by John Smolens
Down the avenue, Anton was staring at him. Hyde reached inside his coat and took out the handkerchief—as they had walked down Trenton, Gimmel distributed them, new handkerchiefs—and he raised it to his face until Anton turned toward the avenue. The first carriage reached him but he didn’t do anything. When the second carriage passed, he turned his back on Hyde, and he raised a white handkerchief to his face. Anton put his handkerchief away, and then disappeared down a side street.
Gimmel had said that after the carriages passed, Hyde and Anton were both to get to the barge as quickly as possible, using streets other than Trenton Avenue. But for some reason Hyde couldn’t move. Not yet.
He folded his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket, and then he looked in the bakery window once more. A heavy woman stood at a table, rolling dough. Once she raised a fleshy arm, dusty with flour, to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand. She didn’t notice him watching her, and it seemed an almost indecent thing to be observing her. She was completely absorbed in her work, kneading and pounding and rolling the dough, which caused her whole body to shake. When she was finished with one loaf, she slid it over next to the others on the side of the wood table and began working on another lump of dough. The finished loaves were lined up, smooth, white, identical, like something newborn and innocent.
Hyde walked quickly up Trenton Avenue and turned down the first alley.
NORRIS leaned out the window and looked up the avenue. He could see the first carriage turning off Trenton and passing out of sight behind the corner of a clapboard house. He assumed that they were going to approach the prison on side streets that would keep them away from the crowd in front of city hall. He didn’t like the idea of traveling down narrow streets, but he didn’t know Buffalo well enough to say if there was a better route. Trenton Avenue was wide, open, and quiet, as he assumed it would be on an ordinary Sunday afternoon. Feeney gazed out the other window, his shotgun across his thighs.
Raising his shotgun, Norris pounded on the carriage roof and said, “Faster! We need to keep up with them.”
The horses continued at the same pace. Norris waited only a moment, and then pounded the roof again. Still nothing happened, and then the carriage began to slow down.
“What are you doing?” he shouted.
The carriage continued to slow down, and suddenly two men jumped up on the runners on each side and extended their arms through the open windows. A white-haired man with a disfigured face held his revolver within inches of Norris’s forehead and said, “Put it on the floor—slowly.”
The other man held the barrel of his pistol against Feeney’s ear. Norris considered swinging his shotgun up quickly, knocking the gun away from Feeney’s head, but the man with the scarred face said, “Don’t finish that thought unless you want it to be your last.”
The carriage came to a complete stop. Norris slowly lowered his shotgun to the floor. Feeney did the same. There was movement up in the front of the carriage, and then Norris caught a glimpse of the driver, walking quickly away and out of sight. Someone else had climbed up on the bench and the carriage began moving again—reins were slapped and the horses began to turn around.
The two gunmen opened the doors, climbed inside the carriage, and sat down. Norris suddenly felt uncomfortably crowded, and he moved to his left to make room. The barrel of the revolver was now pressed into his neck, just below the jaw. The carriage moved back along Trenton Avenue, the horses quickly breaking into a trot.
“You’re Herman Gimmel,” Norris said. “From Chicago.”
“My reputation precedes me,” Gimmel said, not displeased. He looked at Feeney, and then said, “This is not Czolgosz?”
Norris didn’t answer. The cold steel pressed harder into his neck.
The other gunman was Klaus Bruener, who said in a heavy German accent, “With a shotgun? He’s blond but, this can’t be him. Shit—he’s in the other carriage. What do we do?” Gimmel didn’t say anything. “Shoot the bastards,” Bruener said. “We shoot them now and get away from here—we have no fucking choice.”
Gimmel turned his head and looked back at Norris. “What’s your name?”
“Norris.” He continued to stare straight ahead, looking at Feeney—who was clearly frightened. “It’s all right, Jack,” Norris said. “The important thing is that they have already failed.”
Bruener, who was holding his gun to Feeney’s temple, said, “We must shoot them!”
“No,” Gimmel said, and then he shouted out the window, “Faster! Drive faster!”
CZOLGOSZ was on his back on the floor of the carriage, staring at the ceiling, where a spider had set up its web, flecked with the remains of moths and flies. It occurred to him that there was no such thing as politics in nature; it was just survival. Solomon and Geary sat in the front of the carriage, facing Captain Savin, who smoked one cigarette after another. No one spoke. Once Czolgosz tried to prop himself up on an elbow, but Solomon shook his head.
Eventually, the carriage slowed and turned to the right and Czolgosz could tell by the echo of the horses’ hooves that they were moving through a narrow street. Geary leaned toward the window and seemed to become alarmed. The others didn’t notice at first, but finally he said, “It’s not back there.”
“What?” Savin asked.
Without speaking, all three men opened their coats and drew their guns. They gazed out the windows, inspecting the houses and buildings along the street.
“We should go faster,” Solomon said.
Savin considered this a moment, but then said, “No. That may be what they want.”
Solomon only shook his head as he looked out the window.
“I saw nothing,” Geary said. “No mob, nothing back there—what happened?”
Savin said, “It may be ahead of us.”
Solomon looked at the captain. “Change our route?”
Savin considered this and said, “All right. You get up top with the driver and direct him—both of you.” He glanced down at Czolgosz. “I’ll stay here with him.” He flicked his cigarette out the window, and then hollered up for the driver to stop the carriage.
When the horses came to a halt, Solomon and Geary got out and climbed onto the driver’s bench. With more weight forward, Czolgosz could detect the slightest increase in angle in the carriage floor. They started moving again, a little faster than before.
“It’s the mob,” Czolgosz said.
“Maybe,” Savin said without looking at him. “Or it could be a horse pulled up lame.”
“But if it is the mob, you know what you have to do.”
Savin looked down then. “It’s not going to come to that.”
“But if it does.”
“Does that frighten you?” Savin said. “What a mob would do?”
“What does the moth feel as the spider pulls it apart?” Czolgosz said. “Think how it would look in the newspapers. You’d be better off shooting me.”
“You’d like that. We shoot you and you’d be done with it.” Savin turned his head toward the window again. “But I’m going to see to it that you’re disappointed.”
Czolgosz remained still, listening to the carriage make its way through the streets. They turned again, left. He could hear Solomon and Geary talking to the driver but couldn’t make out what they were saying above the sound of the horses and carriage. They were arguing about the best route to take, and then the carriage turned again, right this time, and there was the slap of reins and the horses broke into a trot.
“Almost there,” Savin said.
It seemed a strange thing to say. Czolgosz was surprised at his own calm. Perhaps it was just because he knew these men guarding him were so tense. He was aware of something—he didn’t know what—something large and beyond his control, beyond anyone’s control. It was evident in the way the horses trotted faster, causing the carriage to buck over the uneven road. Before shooting the president, there had been moments when he had a sudden sense of the historical weight of what
he was contemplating. He knew, of course, that he would die. But he tried to see what might come of it. He tried to envision the aftermath. Perhaps this one act, assassinating William McKinley, would spark the revolt and thousands of workers would rise up. Perhaps Emma Goldman, and men and women like her, would lead that revolution. Eight years he’d been reading Looking Backward because it portrayed a world where the workers would not be exploited, where there would be equity and free love. To hope for that was not enough. To believe in that was not enough. To act was the only course. And now he had acted, and he was lying on the floor of this carriage, rolling through the streets of Buffalo, with his guards alert, maybe even frightened. Whatever was out there, whatever threat existed, he wanted it to come, he wanted it now. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Savin was staring down at him, still curious.
“You don’t seem too worried about any of this, Czolgosz.”
“Not particularly. What’s done is done. Can’t do nothing about it now.”
“No, I guess you can’t.”
ANTON was waiting for Hyde in an alley off Trenton Avenue, and they began walking toward the canal. “Listen to me,” Hyde said. “I don’t know if that was Czolgosz in that carriage—I couldn’t tell for certain. But I do know the other man. He’s a Pinkerton, and he knows me.”
“A Pinkerton?”
“Yes, and we have to be careful. Don’t do anything. Just go along with Gimmel and Bruener. I first want to know who they’ve got.”
The rain started again, dimpling the puddles in the streets. They turned up their coat collars, tucked their hands in their pockets, and set a steady pace. By the time they reached the canal, fog hovered over the water. They found the Glockenspiel nestled in a small canal that ran between brick warehouses. Josef was standing watch on deck. Hyde and Anton went below and found Gimmel and Bruener seated at the cabin table, sharing a bottle of whiskey—neither appeared to be celebrating.
There was no sign of their hostages.
Gimmel stared at Hyde and said, “Why’d you pick the second carriage?”
“Czolgosz wasn’t in the first one. The second, it was hard to tell.”
Gimmel looked away in disgust, nodding toward the door to the forward compartments. Hyde opened the door and went through the hold, past the animal stalls, until he came to another door; inside was a dim, narrow space in the bow. Two men lay in bunks, both with their hands bound and tied to the iron rings hanging from the bulkhead. Their heads were covered with gunnysacks, but he knew them: the heavier man was Norris, and the other was the man who had tailed Hyde.
Hyde closed the door and went back to the cabin. “That’s not Czolgosz,” he said.
“We figured that out,” Gimmel said. He took two wallets from inside his coat and laid them on the table. “Jake Norris and Jack Feeney. Pinkertons.”
“They’re worthless,” Bruener said. “We should have shot them right away.”
“It’s Hyde who’s worthless,” Gimmel said. “You were supposed to know what Czolgosz looked like.”
“I do,” Hyde said, “and I didn’t see him in either carriage.”
Bruener picked up his whiskey glass. “We should just dump them in the canal.”
“Let them go,” Hyde said. “Take them somewhere and release them. They return safely, the police might not bother looking for us. Keep them and they won’t quit looking.”
“Even though these two have their heads covered,” Bruener said, “they know they’re on water. We let them go they’ll bring the whole fucking police force down to the waterfront. I’m telling you it would be much simpler to kill them. Don’t even have to shoot them—just tie stones to them, take them down to the harbor, and push them overboard in deep water. No one will ever find them.”
“No, these are Pinkertons, hirelings of the capitalists,” Gimmel said as he ran his fingers over the scars on the side of his face; it was as though he’d just discovered them. “I’m not giving Pinker-tons back so they can bust the heads of workers some other day.” He put the wallets back inside his coat. “Besides, this Norris, he said something interesting to me in the carriage. He said we have already failed.”
NORRIS was lying in a bunk, a coarse sack over his head and tied around his neck. His wrists were bound by rope to something above him—an iron ring—so that he could only lie awkwardly on his right side.
“You pissed your pants,” he whispered into the heat of the sack.
“I couldn’t help it,” Feeney said. “We’re on a boat. You can feel it. They keep moving. Then they tie up, and then move again. You hear the horses and mules—we must be on the canal.”
“Good, Feeney. Maybe you have a brain after all.”
“There are barges everywhere on the canal. We could be headed to Albany. But I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“The locks. There are five locks in Lockport. We’d know if we went through them.”
“So we’re still in Buffalo.”
“I think so,” Feeney said. “But there’s a lot of waterway in Buffalo. We might never be found on a barge, particularly if it keeps moving. Have your arms fallen asleep?”
“Yes,” Norris said. “Move around a bit, get the blood flowing.”
“What do you think they’ll do to us?”
“I don’t know, except they’re changing their plans somehow. They thought they were getting Czolgosz, but they ended up with us.”
“If they had him, they’d probably get out of Buffalo quick.”
“Maybe.” Norris turned as much as he could to the left, toward the sound of Feeney’s voice. “Now they’ve got us and for the moment they’re sitting tight, trying to figure what to do. The German, Bruener, wanted to kill us right away. But Gimmel, he’s thinking it over, he’s looking for a way to take advantage of this.”
“And there are others,” Feeney said.
“Right. How many you think?”
“The one who took over driving the carriage. And I’ve heard other voices back there—not the German or Gimmel. Two, I think.”
“So there are five of them. Very good, Feeney. But there must be more, too.”
“This damn sack.” Feeney moved in his bunk, the wood creaking under his weight. “It’s hot, it itches, and it smells of potatoes and dirt.”
Finally, the sacks were removed and Norris and Feeney were brought into a cabin where they were allowed to eat at a table. Their hands were still bound and they were given spoons to eat a stew—carrots, potatoes, onions, cabbage, some fatty pieces of mutton—from an iron pot. Gimmel was there, and a man he called Anton, who bore little resemblance to his sister Motka, but there was no sign of the others. Feeney didn’t look good: he’d been sobbing on and off for hours. From the towpath came the sound of mules braying, which usually meant that the barge would move again soon.
“Where are we going?” Norris said to Gimmel.
“Going?” Gimmel said. “You are in a hurry?” He stood at the foot of the companionway, looking up into pilothouse. The darkening sky that was visible above the stern was overcast, threatening more rain. There was something different about his voice; it was slow and resolved—he sounded like a man who had calculated the odds, didn’t like the result, but decided to proceed anyway. He didn’t bother to look at Norris or Feeney, as though they were immaterial, their fates already determined.
“What happens next?” Norris asked.
Gimmel didn’t seem to hear. Anton, on the other hand, moved about the cabin, trying to keep busy. Clearly, he was nervous. Gimmel said, almost to himself, “They’ll try Czolgosz—the papers say it will be quick, a few days at most—and then they’ll execute him. Perhaps we should execute you as a response.”
Norris put down his spoon and said, “That’s one option.”
“Yes,” Gimmel said, turning to them. “One at a time.”
Feeney’s hands paused over the stew. “It’s gonna be me.” His voice was high, breaking. “I know it is.”
Norris shook his head and lowered his eyes to the pot, meaning: Eat, just eat. Obediently, Feeney used both hands to spoon vegetables and gravy into his mouth.
There was a perpetual sameness to Gimmel’s expression: part awe, part sardonic grin. “Most likely. It’s a question of worth, and Norris is worth more than you.”
“How?” Norris said to Gimmel. “How would this execution be carried out?”
“Interesting question.” Gimmel rested his back against the companionway ladder, and as he placed his hands on his knees, a thick knot of rope—a monkey fist—was visible, protruding from his belt. “Let’s consider how the state handles executions. Traditionally, in this country, hanging has been popular. You know back in ’86 I was in Chicago during the Haymarket riot. The nice thing about hanging is it’s such a public spectacle. There’s a stage, just as in a theater, and the crowd is allowed to gather before the scaffolding as though they were going to witness some grand performance. The victim—you would call him the convicted—is marched up a set of stairs, and there’s a moment where he faces the crowd.”
“With or without a sack over his head,” Norris offered.
“True,” Gimmel said. “The sack, of course, might be construed to be an attempt to incorporate an element of decency in the proceedings, but in fact it only whets the crowd’s appetite. They have come not to see justice done, but to see the face of the victim in that moment when he drops through the floor and his neck snaps. They want to know if it will be instantaneous—and therefore merciful—or if there will be a dance to death. In fact, I think the sack only sparks the imagination. I’ve seen enough hangings, Norris. They’re usually swift and efficient, and there’s little by way of entertainment—just a body dangling from a crooked head. But see, if you cover the head, it allows the audience to imagine the worst. And that’s what you want from an execution, the opportunity for people—your citizens—to be able to imagine the worst form of suffering. That’s what it’s really all about—the imagination, not putting the poor bastard to death. You’ve already got him off the streets and you could simply throw him in a jail cell, to die of starvation, unseen. No, you’ve got to have your citizens see the sentence carried out. The worse, the better. It is, really, prescriptive.”