The Anarchist

by John Smolens

  At one end of the high, domed temple a large pipe organ was being played, and a woman in line somewhere behind Czolgosz said, “That’s Bach’s Sonata in F.”

  “Are you certain, dear?” the man with her said.

  “Of course I am.”

  Czolgosz didn’t know what a sonata was and didn’t understand how someone could identify the key of a piece of music. He looked around once. The woman wore a white linen dress with a large rose perched atop her full bosom. The man with her had a gray beard and a monocle glinted from his right eye.

  A Negro with a thick mustache stood directly behind Czolgosz. The man stared straight ahead, as though he were afraid of attracting attention. Czolgosz realized that the security guards were looking at this black man very carefully. Two security men approached, but then they stopped and spoke to a man two places in front of Czolgosz. He was swarthy, with oiled dark hair—an Italian, from the sound of his accent—and they removed him from the line and guided him toward a side door.

  Behind Czolgosz, the man wearing the monocle said, “Which Bach?”

  “Johann Sebastian,” the woman said impatiently. “Really, Charles.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Behave,” she said. “You’re about to meet the president of the United States.”

  Czolgosz expected one of the guards to stop him at any moment—one of them must be curious about the handkerchief wrapped around his hand—and yet he continued to inch forward with the line of people. It was difficult, waiting. He considered shooting this man and woman behind him instead and being done with it. But he closed his eyes and concentrated on the music. In the darkness the lilting organ notes seemed to entwine and cascade, reverberating overhead. More than anything it was this black sonata that kept him calm as he waited for the moment that would change everything.

  When there were only three people ahead of him in line, he got a good look at McKinley, who stood before several large potted plants, backed by red, white, and blue bunting. He was surrounded by security men in suits. His stomach, covered by a white vest, was enormous. Each greeting was brief, a quick handshake and a few words. No one in the line really stopped moving; everyone just filed right by the president. When the man in front of Czolgosz stepped up to McKinley, the president said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming on such a warm afternoon.” The man walked off to his right and was ushered along by several men.

  Czolgosz couldn’t believe he’d gotten this close to the president. Oddly, it made him angry—what was wrong with all these people who were supposed to guard McKinley? But the queue continued to shuffle along the red carpet, as if only to show these men in uniform, many with rifles on their shoulders, for what idiots they were.

  When it was Czolgosz’s turn, the president extended his right arm and smiled, though his eyes appeared bored. Everything seemed settled. Czolgosz didn’t think but simply raised the gun and pulled the trigger. McKinley rose up on his toes and then leaned forward as though to keep his balance. No one moved. All the men around the president were still. The organ sonata stopped, the last notes echoing with the sound of the shot. A small flame rose from the hole in the handkerchief and smoke drifted back into Czolgosz’s face. It was not an unpleasant smell. He pulled the trigger again.

  Suddenly he was grabbed from behind—it was the Negro, his black hands clutching the front of his coat. Czolgosz tried to get another shot off, but he was knocked to the floor, with the Negro coming down on top of him. Then several soldiers stood over them, and though Czolgosz was being hit with fists and rifle butts, he could see a man help the president to a chair. There were shouts and screams throughout the Temple of Music. Czolgosz tasted blood in his mouth. Someone yanked the gun out of his hand and he expected to be killed immediately. He shouted, “I done my duty!”

  Someone punched him hard in the nose. He was stunned, and perhaps he had passed out for a moment because he suddenly realized that his arms had been bound behind his back.

  But he could still look up at the president, whose white vest was now covered with blood. His hands fumbled with the buttons. One of the men leaned over him. “Be careful about my wife—don’t tell her,” the president said. He stared down at Czolgosz, curious. He seemed relieved, even satisfied, as though some long-held concern had finally been resolved. His eyes became fond, and there was a moment when Czolgosz felt very close to him.

  The president said, “Go easy on him, boys.”

  HYDE was standing next to one of the mirror pools outside the Temple of Music when the two shots were fired. The huge crowd in the esplanade suddenly became quiet, alert—it reminded Hyde of cows in a field when an unexpected sound causes them to look up from grazing.

  A young man pushed his way out the temple doors. “He’s been shot!” he said. “The president’s been shot!”

  There were screams and shouts. A woman near Hyde fainted into the arms of two men. The crowd surged toward the Temple of Music, but a group of marines, carrying rifles with fixed bayonets, came outside and formed a barrier in front of the doors. Amid the jostling, people cried in each other’s arms.

  Hyde sat on the low retaining wall that surrounded the mirror pool. A newspaper boy stood nearby, a large burlap sack, heavy with the afternoon edition of the Courier, hanging from one shoulder.

  “Someone really shoot the president?” the boy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who would do that?”

  A faint mist came from the fountain in the center of the pool. Hyde’s hair became cool and damp. “I should have come straight here,” he said. “Going to Niagara Falls was a mistake.”

  “What?” the boy asked.

  “It makes sense that Czolgosz would do it here.”

  “Show-gosh?”

  “By tomorrow everyone will be able to pronounce his name. You’ll see it in the next edition of your paper.” Hyde nodded toward the bag of newspapers, but the boy backed away as though he just realized that this man was dangerous. “I should have come early enough to get in line,” Hyde said.

  The boy moved off, looking over his shoulder once before he disappeared into the crowd. Hyde scooped water from the pool and splashed it on his face. He kept his head in his hands for several minutes, waiting for the nausea to pass. The sounds of anguish around him swelled frantically—within minutes people who had been enjoying a warm summer afternoon at the exposition had been transformed into an angry mob.

  Attention was suddenly directed toward the Temple of Music. Hyde stood on top of the mirror-pool wall so he could see down the esplanade: a police wagon was moving slowly through the parting sea of people. Hyde got off the wall and pushed his way into the crowd. Men had their fists in the air, and there were shouts: “Kill the assassin!” and “Lynch him!” Hyde worked his way around to the other side of the building, where the police wagon stood before an entrance. A line of policemen had difficulty keeping the crowd back.

  Two men came out of the entrance, holding Czolgosz by the arms between them. His face was smeared with blood and he looked dazed, almost sleepy. One eye was nearly closed. They shoved him into the back of the wagon and slammed the doors shut. As the horses began to move forward, fighting broke out between the crowd and police. Men lay on the ground, injured and bleeding. The wagon was surrounded but it finally managed to get through the gate to Lincoln Avenue. The police closed the gate, locking most of the crowd inside the exposition.

  When he reached the gate, Hyde put his hands on the wrought-iron bars, warmed by the sun, and watched as the wagon raced down the avenue, pursued by young men riding bicycles.

  III

  AFTER THE RETURN TRIP from Niagara Falls, Dr. Rixey had escorted Mrs. McKinley back to the Milburn house, where she could rest. Then, believing his duties were concluded for the time being, he took a tour of the exposition. There were the usual carnival oddities, such as the four-legged chicken and the Famous Diving Elks, but he was particularly impressed with the Caverns of Hell and the Trip to the Moo
n, which featured an airship named Luna and a dance by the Maids of the Moon. Two security men found him wandering the Streets of Cairo and told him that the president had been shot.

  He was taken to the exposition hospital, where Cortelyou met him at the door. “We’ve managed to gather a team of doctors, and they’ve already begun to operate. A Dr. Matthew Mann was very insistent. He says he’s world renowned in the field of gynecology.”

  “A gynecologist? What’s the extent of the president’s wounds?”

  “Two bullets.” Cortelyou tapped the center of his chest. “One seems to have struck his sternum and only grazed the flesh. They found it in his clothing. But the other penetrated his abdomen. So they decided to operate here rather than risk moving him.”

  “Here?” Rixey looked around the lobby. “This is little more than a first aid station, designed to care for people with cuts and bruises—perhaps a case of heat prostration.”

  Cortelyou nodded. “They debated whether to move the president to Buffalo General Hospital, where they’ve recently built a new surgical amphitheater, or to operate here immediately. There’s been much disagreement,” Cortelyou said as he led Rixey toward the room where the operation was taking place. “Mann believes we shouldn’t wait. He’s handling the surgery. We’ve also located a surgeon named Park, who’s performing an operation in Niagara Falls.”

  “Roswell Park? I know him. He’s very good.”

  “We’ve arranged for him to be brought here on a special train, but it may be some time before he arrives.”

  “I see, George.” Since learning about the president, Rixey had been sweating profusely. He considered himself a calm, deliberate man, but now he felt tense and disoriented. “I’m afraid I’m … It’s incredible. We have talked and considered this possibility almost daily, but now—”

  “I know, Doctor. I just can’t believe it, either,” Cortelyou said. His voice was shaking. “That reception line was surrounded by security men. Ordinarily we have someone stand just in front of the president—and his role is to observe each person’s right hand before it is extended toward the president. But today we allowed Mr. Milburn to take that position, so he could introduce certain people to the president. Still, the number of police and military and Pinkertons—how could we all have missed this man with the gun wrapped in a handkerchief?”

  Rixey put his hand on Cortelyou’s sleeve. “I’ve got to go in.”

  Cortelyou sucked a corner of his mustache into his mouth. “Of course.”

  Rixey entered the room. The president lay under a white sheet on a long table and was surrounded by a group of men, who were assisted by an inordinate number of nurses. There were too many people in the room. Rixey knew none of them, but it was clear that Dr. Mann was in charge. He straightened up and glared at Rixey.

  “I’m Presley Rixey, the president’s physician.”

  “He’s too fat,” Mann said. “Your president is too fat. I have been able close the wound in the stomach, but I cannot locate the bullet. It must be in the lumbar muscles.” He had a full beard, but there was something odd about his hair. Mann seemed to read his thoughts. “I was in the middle of getting a haircut when I was summoned, so I’m not even working with my own instruments. These things belong to Dr. Mynter here.” Dr. Mynter, who was assisting Mann, said nothing and looked like a child who was enduring a scolding. “Plus,” Dr. Mann said, tapping Mynter’s fingers with a pair of forceps, “he keeps getting his hands in my way. And this light—”

  One of the other men said, “Someone is having a power cable brought in so that soon we will have electric lighting.”

  Rixey went to the table against the wall, where the surgical instruments were laid out. He picked up a metal tray and returned to the operating table. He held the tray so that it reflected sunlight from the window on the long incision in the president’s abdomen. “Please, Dr. Mann, continue.”

  Dr. Mann looked insulted that he would have to work under such circumstances, but he leaned over the president once again.

  CZOLGOSZ was first taken to an office on the second floor of the Buffalo police headquarters, guarded by two detectives in street clothes. His face was bloody, his mouth swollen, and he could barely see out of his right eye. For minutes he would pass out in his chair.

  “You think he’s going to die on us, Solomon?” he heard one of the men say.

  “I’m no doctor.”

  “Wouldn’t look good with him sittin’ here with just the two of us.”

  “Suppose not, Geary.”

  “My God, the president.” Geary’s voice trembled. “He fell into my arms and I eased him into the chair. I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t believe he got through that line, past all that security, with a gun wrapped like that.”

  Czolgosz opened his good eye and looked at his guards. They both wore suits and had slicked-back hair. One had a full mustache. They stared back at him and neither seemed to know what to say or do. They seemed more confused than angry. “What’s that noise out in the street?” he asked, and they both seemed surprised that he could even speak.

  “That’s the mob come to lynch you,” Geary said. There was a pitcher of water on the desk. He poured a glass and gave it to Czolgosz.

  It was painful to swallow but he drained the glass. “Why are we here?”

  The other, Solomon, stroked his mustache for a moment. “Waiting for Superintendent Chief Bull, who’s coming with someone from the district attorney’s office.”

  Geary took the empty glass. “He looks a bit better now.”

  Czolgosz turned toward the window.

  “Go ahead,” Solomon said.

  Czolgosz had difficulty getting out of the chair. He went to the window and leaned his forearms on the sill. The street was crammed with hundreds of men. Dozens of policemen, armed with rifles, stood on the front steps beneath the window, keeping the mob from entering the station. There was a great deal of pushing and shoving. Fists were raised, and there was chanting: Czol-gosz, Czol-gosz, Czol-gosz! His face hurt, his lips felt as though they might burst, his ribs ached, and every breath caused searing pain in his sides. But somehow it pleased him to look down upon this mob. He had done this—he had caused them to come together. Hatred and anger were necessary to change.

  He stepped back from the window and asked, “Is the president dead?”

  Solomon and Geary said nothing.

  Then he understood that it didn’t matter.

  What mattered was he had made the attempt.

  A few minutes before seven, Rixey took a carriage from the exposition hospital. He was accompanied by Richard Buchanan, the former U.S. ambassador to Argentina, who was the director of the Pan-American Exposition. Buchanan had already begun to make arrangements at the Milburn house, where the president would be taken later that evening. Power cables were being run into the house so that electric fans could be used to cool every room. He had gathered the house staff together, informed them of the situation, and told them that Mrs. McKinley should not be disturbed from her afternoon nap. Outside the house, a somber crowd had gathered on Delaware Avenue, so the police had cordoned off the entire block.

  Clara Tharin, Mrs. McKinley’s maid, met the two men at the front door.

  “She doesn’t know yet?” Rixey asked.

  “She slept until six thirty,” Clara said. “Her nieces have been with her since then.”

  Rixey climbed the stairs to the second floor and Buchanan followed. “This could kill her,” Buchanan whispered.

  “It’s possible,” Rixey said. “I want to speak to her alone.”

  “Of course.”

  Rixey knocked on the first lady’s bedroom door. One of the nieces let him in and he entered the room, avoiding her stare. Mrs. McKinley sat, as she often did, in a rocking chair, knitting. Since her husband had become president she had made more than five thousand pairs of slippers, most of which were given away to charities.

  “Where is the Major?” she asked. “Why
doesn’t he come?”

  “I have bad news for you, Mrs. McKinley.”

  As she struggled to her feet she dropped her knitting on the floor. “What is it?” For all her frailty, she could be very demanding; it might be the thing that kept her alive. “Has he been hurt?”

  “Yes, he’s been hurt.” Rixey took a step closer. “He’s been shot.”

  She took in a long breath, held it, and then exhaled. “I must go to him.”

  “No, please,” Rixey said, taking her arm and helping her back into her chair. “We’re bringing him here. Everything now depends on you—maybe his life. We look to you to help us.”

  FRIDAY evening Vice President Theodore Roosevelt gave a speech to an outdoorsman’s club on Isle La Motte in Lake Champlain. When notified of the assassination attempt, he rode a carriage some thirty miles over country roads in a hard rain to board a private train that would take him to Buffalo. By Saturday afternoon most members of McKinley’s cabinet had gathered in Buffalo. A telegraph office had been set up in the Milburns’ stable, extra phone lines were run into the house, and a group of stenographers were boarded next door. At one thirty word came that the vice president’s train had arrived, and by midafternoon the government’s highest officials waited in the Milburns’ living room to receive him.

  “Even in this there’s a drama about the man,” Cortelyou said to Rixey as they stared out the windows toward Delaware Avenue. Despite his suit and fresh hard collar, Cortelyou looked as though he had not slept at all. “You understand what this means?” he said. “This possibility has weighed on my mind often since the last election. The president and some of his advisers—Senator Hanna, in particular—they thought it was the perfect solution to Roosevelt. Often they would talk about what to do with Teddy. How can we contain him? And, of course, the logical answer is to make him vice president and thereby render him useless.”