation, they seemed plunged in a stupor of indifference. They were asleep.

Then suddenly fell the bomb from heaven. It was during the mild applause following Mr. Bryan’s pacifist appeal, that I had a premonition of some momentous happening. I was in the press gallery quite near to Theodore Roosevelt, the next speaker, who was seated at the end of the platform, busy with his notes, when a messenger came out from behind the stage and handed the Colonel a telegram. As he read it I saw a startling change. Roosevelt put aside his notes and a strange tense look came into his eyes and, presently, when he rose to speak, I saw that his usually ruddy face was ashen grey.

As Roosevelt rose, another messenger thrust a wet, ink-stained newspaper into his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, and in his first words there was a sense of impending danger, “for reasons of the utmost importance I shall not deliver the speech that I have prepared. I have a brief message, a very grave message, that will reach your hearts more surely than any words of mine. The deliberations of this great gathering have been taken out of our hands. We have nothing more to discuss, for Almighty God has spoken!

“My friends, the great man who was with us but now, the President of the United States, has been assassinated.”

No words can describe the scene that followed. A moment of smiting silence, then madness, hysteria, women fainting, men clamouring and cursing, and finally a vast upsurging of quickened souls, as the organ pealed forth: “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee,” and forty thousand Americans rose and sang their hearts out.

Then, in a silence of death, Roosevelt spoke again:

“Listen to the last words of the President of the United States: ‘_The Union! The Flag!_’ That is what he lived for and died for, that is what he loved. ‘_The Union! The Flag!_’

“My friends, they say patriotism is dead in this land. They say we are eaten up with love of money, tainted with a yellow streak that makes us afraid to fight. It’s a lie! I am ready to give every dollar I have in the world to help save this nation and it’s the same with you men. Am I right?”

A roar of shouts and hysterical yells shook the building.

“I am sixty years old, but I’ll fight in the trenches with my four sons beside me and you men will do the same. Am I right?”

Again came a roar that could be heard across Chicago.

“We all make mistakes. I do nothing but make mistakes, but I’m sorry. I have said hard things about public men, especially about German-Americans, but I’m sorry.”

With a noble gesture he turned to Bernard Ridder, who sprang to meet him, his eyes blazing with loyalty.

“There are no German-Americans!” shouted Ridder. “We’re all Americans! Americans!”

He clasped Roosevelt’s hand while the audience shouted its delight.

Quick on his feet came Charles Edward Russell, fired with the same resistless patriotism.

“There are no more socialists!” he cried. “No more proletariat! We’re all Americans! We’ll all fight for the Union and the old flag! _You too!_”

He turned to William Jennings Bryan, who rose slowly and with outstretched hands faced his adversaries.

“I, too, have made mistakes and I am sorry. I, too, feel the grandeur of those noble words spoken by that great patriot who has sent us his last message. I, too, will stand by the flag in this time of peril and will spare neither my life nor my fortune so long as the invader’s foot rests on the soil of free America.”

“Americans!” shouted Roosevelt, the sweat streaming from his face. “Look!” He caught Bryan by one arm and Russell by the other. “See how we stand together. All the rest is forgotten. Americans! Brothers! On your feet everybody! Yell it out to the whole land, to the whole world, America is awake! Thank God, America is awake!”

CHAPTER XXII

ON CHRISTMAS EVE BOSTON THEILLS THE NATION WITH AN ACT OF MAGNIFICENT HEROISM

Now all over America came a marvellous spiritual awakening. The sacrifice of the President’s noble life, and his wife’s thrilling effort to shield her husband, was not in vain. Once more the world knew the resistless power of a martyr’s death. Women and men alike were stirred to warlike zeal and a joy in national sacrifice and service. The enlistment officers were swamped with a crush of young and old, eager to join the colours; and within three days following the President’s assassination a million soldiers were added to the army of defence and a million more were turned away. It was no longer a question how to raise a great American army, but how to train and equip it, and how to provide it with officers.

Most admirable was the behaviour of the great body of German-Americans; in fact it was a German-American branch of the American Defence Society, financed in America, that started the beautiful custom, which became universal, of wearing patriotic buttons bearing the sacred words: _”The Union! The Flag!”_

“It was one thing,” wrote Bernard Ridder in the Chicago _Staats-Zeitung_, “for German-Americans to side with Germany in the great European war (1914-1919) when only our sympathies were involved. It is quite a different thing for us now in a war that involves our homes and our property, all that we have in the world. When Germany attacks America, she attacks German-Americans, she attacks us in our material interests, in our fondest associations; and we will resist her just as in 1776 the American colonists, who were really English, resisted England, the mother country, when she attacked them in the same way.”

I was impressed by the truth of this statement during a visit that I made to Milwaukee, where I found greatly improved conditions. In fact, German-Americans themselves were bringing to light the activities of German spies and vigorously opposing German propaganda.

In Allentown, Pennsylvania, which has a large German population, I heard of a German-American mother named Roth, who was so zealous in her loyalty to the United States that she rose at five o’clock on the day following the President’s assassination and enlisted her three sons before they were out of bed.

In Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Cleveland and other cities women volunteered by thousands as postmen, street-car conductors, elevator operators and for service in factories and business houses, so as to release the men for military service. Chicago newspapers printed pictures of Mrs. Harold F. McCormick, Mrs. J. Ogden Armour, Mrs. J. Clarence Webster and other prominent society women in blue caps and improvised uniforms, ringing up fares on the Wabash Avenue cars for the sake of the example they would set to others.

In San Francisco, Denver, Portland, Oregon, Omaha, and Salt Lake City a hundred thousand women, at gatherings of women’s clubs and organisations, formally joined the Women’s National War Economy League and pledged themselves as follows:

“We, the undersigned American women, in this time of national need and peril, do hereby promise:

“(1) To buy no jewelry or useless ornaments for one year and to contribute the amount thus saved (from an average estimated allowance) to the Women’s National War Fund.

“(2) To buy only two hats a year, the value of said hats not to exceed ten dollars, and to contribute the amount thus saved (from an average estimated allowance) to the Women’s National War Fund.

“(3) To buy only two dresses a year, the value of said dresses not to exceed sixty dollars, and to contribute the amount thus saved (from an average estimated allowance) to the Women’s National War Fund.

“(4) To forego all entertaining at restaurants, all formal dinner and luncheon parties and to contribute the amount thus saved (from an average estimated allowance) to the Women’s National War Fund.

“(5) To abstain from cocktails, highballs and all expensive wines, also from cigarettes, to influence husbands, fathers, brothers, sons and men friends to do the same, and to contribute the amount thus saved to the Women’s National War Fund.

“(6) To keep this pledge until the invader has been driven from the soil of free America.”

I may mention that Mrs. Harriot Stanton Blatch, in urging her sister women at various mass meetings to sign this pledge, made the impressive estimate that, by practising these economies during a two years’ war, a hundred thousand well-to-do American women might save a _thousand million dollars_.

Other American women, under the leadership of Mrs. Mary Logan Tucker, daughter of General John A. Logan, prepared themselves for active field service at women’s military camps, in several states, where they were instructed in bandage making, first-aid service, signalling and the use of small arms.

As weeks passed the national spirit grew stronger, stimulated by rousing speeches of Roosevelt, Russell and Bryan and fanned into full flame by Boston’s immortal achievement on December 24, 1921. On that day, by authorisation of General von Beseler, commanding the German force of occupation, a great crowd had gathered on Boston Common for a Christmas tree celebration with a distribution of food and toys for the poor of the city. In the Public Gardens near the statue of George Washington, Billy Sunday was making an address when suddenly, on the stroke of five, the bell in the old Park Street church and then the bells in all the churches of Boston began to toll.

It was a signal for an uprising of the people and was answered in a way that will fill a proud page of American history so long as human courage and love of liberty are honoured upon earth. In an instant every telephone wire in the city went dead, leaving the Germans cut off from communication among themselves. All traffic and business ceased as if by magic, all customary activities were put aside and, with the first clangour of the bells, the whole population poured into the streets and surged towards Boston Common by converging avenues, singing as they went.

Already a hundred thousand citizens were packed within this great enclosure, and guarding them were three thousand German, foot soldiers and a thousand horsemen in formidable groups, with rifles and machine guns ready–before the State House, before the Soldiers’ Monument, along Tremont Street and Boylston Street and at other strategic points. Never in the history of the world had an unarmed, untrained mob prevailed over such a body of disciplined troops. The very thought was madness. And yet–

Hark! That roar of voices in the Public Gardens! What is it? A band playing in the distance? Who ordered a band to play? German officers shout harsh commands. “Back!” “Stand back!” “Stop this pushing of the crowd!” “_Mein Gott!_ Those women and children will be trampled by the horses!”

Alas, that is true! Once more the cause of American liberty requires that Boston Common be hallowed by American blood. The people of this New England city are tired of German rule. They want their city for themselves and are going to take it. Guns or not, soldiers or not, they are going to take their city.

Listen! They are coming! Six hundred thousand strong in dense masses that choke every thoroughfare from wall to wall the citizens of Boston, women and children with the men, are coming! And singing!

“Hurrah! Hurrah! We sound the jubilee! Hurrah! Hurrah! The flag that set us free.”

They are practically unarmed, although some of the men carry shot-guns, pistols, rifles, clubs, stones; but they know these will avail little against murderous machine guns. They know they must find strength in their weakness and overwhelm the enemy by the sheer weight of their bodies. They must stun the invaders by their willingness to die. That is the only real power of this Boston host, their sublime willingness to die.

It is estimated that five thousand of them did die, and ten thousand were wounded, in the first half hour after the German machine guns opened fire. And still the Americans came on in a shouting, surging multitude, a solid sea of bodies with endless rivers of bodies pouring in behind them. It is not so easy to kill forty acres of human bodies, even with machine guns!

Endlessly the Americans came on, hundreds falling, thousands replacing them, until presently the Germans ceased firing, either in horror at this incredible sacrifice of life or because their ammunition was exhausted. What chance was there for German ammunition carts to force their way through that struggling human wall? What chance for the fifteen hundred German reserves in Franklin Park to bring relief to their comrades?

At eight o’clock that night Boston began her real Christmas eve celebration. Over the land, over the world the joyful tidings were flashed. Boston had heard the call of the martyred President and answered it. The capital of Massachusetts was free. The Stars and Stripes were once more waving over the Bunker Hill Monument. Four thousand German soldiers were prisoners in Mechanics Hall on Commonwealth Avenue. _The citizens of Boston had taken them prisoners with their bare hands!_

This news made an enormous sensation not only in America but throughout Europe, where Boston’s heroism and scorn of death aroused unmeasured admiration and led military experts in France and England to make new prophecies regarding the outcome of the German-American war.

“All things are possible,” declared a writer in the Paris _Temps_, “for a nation fired with a supreme spiritual zeal like that of the Japanese Samurai. It is simply a question how widely this sacred fire has spread among the American people.”

CHAPTER XXIII

CONFESSIONS OF AN AMERICAN SPY AND BRAVERY OF BUFFALO SCHOOLBOYS

On December 26th I received a cable from the London _Times_ instructing me to try for another interview with the Crown Prince and to question him on the effect that this Boston victory might have upon the German campaign in America. Would there be retaliatory measures? Would German warships bombard Boston from the sea?

I journeyed at once to Chicago and made my appeal to Brigadier General George T. Langhorne, who had been military attache at Berlin in 1915 and was now in charge of the Imperial prisoner. The Crown Prince and his staff occupied the seventh floor of the Hotel Blackstone.

“I’m sorry,” said General Langhorne, after he had presented my request. “The Crown Prince has no statement to make at present. But there is another German prisoner who wishes to speak to you. I suppose it’s all right as you have General Wood’s permission. He says he has met you before–Colonel von Dusenberg.”

“Colonel von Dusenberg?”

“He is on the Crown Prince’s staff. In here.” I opened a heavy door and found myself in a large dimly lighted room.

“Mr. Langston!”

The voice was familiar and, turning, I stared in amazement; for there, dressed as an officer of the Prussian guard, stood the man I had rescued in the Caribbean Sea, the brother of the girl I had seen in Washington, Lieutenant Randolph Ryerson of the United States navy. He had let his moustache grow, but I recognised him at once.

“You?” I stood looking at him and saw that his face was deathly white.

“Yes. I–I’m in trouble and–I have things to tell you,” he stammered. “Sit down.”

I sat down and lighted a cigarette. I kept thinking how much he looked like his sister.

“Ryerson, what the devil are you doing in that Prussian uniform?”

He turned away miserably, then he forced himself to face me.

“I’ll get the worst over first. I don’t care what happens to me and–anyway I–I’m a spy.”

“A spy?”

He nodded. “In the service of the Germans. It was through me they knew about Widding’s invention to destroy their fleet. It was through me that Edison and Widding were abducted. I meant to disappear–that’s why I joined von Hindenburg’s army, but–we were captured and–here I am.” He looked at me helplessly as I blew out a cloud of smoke.

“How is this possible? How did it happen? How, Ryerson?” I gasped in amazement.

He shook his head. “What’s the use? It was money and–there’s a woman in it.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all. I fell for one of their damnable schemes to get information. It was three years ago on the Mediterranean cruise of our Atlantic squadron. I met this woman in Marseilles.”

“Well?”

“She called herself the Countess de Matignon, and–I was a young lieutenant and–I couldn’t resist her. Nobody could. She wanted money and I gave her all I had; then I gambled to get more. She wanted information about the American fleet, about our guns and coast defences; unimportant things at first, but pretty soon they were important and–I was crazy about her and–swamped with debts and–I yielded. Within six months she owned me. I was a German spy, mighty well paid, too. God!”

I stared at him in dismay. I could not speak.

“Well, after the war broke out between Germany and America last April, this woman came to New York and got her clutches on me deeper than ever. I gave her some naval secrets, and six weeks ago I told her all I knew about Widding’s invention. You see what kind of a dog I am,” he concluded bitterly.

“Ryerson, why have you told me this?” I asked searchingly.