The Anarchist

by John Smolens

  His left hand felt warm and stung slightly. He turned toward the open cell door, but paused and said, “Your mother, she is fortunate not to be alive now. She would be ashamed. You know that, don’t you? You do know that?”

  When he ducked his head and stepped out of the cell, the two guards got up from the table in a hurry. Rixey put on his hat and tugged it down on his head. “Now, show me the way out,” he said.

  WITHIN the city of Buffalo there was an intricate web of waterways—canals such as the Erie, the Main-Hamburg, and the Clark-Skinner—and off these ran branches, known as slips, such as the Commercial, the Prime, and the Ohio. During the day the Glockenspiel kept moving, and Bruener would tie her up after dark. During the night it rained on and off, and Hyde, Anton, and Josef took turns standing watch.

  At dawn, Gimmel came up on deck. He nodded his head, indicating he wanted Hyde to join him in the stern. “All the newspapers—they’re full of articles about McKinley, about Czolgosz, but there has been no mention of problems during Czolgosz’s transfer.”

  “I know, not one word about the Pinkertons.”

  “It’s as though it didn’t happen,” Gimmel said as they watched the first light coming up on the canal. “Tell me something, Hyde. Bruener says you were raised in an orphanage.”

  “St. John’s Protectory.”

  “Terrible places, they are. I survived one myself in Illinois.” Gimmel’s eyes briefly drifted toward Hyde, and then he stared out at the river again. “But the experience prepares one for the realities of life. Family ties only complicate and confuse. You have no wife, no children?”

  “No.”

  “Bruener says you are a good canawler.”

  “I have worked between Buffalo and Albany many years.”

  “Don’t own your own barge.”

  “They’re often handed down, father to son. It’s one of the benefits of family.”

  “But you are unburdened. Can come and go as you please.”

  “You make it sound like I was a man of wealth and privilege.”

  “In some ways you are. You and I both, we possess a rare freedom, one not often afforded the working class.” Gimmel took a step closer. “This is why I’m so disappointed. You said you knew Czolgosz. You failed me—you were supposed to help me get him.” He watched the canal so long that Hyde thought that the conversation was over, that he had been dismissed. But then Gimmel said, “At a place like St. John’s they must have instilled in you the concept of sin and redemption?”

  “The nuns and priests did. That’s why I ran away when I was twelve.”

  “You understand that you need to redeem yourself now?”

  After a moment Hyde said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want to send a message to someone in the police department,” Gimmel whispered. “Norris says there’s a Captain Savin. He was riding in the first carriage and had Czolgosz lying at his feet. And now he’s kept the Pinkertons out of the newspapers. Clever fellow, this Savin. So this is what I want you to do: go talk to Savin. Tell him I want to exchange these two for Czolgosz.”

  “He won’t do that,” Hyde said.

  “I know, but you tell him that first,” Gimmel said. “Then you tell him that if he refuses these two Pinkertons will be end up dead, and this time I’ll make sure the papers know about it, and that Savin had a chance to save them. Savin will realize he has to do something—he has no choice because this entire corrupt society is built upon the value of one life. A man doesn’t do something to save that one life, he’s considered a savage. But the truth is that we are all savages.”

  “He’ll never give up Czolgosz,” Hyde said.

  “No, I know he won’t.”

  “What do you really want for these two Pinkertons?”

  “We’re talking about two ‘innocent’ men, two defenders of the law. Savin’s responsible for them. You tell him the price for these two Pinkertons is a thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand dollars?” Hyde said.

  “Bring back his reply without having half the Buffalo police force follow you—can you do that?”

  “Yes. Where?”

  “Bruener says tonight we’ll tie up just north of Black Rock Harbor. You’ll probably need these just to get to see Savin.” He handed two cards to Hyde. “These are their Pinkerton identification cards.”

  IT was midmorning when Hyde arrived at city hall. Dozens of police guarded the front entrance of the building, admitting people, mostly newspaper reporters. Hyde stood in line in the rain and when the sergeant demanded his credentials he handed over the two Pinkerton identification cards.

  “What’s this?” the sergeant asked impatiently. He was Irish and his soft jowls reminded Hyde of the rolls of bread dough he’d seen the day before in the Trenton Avenue bakery.

  “Show them to Captain Lloyd Savin. He’ll want to see me. My name is Hyde.”

  The sergeant’s blue eyes were skeptical, but then he went inside the entrance and showed the cards to another officer.

  Behind Hyde two reporters had been complaining about editors and deadlines. Now, as they watched the policemen guarding the front doors, one of them said, “I tell you, this security’s tighter for Czolgosz than it was for old man McKinley.”

  “Maybe we should get out our handkerchiefs, Lundt,” the other reporter said. “Wrap them around our fists and see if that gets us inside out of this rain.”

  “Right,” Lundt said. He had a flask, which he sipped from, and his whiskey breath cut through the raw air. “This is America and everyone’s packing a gun now. You hear about Mr. Hearst? All of his editorials that have been critical of McKinley—they’ve come back to haunt him, particularly when he hinted that the situation was so dire that political assassination was warranted. Since the president has died, there’s been a mob outside his office in New York, wanting at Hearst. The bastard’s so afraid he keeps a pistol on his desk all the time.” Lundt took another pull from his flask.

  The Irish sergeant came back out to the steps. “Here, boyo,” he said to Hyde. “Come with me.”

  Hyde glanced over his shoulder at the two reporters, their faces stunned and resentful, and then he followed the policeman inside to the first-floor lobby. They climbed the marble staircase beneath an enormous portrait of McKinley, and on the second floor pushed through a crowd gathered outside the courtroom. The sergeant led Hyde around the balcony to the front of the building, and opened a door to a reception hall. “You wait in here,” he said, and then he pulled the door shut.

  Hyde had never been in such a large room. Chandeliers hung from a ceiling trimmed with gilt moldings. Tall windows were covered with red velvet drapes edged with gold fringe and tassels. He crossed the parquet floor, his footsteps echoing, and stood next to a grand piano. Out the window he could see the crowd waiting in the rain. Behind him, one of the doors opened. Captain Savin came in and walked toward the piano, seeming unimpressed by the size of the room. When he reached the piano, he leaned the Pinkerton identification cards against the music stand, and then he sat on the bench and tapped out the melody to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

  “My mother,” he said. “She paid Mrs. Flannigan, who lived downstairs, to give me piano lessons, but I refused to go after a couple of months.” He took his hand off the keys. “Tell me, which would you rather: to be able to afford a fine instrument like this, or to be able to play Chopin?”

  “I’m not the least bit musical,” Hyde said.

  “Can’t carry a tune myself. My father had a wonderful tenor, and my mother thought she could give me a little bit of culture. Poor woman, I became a cop anyway.” He opened up his suit coat and took out a pack of Turkish Delights. “Tell me where they are, Hyde.”

  “They’re being held by a group of anarchists.”

  “I gather that. Where?”

  Hyde looked down into the street, where the line of reporters still waited to get into Leon Czolgosz’s arraignment. But there were hundreds of other men milling about, and the
y looked as though they might storm the doors of city hall at any moment.

  “It’s Herman Gimmel, isn’t it?” Savin said.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve sought him for years. What’s he want?”

  “To exchange Norris and Feeney for Czolgosz.” Savin said nothing. “And he wants a thousand dollars.”

  Savin put the cigarette in his mouth, picked up Norris’s identification card, and squinted at it through smoke. Once he deposited ash into the potted plant next to the piano. When he put the card back on the piano, he said, “And if I refuse, they die.”

  “And Gimmel will make sure those reporters down there in the street find out that you could have saved them.”

  “Everybody wants something.” Savin got up from the piano bench and went to the window. “I want to be police chief one day. What do you want, Hyde?” After watching the crowd below for a moment, he said, “What do you want for Herman Gimmel?”

  Hyde didn’t answer.

  “I was the one who set you up with Norris.”

  “It’s not that easy, and you know it.”

  Savin nodded as though he were convinced that he should take a different approach. “You find it curious that an avowed anarchist demands ransom money? Do you see the contradiction there?”

  “No. He’ll buy dynamite with it.”

  “Of course. Norris says you’re good, and I could see you were smart right off—for a canawler. At least you’ve managed to stay alive longer than that whore Clementine. But you know what your problem is, Hyde?”

  “I have only one?”

  “You have too many loyalties. I think deep down you’re an idealist, which is always a mistake. But you’re not a true anarchist—that’s an important distinction.”

  Hyde gazed at the parquet floor.

  “You’re even loyal to that Russian whore.”

  Reluctantly, Hyde raised his eyes.

  “Ah, there it is,” Savin whispered. His smile was greedy, victorious. “This is not loyalty, but love?”

  “We were talking about Herman Gimmel.”

  “We still are.” For a moment Savin massaged his temples with his fingers. “We’re hearing all sorts of rumors about anarchist plots. You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d just tell me where they are.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “You’re saying, ‘I free them, what happens to me?’” Savin lowered his head and brushed cigarette ash off his lapels. “You want to know the truth? I can’t stand Norris, and wouldn’t mind if I never lay eyes on him again. Pinkertons kidnapped is one thing. But this isn’t just any Pinkerton—it’s Jake Norris, who’s been sent out from Washington specifically because the president was coming to Buffalo. Men like Norris turn up dead, somebody’s going to be held accountable. In this case, that’s me.” He gazed up at Hyde. “So what is it you want, Hyde?”

  “That Russian is named Motka Ascher—”

  “Yes, quite the beauty.”

  “I want to get her out of Big Maud’s—bought, so Maud doesn’t send someone after her. And then I’ll take her out of Buffalo.”

  “You’ll need money, of course.” Savin raised a hand to smooth back his glossy hair. “All right. You take me to Gimmel, and I’ll buy your Russian girl.”

  “No,” Hyde said. “You’ll buy her, and then I’ll take you to Gimmel.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Hyde. Norris wanted to tie her—you and her—to Czolgosz.”

  “She’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s something to keep in mind. It’s still possible. All I have to do is suggest it to one reporter.” The two men gazed at each other for a long moment. Finally, Savin turned away as he crushed his cigarette out in the potted fern, and for the first time looked around at the reception hall, scanning the ceiling and chandeliers, the large portraits hung on the walls. “All right, Hyde. We’ll meet at Big Maud’s, tonight at eleven. We buy your pretty redhead, and then you take me to Gimmel.” He ran his fingers across the piano keys, striking a few discordant notes. “I can understand a socialist, or even a communist. They believe in something, they believe in changing the way things are—they’re even fool enough to think that can make things better. But anarchists, what do they believe in? Nothing.”

  “They believe in a world where everyone is free, where there are no policemen, and they’re willing to kill anyone who opposes them.”

  “How do you explain it, Hyde?”

  “I can’t. I’m not an anarchist.”

  “No? Then what are you?” Savin didn’t wait for an answer, but turned away dismissively and crossed the parquet floor.

  CZOLGOSZ barely slept Sunday night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Rixey’s slap—he couldn’t understand why it bothered him so, but then he began to admit that he felt admiration for the doctor. When he came to that realization, he was relieved, and he finally managed to sink into the oblivion of sleep in the early-morning hours.

  After breakfast Solomon and Geary took him to a room where an iron bathtub had been prepared. They left him alone to bathe, and then brought a clean shirt and collar.

  “Thank you. I’m tired of wearing my own dirty shirt.”

  “We want you to look good for the courtroom,” Geary said.

  “Though not much’ll happen today,” Solomon added. “It’s only an arraignment, and it won’t be necessary to bring you in until near the end.”

  “Why should I be present at my own arraignment at all?”

  It was as though Solomon didn’t hear him. “You’ll be charged with murder and a trial date will be set,” he said. “Soon, I imagine. First-degree murder of the president of the United States.”

  Geary said, “You don’t seem too concerned, Leon.”

  As he pulled on his coat, Czolgosz said, “Had this suit made in Chicago in July.”

  “I know,” Solomon said. “At first the Chicago police said they wanted it sent out there for examination. They wanted anything that might help them link Emma Goldman to you, but seems they’ve dropped that. I mean, how could a suit link you to her?”

  “I wore it when I met her in Chicago,” Czolgosz said, “and I wore it when I shot the president. Does that make her an accomplice?”

  “Penney has been trying to get her extradited to New York,” Geary said. “But Chicago won’t give her up. The judge there says there’s no evidence of her involvement. Since when do you need hard evidence to arrest an anarchist? A Chicago judge should understand that.”

  “Politics,” Solomon explained. “It’s all politics. They’ll let that woman walk.”

  “That’s because she’s as innocent as you are,” Czolgosz said. They seemed angered by this, but then he realized that this morning they were a bit nervous. He felt the need to make it easier for them, and as he buttoned the striped gray jacket he added, “You realize this will be a famous suit? It’ll be worth something after I’m dead. Maybe I’ll give it to you as a going-away present.”

  They glanced at each other.

  “You get the chair, Leon,” Geary said, “they’ll burn all your clothes.”

  “The chair?”

  “The electric chair,” Solomon said. “It’s how we do it now in New York State. They’ll take you to the prison over in Auburn.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s east of here,” Solomon said. “Little town, not quite to Syracuse. If you wanted to get yourself hung you should have shot the president in some other state, someplace like Kansas.”

  Solomon took his handcuffs from his coat pocket. “Leon, you know the court has appointed you two lawyers. Why do you refuse to talk to them?”

  “It ain’t necessary,” Czolgosz said. “None of this is necessary.”

  They left him in his cell for hours. He slept. He was brought lunch. He slept some more. Finally Solomon and Geary returned and he was handcuffed to both of them. This had become a familiar routine, where Geary usually led and Solomon followed when they passe
d through doors and down narrow stairs. Czolgosz walked with one shackled arm extended before him, the other behind.

  “Like elephants in the circus,” Geary said.

  “This courtroom thing,” Solomon asked. “You going to turn it into a circus?”

  Czolgosz didn’t answer, and they took him down to the basement to a damp tunnel. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

  Solomon said, “This runs three hundred feet under Delaware Avenue to city hall, so we can avoid that crowd. You ever hear of the Bridge of Sighs, Leon?”

  “No.”

  “It’s very famous,” Solomon explained. “It’s this old bridge that spans one of the canals in Venice. It connects the courtroom with the prison, where criminals were sent to serve life sentences or to be executed. We call this the Tunnel of Tears.”

  A group of men, including Chief Bull, were waiting at the other end of the tunnel, and Czolgosz was surrounded as they climbed the stairs to the courtroom. There was a balcony above the stairs, and hanging between two marble columns was a large picture of the dead president. Czolgosz had seen that portrait many times; it was the one often used in newspapers. McKinley looked stern, dignified, but his eyes possessed a certain avuncular fondness.

  Czolgosz hesitated on the stairs, causing the other men to stop. Thomas Penney seemed disturbed at first, but then when he saw Czolgosz staring up at the president’s image, he said, “Take a good look. He’s why we’re all here.”

  They climbed the stairs and encountered a large crowd gathered on the second floor. When they saw Czolgosz, they hissed and booed and shouted, their voices reverberating off the marble walls. They surged toward him and were barely restrained by the dozens of uniformed policemen. There was much pushing and shoving as Geary and Solomon took him into the courtroom, which was not crowded—it was, oddly, quiet as a church. But those who were sitting there—nearly all men—shifted about for a better view of him. As he walked to a table before the judge’s bench, he lowered his head and didn’t look directly at anyone.