Moryak

Chapter 5

5Aboard the RMS Oceanic

Mid-Atlantic Ocean

September 1905

Lieutenant Junior Grade Stephen Morrison felt odd to be dining aboard ship with civilians. The luxurious first class dining room of the Oceanic was a far cry from the spartan wardrooms of the United States Navy vessels on which he had served. However, on this night, he dined in civilian formal attire, sitting with seven other complete strangers. He had boarded the ship in New York City for the trans-Atlantic crossing to England. His ultimate destination would be the Royal Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth, England. His orders had him reporting directly to the office of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir John “Jacky” Fisher. Although his official orders called for him to be in England for four weeks, the British naval authorities had been notified that they would be hosting the representative from the United States Navy for a week. His assignment would end after the keel-laying ceremony for the new battleship, HMS Dreadnought.

Shortly after the Portsmouth Peace Conference, President Roosevelt notified Bonaparte that he wanted to meet Lieutenant Morrison, the young officer who had so impressed him at the briefing on Russia. “I’m sending him to meet with the British to study the new battleship they are constructing. He was personally recommended to me by my aide, Commander Sims, you know.” In their private meeting, Roosevelt tasked Stephen Morrison with the assignment of liaison officer to the Royal Navy for a week. Only after swearing him to secrecy did Roosevelt inform him of the mission to Russia.

“You are certainly free to turn down this assignment, Lieutenant. Nothing unfavorable will reflect on you if you decline. After all, you and I are the only two people in America who know about this mission. However, I do believe you are uniquely qualified for this assignment. In fact, given your background, your knowledge of Russia, and your fluency in the language, I do not believe there is a better qualified man in the entire country than you.” He gave Morrison until the next morning for his answer.

That night, Morrison stayed late at his office, weighing the pros and cons of accepting President Roosevelt’s assignment. Why do this? he thought to himself. My life is so good now. I have a wonderful wife and a great job. My career seems to be on track. Just when he seemed to have talked himself out of the job, he felt a sobering sense of responsibility start to gnaw at him. The president is right; I am probably the most qualified person in the country for this assignment. If not me, than who? How does one turn down a request from the president of the United States? Didn’t I take an oath when I was commissioned? He barely slept at all that night. The following morning, he notified the president that he would volunteer for the mission.

Breaking him out of his reverie, the bejeweled elderly lady to his left asked, “And what line of business are you in, Mr. Morrison?” All of the other diners at the table appeared to be members of the moneyed class of either England or the United States. The elderly woman eyed the young man, noticing that he was very clean cut with short hair, and that he had ramrod straight posture.

“I’m an officer in the United States Navy, ma’am. I’m stationed in Washington, and I’m currently headed to England on official business,” he replied as he sliced his filet mignon. She nodded approvingly and said, “Well, well, that sounds important!”

“Not really,” he remarked after sipping his red wine. “I’m going to be looking at a new battleship the British are building.” Morrison hoped she would not continue to question him throughout the dinner, but the other diners at the table began peppering him with questions. In a way, he felt as if he was back in Washington in his job with Secretary Bonaparte, having frequent opulent dinners with wealthy, important people.

After the main course, the questions stopped, much to his relief, and the conversation drifted to other topics. As the waiter placed their desserts on the table, his mind wandered back to two nights prior when he and Helen had dined with her father at his Georgetown home. It was during dessert that he informed them of his urgent assignment.

“England!” exclaimed Helen Morrison, “Why England? And why tomorrow? I don’t understand. What is so urgent that only you can be assigned to this mission? I thought you’d be safely tucked away here working for Secretary Bonaparte. That’s what we both thought! And how can he spare you for all that time away? For an entire month!”

Both she and her father stared at him with a mixture of confusion and disappointment in their eyes. “She’s right, Stephen. This is sort of sudden, isn’t it?” asked his father-in-law. “What is this urgent assignment that you are being given?”

He placed his knife and fork down and smiled back at them. “Well, you both must understand. Because of my background in naval gunnery, I apparently have the unique skill sets that Secretary Bonaparte wants for this assignment. I don’t know if you’ve been following it in the news, but the British are about to build this new class of battleship that is revolutionary. We’ve truly never seen anything like it. They are calling it the Dreadnought. It is the brainchild of their First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir John Fisher. You remember meeting him earlier this year, darling? He was quite the dancer at the embassy reception.” Helen nodded in acknowledgement as Morrison continued. “It’s going to be an all big-gun ship, featuring only twelve-inch guns in rotating turrets, and it will be powered by the new turbine engines that will allow it to achieve speeds that have been unheard of before now.”

“That’s all very good, Stephen,” interrupted Helen, “but you still haven’t answered our question. Why you? Why does it have to be you?”

“Actually, it’s quite a personal honor,” he answered. “Admiral Sir Fisher has personally requested me as his gunnery expert, among other things. On his staff is Captain Percy Scott, the British officer who taught Commander William Sims the technique of continuous-aim firing. Sims has strongly recommended to President Roosevelt that I be assigned this task. They are concerned with the placement of the gun turrets. On the ships we are planning, Commander Sims would like them to be superimposed forward and aft, with one turret above and slightly behind the other in each position. Some of the British experts believe that the lower turrets in this arrangement cannot be manned when the upper one is firing. We, in fact, are committed to try this technique on two battleships that we’re building. Lord Fisher may need me to personally testify before his committee on designs.”

After a few moments of silence, his wife asked, “How long will you be away, really?”

“Oh, it should only be five weeks, six weeks tops. You know how these political processes can play out.”

This cover story, of course, contained a kernel of truth. Designed by President Roosevelt, it provided a credible rationale for Morrison’s trip to England. The mission planning had been unknowingly assisted by Secretary Bonaparte and his own naval aide, Commander William Sims. Passage was booked on the Oceanic for England, and arrangements had been made with the British admiralty. As he now sat dining with seven other wealthy strangers, he really had no desire for their idle chatter. In his mind, he repeatedly reviewed the broad outlines of the assignment for which he had volunteered. He recalled his final conversation with the president.

Roosevelt had made it crystal clear that if something went wrong, if Morrison was caught in the act of carrying out this mission, or if he was killed, he would have nothing identifying him as an agent of the United States government, or as an officer in the United States Navy. If he were identified as an American, the United States government would disavow any knowledge of him or his actions. Morrison would simply disappear. Roosevelt stressed this point repeatedly, almost as if he couldn’t believe that anyone who truly understood the consequences would volunteer for this mission.

Morrison knew that Roosevelt would never truly understand his reasons. In addition to his sense of duty, Morrison couldn’t deny to himself that there were personal reasons for accepting the mission. The thought of returning to his native Russia provoked ambivalent feelings. He harbored both a desire to destroy the country that had persecuted and driven his family out, yet he also felt that this was a chance to effect positive changes in Russia. In addition, there was always his ever-present desire to be the consummate American naval officer. If I am honest with myself, he had reasoned, if I can pull this assignment off, I’ll no longer just be the rabbi’s boy, the outsider. With success will come acceptance…

“And so,” exclaimed the distinguished gentleman in the white Vandyke beard, sitting opposite Morrison. “Let us lift up our glasses and let me propose a toast!” Numerous cries of “Here! Here!” erupted around the table. The wine steward proceeded to fill all of the glasses, and as all the diners raised their glasses, the gentleman continued. “To much health and happiness, to peace and prosperity. And a special toast to President Theodore Roosevelt. I have it on good authority that he may well win the Nobel Peace Prize.” Immediately after all the diners clinked glasses with one another, they all downed their expensive wine.

Yes, thought Morrison to himself as he savored the wine, to President Roosevelt, who is doing more for world peace than any of you will ever know.