by John Smolens
When the guards stepped back from the prisoner in the chair, Rixey leaned forward until he could see Roosevelt. The president’s head was tilted slightly so that he appeared to be watching the screen with his right eye. Rixey knew that he was having increasing difficulty with his left eye; he had informed the president that he feared he might lose sight in that eye, particularly if he continued to spar in boxing rings. The president accepted this prognosis with unusual reticence, but then he told Rixey that under no circumstances was there to be any mention of his eye to anyone. The doctor had complied, and to his knowledge the only other person to be aware of the president’s condition was his wife, Edith.
Rixey sat back and looked at the screen again. For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen. The prisoner sat in his chair, facing the camera. Lines and dots then flashed through the film, giving the air around the condemned man what appeared to be an electrically charged atmosphere, as his body went into several brief spasms, and then he slumped down in the chair, dead.
The film ended and there was absolute silence in the lobby. Clearly, the men were uncertain whether or not they should applaud. They just sat there and no one seemed to think of turning on the lights.
Finally, the president got to his feet. He stood and his burly physique was silhouetted upon the blank white screen. Every other man in the lobby remained absolutely still, staring at Roosevelt. Rixey had noticed this on numerous occasions, how this man by his mere presence could somehow transfix everyone around him. His effect upon them was peculiar—there was fear, to be sure, and yet they were also helplessly drawn to him. Since he had moved into the White House—no longer to be called the Executive Mansion—everything had changed, everything was new, and despite the constant whispered reservations and doubts, it was clear that all those who worked around Roosevelt could not deny that he had already projected a resolute and unbridled energy that would affect the entire country. After a moment, the president squared his shoulders and walked across the room, and every head turned to watch him go. A waiter opened the door for him, and he disappeared.
“Simulation,” Norris said in disgust. “In the film, he didn’t even look like Czolgosz.”
Norris got to his feet with effort, and using a cane he favored his left leg—clearly, there was restricted articulation of the ankle—as he walked toward the lobby doors. Rixey got out of his chair as well and accompanied him to the sidewalk. They stood beneath the awning over the hotel entrance and smoked cigars in the cool, damp air.
“Ever see a moving picture before?” Rixey said.
“Once.”
“Really? What was the subject?”
“A man and woman copulating,” Norris said. “Every position imaginable.”
There was a silence that Rixey found awkward, and finally he managed to say, “Next thing you know, men will be flying.”
“If they want to make use of motion pictures, they should have set the camera up in right in front of Czolgosz and filmed the whole thing as it happened. Let every American see it, let them see how justice is done.”
Rixey stared down at Norris a moment. He didn’t seem quite as beefy and imposing as he had in Buffalo; however, there was something even more arrogant and pugnacious about him, as though he’d been dealt an indelible slight for which he could find no proper redress. It was beginning to rain, and Rixey was inclined to bid the man good night and return to the lobby, but then he said, “I heard that you had some real trouble with anarchists out there.”
“We got them, Doctor,” Norris said tightly. “We got them in the end.”
“Yes, well, you Pinkertons have that reputation.”
“I’m no longer with them.” Norris’s voice was now both proud and resentful. “My leg, you know. And they didn’t like the fact that I shot them. Point-blank, unarmed. They said they could have been brought to justice. I said they received what they deserved, shot while crawling away on their bellies.” He put his cigar in his mouth and clamped his teeth down on the soggy end. “Even the Pinkertons are going soft.”
“I see,” Rixey said. “What are you doing now?”
“Can’t really say.” Norris looked as though he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite bring himself to it, so he merely worked his cigar over to the other side of his mouth. “I’m employed by the government now.”
“Spies, that sort of thing?”
“Security,” Norris said, disappointed.
Rixey realized that he really was no longer the brutal, ruthless man he had appeared to be in Buffalo. “Tell me, that spy I met in Buffalo, that young fellow with the bruised head, what happened to him?”
Something in Norris’s shoulders froze and he refused to look away from the rain, which was coming down harder, drumming on the awning overhead. Norris clearly didn’t want to address the question, and seemed insulted that it had been raised at all.
“Hyde, wasn’t that his name?” Rixey said. “Yes, I believe it was—Moses Hyde.”
“You have a good memory, Doctor.” Norris looked directly at him, and then took another puff on his cigar before tossing it out into the street. “You know who Herman Gimmel is?”
“Of course. They’ve been hunting him for years and it finally appears that the man drowned—strange, there wasn’t much about it in the papers.”
“Hyde stopped Gimmel.” This seemed difficult for Norris to say. “Killed him.”
“Killed him?”
“In Auburn.”
“Sounds to me …” But then Rixey went on, feeling that it had to be said. “Moses Hyde must have done something rather heroic.”
Ever so slightly, Norris rocked back on his heels, using his cane to maintain his balance. He lowered his head and murmured, “Perhaps.” Turning slowly, he went back toward the hotel doors and for the brief moment that the doorman swung open the brass door there was a burst of warmth and light and the smell of port. Norris paused and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes deep pools of resentment, and then the door was closed behind him.
Out on the sidewalk there was only the rain, now pouring in a steady sheet off the edge of the awning and splashing on the curbstone—Rixey loved the sound of it. The water created an absolute wall, solid yet moving, and he could feel its cool mist on his face.
AT first light they completed the final preparations for the passage to Albany. After a long winter in Buffalo, the first days of April were unusually warm, and Hyde had heard reports that the canal was free of ice as far east as Syracuse. As he came out of the pilothouse, he saw Lloyd Savin crossing the footbridge slowly, his left arm hanging useless at his side. Savin came down to the tow-path and walked alongside the barge, nodding to Motka, who was working the dock lines in the bow. When he reached the stern deck, he said to Hyde, “Permission to come aboard.”
“Granted.”
“Should I call you captain?”
“It’s not necessary, Captain Savin.”
“Well, it seems only appropriate, now that it is your boat.” Savin came down the plank and stepped aboard. He took the cigarette from his mouth and with a flick of the middle finger sent it spinning into the canal. As always, he was wearing a good suit. “I wanted to see you off. Maiden voyage and all that.”
“You’re just in time, then,” Hyde said. “We’ll be away soon.”
“Your hold full?”
“Building supplies mostly. Shingles, nails, lumber. In Rome we’re taking on a piano to be delivered to a doctor in Albany.”
Savin looked the barge over, bow to stern. “A fresh coat of paint and she looks like a new boat.”
“Bruener built it himself, and she’s one solid barge.”
Savin glanced up at the name painted above the pilothouse door and said, “You’ve renamed her Clementine”
“It was her idea.” Hyde nodded toward the bow, where Motka was securing a hatch. Towlines ran a hundred feet up to a harnessed team of horses on the towpath. A young boy in knickers held their reins.
“Who’s the hoggee?”
Savin asked.
“Anton’s boy. His wife and new baby have gone to live with relatives in Rochester, but Pavel’s twelve and he wants to try work on the canal.” Hyde looked at Savin. “What about Bruener’s boy, Josef?”
“The court may try to keep a boy his age out of prison,” Savin said. “There’s talk about sending him west on an orphan train. He’s a strong kid, and I suspect that some farming family out on the plains might take him in.”
“I ran away from St. John’s Protectory because I didn’t want to end up on an orphan train,” Hyde said. “Farmwork never appealed to me.”
“You’re a canawler.” Savin studied Hyde a moment. “You know when we saw Clementine’s body, right here on the deck, Norris told me he would need someone to replace her. He insisted on a canawler. When I picked you, I figured you for dead, too.”
“Maybe I’ll outlive the canal,” Hyde said. “I hear it doesn’t have much of a future.”
Savin smiled. “Which is another reason why you should consider joining the police. I’ve told you I can help get you in. You have a knack for detective work.”
“You’ve helped enough, arranging it so I could buy this boat.” Looking forward, he said loudly, “All right, it’s time we were away.”
Savin started up the plank to the towpath, but paused and looked forward. For a moment he watched as Motka walked the length of the deck, releasing dock lines. “She seems different now,” he said, “not so delicate and pale—but still beautiful.”
Since she and Hyde had moved aboard the barge, Motka had put on weight and her face was certainly fuller, the skin a soft russet color from so much outside work. Though the quarters were tight, she’d converted the cabin into a clean, efficient home, with porthole curtains and a tablecloth at suppertime. And rules: dirty boots were left topside and Mondays clean laundry dried on a line above the deck. Often the smells of baking bread, onions, or fried fish emitted from the galley. After she’d locked down the last hatch, she paused to look at the sun rising on the canal, a hand rubbing her lower back. Her hair, swept across one shoulder by the breeze, was aflame in the morning light.
“She’s due in September,” Hyde said.
“That explains it.” Savin continued up the plank but paused to look the barge over once more. “Not bad, Hyde, for an orphan. You’ve got your boat, and you’ve got the makings of a family. They say the child of an orphan will always have a home.”
“You read that somewhere.”
“I did,” Savin said. “Newspaper, I think.” As he climbed to the towpath he glanced down at Motka, touching his hat brim, and there was something in his gesture that suggested that he might be envious of their journey.
Hyde released the stern line, coiling the rope neatly on the deck. He took hold of the tiller, and then raised his free hand. Pavel slapped his reins and the horses started along the path, their heads bobbing with each step. When the slack on the tow-lines was taken up the slightest jolt ran back through the hull, and the barge began to move. Below, there was a good deal of creaking and groaning as crates shifted and settled in the hold. Hyde pushed the tiller to starboard and the bow swung away from the embankment. Motka came astern and leaned against the rail next to him. She pointed toward the embankment, which was covered with patches of snow that were broken by clusters of green stems with yellow buds, and asked, “What is the English?”
“Crocuses,” Hyde said.
“Yes,” she said. “We have this word in Russian, too. Interesting, one language for flowers. Always is so beautiful, crocuses coming up through the snow.”
Hyde said, “Low bridge. There will be many on this trip.”
As the barge passed slowly beneath the footbridge, he and Motka leaned forward so that the wood beams just cleared their heads. In the shade the air was cold and there was a distinct echo to the sound of water running alongside the hull. When the barge emerged into the sunlight, they straightened up, their faces warmed by the reflection off the canal.
Author’s Note
Historical records regarding Leon Czolgosz are scant, murky, and contradictory. What is clear is that he viewed himself as a martyr to the anarchist cause, with no illusions about escaping his fate; thus he was, perhaps, the perfect assassin.
His plan was as bold as it was simple. Considering the security measures employed during the president’s visit to Buffalo, Czolgosz should never have been able to get within arm’s length of William McKinley with gun in hand. But he did, primarily because he was so quiet, so secretive, so youthful and innocent in appearance, and, apparently, because he acted alone (whether he was in league with co-conspirators has been a matter of intense debate during the last century). What may be most intriguing about Czolgosz, and what contributed to his success, is that he did not seem to fit notions of a “ruthless killer.” During his incarceration the authorities were baffled by his mild nature and poise. He was bright and respectful (usually), and he exhibited little concern for his own well-being, despite the fact that he was beaten while in jail. Perhaps most disconcerting was his honesty; he offered no alibis, made no attempt to exonerate himself or seek mercy for his actions, and freely expressed his commitment to anarchism.
At the beginning of the twentieth century the popularity of the anarchists’ extreme views is an indication of how deep the division was between social classes. There are similarities between anarchism and today’s terrorism; however, it would be a mistake to say they are identical. Anarchists weren’t motivated by any deep religious or nationalistic impulse; they saw the working class as being greatly oppressed (as they were), and they determined that the only solution was to destroy the political and economic system that caused such blatant inequities. In their view, public officials, corporate officers, and civic leaders naturally represented—and benefited from—that oppression, so it was merely logical to eliminate them. Members of the working class, which had become an economic engine designed to increase the wealth of the few, were dying every day in the streets and factories of industrialized societies. Thus, political assassination was justifiable, and attempts were made on numerous influential figures (royalty, government leaders, industrialists, for example) in the United States and throughout Europe.
True anarchists did not offer any viable solutions to existing social problems; they didn’t want to replace the current economic and political system with something that they thought would be better. Philosophically they believed that any system, be it religious, cultural, legal, or otherwise, restricted the freedom of the individual. Czolgosz’s assassination of William McKinley had great historical ramifications, perhaps none more significant than Theodore Roosevelt’s elevation to the presidency. Ironically, during Roosevelt’s administration, laws were passed that helped precipitate the end of the anarchist movement in America, at least in its ability to unite and motivate the working class.
Yet more than a century later, the anarchists’ impulse still may resonate with those who dream of a world unfettered by laws, governments, and institutions that spawn inequity and hypocrisy. It is an idealized version of anarchism, certainly, one that doesn’t necessitate violence but is no more realistic than visions of a world without war and strife—which leads to a sad conundrum: Why do such lofty aspirations of freedom so often lead to bloodshed?
Acknowledgments
Historians understand that the pursuit of total accuracy, though a worthy and even valiant enterprise, is ultimately futile. Likewise, the fiction writer who mines the past for a story may attempt to be faithful to historical record, but to believe that one can actually succeed is the greatest fiction of all. Historical novels are, by nature, a unique amalgam of fact and fiction, conjecture and illusion, and The Anarchist is no exception.
My deepest gratitude goes to many people who have been extraordinarily supportive and helpful along the way. Some I don’t even know by name, such as particular librarians at the Harold Washington Library Center in Chicago and at the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library. I also wis
h to thank Northern Michigan University for the faculty research grant that provided the funds for me to travel to Chicago and Buffalo.
I am also truly grateful to the following:
For his thoughtful insights regarding Polish culture and language, Marek Haltof. For sending to me all kinds of Xeroxed material found in the public library in Auburn, New York, Tom Hodgson. For their tolerance of my sorry attempts at writing and speaking Italian, la bella lingua, Livio and Sara Stabile. For their help in finding rare books, as well as their dedication to the everlasting printed word, Ray Nurmi, Diane Patrick, and Dana Schulz at Snowbound Books in Marquette, Michigan.
I wish to thank Shaye Areheart for her absolute devotion to publishing books that are beautiful to behold, inside and out; thanks also to her dedicated staff for their care and professionalism, with especial appreciation to Kate Kennedy, the pride of Bowdoin, Maine.
Once again, I am truly grateful to my literary agent, Noah Lukeman, for his fortitude and generous insights.
Regarding what the Irish writer William Trevor refers to as “nature’s strict economy,” my love to the families of friends who died while this book was being written: Harold “Bud” Hines, who was more than a great hockey coach; and to Marion Mustard, who was more than an inspiration to everyone who had the good fortune to know her.