A man always has two reasons for
what he does—a good reason, and the real one.
J. P. Morgan
NEW YORK CITY
WINTER 1908
THIRTY-TWO YEARS LATER
J. P. Morgan stood at a window of his Manhattan townhouse
and watched his two guests alight from separate horse-drawn carriages. Neither
was aware he was about to help plan the assassination of the outgoing president
of the United States.
Andrew Carnegie, aging steel tycoon and the wealthiest man
in the world, emerged from his plain black coach accompanied by a grey-coated
footman who brushed snow from the old man’s cape and lent an arm for support.
Behind him, William Randolph Hearst emerged unassisted from a gold-trimmed
carriage as large and gaudy as Carnegie’s was plain. Ignoring the wind and the
cold, the newspaper publisher lifted his chin toward lower Manhattan as if to
survey a tiny portion of his rapidly growing dominion. Then turning toward the townhouse,
he mounted the snow-covered stairs two at a time.
Inside, a uniformed butler ushered Hearst and Carnegie into
the library, while another brought hot cider in a silver pitcher to the
teetotaler Carnegie, and a Cointreau to the newspaperman Hearst.
“Gentleman,” said J. P. Morgan when the butler had finished
serving libations and closed the twenty-foot high mahogany doors behind him.
“Our esteemed and soon to be ex-president, Theodore Roosevelt, has decided to
follow George Washington’s example and not run for a third term. When he leaves
office in a few weeks, he will lead an expedition to Africa to collect
specimens of various game animals for the Smithsonian Museum and the New York
Museum of Natural History.”
“Hear, hear,” said Hearst.
Carnegie fixed a rheumy eye on Morgan and said nothing.
“The museum sponsors will be content if our beloved
president slaughters a sufficient number of beasts to fill their exhibit halls,
but we, the financial and journalistic backers of the Roosevelt safari, have
different measures of success. I’ve asked you here so that we might discuss
what we hope to gain from our respective investments of money and newsprint, to
help each other if possible, and, at a minimum, to avoid working at cross
purposes.”
Carnegie put down his cup of hot cider and waved a bony
finger at Morgan. “We know what you want, Pierpont: Roosevelt out of the
country for a year so you can work with his successor to undo all that
trust-busting nonsense. If he should take up with some African princess and
never come back, so much the better!”
Morgan inclined his head. “Indeed, Andrew. I believe our
cowboy president to be a fool of the worst kind: capable, energetic, convinced
of his own myopic wisdom, enormously popular, and damn near unstoppable. But as
long as he intends to gift the country with a temporary respite from his
overbearing personality, I would like to use that gift to good purpose. As do
you.”
Carnegie drove the tip of his mahogany cane into the Persian
rug at his feet. “Yes. To put those fine qualities you just listed to work for
a higher purpose—peace and progress.”
Morgan cocked his head.
“Unlike you, Pierpont, I’m fond of our presidential cyclone.
He doesn’t understand business. We all know that. But he’s a force of nature.
Unstoppable. Once he’s out of office, I want to harness that force on behalf of
progress.”
Hearst placed his Cointreau on the small rosewood table at
his side. “What did you have in mind, Andrew?”
“World peace. As I’ve said and written.”
Hearst laughed. “Theodore Roosevelt? Cowboy, Rough Rider,
builder of the Great White Fleet? He’s a warmonger, sir.”
“You should talk!” Carnegie snapped.
The self-assured young publisher seemed to enjoy provoking
the older Carnegie, but Morgan needed both for what he had in mind.
Carnegie ignored Hearst and addressed himself to Morgan.
“The Swedes gave Roosevelt their Nobel Prize for helping the Russians and
Japanese mend their differences after Port Arthur. I want him do the same with
the Kaiser, the French, and the British. To talk them out of their disastrous
arms race. In exchange for my paying half the safari’s costs, our peace-loving
president has agreed to stop in Berlin on his way back from Africa to meet with
the German Kaiser. What I want, since you ask, are arrangements for his
protection. I don’t care to spend a small fortune financing the largest safari
in history, only to have some savage put an end to world peace with the point
of a spear.”
Morgan exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and watched it rise
toward the Mowbray mural overhead. “U.S. Steel has the Pinkertons on permanent
hire. I can arrange for them to guard President Roosevelt while he’s on safari.
But is another European war such a bad thing? For America, I mean.”
Carnegie choked on his cider, glaring sideways at Hearst and
then at Morgan. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a warmonger, too, Pierpont! I’ve
spent half my life making steel and watching the god-awful things people do to
each other with it. Do you know that there’s a cannon now that can hurl a
hundred-pound shell thirty miles and level a whole city block? Guns that can
fire a thousand bullets a minute? Modern war is insanity!”
Morgan exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it rise toward
the ceiling. “You misunderstand me, Andrew. I’ve read your books and I admire
your principles. But the American economy is now as strong as any in Europe. If England, France and Germany get into another
war and America stays out, that may be our nation’s chance to finally fulfill
its destiny: to become the dominant global power and reap the rewards that go
with it.”
Carnegie shook his head in disappointment.
Hearst rolled a cut glass tumbler between his palms and
smiled. “An interesting point, Mr. Morgan. But I must confess that my
newspapers are more experienced at promoting foreign wars than keeping us out
of them.”
“A legacy I wouldn’t want to defend when my time came,”
Carnegie muttered.
Morgan raised a hand. “What does Congressman Hearst see as a
satisfactory outcome to the Roosevelt safari? Or Publisher Hearst, if you
prefer.”
The newspaperman put down his drink. “They’re the same.
Congressman and publisher both want an African version of the Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. Ivory-fanged lions and
dark African maidens. Not a word on domestic politics or global affairs.
Theodore Roosevelt returns from Africa as famous as ever, but as a gaudy
adventurer, not a serious politician. My newspapers will sell a million copies,
and no one will consider Roosevelt a serious candidate if he decides to run for
president again in 1912. Remember, his pledge was not to run for a third consecutive term. He left the door wide open for
another nonconsecutive term.”
“Do you have someone else in mind for the position,
Randolph?”
Hearst smiled and remained silent. Morgan knew perfectly
well who the Hearst newspapers planned to promote as the next president of the
United States—their owner and publisher, William Randolph Hearst.
Lighting his twentieth cigar of the day, Morgan tossed the
cutting into a fifteenth-century Italian marble fireplace deep enough to roast
several of Roosevelt’s African big game animals together. “Well gentlemen, our
views of a successful African safari may differ, but our actions needn’t interfere
with one another. I will arrange protection for Citizen Roosevelt to see that
he comes to no harm before he can meet with the German Kaiser on behalf of
world peace. I will use the coming months to educate the incoming
administration on the benefits of a less hostile relationship with business.
Mr. Hearst’s newspapers will provide ample coverage of African animal
slaughter, but not a drop of ink about our former president’s idiotic views on
global economics or business regulation. As long as we get what we want, Mr.
Carnegie and I will continue to provide the Smithsonian with funds to pay for
this enormous undertaking. Are we agreed?”
Hearst raised his tumbler. Carnegie nodded. Morgan
suppressed a smile.
