DESPERATE EFFORT TO RESCUE THOMAS A. EDISON FROM THE GERMANS
I wish I might detail my experiences during the next fortnight, how I was
guarded from the Germans (they had put a price on my head) by kind
friends in Brooklyn, notably Mrs. Anne P. L. Field, the Sing-Sing angel,
who contrived my escape through the German lines of occupation with the
help of a swift motor boat and two of her convict protégés.
We landed in Newark one dark night after taking desperate chances on the
bay and running a gauntlet of German sentries who fired at us repeatedly.
Then, thanks to my old friend, Francis J. Swayze of the United States
Supreme Court, I was passed along across northern New Jersey, through
Dover, where “Pop” Losee, the eloquent ice man evangelist, saved me from
Prussians guarding the Picatinny arsenal, then through Allentown, Pa.,
where Editor Roth swore to a suspicious German colonel that I was one of
his reporters, and, finally, by way of Harrisburg to Pittsburg, where at
last I was safe.
To my delight I found Randolph Ryerson anxiously awaiting my arrival and
eager to proceed with our plan to rescue Edison. We set forth for
Richmond the next day, January 16th, 1922, in a racing automobile and
proceeded with the utmost caution, crossing the mountains of West
Virginia and Virginia by night to avoid the sentries of both armies.
Twice, being challenged, we drove on unheeding at furious speed and
escaped in the darkness, although shots were fired after us.
As morning broke on January 20th we had our first view of the
seven-hilled city on the James, with its green islands and its tumbling
muddy waters. We knew that Richmond was held by the Germans, and as we
approached their lines I realised the difficulty of my position, for I
was now obliged to trust Ryerson absolutely and let him make use of his
credentials from the Crown Prince which presented him as an American spy
in the German service. He introduced me as his friend and a person to be
absolutely trusted, which practically made me out a spy also. It was
evident that, unless we succeeded in our mission, I had compromised
myself gravely. Ryerson was reassuring, however, and declared that
everything would be all right.
We took a fine suite at the Hotel Jefferson, where we found German
officers in brilliant uniforms strolling about the great rotunda or
refreshing themselves with pipes and beer in the palm room nearthe white
marble statue of Thomas Jefferson.
“If you’ll excuse me now for a few hours,” said Ryerson, who seemed
rather nervous, “I will get the information we need from some of these
fellows. Let us meet here at dinner.”
During the afternoon I drove about this peaceful old city with its
gardens and charming homes and was allowed to approach the threatening
siege guns which the Germans had set up on the broad esplanade of
Monument Avenue between the equestrian statue of Robert E. Lee and the
tall white shaft that bears the heroic figure of Jefferson Davis. These
guns were trained upon the gothic tower of the city hall and upon the
cherished grey pile of the Capitol, with its massive columns and its
shaded park where grey squirrels play about the famous statue of George
Washington.
My driver told me thrilling stories of the fighting here when Field
Marshal von Mackensen marched his army into Richmond. Alas for this proud
Southern city! What could she hope to do against 150,000 German
soldiers? For the sake of her women and children she decided to do
nothing officially, but the Richmond “Blues” had their own ideas and a
crowd of Irish patriots from Murphy’s Hotel had theirs, and when the
German army, with bands playing and eagles flying, came tramping down
Broad Street, they were halted presently by four companies of eighty men
each in blue uniforms and white plumed hats drawn up in front of the
statues of Stonewall Jackson and Henry Clay ready to die here on this
pleasant autumn morning rather than have this most sacred spot in the
South desecrated by an invader. And die here they did or fell wounded,
the whole body of Richmond “Blues,” under Colonel W. J. Kemp, while their
band played “Dixie” and the old Confederate flags waved over them.
As for the Irishmen, it seems that they marched in a wild and cursing mob
to the churchyard of old St. John’s where Patrick Henry hurled his famous
defiance at the British and in the same spirit--“Give me liberty or give
me death”--they fought until they could fight no longer.
As we drove through East Franklin Street I was startled to see a German
flag flying over the honoured home of Robert E. Lee and a German sentry
on guard before the door. I was told that prominent citizens of Richmond
were held here as hostages, among these being Governor Richard Evelyn
Byrd, John K. Branch, Oliver J. Sands, William H. White, Bishop R. A.
Gibson, Bishop O’Connell, Samuel Cohen and Mayor Jacob Umlauf who, in
spite of his German descent, had proved himself a loyal American.
I finished the afternoon at a Red Cross bazaar held in the large
auditorium on Gary Street under the patronage of Mrs. Norman B. Randolph,
Mrs. B. B. Valentine, Miss Jane Rutherford and other prominent Richmond
ladies. I made several purchases, including a cane made from a plank of
Libby prison and a stone paper weight from Edgar Allan Poe’s boyhood home
on Fifth Street.
Leaving the bazaar, I turned aimlessly into a quiet shaded avenue and was
wondering what progress Ryerson might be making with his investigations,
when I suddenly saw the man himself on the other side of the way, talking
earnestly with a young woman of striking beauty and of foreign
appearance. She might have been a Russian or an Austrian.
There was something in this unexpected meeting that filled me with a
vague alarm. Who was this woman? Why was Ryerson spending time with her
that was needed for our urgent business? I felt indignant at this lack of
seriousness on his part and, unobserved, I followed the couple as they
climbed a hill leading to a little park overlooking the river, where they
seated themselves on a bench and continued their conversation.
Presently I passed so close to them that Ryerson could not fail to see me
and, pausing at a short distance, I looked back at him. He immediately
excused himself to his fair companion and joined me. He was evidently
annoyed.
“Wait here,” he whispered. “I’ll be back.”
With that he rejoined the lady and immediately escorted her down the
hill. It was fully an hour before he returned and I saw he had regained
his composure.
“I suppose you are wondering who that lady was?” he began lightly.
“Well, yes, just a little. Is she the woman you told me about--the
countess?”
“No, no! But she’s a very remarkable person,” he explained. “She is known
in every capital of Europe. They say the German government pays her fifty
thousand dollars a year.”
“She’s quite a beauty,” said I.
He looked at me sharply. “I suppose she is, but that’s not the point.
She’s at the head of the German secret service work in America. She knows
all about Edison.”
“Oh!”
“She has told me where he is. That’s why we came up here. Do you see that
building?”
I followed his gesture across the valley and on a hill opposite saw a
massive brick structure with many small windows, and around it a high
white painted wall.
“Well?”
“That’s the state penitentiary. Edison is there in the cell that was once
occupied by Aaron Burr--you remember--when he was tried for treason?”
All this was said in so straightforward a manner that I felt ashamed of
my doubts and congratulated my friend warmly on his zeal and success.
“Just the same, you didn’t like it when you saw me with that woman--did
you?” he laughed.
I acknowledged my uneasiness and, as we walked back to the hotel, spoke
earnestly with Ryerson about the grave responsibility that rested upon
us, upon me equally with him. I begged him to justify his sister’s faith
and love and to rise now with all his might to this supreme duty and
opportunity.
He seemed moved by my words and assured me that he would do the right
thing, but when I pressed him to outline our immediate course of action,
he became evasive and irritable and declared that he was tired and needed
a night’s rest before going into these details.
As I left him at the door of his bedroom I noticed a bulky and strongly
corded package on the table and asked what it was, whereupon, in a flash
of anger, he burst into a tirade of reproach, saying that I did not trust
him and was prying into his personal affairs, all of which increased my
suspicions.
“I must insist on knowing what is in that package,” I said quietly. “You
needn’t tell me now, because you’re not yourself, but in the morning we
will take up this whole affair. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he answered sullenly.
Here was a bad situation, and for hours I did not sleep, asking myself if
I had made a ghastly mistake in trusting Ryerson. Was his sister’s
sacrifice to be in vain? Was the man a traitor still, in spite of
everything?
Towards three o’clock I fell into fear-haunted dreams, but was presently
awakened by a quick knocking at my door and, opening, I came face to face
with my companion, who stood there fully dressed.
“For God’s sake let me come in.” He looked about the room nervously.
“Have you anything to drink?”
I produced a flask of Scotch whiskey and he filled half a glass and
gulped it down. Then he drew a massive iron key from his pocket and threw
it on the bed.
“Whatever happens, keep that. Don’t let me have it.”
I picked up the key and looked at it curiously. It was about four inches
long and very heavy.
“Why don’t you want me to let you have it?”
“Because it unlocks a door that would lead me to--hell,” he cried
fiercely. Then he reached for the flask.
“No, no! You’ve had enough,” I said, and drew the bottle out of his
reach. “Randolph, you know I’m your friend, don’t you? Look at me! Now
what’s the matter? What door are you talking about?”
“The door to a wing of the prison where Edison is.”
“You said he was in Aaron Burr’s cell.”
“He’s been moved to another part of the building. That woman arranged
it.”
“Why?”
He looked at me in a silence of shame, then he forced himself to speak.
“So I could carry out my orders”
“Orders? Not--not German orders?”
He nodded stolidly.
“I’m under her orders--it’s the same thing. I can’t help it. I can’t
stand against her.”
“Then she _is_ the countess?”
He bowed his head slowly.
“Yes. I meant to play fair. I would have played fair, but--the
Germans put this woman on our trail when we left Chicago--they
mistrusted something and--” with a gesture of despair, “she found me
in Pittsburg--she--she’s got me. I don’t care for anything in the world
but that woman.”
“Randolph!”
“It’s true. I don’t want to live--without her. You needn’t cock up your
eyes like that. I’d go back to her now--yes, by God, I’d do this thing
now, if I could.”
He had worked himself into a frenzy of rage and pain, and I sat still
until he grew calm again.
“What thing? What is it she wants you to do?”
“Get rid of you to begin with,” he snapped out. “It’s easy enough. We go
to the prison--this key lets us in. I leave you in the cell with Edison
and--you saw that package in my room? It’s a bomb. I explode it under the
cell and--there you are!”
“You promised to do this?”
“Yes! I’m to get five thousand dollars.”
“But you didn’t do it, you stopped in time,” I said soothingly. “You’ve
told me the truth now and--we’ll see what we can do about it.”
He scowled at me.
“You’re crazy. We can’t do anything about it. The Germans are in control
of Richmond. They’re watching this hotel.”
Ryerson glanced at his watch.
“Half-past three. I have four hours to live.”
“What!”
“They’ll come for me at seven o’clock when they find I haven’t carried
out my orders, and I’ll be taken to the prison yard and--shot or--hanged.
It’s the best thing that can happen to me, but--I’m sorry for you.”
“See here, Ryerson,” I broke in. “If you’re such a rotten coward and liar
and sneak as you say you are, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you go
ahead with your bomb business?”
He sat rocking back and forth on the side of the bed, with his head bent
forward, his eyes closed and his lips moving in a sort of thick mumbling.
“I’ve tried to, but--it’s my sister. God! She won’t leave me alone. She
said she’d be praying for me and--all night I’ve seen her face. I’ve seen
her when we were kids together, playing around in the old home--with
Mother there and--oh, Christ!”
I pass over a desperate hour that followed. Ryerson tried to kill himself
and, when I took the weapon from him, he begged me to put an end to his
sufferings. Never until now had I realised how hard is the way of the
transgressor.
I have often wondered how this terrible night would have ended had not
Providence suddenly intervened. The city hall clock had just tolled five
when there came a volley of shots from the direction of Monument Avenue.
“What’s that?” cried my poor friend, his haggard face lighting.
We rushed to the window, where the pink and purple lights of dawn were
spreading over the spires and gardens of the sleeping city.
The shots grew in volume and presently we heard the dull boom of a siege
gun, then another and another.
“It’s a battle! They’re bombarding the city. Look!” He pointed towards
Capitol Square. “They’ve struck the tower of the city hall. And over
there! The gas works!” He swept his arm towards an angry red glow that
showed where another shell had found its target.
I shall not attempt to describe the burning of Richmond (for the third
time in its history) on this fateful day, January 20th, 1922, nor to
detail the horrors that attended the destruction of the enemy’s force of
occupation. Historians are agreed that the Germans must be held blameless
for firing on the city, since they naturally supposed this daybreak
attack upon their own lines to be an effort of the American army and
retaliated, as best they could, with their heavy guns.
It was days before the whole truth was known, although I cabled the
London _Times_ that night, explaining that the American army had nothing
to do with this attack, which was the work of an unorganised and
irresponsible band of ten or twelve thousand mountaineers gathered from
the wilds of Virginia, North Carolina and Kentucky and Tennessee.
They were moon-shiners, feudists, hilly-billies, small farmers and
basket-makers, men of lean and saturnine appearance, some of them horse
thieves, pirates of the forest who cared little for the laws of God or
man and fought as naturally as they breathed.
These men came without flags, without officers, without uniforms. They
crawled on their bellies and carried logs as shields. They knew and cared
nothing for military tactics and their strategy was that of the wild
Indian. They fought to kill and they took no prisoners. It seems that a
Virginia mountain girl had been wronged by a German officer and that was
enough.
For weeks the mountaineers had been advancing stealthily through the
wilderness, pushing on by night, hiding in the hills and forests by day;
and they had come the last fifty miles on foot, leaving their horses back
in the hills. They were armed with Winchester rifles, with old-time
squirrel rifles, with muzzle loaders having long octagonal barrels and
fired by cups. Some carried shot guns and cartridges stuffed with
buckshot and some poured in buckshot by the handful. They had no
artillery and they needed none.
The skill in marksmanship of these men is beyond belief, there is nothing
like it in the world. With a rifle they will shoot off a turkey’s head at
a hundred yards (this is a common amusement) and as boys, when they go
after squirrels, they are taught to hit the animals’ noses only so as not
to spoil the skins. It was such natural fighters as these that George
Washington led against the French and the Indians, when he saved the
wreck of Braddock’s army.
The Germans were beaten before they began to fight. They were surrounded
on two sides before they had the least idea that an enemy was near. Their
sentries were shot down before they could give the alarm and the first
warning of danger to the sleeping Teutons was the furious rush of ten
thousand wild men who came on and came on and came on, never asking
quarter and never giving it.
When the Germans tried to charge, the mountaineers threw themselves flat
on the ground and fought with the craft of Indians, dodging from tree to
tree, from rock to rock, but always advancing. When the Germans sent up
two of their scouting aeroplanes to report the number of the enemy’s
forces, the enemy picked off the German pilots before the machines were
over the tree tops. Here was a mixture of native savagery and efficiency,
plus the lynching spirit, plus the pre-revolutionary American spirit and
against which, with unequal numbers and complete surprise, no
mathematically trained European force had the slightest chance.
The attack began at five o’clock and at eight everything was over; the
Germans had been driven into the slough of Chickahominy swamp to the
northeast of Richmond (where McClellan lost an army) and slaughtered here
to the last man; whereupon the mountaineers, having done what they came
to do, started back to their mountains.
Meantime Richmond was burning, and my poor friend Ryerson and I were
facing new dangers.
“Come on!” he cried with new hope in his eyes. “We’ve got a chance, half
a chance.”
Our one thought now was to reach the prison before it was too late, and
we ran as fast as we could through streets that were filled with
terrified and scantily clad citizens who were as ignorant as we were of
what was really happening. A German guard at the prison gates recognised
Ryerson, and we passed inside just as a shell struck one of the tobacco
factories along the river below us with a violent explosion. A moment
later another shell struck the railway station and set fire to it.
Screams of terror arose from all parts of the prison, many of the inmates
being negroes, and in the general confusion, we were able to reach the
unused wing where Edison was confined.
“Give me that big key--quick,” whispered Ryerson. “Wait here.”
I obeyed and a few minutes later he beckoned to me excitedly from a
passageway that led into a central court yard, and I saw a white-faced
figure bundled in a long coat hurrying after him. It was Thomas A.
Edison.
Just then there came a rush of footsteps behind us with German shouts and
curses.
“They’re after us,” panted Randolph. “I’ve got two guns and I’ll hold ‘em
while you two make a break for it. Take this key. It opens a red door at
the end of this passage after you turn to the right. Run and--tell my
sister I--made good--at the last.”
I clasped his hand with a hurried “God bless you” and darted ahead. It
was our only chance and, even as we turned the corner of the passage,
Ryerson began to fire at our pursuers. I heard afterwards that he wounded
five and killed two of them. I don’t know whether that was the count, but
I know he held them until we made our escape out into the blazing city.
And I know he gave his life there with a fierce joy, realising that the
end of it, at least, was brave and useful.