The Anarchist

by John Smolens

  “I’m guessing that’s them moving about in the barn.” Savin looked over his shoulder at Rutherford. “You stay here. Anyone comes out of that house armed, you take them down. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What if they’re not armed?” Hyde said.

  Savin seemed disappointed by such impertinence, and he kept his eyes on Rutherford. “You draw a bead on them. If they see us, or if they are headed into the barn, you fire a warning shot. If they are armed, we shoot.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rutherford cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t want me to go back to town for more men?”

  “I was under the distinct impression that your sergeant wasn’t willing to grant me any.” Savin’s grin was quick, vicious. “I am fortunate he let me have you.” The grin disappeared, and he said, “Your sergeant is so worried about getting Czolgosz off the train? We came in at that station—it’s right across the street from the prison. It’s not even fifty yards.” He looked at Hyde for support. “Auburn look like a town capable of mustering a lynch mob?”

  “He murdered the president,” Hyde said. “You saw the crowds in Buffalo.”

  Rebuffed, Savin gazed toward the farm. “Never mind. You come with me, Hyde.”

  They crept along the creek bed, moving to their right. Every time Hyde glanced over the top of the bank he could see that they were getting closer to the barn. Suddenly there was a sound from the house—a door opening on a squeaky hinge—and they stopped. They looked through pasture grass, saw a smudge of white moving toward them, and they dropped down behind the bank.

  “It’s the girl,” Hyde whispered. “The one that came into town with Josef.”

  “Damn.”

  They held perfectly still, listening to her approaching footsteps in the grass. Then she stopped and there was silence, followed by the sound of water. Looking over the edge of the bank, Hyde could see her squatting in the grass, her long skirt gathered in one hand. She was blond, slender, and in the moonlight her pretty face seemed complicated by uncertainty. When she was finished, she stood and continued walking, though not directly toward them, but off to their right, and then she disappeared as she climbed down the bank to the creek bed. She wasn’t ten yards away, just around a bend in the creek.

  And then there were more footsteps, these running through the grass, and Hyde saw Josef sprinting toward the edge of the pasture. He climbed down the bank where the girl was, and there was absolute silence.

  Hyde and Savin stood motionless, their guns pointed at the sky. Minutes passed and nothing seemed to happen. Hyde waited for Savin to give him some signal, but his face was within inches of the muddy bank, and he continued to look at the snare of roots that were in the soil. Then, from around the bend in the creek, came the faintest sound—a soft, feminine sigh—followed by a moan and a gasp, and then there was breathing, rapid, rhythmic, in time with the hard slap of flesh.

  Savin raised his free hand, made a fist, and pumped it twice.

  The sounds of their coupling tended toward a greater concentration, until there was a brief explosion of noise, the girl yelping, and Josef gasping in utter desperation. It was the only time Hyde had ever heard the boy make any kind of verbal sound, and toward the end it almost seemed as though he were trying to speak some foreign language. Hyde wondered at the fact that their orgasm sounded so close to anguish.

  And then it was over, and they were quiet. It was like they weren’t there, around the bend, until suddenly the girl pleaded, urgently, in a half whisper, “Please, Josef, we have to leave, we have to tonight—right now. If you stay here, you know you’ll die. You know what they’re going to do. You won’t live through it, I know you won’t. Let’s just go. Take me away from here—anywhere, I don’t care. Somewhere they’ll never find us.”

  She stopped at the sound of the door to the house closing, followed by a set of footsteps, first coming across the barnyard, scattering chickens, and then sweeping through the grass. Hyde ventured a look, and though it was very dark—the moon had passed behind clouds—he could see a man walking toward the creek. He stopped ten yards away and said, “You come up out of there, hear me?” His arms hung loose at his side and he wore a rumpled straw hat.

  Finally there was the sound of feet scrambling for purchase in the muddy bank as the girl and Josef climbed up out of the creek and stood at the edge of the pasture. The girl’s blond hair was in disarray and her blouse was untucked from her skirt. Her pale feet were covered with mud.

  “Daddy, please,” she said.

  “Step aside, Lydia.”

  “You have to understand.” She took a step forward.

  The man raised his right arm—he gripped a pistol in his hand. The man said nothing. Josef stood still. And then there was a shot, which snapped the man’s head to the side, sending his straw hat flying as his body fell to the ground.

  The girl screamed as she went to her father. Josef turned and stared toward the woods, and then he began running for the barn. Three men appeared in the open door, backlit by lamplight. One of them, Bruener, shouted something in German to Josef.

  Savin stood up, took aim, his free hand bracing his elbow, and fired. The girl, kneeling over her father, shrieked. Gimmel and Bruener disappeared into the barn. Savin fired again. Josef stumbled, but then managed to hobble into the barn and out of sight.

  NORRIS was awakened by the first gunshot. Animals in the barn took fright, their feet prancing nervously on packed earth. Bruener shouted in German.

  A second and then third shot sounded closer.

  Norris shifted, pressing his forehead against the stall fence, and through a gap in the boards he could see Bruener standing inside the large, open front door of the barn. Then Josef staggered into the barn and sprawled on the ground, clutching his left thigh. Gimmel led Tuck to the rear of the milk wagon. As he collected firearms—a rifle and several pistols—Gimmel said, “Hitch up the team.”

  Gimmel returned to the front door, where Bruener was kneeling over his son. They argued in German, but finally Bruener and Josef took guns and positioned themselves on both sides of the open entrance to the barn. Bruener fired two rounds with the rifle. Gimmel picked up the lantern and returned to the milk wagon, where he climbed in the back and pulled the doors shut. The barn went dark, and outside it was quiet except somewhere the girl was sobbing as the moon passed from behind a cloud.

  GEARY and Solomon weren’t eating, but they sat in the room with Czolgosz while he ate a ham dinner with potatoes and lima beans.

  “See? His appetite’s good,” Geary said. “He had just that little moment there in the courtroom, but he’s fine now.”

  “A special train will take you to the prison in Auburn,” Solomon said.

  Czolgosz ate some potatoes and beans, and then put down his spoon. “Tonight?”

  “Ten o’clock,” Solomon said. “Once they get security set up, you’ll be taken out to the train. It’s not a hundred yards from city hall.”

  “You won’t be going with me?”

  “No,” Solomon said. “You’ll be in the custody of the sheriff of Erie County.”

  “We’ve made sure that they have cigars for you on the train,” Geary offered.

  Solomon got out of his chair and he opened the door before looking back at Czolgosz. “It was good thing, you speaking for your family there in the courtroom,” he said, and then he went out into the hall.

  Geary stared at his folded hands on the table. “For the rest of my life, Leon …” He seemed chagrined at his choice of words. “I told you, I was the one that caught the president after he was shot and eased him back into a chair. I wanted this assignment. I wanted to hate you. I will never understand why you did this thing. You seem like a good sort to me. I mean, if we had met somewhere, had a drink or a meal, I think we would have—”

  “You probably wouldn’t even speak to me,” Czolgosz said.

  “You don’t know that,” Geary said, but then his face became angry, and he was clearly embar
rassed by this. “We don’t know—we’ll never know.” He was having some difficulty breathing and his voice was higher than usual. “But you made a decision and now there’s no getting around it: you’re going to get on the train to Auburn. I don’t know that many men would be as calm as you through all this. Something in that I admire—I know I shouldn’t say it.” He got to his feet and extended his right hand. “Goodbye, Leon.”

  Czolgosz didn’t stand up, but he shook Geary’s hand—there was a moment when Geary didn’t seem able to let go, but then he did and he went out through the door quickly. Czolgosz listened to his footsteps, along with Solomon’s, disappear down the hall.

  Czolgosz stared at his dinner; there was more ham but he pushed the plate toward the middle of the table. He heard movement outside the door and, raising his head, watched a man step inside the room—and another man, older, in his late fifties, stop out in the hall. “My name’s Sheriff Caldwell, and this is Detective Mitchell, and we’re going to escort you on the train.” Both men wore bowlers and raincoats over their suits. Caldwell was tall and quite stooped in the shoulders; Mitchell was built like a prizefighter and he seemed quite pleased with himself. Czolgosz was reminded again that this duty was something of a privilege. All these policemen would be distinguished from others because they had been assigned to guard the man who had assassinated President McKinley.

  “I’d rather have Solomon and Geary take me,” he said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not up to you,” Caldwell said.

  They went to his cell, where there was a pan of warm water, a shaving kit, and towels. While he washed and shaved, Caldwell and Mitchell watched as though they had never seen a man shave before. At one point he paused and said, “I ain’t going to slit my throat, you know.”

  When it was time to go, he was handcuffed to Mitchell and taken outside. Dozens of policemen lined their route. Czolgosz boarded the Pullman car and sat next to Mitchell. Caldwell joined a group of detectives at the front of the car. There were at least thirty men on board, and Czolgosz recognized some of them but didn’t know their names.

  Once the train got under way the men began to relax; there were sandwiches, pickles, a wheel of cheese, and they sat in small groups eating and talking. Czolgosz was allowed a cigar and he stared out the window as the train crept through the neighborhoods of Buffalo. Though it was dark outside, he could see that there was no crowd, no mob.

  “All this security for nothing,” he said.

  “That’s why we’re moving you at night,” Mitchell said. “But word is out that you’re being taken to Auburn. It’s impossible to keep something like this quiet.”

  “Once the verdict and sentence are pronounced, it doesn’t matter to anyone.”

  “I hope you’re right. We have a ways to go. Should arrive in Auburn at three a.m.”

  Czolgosz looked out the window again. “I’ve always loved trains.”

  A man who had been speaking to Caldwell came up the aisle and sat down in the seat facing Czolgosz. He crossed his long legs, being careful of his tweed suit. “Leon, my name’s Louis Seibold. I’m a correspondent for the New York World. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Czolgosz stared at him through cigar smoke. “It cost you to get on this train?”

  Seibold glanced at Mitchell and said, “Dearly.” He took a small notebook and pen from inside his coat. “The police have been picking up anarchists all over the country.” He spoke quickly, as though he were afraid of running out of time. “This will be the end of anarchism.”

  “Or the beginning of the workers’ revolt.”

  “Well, I suppose you have to believe that,” Seibold said. “Did you hear about the man they nabbed in St. Louis who claims he tied the handkerchief around the gun for you?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about a man in St. Louis.” Czolgosz drew on his cigar. “I know what you want me to say. The handkerchief wasn’t tied. I wrapped the gun in the bandage myself, and then I got in line to meet the president.” As the reporter wrote in his notebook, Czolgosz realized that the scratching sound of a fountain pen had always bothered him. “My father—I am sorry I left such a bad name for him.”

  Seibold looked up from the notebook. “So you’re sorry for the crime?”

  Czolgosz hesitated. Something had changed since he had been sentenced; it was over now except for the execution, and he wasn’t ready yet to think on that. He couldn’t say what was different, but he knew it was there. Gazing out the window, he said, “I am sorry I did it.” He watched the smoke drift off the tip of his cigar, and then added, “One thing more I want to tell. I would give my life, if it were mine to give, if I could help Mrs. McKinley. That is the saddest part of it. But what is the use talking about that now? The law is right, it is just. It was just to me and I have no complaint, only regret.”

  Seibold didn’t write anything now, as though he understood that it might jeopardize the conversation. “If you had to do it over again, would you do it?”

  “No, I would not,” Czolgosz said. “It was a mistake.”

  “Was your mind influenced by the reading of anarchist newspapers or books?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know anybody in Paterson, New Jersey, any anarchists?”

  “No, I don’t know anybody there.”

  “Was your trial fair?”

  Czolgosz stared at the reporter. “Yes, it was fairer than I thought I would get. The judge could not help doing what he did. The jury could not—the law made them do it. I don’t want to say now it was wrong. It was fair to me and it was right.” He looked back at his reflection in the window. “I have nothing to say about it.”

  Seibold began writing again, swiftly, and when he was finished Mitchell nodded his head. Seibold stood up, tucking his notebook and pen inside the outside pocket of his suit coat, and stepped into the aisle. Czolgosz watched the reporter’s reflection in the glass: he paused, putting one hand on the back of the seat to help keep his balance. Turning back to Czolgosz, he said, “I understand you’re Catholic but don’t go to mass anymore. Will you see a priest … before?”

  Without looking away from the window, Czolgosz said, “I don’t want to be ashamed. Maybe I will see a priest.” He needed to stop talking now. He needed to hold on until it passed. “It is worse than I thought it would be.” He looked up at Seibold.

  The reporter averted his eyes; he didn’t seem to comprehend what he’d heard, and it made him frightened, anxious to get away. As the train rocked from side to side, he walked unsteadily up the aisle toward the front of the car, grabbing the backs of seats and pulling himself along, as though he were climbing some great height.

  Czolgosz gazed out the window again and smoked his cigar. The train passed slowly through neighborhoods with clapboard tenements, warehouses, open fields. Occasionally there were small groups of people standing alongside the track. Their somber faces were illuminated by the light cast from the coach, and sometimes he heard shouts, their voices murderously shrill above the clatter of the wheels. When the train ran beneath an embankment, there were people standing on top of a brick wall, holding lanterns. Their mouths were open, and he realized they were singing.

  “How’d they know I’m on this train?” Czolgosz asked.

  “Don’t know,” Mitchell said. “Word gets around, no matter what we do. It’s people want to see you dead and gone.” Mitchell fingered the hard brim of his bowler. “It’s Americans.”

  “I’m an American,” Czolgosz said.

  Mitchell only stared at him.

  THE girl cried for so long that Savin finally turned to Hyde and whispered, “Jesus, if she doesn’t shut up I’m going to shoot her.”

  From the house, a woman called out, “Lydia, you come up here this minute.”

  “They shot him,” the girl said. “He’s dead, Momma.”

  “Come up to the house now.” Something in the woman’s voice suggested that she had expected this all along.

  “And
they shot Josef, too.” The girl got to her feet and began walking toward the barn. Her gait was coltish and graceful, and her skirt swung easily about her ankles. “Josef?” she yelled. “You hurt, too?”

  “He’s all right,” Bruener shouted. “Just do like your momma says.”

  But the girl continued toward the barn, until her mother came out into the yard, took her daughter by the shoulders, and guided her into the house.

  There was a sound to Hyde’s left, and he looked down the creek to see Rutherford approaching, crouched down below the bank. When he reached them, Savin seemed both disappointed and amused.

  “Well, Mr. Rutherford,” Savin said. “That was quite a shot. Looks like you put it right in his ear canal. You learn to shoot like that hunting rabbits?”

  “Yes, sir. My father told me to aim for the head so as not to spoil the meat.”

  “I see,” Savin said. “It’s a good thing, obeying your daddy. But did anyone tell you to leave your position?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, that is what you did, Mr. Rutherford. I don’t cotton to insubordination, but I’ll let it go this once.” Savin took a moment to survey the farm. “There’s at least four of them. The thing is not to let them know there’s only three of us. We need to spread out, give them the impression there’s more of us.” He looked at Rutherford. “Now I want you to go back to where you came from in the woods—but not the exact same place, so they’ll think there might be at least two of you out there. Get yourself a good view of the front of the barn.” Turning to Hyde, he said, “You stay here while I go down the creek that way”—with his pistol, he waved in the other direction—“and see if I can get around behind the barn. I’ll try to flush them out into the yard so you can get a clear shot.”